Sophister I left it to the mercy of the wind to the arms of sunlight benevolent and radiant laughter of grass blades under the pressure of grand master begging it to forever dance for the soul of my kin and just inside my elder’s tepee where the age old wisdom gathers momentum passing words of comfort to the ears of youngsters not ready yet for initiation into the deliverance of manhood they are as they should be my children and their dreams will experience reality in the arms of their first beloved woman
Anarchy of the Incidentals We come from an unapproachable antiquity we are ourselves and something else from the before and the after deeply alone in the indefinition deprived of the dawning of light it seems we have exhausted the possibility of rebirth time emerged from within itself when the anarchy of randomness defined the harmony between life and death the turns of the road promise narratives of the unforeseen exclusive meaning for each who believe in daydreams finish the evil in ecstasy a few spots of innocence distanced souls shine remaining in the dream wandering additions of the fragmented brilliance
“Damn!” Finn said and rose slowly to retrieve the bottle that had come to rest against the granite hearth. “Damn, damn, damn,” he repeated, lifting the bottle to the light to see what was left. “Did you ever witness such a clumsy old fool?” After a moment’s awkward silence, Padraig said, “You were talking about Caitlin.” “I was, wasn’t I?” “Is there really something between her and Michael?” “I think so. It’s usually called love.” Padraig failed to stop the thought before its shadow fell across his face. “She’s in love with Michael?” “She appears to be. And I think she could do worse. Michael’s a good, steady, dependable lad. A farmer to the depth of his marrow. He’s one of the Carricks from Kildarragh. Thomas Carrick’s son, but as different from Thomas as a ripple from a tidal wave.” “I’m glad.” Finn smiled. “You’ve heard the stories about Thomas Carrick then.” “As much as I want to hear.” “You’ll hear worse, Padraig,” Finn said. “You’ll have to learn to accept life and people as somewhat lower creations than the idealized figments of your Christian imagination. But have no fears about Michael being Thomas Carrick’s son. I took Michael in on the recommendation of Seamus Slattery, Michael’s uncle. And it has worked out well for everyone: for Michael himself, for me, for Caitlin. Even for Jinnie who loves him like a son. As he appears about to become. He sneaks in here on his midnight adventures and thinks we don’t know.” “On his what?” Padraig asked with surprise. Finn smiled. His eyes had the faraway look of one who had dived deeply into the river of memory and was swimming joyfully. “His midnight adventures,” he repeated slowly, his attention not fully on what he was saying. “When he thinks I’m sound asleep he creeps like a thief to Caitlin’s room. Lusty young stallion.” Padraig’s disbelief was genuine that a father could allow such conduct. But none of his prepared texts on the subject seemed appropriate to this man who had no idea of morality. How could he begin to reach through to the soul of one who denied God, despised chastity, and did not know the meaning of sin and salvation. “We change the soul, if we change it at all,” Clifford Hamilton had said that evening, “with words, thoughts, ideas…
With Tender Wings The devil flies with tender wings he wears the fluffy coat of a bat thickens the air around him and walks on it. “He will perform his little miracles again” I think, but he stops my hand he lies on the papers again and pours out all his black self He empties all his ink creating many stigmata. When I investigate it I find a dark hole and sobbing Paganini at the far end.
Archipelago Under icy archipelago, krill dance en masse like a curtain pleat to the chorus of arctic current searching for direction and they mingle and they grow just enough to stay trapped inside the baleen of leviathan with teary eyes, with big a heart keeping ahead of the ocean in undulating breath and inhospitable depth as harsh temperature of winter interlocks with short summer and perfect
IV At the edge of memory the sea ends away from the windows the world begins books get worn out in our hands the books over which we spend hour after hour the ones we discuss in the closed room. Regret of the awkward deed more tyrannical than the illegal act. The wise cities of Europe are far away, with their stooping roofs, chimneys that don’t know the agony of the illegal gathering. A thousand paths lead to freedom.
