Nightly Chronicle
Large dark rooms darkness multiplied
in the cheerless mirrors Endless hallways
above the world and rows of closed doors
and at the far end a statue in a raincoat Suddenly
sound of excavators red lights flashing down the street
the traffic controller was running the wood worker threw his
mask away
I had nothing to be afraid of – not even myself
I put on my child’s shoes and I limp along the wall
excerpt
David smiled. “You know, I don’t know when Gorky wrote that, but it’s the utterly perfect story for this country in 1974. Don’t you find that so much that’s told to us is a beautiful illusion when the truth is really ‘bitter’?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Paul continued. “The Soviets are like the old man—they just ignore the failures. The elevators that don’t work. The trucks that break down. The harvests that don’t yield what they expect. We visitors are like the father—we have to put a name to it, admire the beauty, then we point out that it’s not the truth. It’s no wonder they don’t really like our visits.”
“This is great philosophizing,” Maria cut in, “but I hear the truth right now.” She leaned over the railing. “I’m sure I hear a real nightingale singing.” The notes were pure and true, haunting. The group was quiet for a long time, listening, delighted.
Finally Paul got up from his deck chair. “Nah, it was just a scrubby little village lad.”
★
Paul Mercier returned to his cabin with the intention of diving into the definitive biography of the Sentimentalist period writer Karamzin that he had been trying to finish before the end of the trip. It had been difficult to find any study time because of their rigorous sightseeing schedule, though his conversations in Chopyk’s advanced class had been informative. That’s one thing about the guy, he is a serious scholar. He wondered if academia was truly his own calling. Did he really want to end up like Chopyk—an old lady, unloved by students and women alike? When they started out on this trip, he had found it easier to read the Sentimentalist view of nature in literature than to be out in the streets of Moscow actually viewing the real thing. But while they were in Leningrad something new had been emerging, something not found in books. He had been taking enjoyment from the scenery; it was refreshing. And he had even been moved by the rich, barbaric Russian history he saw depicted in paintings and church frescoes. For amusement, Paul had been keeping an informal list of the countless statues of Lenin they had seen to date, the endless art galleries, museums, and palaces of culture they had visited, but now he threw down these lists in disgust.
Palliative Care
She’s stationed in the palliative care
looking after the ready to pass
patients, old fogeys, loners from
nursing homes, citizens abandoned
by the state, by family, nonexistent
friends, people discarded by all,
she takes care of them, Suzan, truly
the forever nurse, endlessly in the same
position, ready to undress, re-dress,
prepare the corpse before it stiffs,
pull the partition curtain around
isolate death within the 48 square
feet of hospital space and place
the traditional purple butterfly
on the outside of the curtain, Suzan
familiar with the nondebatable
horrific truth of knowing the past
present and future of these people,
of what is about to happen, the same
as what occurred in the past which
will occur in the future, Suzan
the nurse in the palliative care
of the hospital ward, has seen their
smooth, transparent, pale skin
she has heard the rasping breath
of agony soon to be followed by
the serene breath of the last seconds
she has touched dried-up lips and
felt the slow heartbeats of a dying
person, the last relieving excrement
Suzan knows her job well and has taken
care of hundreds of them as they end
their presence on this earth
Suzan knows all the details before
the proper entries are posted on
the logs, her final diagnosis, end
of a person’s lifespan in the hands
of Suzan the palliative care nurse who
has seen them all time and again.
Manolis Aligizakis 