A HYPOTHESIS Look, for the first time I see the grass I tread on every day, The flagstones crossing the two yards And all of a sudden there are a thousand gardens, The woodland strawberries whose leaves have jagged edges I myself grew them some time ago, Like the strangely amazed child Who left home for the first time, I see The daffodils covering all the graves, The shape of the moments goes down into the grass, into the stalks And the wild lilac rising to the sky Rocks small drops of a blue sun And calls me out, “We shall resurrect, we shall resurrect, we shall resurrect!”
“They’re missing, Tyne. They’ve run away. Ruby and Bill thought they might be here.” She fell into the chair by the desk. “Dear Mother of God, no,” she blurted. “Where … how long?” “They were gone this morning when the family got up. I don’t know what time that was, but the kids must have left in the dark. At least there’s one piece of good news … the eldest boy, Ronald, is probably with them.” Tyne’s relief was short-lived when she realized the boy was probably not yet twelve years old. And the weather … oh, dear God in heaven, no. Even strong, adult men had been known to lose their way from barn to house in a blizzard. “Morley, the weather … how bad is it?” She choked on a sob. “It looks like a blizzard from here.” “Tyne… honey, try not to upset yourself. I know it looks bad, but they’re probably with a neighbor, or someone who saw them and took them in. Ronald’s old enough to know to go for help when the weather turned bad.” “I know, Morley.” She drew in a calming breath. “Please, take care of yourself. I wish I could be there to help you at the barn, and make your dinner.” “I’ll be fine. And listen, Tyne, I don’t want you to leave the hospital. Please tell me you’ll stay there. There must be somewhere you can sleep.” Tyne stifled a sob. She didn’t want Morley to know how scared she felt – scared for the children and scared for him alone on the farm with animals to look after. She gave herself a mental shake and set her mind to gain control of her emotions. “Tyne, the first thing I’d like you to do is call your parents and Aunt Millie to tell them about the kids. Ask them to alert people in their area. Oh wait, is there any possibility they could have gone to your mom’s? You’ve taken them there a few times. Maybe Rachael remembered the way.” “No, I don’t think so. If they had gone there, Mom would have called either you or me.” “Yeah, I suppose.” He sounded deflated.
of his report to Department Chairman Hoefert, so it was important to convey just the right tone. For example, he would make much of the fact that this particular tour of western students had been allowed in to the philological library at the State Institute in Leningrad—a great honour usually requiring a permit from the Ministry of Education. He, Professor Chopyk, was actually allowed right into the stacks, to be surrounded by a rich storehouse of scholarly literature. So much for Professor Hoefert and his boast that he had been allowed into the stacks at the Lenin Library. This was a feather in Chopyk’s cap. Of course, he would not include in the notes that he had bribed the lowly assistant librarian (American dollars), the attendant (bottle of brandy) and even the security guard (flattery and a Cadbury’s bar) to allow him the brief two hours in the library’s inner sanctum. And that those two hours were ones in which the chief librarian was on her extended lunch hour or he would have stood no chance at all. He set his pen down for a moment to relish the memory once more. The porthole was open a crack and a fresh morning breeze played across his face. Other wonderful events had crowded in since his time in the library: touring the art treasures of the Hermitage, attending the Kirov ballet, seeing the monumental statue of Mother Russia at the former Stalingrad, and cruising a stretch of the Volga where no other westerners had been allowed. Russia—no, the Soviet Union—was full of such grand experiences, though none could compare with those two hours spent among the ancient tomes of his linguistic mentors. The journal was filling up. He supposed he would have to write something about the progress of the students—they would receive a grade, after all—and something about the leadership qualities of his second in command, Jennifer White. Chopyk frowned. It was difficult to write about Jennifer. On the one hand, she had done a miraculous job in bringing some of the younger students up to scratch with their Russian. Their verbal abilities had improved greatly during the trip. Of course, total immersion always did that. But they seemed to have more facility with the language, more interest in it. Their written skills had improved, too, if he could believe the mini-essays that Jennifer was assigning them. Even Linda Appleton, whose grammar was superb but who couldn’t string together a simple sentence, had improved. Last night she had actually delivered a brief oral report in Russian on the subject of architecture.
Hephaestus Hephaestus laughed at my demand for a new armour as I reverted into my inheritance subject of a former sound another era’s reward I the indisputable heir of the Aegean Sea truly nothing else was as abstract as the lips of the virgin which I kissed under the sun’s guidance when without warning spring arrived as pure as the indiscreet announcement of deeds I was destined to accomplish: a cross to hang around my neck the lone sea anemone to lean on and catching the meaning of duty I had to be worthy of: sea urchins with spikes, rose bushes by the main entrance of my dwelling beloved words spoken by lips cracked and aged like the lemon tree I never watered tears on my pillow which I held tightly in my arms hoping to wake up like a laughter of sunshine in the cows’ watering trough
Manolis Aligizakis 