Sundown
Last reflection of the sun rays
on the leaves of the oleander
and onto the moist rock that stands
guard opposite the sea’s slow movement
life declares its benevolence
transcending Earth with its songs
before the night conquers
the cracks of hours
and the door shuts till morning
stay up, I’ll tell you
taste the bloom of your emotions
eternal moments
that only last a short while
Excerpt
be the reason for Curly’s depression? Both Tyne and Moe had been
happy about the blossoming friendship between their roommate
and the medical intern. Curly had made no secret of her infatuation
with him.
“You’re not insensitive, Tyne. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just
don’t want to talk about him.”
“I understand. Of course you don’t.” Then she added with an attempt
at jocularity, “Men! They aren’t worth talking about, anyway.”
Curly did not reply and they walked on in silence until Tyne looked
at her watch. “Hey, it’s almost seven o’clock. What say we run down
to the dairy and get an ice cream cone? My treat. Then, I’d better try
to catch forty winks before duty calls.”
Curly looked up and smiled. They linked arms and started down
the street in the fading September light.
Two days later, Tyne returned to the residence at eight o’clock in
the morning to find Carol Ann just getting out of bed.
“Hey, Curly, it’s your day off. What’s your hurry? Are you going
home for the day?”
Curly shook her head as she tied the belt of her housecoat. “No,
I have a few things to do downtown. Mom and Dad are away, and I
don’t want to go home to an empty house.” She picked up her towel
and headed down the hall to the washroom.
Later as Tyne crawled into bed, Curly, dressed in a tartan skirt
and yellow pullover, went out to the cupboard in the corridor and
returned with her coat over her arm.
“See you later, Tyne. Don’t know what time I’ll be back, but I won’t
wake you when I come in.”
“I know you won’t, not intentionally, anyway. But don’t worry
about it; I’ve been sleeping better this last week.”
“Bye then, pleasant dreams.” She hurried out the door, closing it
softly behind her.
Tyne frowned as she settled under the covers. Curly appeared extra
cheerful this morning. But something was not quite as it seemed.
Tyne could not put a finger on it, but something felt wrong. She
wished she had offered to go downtown with her friend. She could
have slept later, through the supper hour if necessary. But it was too
Excerpt
Three months went by. July came with mischievousness and playfulness
from the hot afternoons that kept the city boys running
behind the ice cream truck to the stuffy nights that kept most
Kamloops residents awake and sweaty. And it was a stuffy place,
Kamloops, when the winds rejected every request for a blow
and the clouds refused to appear from the west where they came
most of the times; it was a stuffy place, Kamloops, with the nuns
and the priests waging their war against the savages while they
tried to teach them what they thought was necessary and useful
to them, alas they didn’t know that when you try to wash off the
black of a man trying to turn him into a white you only waste
your soap.
This was a celebratory Kamloops morning with the sun
half way up the invisible staff of nature’s flag when Anton imagined
it rising in tune with the joyous anthem of nature and all
the earth creatures stood in attention, from the tiny ants which
raised their antennae to the orcas in the pacific which raised their
dorsal fins straight up in the air as if slicing it in two pieces, from
the immense wings of the condors spread in salutation, to the
tiny wings of the hummingbirds balancing themselves in midair
as they gazed at the marvel of a fuchsia, and from the raised
tusks of the elephants in glorification of the rising flag to the
salutation of the injured soldiers in the muddy hutments of war,
such glorious was this morning in Kamloops when Anton drove
his GMC pickup towards the Indian Residential School before
seven o’clock.
He passed the quiet Thompson murmuring indecipherable
secrets to the shrubs and verdure standing on its two banks,
certainly in attention too, and soon he was parked at the School
parking lot. His glance went through the gap the big oaks were
Painting by Christine Brunnock
Traces
The storm has quieted down:
the grains of sand mingled
with the algae on the beach,
traces of the raging
of violence.
But elsewhere the raging does not stop:
houses are set ablaze
there lie no algae
there lie the dead
like bloody traces
of a murderous war.
ΙΧΝΟΙ
Η καταιγίδα ησύχασε
κόκκοι άμμου μπλέκονται
με τα φύκια στην ακροθαλασσιά
ίχνοι της σκληρής βίας.
