The Gods are Jealous
Lord, how painful, terrible, big problem! Are
the Gods jealous? I mean, not whether the Gods
are jealous or not, but whether the Gods are jealous
or jealous!
Nikos Engonopoulos – Poems
Month: August 2025
Entropy
Unfinished Odyssey
The underground wind blows
my mind will be an unapproachable loneliness
the tree leaves imprison
reflections
from the moment I disembark
there is a sadness in chaos
unfinished Odyssey looks at
the eons’ decadence
the universal poets have for some time died
inside the words that constantly change
their meaning
the world isn’t always the same
with the one that revolves
it looks through depths
and fools us.
Chthonian Bodies
Accentuation
Over the meaning of a syllable
voice thunderous and persistent
description of sacred things
bowing to no one
condoning no murder
brandishing no sabre
only abundant benevolence
spiritual festivity of free men and
land welcoming friend and foe
reverence to ancestral gods
need for food, yearning for peace
longing for the igloo’s warmth
equanimity, cross unwanted
just one thought: stand unfettered, men
of this land and live forever
Jazz with Ella
excerpt
“Sit with me here on this bench,” he said, taking her hand gently. “You asked to know about me and my family. So look around you. Except for my mother and aunt, most of my family are here. My father fought the fascists—just outside of the city. He wasn’t a brave man. He had no choice. To serve in the army was better than dying in Leningrad.”
“And your mother?”
“She survived the siege. She had no food except the ration. She didn’t get skinny though. She puffed up, she told me, her legs swollen—and her face, too—with disease.”
At that moment, Jennifer could feel a disease working through her own body in sympathy, a horrible nausea, her head heavy, her arms like lead, then only emptiness.
Volodya went on: “That first winter, 1941, she told me that many people froze to death on the streets. Those who survived were too weak to bury the others. So they just stepped over the dead on their way to stand in the food lines.”
“But she lived?”
“Somehow she lived. When the city was liberated, my father returned and nursed her back to health. He had an army ration; it was only a little more food than the usual ration. He died two years after I was born in 1947. He had been wounded in the chest. He couldn’t breathe.”
“That’s ghastly. So your mother had to raise you by herself?”
“Yes, she and her sister. But I don’t tell you for pity. This is what I want to tell you.” He stood up. “Look around here—at this memorial. All the memorials around town are built in honour of our glorious fallen comrades. So many memorials for the dead.”
Jennifer had a glimmer of understanding now. She shook off the nausea.
“A few years ago I looked at how my mother was living—how damp is her apartment, how she still stands in line for food, and I decide to write to Comrade Brezhnev. I asked him how come so many things are done for the dead and so little for the living.” Jennifer shifted uneasily. “Soon two special men came to my mother’s door. You know what this means, special men?”
“KGB,” she whispered.
“Yes, they question my mother. What is her son doing? Does he make trouble? The neighbours see these men come to the apartment.
Poodie James
excerpt
in Washington, D.C. pushed President Roosevelt for the appropriations
that got the dam started. Everyone who grew apples
knew that Winifred Stone and The Daily Dispatch pushed the
senators.
The barrel of his chest straining the buttons of his faded Hawaiian
shirt, his frayed khaki shorts held up by an Army surplus webbed
belt, Poodie made his rounds, adding bottles and old newspapers
to the stock in his wagon. He was trying to think of a way to make
the mayor like him. Most people were friendly. Some ignored him
or looked away embarrassed, worried that he would approach and
ask for something, but Pete Torgerson yelled at him. Nearly everyone
knew about his deafness, knew he lived in a shack down by the
river. A few encouraged him to pick up bottles and papers from
back porches or corners of sheds. Poodie moved along, his wagon
following like a dog on a leash. The mailmen and garbage collectors
knew the town no better than he did. He pulled his wagon the
length and breadth of the town, making side trips into alleys,
retrieving bundles of papers, rummaging through garbage cans for
bottles. When the wagon was full to the top of its stakes, he hauled
it below the tracks to a rusting tin shed in a field between a foundry
and a freight warehouse. He watched a dusty old man box the bottles,
weigh the papers on his iron scale and count out a handful of
change from the coin purse he extracted from the pocket of his
leather apron.
Orange
Past
Looking back
I wonder why
everything I left without
any effort to change them
remained as beautiful
as nature had crafted them.
Who was I, after all
who once wished to shift
the balance of the universe
by changing the depth
of the beautiful cove
of a woman’s body
and the length of a man’s penis
without the Grand Master’s plan?
Savages and Beasts
excerpt
The night before he asked the old man to give him
a ride home but he had said he would stay put and spent the night
there. There wasn’t anything he had to do at his apartment, he
was just fine to spend his night there. And there was where Anton
found him; numb, exhausted, hardly breathing. Anton knelt
close to the old man.
“What is it?”
“I don’t feel well.”
“Want me to do something?” Anton asked while he went
to the sink and got some water. He gave it to the Irish man who
took a sip.
“This is the second time you have such an incident in two
weeks,” Anton said, “we better get you to the hospital let the
doctors look at you.”
