Elysian Fields
Bodies extremely tired
bent, cut in half
souls deserted them, walk alone
on the grass slowly, open books laid
the bodies lied down, crunched
distorted and they appear
at the far end holding roses and with
the dream and passion they go
dust to dust the bodies become
yet far in the horizon, like suns
the souls go down dressed in sky
or like simple smiles on lips
https://draft2digital.com/book/3562951
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763459
excerpt
“High school days, right? Bunch of guys all pull up at the stop light, jump out of the car, run around, jump back in again in different seats.” Jennifer continued to shake her head. She felt as if it was frozen in the position. Lona stared as if she were seeing Hank for the first time. “We do the same…” finished Hank, as if the point was obvious.
“The same what…?” Maria and Jennifer asked simultaneously.
“Get off the boat, mill around, come back in again, confusing the count. Chinese fire drill. Make crowds of people milling around, so that no one can take roll call.”
The ensuing silence was probably one of Jennifer’s lowest moments. So this was the adolescent prank on which two lives depended. Not only would it have to do the job, but she realized that she was grateful for any plan at all.
MORNING JULY 20, 1974
Sergey Ivanovich, the machinist from Novizavod, had sat in the Kazan airport all morning. You never knew how long you might wait for a flight, or even if there was any point in waiting, he thought. And even after you were allowed on the plane, they might bump you so that your seat could go to some senior bureaucrat who had only just wheeled up in a sleek black car.
He badly wanted to visit his sister in Moscow. That’s all. But they didn’t give much respect to people like him with their simple needs. In fact, he had already been told that the flight was fully booked, but he had not given up because, long ago, he had acquired those most valuable aids to survival in the modern Soviet Union: friends who did favours. This particular friend was part of the airport administration. That the friend had first listened to Sergey’s tale and then had produced an extensive shopping list for the Moscow stores was not unusual. Sergey had simply tucked the list away, along with the five other shopping lists from neighbours and family, and had promised to do his best. The friend had also slipped him some crumpled bills in a foreign currency, acquired from international visitors at Kazan Airport. This was fine, too. Sergey was not even sure what type of currency it was, but he had tucked it away in an inside pocket. If he could locate a buyer—a friendly tourist—to go to the deluxe Beriyozhka, the foreign currency store in Moscow, and purchase some of the rarer commodities, he would be a winner.
OCEAN’S MARCH
Love and geraniums will bloom again
in small windows by the shore
and a young Jesus will come take us by the hand
where we’ll play under the lilacs until twilight
with storks sea breezes and sun
And when evening comes we shall jump in the white caiques
and with the nets of sad biblical fishermen
we shall catch a watery moon
to lie down peacefully with it
so that it lights our sleep with silent angels
who haven’t yet learned to laugh or cry
but to only smile in the dream
of the unborn Creation
Islands with trees silent during evening vespers
where peaceful doves fall silent
there we fall silent gathering the day’s roses
while the evening shadow falls on white paper
where we incise life next to the seashore
We won’t read what we wrote
We shall raise our eyes
yearning for the galaxy’s waterfall
behind the almond tree of a white cloud
lingering above the sea
The time without hours and
repentance has arrived again
Azure echo of the light water
foggy walk of fishermen on sand
The Fountain
In the moldy garden
water reflows from
the stony mouth of Poseidon
and the undefeated frog
gives birth to its new generation
over the solemn fossils.
Ah, yes sweetness unexpectedly
overflows the same way
the fountain rises again
among its watery suns
while my soul,
an unprepared squirrel,
shades itself with its tail.
And as the park becomes slowly alive
and the owls stir
in their dark offices
and the thunderous water dances
over the silent rocks
of the closed house
like a stately residence, my life
turns alive again
by the talkative waters
you pour in my mouth.
VIII
Here they are again
the two houses we looked at
while we listened to music.
They leaned on each other
like two friends
who met after a long separation
and were in a hurry to tell it all
before they separate again.
Diptych
In a clear-cut case, the leader
of free world said
either with us or against us*
underlining the war might
stored in dark warehouses housing
his selected war toys.
On the faraway land, opponents blinked
their eyes before the economic
slavery of the multinationals
The devastation of bombs falling
smartly to flatten his land
a clear-cut case, the leader
of free world said
Either with us or against us
excerpt
“What are you going to do?”
“If the railroad says there was sabotage, I’ll have my people run a
full investigation.”
“If they don’t?”
“I’ll give the mayor my report.”
“And?”
Spanger grinned.
“Thanks for your help, Paul. See you in court. Or somewhere.”
As he passed the checkers players, the old cackler was eyeing his
partner across the board.
Piles of broken ties, twisted rails and fragments of the blasted tank
car bordered Gellardy’s orchard. A section gang was tamping new
ties into place. The smell of creosote was heavy in the air. Spanger
saw the locomotive upright on the track near the hobo jungle, a
section of its cab wall bowed out, a sheet of steel dangling from it.
The crane, engine roaring and cables screeching, was beginning to
ease the distorted chassis of the tank car out of the depression
alongside the track. Spanger walked toward a half dozen men who
stood watching. He recognized all but one. As two of them greeted
him and moved aside to make room, he saw Poodie James. Poodie
looked up and made glottal sounds of greeting. The chief looked
from Poodie’s eager face to the blackenedwreckage and back again.
“It’s good to see you safe and sound today, Mr. James,” he said.