Μα κάπου αλλού η βία δεν σταματά:
σπίτια καίγοναι
φύκια δεν υπάρχουν εκεί
μόνο κουφάρια σκοτωμένων
σημαδια του θανατοφόρου
πολέμου
Hope
It is winter:
the chilly wind has torn off
the last leaves from the trees
which before were protection
and accommodation for the birds.
They shiver in the cold
but still whistle
because they also hope
for better times.
ΕΛΠΙΔΑ
Χειμώνας
ο παγωμένος αέρας γυμνώνει
τα δέντρα απ’ τα τελευταία φύλλα
που προστάτευαν κι έκρυβαν τα πουλιά
Τα δέντρα τρέμουν στην παγωνιά
μ’ ακόμα τραγουδούν
προσμένοντας
τις καλύτερες μέρες
Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//Translated by Manolis Aligizakis
Germain Droogenbroodt
Translation Germain Droogenbroodt – Stanley Barkan
Excerpt
The palomino was sharp this morning. She was really listening
to him and reacted nicely to the slightest requests he made
of her.
Must have enjoyed her day off yesterday, Joel thought. After
enough circles Joel wanted to see what the filly had learned. He
ran her down the pen, sat back, said “Whoa,” and was rewarded
with a deep sliding stop. Then he brought her front end around
180 degrees and asked for a departure with a right lead. She
sprung into a canter and headed in the opposite direction, exactly
as she was supposed to. As if to confirm the quality of the performance,
Joel searched for Harry who was standing off to the side of
the corral loosening the cinch on the horse that he had just ridden,
and all the time had been watching Joel work the filly. Harry
responded with a nod.
By now, the truck had pulled into the yard as Joel had finished
up with the filly. Sliding off of the palomino’s back, Joel headed
to the barn. The strangers, two men in their thirties,
approached the far side of the corral, nodded to Harry and then
addressed Joel.
“Reckon you’re Edward’s son.”
“Reckon I am,” Joel responded in a countrified tone that surprised
even him and which he had caught himself using the other
day in Great Falls. If he was right, he was starting to sound more
like a cowboy than a professional engineer with decades of experience
in maritime engineering.
“We have been regular buyers of horses from your dad over the
years. We thought, if you didn’t mind, that we could take a look
over what you had for sale this year and see if there was anything
here that interests us.”
“How many horses have you bought from Dad?” asked Joel.
“We’ve each bought two a year for the last four years,” quickly
replied one of the visitors. “We would’ve liked to buy more but
your dad always seemed to have more buyers than horses so he
would only let us trailer out of here with two each.”
Excerpt
“We cultivate corn, roots and cacao,” he said. I remembered the
sweet, delicious aroma of a cup of hot chocolate. He must have read
my mind or heard my stomach rumble. “You must be famished!” he
said. “We ought to find you something to eat. Let us pay doña
Perpetua a visit in the kitchen.”
I followed him into the parish house. It looked like one of those
straw lofts we had in Spain. The inside was austere. Brother Carvajal
invited me to take a seat on a chair made of hide that smelled
strongly of its previous owner. A table, two chairs and a cabinet
completed the furnishings. The house was spacious, with a thatched
roof nine or ten feet high. It had a muggy, earthy smell to it. The
interwoven wattles protruding from the mud walls were
disconcerting.
He opened a trunk and produced a bottle of wine and two silver
cups.
“It’s wine from an outstanding harvest,” he said, “a present from
the new governor, don Ponce de León. Do you care for wine?”
I had little knowledge on the subject beyond colour and
sweetness and was going to say so, but he continued.
“It’s my only indulgence,” he said, chuckling at the double
meaning. I smiled, because we both knew an indulgence was a
pardon of sins granted—or sold—by the Church to the faithful. He
sniffed the open bottle. “These hazel-coloured wines are vigorous
enough to survive the crossing of the ocean without detriment to
their quality. The ones from La Mancha are the favorites in court.”
