Message
In the wedge of pain
I type the message
rushing, misspelling
hoping to get your answer
to fill my lonely hours
But you don’t answer
and for the third time, I send it,
edited and corrected
not knowing that hugging
the laughter of your comforter
you’ve fallen asleep leaving
your muted phone
on your nightstand
excerpt
“We’ll be here. You know William, he doesn’t like to go out very much.
You’re welcome to come and stay with us; what time are you getting into San
Francisco? We’ll come and pick you up, or I’ll come and pick you up.”
“Oh, you don’t have to, Evelyn. I’ll be just fine getting a cab.”
“Nonsense! What time is your flight, Bevan?” Her voice is firm.
“I’ll be in around five or just a bit past five. Flight 673.”
“Well now, you just stay and wait for me, even if I’m late. I’ll come pick you
up okay?”
“Okay, Evelyn,” Bevan puts the phone down.
He starts packing his bag, which he does so professionally after all the years of
repetitive action. He’s very happy that he talked to her and whistles a tune as he
puts his things together.
Hakim is back from his walk in Memorial Park and takes a quick shower. He
didn’t feel like going to the office this morning, and after calling Peter, decided it
wasn’t necessary for him to be there. He’s anxious to see Talal later in the afternoon.
He has promised to pick them up from the airport. He wants to hear all
about the trip and what Talal has to say about his uncle. There’re so many things
he needs to talk to Ibrahim about and it’s impossible to talk directly to the old
man these days, as he knows certain things cannot be discussed over the phone
or by computer. He might take a quick trip to Iraq soon, after he moves to the
new place. First he wants to know what news Talal has for him.
When he is done with his shower, he calls Jennifer to ask what time she’ll be
getting home.
“Hi there, baby. How’s your schedule later on?”
“I’ll be leaving a bit early, honey; shall be there in an hour. What time is the
flight coming in?”
“About five; we should leave no later than four.”
“Okay then, I’ll be home long before that; see you, love you.” She sounds
excited, as she’s also anxious to see her mother and hear all about her trip.
Hakim logs on to the computer and tries to get in touch with his uncle. He
sees, to his surprise, that Mara answers his message.
“Hello, my dear Hakim, how are you?”
“I’m okay, Mara. Where is Ibrahim?”
“He is in bed, sweetheart. He wasn’t feeling well today; he’s been in pain since
this morning, even before Talal and Emily left. Have they arrived yet?”
F
After the death of authority
we waited for the king’s celebrations
messengers of the lost war and
the orders of the slaughtered
on these sunken mountains
we waited for the vow of youth forgotten
along with the adventure of the roads
we carry the light and the spade
of the eighth day
entrusted in us
by the bitterness of God.
With the silence of memory
that consumes us
wrapped like an ivy over our bodies
with the music of love
spent along the bands of stench
with the full of holes prayer
of the Esfigmeni monks.
Alexander Jannaeus and Alexandra
Successful and completely satisfied,
the King Alexander Iannaios
and his wife Queen Alexandra
go by, announced by music
with plenty of grandeur and luxury,
passing through the streets of Jerusalem.
The work started by the great
Judas Maccabeus and his four
famous brothers, which was carried on
afterward amid many dangers
and many obstacles have been overcome superbly.
Now nothing improper remains.
All submission to the arrogant monarchs
of Antioch has ceased. Look,
King Alexander Jannaeus,
and his wife Queen Alexandra
are equal to the Seleucids in every way.
Good Jews, pure Jews, above all faithful Jews.
But, as the circumstances demand it,
also proficient in the Greek language,
and closely associated with the Greeks, and the Hellenized
as equals, though, let that be known.
Indeed, it has succeeded superbly,
succeeded most surprisingly,
the work that began with the great Judas Maccabeus
and his four famous brothers.
In the prologue of the first edition the editor said that it was brought to Zakynthos by
Cretan refugees a er the fall of their island to the Turks; and these same Cretans made it known
to the islanders, since it was written in their own Cretan dialect. In that edition the name of the
poet was clearly stated as Vitsentzos Kornaros from Sitia Crete. is declaration bears witness
to the authenticity of the poem, its origin and its idiomatic Cretan dialect. All other following
editions have this same declaration or a similar annotation. erefore, everyone today believes
that Erotokritos is a Cretan poem wri en by Vitsentzos Kornaros from the eastern Cretan city
of Sitia. His father was Iakovos and his brother, the Venetian-Cretan author Andrew Kornaros.
