Chickadee The pitch chirp of the chickadee recites the verse I wrote for you last night, and your smile opened my heart, hourly unction of silence when the heartless Hades caressed your cheek, and another ulcer formed in my stomach —Do you want me to wear this green dress, or should I wear the black one? My breath turns sulfuric, a potion the angels refuse to take away from my mouth, a taste I must indulge in for the rest of my life without you, my love —Come and help me with the zipper; this dress is so tight. Dove tethered onto my heart paints the room white as if a melodious song has gone flat. Your revered image still keeps me company when the night clock counts my heartbeats, and my spoiled dream rekindles my hidden yearning —Don’t pull on the zipper so hard, you’ll break it. Come now, you’ve done this many times. The gaping mouth of the abyss shuts, and your honeyed mound stands opposite the murky swamp where I struggle not to leave my worthiness attached. —Now, isn’t it easy? Let’s go to the theatre tonight, don’t worry about the dog
Every couple of days Swanson visited Aunt Peggy’s. He and Bud held court at the kitchen table. They fell silent if any of us came too close. Most evenings Burt retreated to a spot on the river and helped Mark with his knots. A fear of cougars prevented me from joining them. One night Swanson and Bud asked to talk with us. They waited until our cousin was asleep. – We’re gonna hook up the receiver on Sunday, Bud said. – What of it? Burt said. We’ve got a TV back home. – We’ll need assistants. – Paying top dollar, Bud said. Up to it? – Why tell us? Burt sparred. We’re students. On vacation. –We’ve had dozens of applications, Swanson said.He removed his cowboy hat. There was a wart above one eye looked like a ladybug. – We don’t know nothing about receivers, I said. We don’t even know what one looks like. – You boys ever heard of the Sherpas? Swanson asked. They help climbers in the Himalayas. – Think it over, boys, Bud said. It’s a great opportunity. After Swanson had left, our aunt scouring dishes, Bud leaned into Burt and said, Jails are full of punks like you. He slid a fresh toothpick into his cheek, then quickly removed it again. – One night changes their whole outlook. Get my meaning? – I was 14. I didn’t. Burt wedged one of Bud’s toothpicks between his lips. – That the reason, Uncle Bud, you walk like a girl? Pork Chop Hill seemed considerably steeper standing in a pasture at its base than it did from downtown Coppermine. Its flanks were dressed in dense old growth, the highest point smothered in cloud. A hundred people must have turned up to see us off. A photographer from the Gazette snapped photos; the school band did its best. Flatulent cows grazed lazily amongst the muddy pickups. Swanson reiterated our tasks. He and Bud, carrying sensitive…
“Because you don’t want to face the consequences of not helping.” Shukshin glowered at the public official. “What do you mean?” Pyotr became agitated. “Are you threatening me? If this is a joke it’s gone too far!” “It’s no joke.” Pavel spoke again. “I need all of the documents: permits, propiska, passport, whatever is necessary, and I need them soon. As to why you should help me then I’m afraid it’s like Shukshin says. You don’t want others to know what we can tell them about you.” Pyotr froze to his chair. It was not a joke. To his surprise, Vera chimed in. They were all in it together. “You were seen…at the boathouse. You understand me?” He remained silent so she continued. “With the police chief’s wife—what’s her name, Tanya?—and we all know that the police chief would not like your activities with his wife, would he?” Pyotr was stunned. It was all collapsing in front of him—the careful secrecy, the hidden assignations. “We…simply meet to talk. There’s nothing harmful….” He stopped. Vera was shaking her head. “We have photos,” and she pointed to a large American-style camera on the bed. “We took photos of you and Tanya together. Believe me, you were not just talking.” “What! Devil take it! Give me those photos. You have no right…” He stood up, prepared to invoke some bureaucratic rule that would force them to comply—or what? Report them to the police? They sat politely while he worked through his tantrum, sputtered another oath or two and smacked the table with his fist. Finally he sat again and slumped in the chair. “May I pour you another drink?” Vera inquired with a sweet smile as if he were a friendly visiting uncle. “I think it would be best to find the passport first, don’t you? That way we can make the other documents match whatever the name on the passport.” “Yes, I suppose so,” Pyotr agreed at last. “I know of just such a widow who would probably give up a passport for a sum of money. I hope you people have some cash to pay her.” “We’ll find the money,” said Pavel. “You find the goods.” “And some cash for me, for my trouble in locating the passport,” the official continued. But Shukshin had only to glance at him quizzically and indicate the camera once more for Pyotr to understand that any cash benefit to him would not be forthcoming.
