Almond Tree And I haven’t yet understood how a woman who’s loved can die An almond tree has grown in my garden just breathing most tenderly and because each morning makes it wilt it won’t give me the joy of its blossom and alas I love it so every morning I walk and kneel before it and with tears and water I water it the almond tree grown in my garden. Oh, the lie of its little life will end and all its still hanging leaves will fall its branches will turn into dry wood spring of its blossom it won’t give me and I, the poorest, have loved it tenderly.
SIXTH DAY Your face extended like the whitewashed rooms of the paternal home. The doves were taking communion from your hand and they were leaving in your eyes compassion for the crawlers and little earth beings. Your high-noon bloomed like carnation and you saunter among the tall columns decorating them under the night stars. Now you lean on pride the altar of sighs
In the crystal morning as if from hibernation I get up, revived during today’s reincarnation
REBIRTH
The healthy clam I once sheltered— said the vacant shell— lonely I now feel and in salinity I shall dissolve to dust I shall turn and as a vesper I shall return slowly digested breath by breath particle upon particle wave against wave I shall endure with hope over new hope that home of mighty abalone one day I shall become
twelve During the first wish to peel the aged, back shoulders the temporary sexuality in mass intensifies there is hope oh man, don’t give up we shall forget of the mass deaths when we all join our bodies shamelessly
Horn in Constantinople mercilessly blows the north wind Carayallis like the Vardaris does in Thessaloniki where they build most of the houses out of wood so that they may be a little warmer in the winter and the people don’t freeze alas though in the middle of summer when the eggplants appear and the panfrying starts and the barbeques only one spark is enough for the big devastating fires to burn day and night the houses tumble into ashes endless black disasters turn the big cities into destruction zones these people, surely Hellenes, to find a solution to the heavenly sent, and often repeated, godly destruction remember their ancient myths that suit them, especially the myth of Phoenix that rose from the ashes brand new like before…
WHEN SPRING COMES When spring comes and the birds return when the flowers bloom as in the past I’ll wait for you and when again the summer returns with the mistral as in the past I’ll wait for you but when autumn arrives with its rain and cloudy skies I’ll come to find you. I won’t wait.
13th of December Ball forever between two kicks and I see myself played, the only spectator, punished not to be sad. People work as long as they endure; they endure more than they can. We’ll carry rocks we’ll chop wood we’ll clean the washrooms. I too. I’d like to look outside where things aren’t that hard: aluminum cups, stools, casseroles, the plate rack with clean plates every morning, the opposite window a square, soft light, orange color that you can’t fold; it spreads.
Tenderness You turn my way and smile a tenderness only stars can fathom with veil of melancholy shadowing your face you let your scarf drop from your hand and I snatch it not knowing whether to return it to you and stand beside you for the picture or place it around my neck and feel your sobs and dreams without any concern for crying chrysanthemums rebelling hyacinths
Rained Bronze statue peels off night rain is portico to sparrow roosted, looking up at colossus he shivers waits for shard of sun, he will pop up take charge of the plaza call mates as you lift your fork before you carve flesh of potato I stare at your smiling lips and daydream of the magnificent ‘o’ they’ll form on my hardened penis
Six people crowded the car as it sleeked through the night, climbing into the mountains on winding, unlit roads. Nora sat in the back between Susan and Ian. Ian smelt her perfume, and it tantalised him. He pressed closer to her in the shadows. His left arm rested along the top of the seat. Nora, leaning her head back with a contented sigh, touched Ian’s arm and sat up straight again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That’s all right. Lie back if you want to.’ ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said disingenuously. Clifford slowed the car almost to a stop, then swung it to the left down a steep, stony, track not much wider than the car, its headlights illuminating the constricting dry-stone walls. He eased the car round a corner into a grassy yard in front of a small, two-storeyed, white-washed, slate-roofed cottage. ‘Home from home,’ he said. ‘Country style.’ Clifford cut the car’s bright beams, plunging the passengers into pitch darkness. Then the interior lights came on as the Bentley doors opened. Ian took Nora’s hand and helped her out. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’ She bobbed him a little curtsey. Even in the gloom Ian caught her captivating smile. The cottage was dark. Everyone stood in a huddle inside the door till Clifford located and lit an oil lamp. Then they moved into the room and looked around at the white-washed walls; the old, dark-toned, wooden table; the dresser; the chairs; the big, deep, well-used armchair beside the hearth. In the spacious fireplace a fire was already set. All it took was a dash of paraffin oil and a lighted match and the flames and sparks were leaping in a crackling frenzy into the large, blackened chimney. On the mantelpiece an old pendulum clock stood at rest between two creamy china dogs. On the dresser shelves an array of blue, willow-patterned plates and cups and large, stout mugs with blue rings gleamed in the light of the fire and the lamp. Fiona lit a second lamp. ‘This is just heavenly,’ Susan exclaimed in a high, excited voice. ‘John, wouldn’t you just love to live in a place like this?’
Manolis Aligizakis 