Excerpt
Rachael bounced over the kitchen floor to watch Tyne take the roast out of the oven and place it on a platter for Morley to carve. “That sure smells good, and I’m real hungry.” The child sniffed the air. “Do we get gravy, too?”
“We sure do,” Tyne said, “and as soon as you’ve washed your hands we can start to eat.”
After they washed at the kitchen sink and settled in chairs at the table, Morley said, “Tell Auntie Tyne what you saw.”
“Piggies,” Bobby sang out.
Rachael cut in. “Chickens and cows and ….”
“Baby cows!”
“They’re not baby cows, silly,” Rachael said with authority, “they’re calves.”
Tyne laughed quietly as she filled plates and placed one in front of each of them. “And did you see the mommy hen with her little chicks?” she asked.
“Yep!” This from Rachael as she grabbed her fork and began to dig into her mashed potatoes.
Bobby followed his sister’s lead but Morley reached over and touched their hands. “Wait until Auntie Tyne sits down and we ask the blessing.”
Both children looked at him blankly. “What’s that mean?” Rachael demanded.
“It means,” Morley said gently, “that before we eat, we thank God for the food.”
“Oh yeah,” the girl said. “Mommy thanks God sometimes, but she calls it Grace. Why would she call it Grace? I know a girl at school who’s called Grace and she never says anything like that.”
Morley glanced at Tyne who noted with some satisfaction that her husband seemed momentarily at a loss. She bit her lip to hide her smile.
“Well,” Morley said as Tyne took her place at the table, “your mom is right in calling it Grace. You see, grace is a blessing …
All the Pianos in the Wood
I like to play on the black keys
because I believe that night music
is the key to being dreamed.
I like the music of dreams that
is more real than ‘all the tea in China’
and ‘all the coffee in Guadalupe’.
I like it most of all that all the love
birds in the world are singing their
hearts out, so that the hurt world
will know again, that dancing
on one foot the other is not forgotten.
Michael Harlow, New Zealand
Πιάνο στο Δάσος
Θα `θελα να παίξω τα μαύρα πλήκτρα
γιατί πιστεύω ότι η νύχτα
είναι για όνειρα.
Μ’ αρέσει η μουσική των ονείρων
που είναι πιο αληθινά απ’ όλο το τσάί της Κίνας
κι όλο τον καφέ της Γουαδελούπης
και μ’ αρέσει πιο πολύ γιατί όλοι
οι αγαπημένοι του κόσμου τραγουδούν
μ’ όλη τους την καρδιά
που να ξέρει ο πονεμένος κόσμος
πως κι αν χορεύεις στο ένα πόδι
το άλλο ποτέ δεν το ξεχνάς
Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//Translated by Manolis Aligizakis
Michael Harlow, New Zealand
Lethargy
Upright they stand: trees and rocks
whims of faint air coming
almost unintentionally amid
leaves loosened to desirous move
sea wishing expansion
to the other side of the globe
where they built tall ships
sea’s message to them:
STOP sending men over here
we don’t need your civilized ways
wisdom of our fathers is enough
STOP coming with your
loaded guns
Secret Transportation
With difficulty, they carried the stretcher inside. They closed
the door. One of the woman’s shoes was left by the front step,
outside. On the road, the others waited for someone to open
the upstairs window, perhaps the servant with the wart
or the female nurse, who would pour out a glass of water
or throw away a glass vile or ask for that shoe. Nothing. Night
came. They turned the light on inside. The window was lit
a little. Then the wide shadow of a stooping back closed the
windows. The others, down below, left noiselessly through
the neighbourhood side streets.
Scarecrow
He knew our peculiar desire for suffering, He knew
we preferred the sighs of defeat and those left
by the birds in their morning flight, though our soft
eardrums were unable to capture the thunderbolt’s
rapture, we still wanted to lie next to the woman’s
breast, close enough to feel her pain, close enough
to taste the salinity of her skin and He, alone, encompassed
the earth seen by our irises His primal goal to transcend
our desires once and for all, while we still kneeled
before the scarecrow, jet-black eyes and straw hair
on his head that moved from side to side, myths upon
which we had based our existence.
Fecundity of Eros
To see life the way others see it
to believe that dust is always dust
not legions of meanings
dust filled with rustling and directions
the messenger, not the message
we arrived at the wrong shores
crossing an incomplete destiny
and poetry is the reflection
of the missing mass of dreams
fata morgana, erotic signal
up high, the invisible
makes the flower tremble
puts the chord on fire
of the eternal world that struggles
not knowing where to turn.
The endless unanswered letters
the path between the heart and light
hands around the end of sorrow
floating diaphaneity that suddenly vanishes
to reappear with
whatever ever holy
or sinful existed
a passing moment
sanctified passage
erases the people’s footprints
on the wind-battered earth.
As if it was the first day of Justice.
Manolis Aligizakis 