Dylan didn’t say anything. Anton left him and ran upstairs
to the Father Nicolas’ office. This early in the morning, no one
had gone to their offices yet; he ran upstairs to their sleeping
quarters. He knocked at Father Nicolas’ door. Father Nicolas
opened; he saw the panic in Anton’s face; he was informed of
Dylan’s health issue; he assured Anton to look for Father Jerome
and the nurses and advised him to go attend to Dylan which
Anton agreed and ran downstairs as fast he could. The old man
wasn’t any better. Anton sat next to him and tried to calm him
down.
“These smokes of yours; two weeks ago you promised
to slow down, remember? The cigarettes kill people, everyone
knows that,” Anton underscored,
Dylan didn’t say a word. He just stirred his body around
when at that moment Father Jerome, Father Nicolas, Sister
Gladys, Mary and Sister Anna came in. Father Jerome looked at
Dylan carefully as if examining him, a short examination …
Arrows
Excerpt
Later that night she moved to Gregorio’s side, like a dog seeking
warmth on a cold night.
Benjamin raised himself on one elbow and tapped me on the
shoulder.
“A man is fire, a woman, pitch; comes the devil and blows!” he
said, winking at me. He lay down again with the satisfaction of one
who has delivered an important piece of information, and within
moments, he was snoring away peacefully.
I could hear Gregorio and Josefa conversing in whispers, and the
nagging worry about his possible secret religion made me vow to find
her a chaperone the very next day, lest things between them should
go too fast. She had no one to look after her reputation but me.
Indians say vultures take messages to God. Not for the last time, I
wondered whether they took souls, too.
On the day we faced Guacaipuro’s hosts conspicuously waiting
for us, several vultures circled high overhead, barely visible through
the thin fog dissipating rapidly in the first rays of sun. Having seen
them eating carrion, I was disinclined to hold them in high
regard—their presence was ominous.
We stood overlooking a valley and a river named San Pedro. We
were high in the mountains, and the air was pleasantly cool, like an
early spring dawn in Andalusia.
“May God be with you. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.
Amen.”
The men rose, for they had knelt to receive my blessing. No
chanting this time. Gregorio and Benjamin stood closest to me.
Josefa watched from a few paces behind, her face sallow. Gregorio
went to her and took her hands. She broke her silence with violent
sobs, and Gregorio lent her his shoulder and his worn handkerchief.
I realized how little I knew about women. She cuddled against
him as she had done with me after she had killed that young Indian.
Gregorio took her demeanor as a token of her regard for him.
Medusa
Flame
Moth plays
with the flame of the candle
his fingers touch
her fiery skin
game of entering
and exiting begins
body heat-trapping
The unsuspected visitors
as the enamoured moth
dances with the flame
And he feathery blows
onto her feminine lips
captivating moments
The light breeze enters
to erase the mark that his tongue
left onto her clit
Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada
excerpt
With the Group of Seven paintings as
a template, he taught himself to paint again, working only on southern
landscapes. He took several to the owner of The Golden Key Gallery who
placed one in the window and sold it within two days. More sold during
the next few months, but then the gallery owner sold his business and
Ken was once again without an outlet.
Still, he persisted and one day, while sketching the bent shapes of driftwood,
in the dunes near the airport, it occurred to him that he could make
a profit from the abundance of wood on the beach. He purchased a pickup
truck and two chain saws, cut up the wood, wrapped velvet ribbons
around the most attractive pieces, and attached a card with his telephone
number. He left the wood on the front steps of the city’s grand homes
and within days, the orders came in. While he delivered and stacked the
firewood, he told the homeowners his stories of the Arctic, and when
they asked about his paintings, he would display the canvases he carried
in the cab of his truck. The Arctic paintings didn’t sell but the southern
landscapes were a hit.
He taught himself to become a storyteller, rehearsing every anecdote
he had, practising his tone, volume, order of words and, most importantly,
his choice of words. Where was the power of the story?
His clients listened, but showed little interest, so he made a list of every
service club in the city. Would they like a guest speaker at their next
meeting? Yes, they would like to hear about the Arctic, and so, Ken did
the rounds. Each audience contained a handful of people who showed
mild interest – the rest were bored, and often antagonistic. Sometimes
he was heckled, and a red tide of anger would creep up from his chest to
flush his neck and cheeks. Once someone shouted that he, and the rest of
the people there, resented an immigrant telling Canadians how to live in
their country and run their lives.
“That is hardly what I am doing,” Ken retorted. “I intend no disrespect.
I am simply here bringing information from a faraway place.”
His words dropped like ragged bits of paper to lie discarded on the
floor. Perhaps his stories were so outside the experience of most Canadians
that they seemed like tall tales – unlikely and unbelievable. There had
to be a better way to tell people about the Arctic but what was it?
His father told him that he was involving himself in matters that were
none of his business. He was not a citizen of Canada and until he was,
he should keep his opinions to himself. He responded that he was only
doing what he had learned at his father’s knee, in Portugal. He reminded
his father that Ken Sr. had not been a citizen of Portugal and yet he had
become deeply involved in the affairs of that country and had worked
hard to help the people. The Inuit were human beings in great distress, he
said, and he was trying to help.
Manolis Aligizakis 