Vitsentzos, was born in 1553 and died in 1613 or 1614. Based on this we believe Erotokritos
was wri en between 1590 and 1610, although there are other suggestions depending on the
reviewer and his sources.
The first person who seriously referred to Erotokritos was the English author Leake who
makes sure to inform us, with no substantial proof of any kind that the book was written two
hundred years before 1810; and further on in his comments he states it was written around
1600.
excerpt
He was making his way to the bar when a stranger blocked his
advance.
– What you want? the man said. One eye had been inexpertly
sewn shut. Dis a private establishment, pilgrim.
Redman’s muscles twitched. He enjoyed a good row, it was a
Yukon sport, but on his first night out? Besides, the fellow had
shoulders broad as a linebacker. His fists were the size of five-pin
bowling balls.
– You best turn around, mon.
Redman feigned resignation, retreated a few steps — but then
pushed into the crowd. Convinced he’d lost Cyclops, he slipped into
a vacant seat and ordered a beer.
A few drinks later a girl approached his table and began dancing.
Her plump black thighs glistened with perspiration. She had breasts
and lips women like Marge would pay to replicate. Her hair was a
tangle of dreadlocks.
Ace jumped to his feet and began to move.
Boom-boom-ba-boom . . .
Oh, yeah.
The girl led him deeper into the crush of dancers. And then he
was being nudged into the washroom, its only exit blocked. The girl
was waved away.
– What I tell you, mon, huh? Dis place not for your kind.
There were machetes and at least one pistol tucked into a waistband.
All attached to four very large and fierce Caribes. The Cyclops
appeared to be their leader.
– You a crazy motha, know that, pilgrim?
The heat and the booze had caught up to Redman. He was out of
gas and the odds were against him. So he approached the man with
one eye squeezed shut and played his only hand.
His name, he said, was Johnny Cool, and you bet he needed a job. It
seemed most able-bodied men on the island did. He was in the lobby
sucking on sugar cane when Redman stepped from the elevator the
next morning.
– The dancer, she yours? he asked.
– Dey all mine.
– Have her checked out. I’ll want to see the certificate.
excerpt
…where all the things that are common in your life don’t exist. Imagine a
place where the only things that do exist are things that are uncommon
to you. You will be in a state of sensory deprivation and sensory overload
at the same time. There are no trees. There are no cities. There is nothing
– but there are vast numbers of insects so pray that the wind blows. There
is almost no night. The size of the horizon is so immense that the prairies
by comparison are claustrophobic. It will just eat away at you and you’ll
have to go through the experience of feeling a bit wobbly and perhaps
teary and that’s fine. I would be worried if you didn’t have an emotional
moment or two. You would have to be completely insensitive.”
In the weeks leading to the departure day, dozens of incidents demanded
his attention. First on the list was the long-planned show at the
Ontario Legislature buildings, which was a great success. The Premier
steered Ken from group to group, demanding that Ken tell the stories that
explained the paintings – even relating some himself that he had heard so
often he had committed them to memory.
Then Ehor Boyanowsky, his voice almost incoherent with excitement,
called him. Ken must fly out to Vancouver right away for an emergency
meeting of the Steelhead Society. There were problems with the dam
project in Quebec.
He drove into town to deliver a painting to London Life on Avenue
Road, on the day of his flight. When he got back into his car, a large
cheque in hand, he heard Peter Gzowski, radio’s “Mister Canada”, interviewing
John Fraser, who was now Speaker of the House. The interview
had almost ended. “So, Mr. Speaker,” Gzowski said. “Your life seems to be
completely taken up by your office.”
“Well, it is,” Fraser, replied.
“I know you’re a fanatical fly-fisherman,” Gzowski said. “Do you ever
get to do that?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Fraser said. “This afternoon I’m getting on an
airplane to go to Vancouver and I’m going to meet my good friend Ken
Kirkby, the painter, and I am going to be honoured at the Steelhead Society
dinner. I couldn’t imagine being in finer company. I’m just delighted.
So yes, we are actually going to steal some time – but don’t tell anybody
– and we’re going to have a few meetings to talk about some problems,
which I’m sure we’ll resolve, and then we’re going to go fishing. And the
people putting this on have some surprises for us too.”
