Heat Wave
Soft island hills
lapping on sea froth
cicadas fire up
their endless arias
come close to me, you said,
stand before me like Hermes
a naked graceful cypress
so that I’ll keep you
in my eyes for
the long winter days
when we’ll be apart
moments I’ll
yearn for your warmth
do come to me, I beg you
let me touch your skin
the day is fiery
and unbearable like
the body’s conflagration
The Initiate
The initiate dressed in white always dwells in caves
and the oleanders behind him will turn red
the pebbles will be sprinkled with holy rain
and the whole gorge that follows.
I also go near with my serpent-self
the estuary of passion.
my soles, the last lovers,
carry me lightly
as if I had no heaviness in my consciousness.
The one who attracts me stops, thin,
dressed in white and having a ponytail;
he smells a strong odor like devil rosemary
while he exhumes the beautiful fragrance of a dead angel.
The leafage of the carob-tree
hides something quivering and invisible
felt only by that quivering and invisible sense
that we have inside us.
The initiate is very thin;
his pants only balloon a little
in the front and a little in the back
while airy flesh fills his shirt.
The sponsor of earth lowered me,
with the unanswered questions in my tongue,
to a cave that instead of a mouth
had a hole in the sky.
Under it stood
the provider of the inconceivable
who milked the light-blue
with his palms turned upwards.
He stirred a little;
was perhaps the unforeseen from above
that pushed him
or the earth, slave of precision
that shook him from his foundations?
Locked Door
The Saturday is bitter in the neighborhood evening when
the street organ player turns the corner
and some music notes are left in the mud of the road,
like the wet wooden shoes along the narrow pathway
between the migrant shacks.
The hours of the evening are counted by that old watch
we had placed in the chest of the dead woman with her
leftover woolen cloths. At midnight the alarm woke us up
playing its familiar rough music — it was like a child
buried alive who was hitting the sealed casket
with his small hands. When we were children the candles
with the purple ribbons and gold letters scared us a lot;
for this we were so sad when evening came because
the sun-downs, seen from the balcony of our house
in the island, looked like purple ribbons. And we were
afraid of sleep since we felt that someone locked us up and
we didn’t have keys.
And if they would forget to open for us and if we couldn’t
talk like the old woman Raken?
However we listened to the adults talking at the dining room
and a ribbon of light from the lamp had fallen under the door.
Then we weren’t afraid.
Now the mayor, they said,
went to present the keys of the city.
Don’t expect anyone to open anymore. Now you have
to take care of it alone. We have to break down the door.
We’ll manage it, because our love is stronger than
our loneliness.
Twilight
If I wasted my life, it was because I was a different age
from the correct one, and now I’m confused; I don’t know
whether I’m at the end or the beginning, whether I have
to leave or return, which path to follow and where to go.
After all, evening has come
and the dogs bark, stopping the passersby at the borders
of the unsaid.
PARROT
As soon as he could say good evening
the parrot suddenly announced:
I’m the wisest, I speak Greek,
what am I doing here?
He dresses in his finest green
and to a birds’ symposium goes
to share his wisdom there,
and standing in his sternest posture
coughs a bit, then looks afar
and says to them good evening.
His words were much admired,
so learned a bird he seemed:
they said: no wiser bird there is
than he who speaks the tongue of men!
Perhaps from India he arrived
with many a book along with him.
He must have talked to many sages
to learn their bookish tongue.
Oh, educated parrot, give us please
the honor of a few more words.
And so the parrot coughs, and coughs
once more, and says good evening.
excerpt
Without pushing their luck any further, they went to the café and
had a soothing bowl of chicken soup, then said goodbye to the casino
hall and went up to their room to rest.
In the morning Eteo phoned home to see how the boys were
doing. Jonathan assured him they were all fine. Then he called Logan
at the office and got an update on the market, after which, satisfied
that everything was under control, he went downstairs with Ariana.
They strolled from one casino to the other for most of the day, stopping
here and there to gamble for a while, taking a break for coffee
and then for lunch, relaxing by the pool for an hour or so, and then
gambling some more in the afternoon.
For Eteo the most enjoyable thing about Las Vegas was the
chance to observe other people and their interactions and reactions
to all the sights and sounds of the place. He loved to just look around
him while Ariana played her slot machines in whichever casino they
went to.
On Friday night they went to the famous KA show at the MGM
Grand. It was the most elaborate and amazing show either of them
had ever seen. The story line was a simple fairy tale, but the presentation
was spectacular, mainly for its technological innovations and
the gymnastics of the actors. What impressed Ariana and Eteo the
most was when the stage turned completely vertical, huge levers and
axles moving it slowly from horizontal to vertical while the actors
continued to perform their elaborate choreography standing on arrows
shot on the stage. It was a combination of artistry, acrobatics,
and athleticism all at the same time and to a musical score that was
a phenomenal combination of modern and classic mixes that created
a unique atmosphere. As they left, Eteo could not resist buying a CD
of the music to enjoy at home.