Joel was not a spiritual person. Never had been. For almost thirty years as a maritime engineer, Joel had spent most if not all of his time in his head. His brain had earned him some degree of respect in his profession and helped him to survive disaster after disaster on the bumpy journey of life. But at this very moment, sitting astride the orange horse on the crest of a hill, admiring the grazing mares and foals, Joel felt for a moment the power of his heart. It had been a long time since he had this kind of feeling, but Joel knew that he was feeling rather than thinking. He could feel his heart coming to life. With the exception of the sounds of nature, the silence was so powerful that the only way he could think to describe it was that it was very huge. Or so it seemed to Joel who had spent most of his mornings for the last thirty-two years nursing a hangover in one urban ghetto or another as horns blasted and fumes rose from the heart of the city outside his hotel room or apartment. Compared to the city this was looking like a pretty good way to start a day. Sure, it didn’t have a Starbucks. But you know what. This was better. And with this realization Joel made amental note to himself that yes, it surely was a wonderful day to be alive. It must have been an hour since he had let himself through the swinging ranch gate that led to the pasture of abundance. Abundant with the kind of grass that only a true son of the prairie could appreciate. Sure, it had been a lot of years since his childhood days on the ranch, but he still knew the value of good pasture when he saw it. And this pasture was very good, having a thick mat of hearty wild grasses standing a foot high in some places. This was the kind of grass that cattlemen yearned for, and if they got excited about the grass, you can only imagine the kind of impact it had on the livestock. Beyond the natural abundance of the grass, this pasture was special for another reason. Unlike the farmland on the plains below, these hills had never been cultivated to grow a single crop of grain. He was riding on the real thing.
Anton felt as if he was sitting on burning charcoals since he still didn’t know what to do with Dylan’s diary. Two days had passed since the killing of Father Thomas and things in the School had almost returned to normalcy except for the ones who knew certain things others didn’t know. Anton’s wonder was mostly based on his perception of what a Christian should be and how a Christian should behave and the church people who should always discern between good and evil and should always, as was expected of them, choose good, and follow good, and do good, which stood opposite what had transpired within the walls of the mausoleum. This was Anton’s most basic wonder why these atrocities and abuses had to occur in such a place and under the authority of the most powerful Christian entity of the country. Yet he also knew that people are always people and they always behave in such an unjustifiable way and a person with common sense feels so disappointed by such behavior. Anton had his supper with his parents. His dad, discerning certain emotional stress on his son during their supper and after he sat by the window he called him to come and sit close to him. “What is it that bothers you son?” “I’m puzzled. I don’t know what to do with the diary. The old man said I’d do what is best, but what’s that best?” Anton replied. His father looked at his son’s eyes, seeing the uncertainty that was surely obvious and since he wanted to calm him down, undoubtedly that was his concern at this moment, he said, “perhaps you could let it be and trust that your heart will give you guidance soon” to which Anton smiled, his father would always say something vague and philosophical which eventually, on second thought, would make sense. For this he didn’t ask anything else but he got up saying…
Heroism Without a Hero Therefore let us say goodbye, who knows? Generations will come to find me in the same position especially at night when I’m absent when everything is vague like a woman who aged from dress to dress or a grey street sign onto which the unsuspecting children lean, of course, I’ve also been a naïve idealist with no ticket or I’ve heard the creaking of a door and its real meaning like a the rain song that takes the side of the poor and every so often I lowered the light of the lamp so that I could gain another adventure like someone they sent away many a time until he becomes fully bloomed or I fell asleep in front of the wheels of a car or that I wouldn’t sing only at night when fame was asleep; I am completely dishonest like this world that it belongs to you only when you promise it to someone.
