Preciousness of the Folly
You should wonder
that this tumbling world
locked up the depth of things
and threw the key to the ocean
the generation of the Neanderthal returns
from the spiral of icebergs
visions of decay
still exist in the memory of nothingness
dark stars floating over underground stoas
preciousness of the folly
recycle
the cosmos expands in its winter sleep
the miracle doesn’t care
like the guard who’s asleep.
Excerpt
Near the end of the term, when Ken had counted 138 beatings, he once
more entered the office and this time, instead of standing in front of the
big desk, he sat down.
“Don’t sit down,” the headmaster growled. “I haven’t invited you to sit.”
“Well, I’m doing it anyway,” Ken said, placidly. “And I want to tell you
what I think of you. I think you’re a little man – a very, very tiny person.”
Ken held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart to demonstrate.
“The people who have hired you and who have hired all the people here
have taken very tiny people who will obey their rules, no matter how ridiculous
or horrible those rules are. And you do it because you have no
other place in the world to go. This is your last refuge. This is the way you
have to be. I think you’re evil.”
A light flickered in the headmaster’s eyes. He sputtered incoherent
words as he reached for his cane.
“You cannot inflict pain on me,” Ken said. “Not physically. The pain
that I feel is in a different place.”
The headmaster came at him. Ken pulled down his trousers and lifted
his shirt. “Go on then,” Ken taunted him.
The man lost control and flailed Ken’s back and buttocks until his arm
could no longer lift the cane. He threw down his weapon, stormed out of
the room and slammed the door. Slowly Ken pulled his clothes back on,
feeling the blood soaking into his shirt. This was his moment.
He left the school and walked home. By the time he got there the blood
had begun to congeal and each movement caused pain. Ken Sr. had left
his office early that day and was at home to greet his son. His smile of
welcome faded. You don’t look well,” he said. “You’re white.”
“I’m not too well,” Ken said.
“What happened?”
Ken moved to take his jacket off, but when his father saw the pain it
was causing he put out his hands to help. “What is this?” he asked. The
shirt under the jacket was soaked in blood. His face grew white and his
lips compressed into a thin line. Gently he put his arms around his son,
“What on earth happened?”
Ken told him the story.
His father’s lips grew whiter and thinner until they formed a colourless
line. When Ken had finished his tale, he said, “We’re going to the doctor
right now and we’re also going to the police. He documented the evidence
of the beating with a camera and had charges laid against the headmaster.
The man was arrested and left the country within a month.
Expectation
Yes, it was all in vain, we knew it and all the news
we received a description of the abominable horrors in detail:
deeds of friends, acts of foes, merely insignificant and
we paid attention to the song of the chickadee and
to the meadow’s fecund verdure, still able to sing amid
the colorful destruction of our childhood as we gazed at
the decapitated houses as if they were gleaming
stars.
Then, we too, threw away our credit cards and free
from unpaid guilt we walked anew yet as desolate
as the earth we were meant to traverse.
One Drop
He has neither time nor the desire anymore,
he can’t look. He drops and raises an old, holed
bucket into the water well, he draws black
water, he pours it into the black water he already
has. The rope wears out slowly. His only fear,
now, that the rope might break and thus he might
not be able to draw black water. One drop fell
on his shoe, it shines in the sunshine; he can see
that as it grows, it grows and expands to the whole
garden, to the whole world, one drop
on the huge medlar tree leaf and the blinding,
slanting sun ray.
They are the teachers of truth
believers of the wholesome beauty
old men, pure, forever young
suns given to you to enjoy
in the freshness of an April
the Immortal and the Beautiful.
From the shores of Ionia
and from the air of Athens
which creates pneuma as it likes
from the holy grounds of Hellas
Wisdom, Logos, Rhythm
the Immortal and the Beautiful.
And there is Plato and behind him
heroes of Ideas, the philosophers
I’m with them, Grace says,
and there is Homer and behind him
all the hymnists, Olympian creators
the Immortal and the Beautiful.
GODS
And the first man saw
the sun’s ascent for the first time
and he heard the music
responding to it sweetly
thousands of words
thousand compliments
offered to the spring of day
and everything, what a miracle,
the hymns and everything
spread to the four corners of the earth
and the eons gave them flesh
and turned them into
gods of light
monsters of harmony
Manolis Aligizakis 