Ken chuckled. So, that was why Boyanowski had insisted he fly to Vancouver.
He knew that Ken would never have pulled himself away from
Isumataq for a mere fishing trip.
When Ehor greeted him in the baggage area, with an immense bear
hug, Ken told him that the jig was up. Ehor shrugged. “I wondered if you
might be listening to Gzowski’s program.
excerpt
…in dogs: some of these stones, usually smooth and round most times
dissolve over time, and some other kind of stones were jagged and usually
they remained in the body for a long time, and this was the kind
Elvis had in his bladder.
“What do you suggest we do?” He asked the vet.
“Surgery,” the vet answered.
Cold sweat overtook both as they recalled that Elvis was hit by
a car when he was only a year and a half, and that resulted in surgery
to join two parts of the right side of his pelvis that were broken. The
surgeon used two platinum plates and nine screws to mend the pet’s
broken bone, and it took the young animal two months to heal and feel
good. The idea of another surgery didn’t sit well with them.
“Is there any chance the stone might dissolve?” he asked as if
begging for a positive result.
“I wouldn’t say this,” the vet insisted.
“There is a procedure of using a laser to pulverize kidney stones
for people; is this done to animals?” He asked the vet.
“Not here; I believe there is a company down south and one in
Winnipeg that performs such procedures, but the logistics of doing it
there are against you, you know, travelling, US funds, etc.”
“I see”
“What we could do,” the vet underlined, “is to put him on a sodium
diet which will force him to drink more often and with the excess consumption
of water the stone might be neutralized for a while.”
“Perhaps this is a better option,” they both agreed.
And they put the dog on that special diet. They bought the
proper food and drove home. However, when they talked about it later
and searched the internet for ideas, they decided to get a second opinion.
They located another local vet and called him. The next day, the
new vet examined Elvis and recommended a scan. They agreed. When
the scan results were known, he called them for a consultation. Something
made both feel uneasy. True enough, after his initial comments,
the vet referred to some calcification, revealed by the scan, and lined
the wall of the dog’s penis that led to his urethra.
Where do the poets go at night?
Where do poets go at night?
Why they saunter with bloodied hands?
Why they go up on roofs and scream?
Why they have a bandage over their hearts?
Why the letters they painfully incise in paper,
with pen, or pencil
leave light traces of blood?
Why does the swan quiver,
white and virginal,
spreads its wings and
writes its last verse?
excerpt
…flashy little palomino filly, she finished in second. Tanya was
beaten by young Cody whose grey stallion left everyone in awe.
Cody and the stallion put together a run that many a horseman
would remember years later. To say that it was flawless may be
an overstatement, but it certainly was as good as they get. “Hey,
nothing wrong with second place,” Joel thought as he heard
Cody’s score being announced. Reserve World Champion
sounded good to him.
The pretty little palomino filly had done it all. She had shown
the world what she could do, and so had her rider.
Twenty horses and riders entered the ring for the presentation
ceremonies. As they were called forward to receive their awards,
Joel kept waiting to hear his name. Sitting side by side, astride
their horses, Joel and Tanya kept looking at each other every time
someone’s name was called. Finally, the announcer called the
fourth place finisher, and it wasn’t Joel. He knew that the buckskin
had a good run, but he obviously didn’t know exactly how
good it was. And then, there was only the three of them. Joel,
Tanya, and Cody. When Joel was called forward to receive his
third-place ribbon he couldn’t help but cry with excitement, but
no more so than when his young friend Tanya was called to be
awarded the title of Reserve World Champion. As they watched
Cody receive the World Championship title and start a victory
lap of the arena astride his handsome grey stallion, Joel and
Tanya directed their horses for the gate and to the holding area.
With Cody celebrating his success, Joel leaned over to Tanya and
said, “You did a great job with the little filly.”
“Thank you Joel. I appreciate that.”
Cody exited the arena and walked the grey towards Tanya.
Turning the buckskin to meet up with Cindy, Joel whispered two
words to Tanya, “She’s yours.”
Joel acknowledged plenty of congratulatory words as he
approached Cindy. Leaning forward in the saddle, he gave her a
big kiss as she wrapped her arms around him. Dismounting to
stand next to her, he looked Cindy deep in the eyes and said…
Manolis Aligizakis 