Vegetables I pointed out to the young man of the supermarket that the vegetables were wilted and he laughed at my face before he added two tomatoes on the display tray half rotten, repulsive tomatoes red like blood of the man shot by the policeman and I wondered how to fix all the anomalies of this world before I concluded the milk smelled almost rancid and saying to the clerk to feed the vegetables to his pigs I walked out of the door
LAST NIGHT IN MY DREAM Last night in my dream I saw our newly born Christ as cows blew on him their hot breath. His forehead was like the sun though the manger was so poor and each of the magic gleams shone brighter than daylight. The Magi leaned over his feet and the star up high above looked like a crown ready to place upon the hair of Virgin Mary. Shepherds and shepherd girls knelt reverently before him, blonde angels stood and sang Hosannas round him. Yet of the angels and the Magi I never felt more envious than of his mother’s lips and her warm, her so warm kiss.
The Sentence to Oblivion Who would estimate for us the sentence to oblivion?
Stop, passer-by, before the still lake; the curly sea and the tormented ships the roads that surrounded mountains and birthed stars everything ends on this immense surface. Now you may watch the swans calmly look at them, they are white like a night’s sleep without touching anywhere, they slide on a thin blade that raises them slightly over the water. They are like you, stranger, the still wings and you understand them while the stone eyes of lions look at you and the tree’s leaf remains uninscribed in the sky and the slate pencil pierced the prison wall. And yet the birds that slaughtered the village girls weren’t other than them the blood turned the milk red on the street’s flagstones and their horses noiselessly drew in the troughs illegible shapes like molten lead.
…she died of consumption, God rest her soul. Flynn was well up in his teens by then and already working in McGuigan’s quarry. But he grew up with a chip on his shoulder as big as a boulder and a fierce hatred of the English that he’s nurtured for years.” “He needs to learn the lesson of forgiveness,” Padraig remarked. “Forgiveness is a rare commodity in Ireland, Padraig,” Mother Ross said. “Irishmen never forgive and never forget. That’s their nature.” She paused, staring into the hearth. Then she asked, “What about Caitlin?” “What about Caitlin?” Padraig repeated with more feeling than he meant to show. Mother Ross looked suspiciously at Padraig, but gave him no inkling of the thoughts that rushed through her mind. “Is Caitlin ready to be married in church?” “She is now, yes,” Padraig replied with a touch of petulance. “Finn didn’t know, did he?” Padraig walked across to the door and leaned against the wall beside it. His shoulder and his broken ribs were painful. “Oh Finn knew all right,” he said, but his face had an uncomfortable, guilty look. Mother Ross made no comment. She felt that Padraig and Caitlin together had indecently betrayed the man who had been closest to both of them. And yet she could not see how anyone but Finn MacLir himself could live outside the Church. She was happy for Caitlin, but disappointed at the same time. “Then they won’t have to wait long before they can be married.” “They have only to name the day.” Neither Mother Ross nor Padraig spoke, and they were still silent when voices and footsteps were heard outside, and doors opened both in the front and the back of the house. “I still think we should have buried his wine alongside of him,” someone said. “Yes, think how happy he’d be if he woke up one night and found it there beside him.” “He wouldn’t want to get out.” “Not till the bottle was empty at any rate.” “Bottle be damned; he drank it by the barrelful.” “What an old sot he was.” “Ay, but you don’t find his likes below every hedge.” “I’ve heard many a woman between Iceland and the Isle of Wight say the same thing about him.”