THE DREAM Listen to my dream, my love, my goddess of beauty. I dreamed that one night I walked out with you. We sauntered together in a beautiful garden and in awe you gazed at all the gleaming stars. So I asked them, tell me, oh stars, are any of you up there as bright as the eyes of my love? Tell me if you’ve ever seen such glorious hair, or such a hand, or such a leg such otherworldly beauty which anyone who sees at once demands to know how such an angel can exist on earth here, without wings. With every kiss that night you sweetly gave me, oh my love, a new rose bloomed in that garden of roses and bloomed the whole night long until the dawn light discovered us together, our faces pallid now. My love, this was my dream. It now depends on you to keep me in your heart until my dream becomes reality
“It was your choice. I can remember those lights in the living room. Who are you kidding? “ She stubs out her fag and composes herself. “You know, Lucas, if you were a single working mother with a little boy—just like you—who was trying to sort out her life after divorcing a very destructive man, and somebody offered you some really useful money to tell your side of the story, to help other people, I think that even you would kid yourself that it was worth a go.” She watches him squat down on the circular rug, amid the scattered video cassettes. It’s sometimes best to play it cool with Lucas. Although she’s still hot and cold all over, in shock, a very nasty after-shock. After all these years the dread vibrations won’t stop, the business of Nick goes on exhuming itself. Now Lucas starts to shift mechanically through his overlapping papers—the exam results slip, his college prospectuses, the list of phone calls he hasn’t made—as if some emerging permutation of words will spell out the secret knowledge he’s craving, or dreading. But he’s not going to give up. “Surely as your only child I have a right to know . . .” “Lucas, I’ve told you all you need to know. I’d like it to remain my problem, please. ” She’s keeping extremely busy and business-like, tidying away the half-empty bottles of red wine, Lucas’s scattered socks, last week’s Guardian and the new work-scheme she hasn’t even started. She must assert her control, no more tears, keep up the balancing act. Neither of them look at the telly, which now seems to exist in its own isolated space in the corner of the darkened room. The shimmering image of Pauline is suspended there like a watery reflection of the moon. There’s an odd tang in the air, not the freshness of summer rain, but a faint ammoniac taint. The storm rumbles on. Lucas wanders around the furniture in circles. He’s both unpredictable, and relentless, like the weather. “All you’ve said, in effect, is ‘Your father’s been a horrible embarrassment to everybody, especially his ex-wife, but if you’re ever so good you’ll be able to visit him annually and watch him taking his big purple pills and going gaga . . .’ That’s been the idea, hasn’t it? Containment. A father-free zone. What’s this creature you’re protecting me from? ” Last year that gaunt bespectacled figure in pajamas was too doped to do anything except grin vacantly on a cue from beefy orderlies. It was all stage-managed. “There’s your fine upstanding lad, Nick. How about a smile for Lucas, then? ” After fifteen minutes of watching that empty grin, those wandering eyes, Lucas couldn’t take any more, he was close to screaming. But Dad could still slur mysteriously in his ear. Which made them fellow-conspirators.
BEVAN LONGHORN is in his office Monday morning, his desk covered in paperwork that he has to get through before the day is over. His personnel have just adjusted to Matthew Roberts’s absence and Bevan has been left with only two middle managers to handle the work of three. He considers promoting one officer to Matthew’s post, but there are twenty-odd people to choose from, all qualified for the position. Bevan must give it more serious consideration. He wants to make major changes to the structure of the office, but he has to fight with the rest of the brass, particularly the ones well-connected with the administration and the state department. He cannot put up any longer with the way things are done and the way things they produce are used by the hawks in higher places. He has his own circle of people who would agree with him on certain things; it would just be a matter of rallying the troops. His friend Jerry Wolverton is the best example. He retired as a three- star general and left the army seven years ago with pride and a sense of accomplishment after working in Iraq for five and a half years, in charge of the reconstruction of public projects that accommodated all Iraqi government personnel of various departments. Jeremiah Wolverton got his extra star and a very good severance package, and although retired, can still pull a lot of strings both in the state department and within the ranks of the army. Bevan decides to call him. “Hello, Bevan, my old friend. Are you still in service?” Jerry jokes when he hears who’s calling him. “Of course I’m still in service. We cannot all retire at the same time; the army wouldn’t know what to do without us” “You’re right about that, my good, old friend; what makes you remember me? Trouble?” It’s Bevan’s turn to laugh at the general’s comment. “No, no trouble at all; just the need to say hi to my good friend and see what he’s up to these days.” “Well, I’m doing okay. I play the odd golf game here and there, I walk a lot, still take holidays with the old woman; other than that, nothing much.
But gimme a shady jungle and a can of Mulligan stew. There’s lots of sky and sunshine wherever I chance to roam, But how are you going to see them, if you always stay at home? The men in white coats were passing out cigars when darkness fell and everyone vanished. The tail lights of the President’s car disappeared down the track. Three men came out of the orchard, running toward Poodie, swinging clubs. They knocked him to the ground and began hitting him. He rolled and twisted. The clubs came crashing down. He tried to get up and run, but the men grabbed his arms and legs and ran with him toward the river. His back banged against rocks and stumps. He could feel blood running down his face as they threw him. They watched, laughing, as the current swept him away. He tried to swim, but the water rolled over him. He began to sink, and a whirlpool pulled him down, down toward the bottom.
Manolis Aligizakis 