He filled the cups and handed me one. He waved his cup under
his big nostrils, then sunk his nose into it. “But, please, let us toast
the joyful arrival of another labourer to this field and the merits of
our allotted toils. May the Almighty bless them and give us drink
from the abundant flow of the fountain of his sacred heart.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Ten years, my son! Ten years of unremitting struggle to build
this.” His eyes scanned the wattle and daub walls,
Polytomous
Joyous dawn colorful and bright
I salute you
polytomous grass veins forging
through soil hardened by time’s
patient and immortal rigidity
I still think of the underworld
chthonian base of every spec
celebrating above ground
the first sun rays clinging
to deities under the surface
who we revere and
how can we think of dusk at
the time of dawn unless
we contemplate Thanatos
in the youth of life both sunlit
and dark pleats of the forever
Excerpt
back to camp, where he presented them to the old woman. She nodded
and smiled, laying them out in a row and then producing a half-moon
shaped object made of iron. Pointing to it she said, “Ulu.”
“Ulu,” Ken repeated.
Deftly, she skinned the animals with the homemade knife and cut
them into sections. Another woman shuffled over carrying a large pot
into which they placed the meat.
And everything was unspoken. This was a world in which each person
knew what to do. You didn’t; have to chatter about it. It seemed you only
talked if there was something really important that needed to be said. There
was something very appealing about that. I wondered how much of what we
talked about was utter nonsense.
Ken asked the hunter about the silence.
“No, we don’t talk much,” he said.
“How did you learn English?” Ken asked.
“Hospital.”
“Hospital?”
“TB. I was in the hospital.”
After a long silence he said. “Good rifle.”
Ken nodded.
“Too expensive,” he said. “The bullets – too expensive.”
“Twenty-twos are cheaper?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you get them?”
“It’s very hard to get them.”
“Do they sell them in the village across the river?”
“Yes.”
“So why don’t we go over there?”
The man didn’t answer.
“I can go over there,” Ken suggested.
“Good idea,” the man said.
“Would you like me to go over there?”
“Yes.”
“How do I cross the river?”
The man walked to a clump of willows, growing waist high on the
riverbank, where a big freighter canoe was hidden. Ken shouldered his
backpack, tucked a wad of money into his pocket, and climbed into the
canoe. The current carried them swiftly downriver. The man steered with
the tiller and his paddle, angling them toward the opposite shore. On the
bank, they pulled the canoe ashore and dragged it into another clump of
willows. Ken shouldered his pack and walked into town.
The village was a ramshackle collection of caribou hide tents, canvas
tents, and buildings cobbled together from the flotsam and jetsam
Excerpt
“We’ll get some. It has the sweetener of the warrant, a two-year
warrant. It could mean some good profit down the road.”
They discussed the details until Yannis was satisfied. Business
over, he led Eteo to his garden and with a proud voice described this
year’s crop. He still had a lot of greens—arugula, spinach, Swiss chard,
and beets—but he was proudest of this year’s tomatoes. He grew three
varieties: Roma, Early Girl, and Beefsteak, the last of which produced
huge fruits that took a longer time to ripen. Yannis would use these
late tomatoes to dice and put in the freezer for cooking while the others
were for present use in salads. Eteo had many of the same things
in his much smaller garden. Growing his own beautiful, tasty vegetables
was a practice from his earliest years in Vancouver. He recalled
his first house in Richmond and the tiny vegetable patch there
that he still managed to get plenty of fresh produce from.
They walked around the gardens chatting about old times until
they reached Yannis’s fig trees. e fruits were finished by this time
of the year, but Eteo knew that Yannis had a very good crop of figs
every year. A little later he le for North Vancouver where he would
reach just in time for his aernoon walk at Ambleside Park.
A few minutes before he reached his house, his mobile phone
rang and Eteo pulled to the side of the road.
“Hi Eteo, it’s Spiro.”
“Spiro, what’s up?”
“Did you buy me some of the new shares?”
“Yes, I got you twelve thousand, and it ended up 40 cents for the
week. I expect it to gain a little more this coming week.”
“Should we get a few more before it moves higher?” Spiro’s voice
sounded anxious.
“No, not from the market. I’ll allot a few more to you from the
financing they do at 40 cents and we get a two-year warrant.”
“How many more do you suggest?” Spiro’s voice was calmer now.
He had always trusted Eteo and always passed the recommendations
to his brother Mike, who would follow him and purchase the same
amount of shares in each of Eteo’s recommendations.
“I’ll put aside another eight thousand so you end up with twenty.
What do you think? Can you afford that many?”
End of Childhood
The miracle floats over the abyss
the defenceless heart marches onto
something already lost
a river planet somewhere far away
and nostalgia of borrowed time
Manolis Aligizakis 