The inspector introduced himself as Lawrence Hall. Spanger
made small talk with the group of railroaders, then took the man
from Spokane aside.
“What have you found so far, Mr. Hall?”
“I’ve found a mess, Chief. There are no orderly derailments. I’ll
tell you, though, the fire department here did everything right and
kept this from becoming a first class disaster. Worst thing, of
course, is that we lost a good man. First death in a wreck since I’ve
been with the company. The coroner did an autopsy this afternoon
at my request and found that Mo d’Aleppo’s heart gave out. Massive
failure. I guess the crash triggered it. He’d had a couple of mild …
excerpt
Rassan points as they pass an inspiring, colossal structure, “There is our new
parliament building; it’s only four years old.”
“It looks like quite a bit has been accomplished in the years I have been
away,” Talal comments.
“Yes, it has; the only place that still lags behind is the eastern part of the city.
That area will take the longest; that is where the poorest people live. It’s always
the same, Talal; they’re the ones who wait the longest. The rest of the city is not
too bad. One can say life is getting back to normal; after all, the war ended some
years ago.”
Emily listens, eager to hear as much about this fascinating place as she can.
They arrive at Ibrahim’s at 5:15 p.m. a servant opens the doors of the car after
Rassan drives through the big iron gates. They get out, and Talal signals to Emily
not to worry about her things, as the servants look after those. They enter the
foyer and Emily is left with her mouth half open at the size and grandeur of the
mansion.
Ibrahim with his wife Mara come to greet them.
“Welcome! Welcome to Baghdad,” Ibrahim says, after he kisses Emily’s
hand. “This is Mara, my wife. Mara, this is Emily Roberts from Los Angeles; her
daughter Jennifer is our son’s sweetheart.”
The two women hug and exchange pleasant words.
“Welcome to our humble home,” Mara says to Emily, who is in awe at the
magnificence surrounding her.
Ibrahim hugs Talal and they exchange kisses, as is customary.
“Welcome, my dear Talal; howwas your trip?How is my Hakim?”
“He’s fine, dear uncle. He sends you and Mara his greetings, hugs and lots of
kisses; he’s doing very well. He’s excited about the company he’s taking control
of.” Talal gives a brief summary.
Emily, who’s hearing for the first time about the control of Hakim’s company,
turns to Talal with questioning eyes; he signals her to let it be for now.
Mara wants to take them to their room to freshen up and rest for a while
before dinner; her servant has already taken their bags upstairs. Rassan says
goodbye for now and leaves. Talal stays with Ibrahim as he knows the old man
will want to ask more questions, things about Los Angeles and Hakim.
They go to the study and Talal relays the message from Bevan and all the
other news Hakim wants his uncle to hear. Talal asks, “How are you doing with
your health, my dear uncle?”
“I’m doing very well, my dear boy. The medication seems to work well, and I
haven’t sufferred from any adverse side-effects. Only time will tell how effective the
medication is. It’s in the hands of Allah; his wish will take care of me.”
excerpt
years old, they were taken south and lost to their families as they were given
an education that could not be applied to their northern way of life.
The soft voice of the Grandmother ended the story by saying, “Perhaps
it would be good to have Isumataq.”
Isumataq, Ken learned, also meant many things—big, or spokesperson—
but the most accurate definition seemed to be “an object or a person in
whose presence wisdom might reveal itself.”
This was the exact point at which he discovered the meaning of his
life in Canada—the unknown purpose for which he’d embarked on this
mysterious and gruelling quest.
The idea that wisdom was a thing that existed on its own and could
only show its value if one was prepared to allow that to happen, was
electrifying. I felt a driving urgency to gather as much information
as possible—a burning need to disseminate that knowledge to those
who could not otherwise experience it for themselves. I had a definable
purpose.
The time came when the Grandmother took Ken aside. She sat on the
floor in front of him and pronounced, “In our mind you are Inuk. You are
learning our language and eating our food and you are a part of us. Our wish
is that you will stay with us, but you tell us that you have to go back to your
world, and that is as it must be. It is our wish that you tell the people in your
world of the many things you have seen—all of the things you know.”
And that was when Ken made the promise to the Grandmother that
would shape, drive and guide him for the next thirty plus years of his life.
I felt I was equipped with the knowledge of something unique. The
spirit of Isumataq had become a living thing in my heart! And as an
artist I had absorbed stunning material at the cellular level. It would
never leave me.
By his own calculations, Ken spent thirty-one years, several million
dollars, ended a marriage and lost numerous friends to his fixation on
keeping his promise to bring the story of the desperate plight of these
indigenous peoples to the 90% of Canadians who lived, totally unaware, in
the southern portion of the nation.
Cemetery of Dreams
There is a route scheduled by
an unknown desire
to walk
on the stretched rope of existence
I must define chaos in space-time,
establish the cosmic entropy and
the light of love sunken in the shadow
of my inexistent before
something is missing before I’m ready
a crusader of nothing
I investigate the eons and
the fleshless that lurks in matter
the tide of life under the soil
the migrating swallow
in the eyes of the sad woman
they don’t all know how to transform their heart
into a sunny day among the icebergs
what do I do here in the room of delusions
in this cemetery of dreams
part of myself already belongs
to infinity
my soul slowly discards the body
it has been some time since
I started to forget and to be forgotten
Manolis Aligizakis 