There were thousands of visitors in Las Vegas, and everywhere
they went they were always among crowds of people coming and
going, laughing and drinking, partying and teasing drinking and eating
as they walked, as they sat on a barstool right on the strip, as they
entered one hotel, or as they exited from another. People drank and
partied everywhere: in the streets, the hallways of the hotels, the casinos,
the restaurants, the bars, the blackjack tables, the baccarat hall.
The Dead House
And if someone happened to saunter on the opposite
hill with the thorns when the sun goes down and
everything is pale, vague and violet when they all
seem to be lost and at the same time approachable,
that lonely passerby who saunters on the hill looks
calm and likable like one who could feel sympathetic
towards us, even the hill looks serene at the
same height as our window, so much so that if one
turns this way to look at the cypresses, it seems
that in more steps he could pass by our terrace,
enter our room like an old familiar friend, and,
I think he could also ask for a brush to dust off
his shoes. Yet the man vanishes behind the hill
and the contour of the mountain remains opposite
our window like silent forgiveness, along with
the sad, calm sunset that fades amid the shadows.
And don’t think that we have adapted
but what are you doing? Everyone has
deserted us; we have deserted everyone too.
We’ve established an almost just balance without
reciprocal enmity, regret, and sadness of course,
how else could it be?
III
Flocks of stars descend into your eyes
to quench their thirst, the wind heals in your hair
your neck is made of moon steel
your breasts two knives that stab silence
your mouth insubordinate orbit of the sun
your teeth days of a short summer
after the first rains.
We search for your secret
in the deep water well of your voice.
Twenty-Fourth Hour
My words ripple in the air meshing
untangling a spider’s web
you fall into as though in
emotional fervor of our
last kiss before the boat’s
departure while an alarming
uncertainty and guilt beats the
inside walls of your heart
swells with our intense crescendo
shuddering at His zeal
when such concepts as parochial
narrow-minded petty incidental
unfold their perennial
petals on the horizon
and I’m pulled down as though
in a whirlpool as smug God stands
admiring the results of insane sanity and
as His zealot starts to speak with eloquence
the stars suddenly turn into black holes
or wall of a tsunami swallowing
meaningless and important
measly and grand
old experienced Death having
been there and done that steps out
in His fine pressed suit with a
tie smartly knotted
and creates balance with His
gift of greatness to all little
insects all unimportant winds
every petite bird and minnow
who dare ask ‘do you like
what you see?’ and the oceans
plumb their wisdom peering into depths
of cathedral dungeons answering:
who cares?
excerpt
The galley kitchen was utilitarian and old-fashioned with a two-burner gas stove, a scarred countertop and a tiny porcelain sink. Marta peeled cucumber and kept her back to Jennifer, her posture erect.
“May I help you?” Jennifer asked. There was no answer. Suddenly Jennifer knew exactly what to say. “Is that cabbage rolls I smell?” she asked. “Mom used to make those—were they ever good.” The shoulders relaxed slightly and Marta turned, wiped her hands on a dishcloth and said with a wan smile, “Yes, they are Misha’s favourite, too.”
The conversation was polite but not warm over the dinner table although Nadya recovered some of her childish energy and rattled on to Jennifer about her school work and her friends. As soon as the dishes were cleared away, Marta directed Volodya and Jennifer to Nadya’s room, hastily vacated for the night in order to accommodate the travellers. The single bed had been made up with clean sheets for one person and a series of cushions had been placed on the floor with a quilt on top.
“I’m sorry we don’t have more beds and another room for you,” Marta said coolly. “But I think you will be comfortable in here.” Marta closed the door behind her, leaving Jennifer and Volodya staring at each other wordlessly. She turned away, wanting only to sleep and too exhausted to challenge his behaviour. He began undressing with no further comment. But as they prepared for bed, a knock on the door startled them. Misha’s head appeared around the door.
“Can I see you, Zhen? I’ll be in the living room.” Wrapping her robe around her, she glanced at Volodya and left the room.
Misha was sitting on the uncomfortable sofa. “This is where we should have started—right when you arrived, Zhen.” He patted a worn, leather-bound album. “Forgive me that I did not show you this sooner.”
Family photos, thought Jennifer. How will this help? Misha opened the album lovingly, smoothing the pages. She sat beside him. Most of the pictures had been taken in the last few years and they showed the couple at their wedding, traditional photos posed in front of the war memorial, some scenes from their trip to Sochi and many of Nadya’s childhood. Flipping through the book quickly, Misha opened it at a page of older, grainier photos. He pointed at one dog-eared print. Jennifer gasped. The picture depicted two teenagers standing together solemnly, kerchiefs around their heads, their faces forming weak smiles, their arms linked.
Manolis Aligizakis 