As Much as You Can
And if you can not lead your life the way you want it,
at least try this
as much as you can: do not degrade it
in a crowded relationship with the world,
in too many things and too much talk.
Do not degrade it by showing it around,
dragging it along and exposing it
to the daily nonsense
of relationships and associations
until it is strange to you and a burden.
excerpt
man of the board. As she returned to her place, she blinked back
tears. Suddenly, the stress and excitement of the last few days – even
the last few months – overwhelmed her. The culmination of three
years of nurses’ training, the anxiety over her parents’ animosity towards
the man she loved, the disappointment that one of her two
best friends could not be graduating tonight, all gathered into a river
of tears that rose in Tyne’s throat and threatened to gush from her
eyes. Panicked, she darted a glance at Moe, and was saved by another
broad wink and a cheeky grin from her friend.
Good old Moe. Thank you, kid.
As graduate after graduate walked to the podium, Tyne tried not
to think of Carol Ann who should be with the nurses in the last row,
soon going forward to receive the coveted diploma. But, thanks to
Bryce Baldwin, Curly’s dream had died with her unborn child.
Tyne tried to shake the negative thoughts. After all, Bryce had not
acted alone, and Curly must certainly have been a willing partner.
And it was hardly his fault that she had resorted to the measures she
had to get rid of the baby. He had suggested she get an abortion but
he could not make her do it.
Tyne now remembered that a few days after her confrontation
with Dr. Baldwin in the nursery, she had begun to harbour guilt
feelings about the anger she felt towards him. She had finally gone
to confess her uncharitable thoughts to a priest. Father O’Malley
had been stern, and had given her much greater penance than Tyne
thought she deserved. She left the confessional with equally negative
thoughts about the priest, and for a moment she wondered if she
should go back and confess that, too.
However, only hours after her confession, the anger began to surface
again. This time, Tyne told herself she had a right to be angry.
After all, was there not such a thing as righteous anger? Had not Jesus
been angry with the money changers in the temple? So why should
she not be angry with Bryce Baldwin after the way he had treated her
friend?
But she found no peace from holding the grudge, and she recognized
that Morley’s influence was having an impact on her conscience.
Jesus had told his disciples they must forgive. Not seven
times, he had told Peter, but seventy times seven. Tyne finally realized
that she had to forgive Dr. Baldwin.
Fourteenth Hour
In silent moments I often mourn
the vigor of her hair standing
against the wind of an early May morning
before the phony freedom comes
forth with all its equipment
orchestrating the next tune
in a celestial dancing hall
free-spirited birds accept and
embrace it openhearted
animals accept and curl up in it
free flowing winds receive
and espouse it yet the stimulating
truth far from acceptance
and adoption by caged man
conditioned in willful ignorance
such as morons deserve and He
graces him with freedom as it is His
to choose a path other than
thorny shortcut of sweetest
sin that defines profound absurdity
When Ecclesia’s ghetto
markets the word and tosses it
to fanatics who down its
virulence with pleasure
in vain understanding
comedy of errors and frivolity
as I stand like Mistral asking
‘why?’ and the zealot laughs
righteous ignorance and still
hollers from the depth
of his lungs: who cares?
Company of Stars
I know it
I come from the night
yet my soul expands in light
to get to the company of stars of the last return
the child comes from the infinite
becomes time and returns
the brightness that showed him the way
shaking
desires and wrinkles in forgetfulness
a dream that slowly also
forgets the notes
of the voyage that didn’t exist
when from the corners of the road
suddenly turning realizes
it is alone and fleetingly
grasps that destiny left him
the footprints of no one
excerpt
He tried to raise up, but they jerked him backward down the
step and onto the ground. The clubbing began. He wrapped his
arms around his head and tucked into a ball.Two of them straightened
his body by pulling his hands and feet while the biggest man
alternated kicks with blows from a length of wood. The clubs and
boots battered his arms and legs, his torso, his shoulders. The pain
was like fire on his skin. The ache went to the center of his bones.
They let him go, then knocked him off his feet when he got up,
laughing at his contortions when he twisted and thrashed to evade
their clubs.Theywere killing him, he thought.Hewas going to die.
Suddenly, the big man was on his back and Engine Fred was on
top of him with a forearm bearing down on his windpipe. Poodie
sat up and saw the other two running down the lane. His head
throbbed. Three more hobos came down along the path from the
jungle. The man on the ground got an arm free, knocked Engine
Fred off balance and was up and running away. He disappeared
into the orchard, headed toward the river. Two of the hobos ran
after him, but came back shaking their heads. It all happened in the
space of a few minutes. The Thorps slept through it, but Engine
Fred told Poodie that he heard a scream. Poodie didn’t know that
he was capable of screaming.
Dan Thorp called the police the next morning. By then, the
hobos had hopped a freight. Poodie could not identify the thugs.
The bruises on his face and body took weeks to heal. Thorp put a
lock on the cabin door. The attack was the worst thing that had
happened to Poodie since his mother died. He lived it over in his
dreams night after night for months. Years later, he still awakened
in fear that the men would come back.
Alice Moore looked up to see Poodie James’s face floating just
above surface of the checkout desk, a stack of books next to it. She
had never seen that face without a smile. She looked at the books;
Howard Carter’s The Discovery of the Tomb of Tutankhamen, three
books about whales, a collection of de Maupassant stories.
Routine
Same path every morning
from the train station to the office
two blocks of a walk, three
newspaper stands and halfway
two beggars
dark sky-lobe drenching them
as they strangely multiply along
with the days going by and the index
down for another day, gold
off the mark, the price of oil dropping
what to do with the need for
exhausts and fumes for
statistics that make you wonder
are we truly making progress or careening
brakeless down off-ramps to Hell?
Shopping
Th
e courteous store employee
smiling and always flattering
showed you two dresses
a red one with revealing cleavage
and the other, a snow-white
that covered your voluptuous breast
but falling exquisitely over your body
it demanded everyone’s attention
the employee kept on flattering you
and I signalled to you
the red was my first choice
and the white falling gracefully on you
to the delight of the employee
both, I said —
the red which complimented
your beautiful cleavage
and the white that reminded me
the first time
I conquered your untouched body
Whitewash
As the years passed, by chance, no intention meant, they replaced
the white of the marble with whitewash, certain white,
of course, more blinding, more outside what was needed.
There were many inscriptions and designs on the walls. These
days they whitewash everything: yards, flowerpots, rocks, even
the tree trunks, up the middle; it is an opening, a cleanness, it
smells of health the way the sidewalks and the churches shine
with a new classical simplicity, something that belongs to us.
Each evening, they place on the whitewashed fence wall
a flowerpot with carnations that gaze at the sea. On the front
step of the opposite house, Mrs. Pelagia looks angry, her black
apron is splattered with drops of whitewash as if covered
with small, bloomed daisies.
Long Listed for the 2023 Griffin poetry Awards
Anonymity
We expected Phillip to die soon; I then understood
that all the eons wouldn’t be enough; while we sat
silently a voice was heard from the top of the stairway
“Phillip” it said, and again, “Phillip” without waiting
for an answer; I tried to discern who it was, but no one
was there, when I thought that that voice perhaps was
there all along, I mean it was all we had in the world,
“Phillip” it repeated as if to retain our name for a little
longer amid the eternal catastrophe.
Behind our Eyes
Behind our eyes,
silent and crouched,
we look at the world out there
like through the skylight of a prison.
Behind our eyes,
we make secret plans
we aim and fire as if
behind embrasures
and when evening comes
like we do with windows
we hastily pull the curtains
and turn on the lights.
Manolis Aligizakis 