Nothing can stop my ardour
nor my joy, nor my festival.
I want to carry as I started
to run victorious to the end
who can cut the golden thread
of my ardour, my joy, my festival?
Not the Turk nor any demon will
stop me nor war, not even an
earthquake, this the plain that fights
for my ardour, joy, and festival.
The horses dig the soil and chariots
wane as if alive and
my people await to crown
my festival, my ardour and joy.
Aloof
Behind the lectern, the accent develops
in words spoken differently
echoing funny, unheard before
eyes roll around, sighs desperately
float mid-air unsure of where to land
the excessively long moustache
covers facial metamorphosis of
foreigner who recites a poem, imagery
delightedly soft, caressing the buzz of
birds in nearby foliage, autumnal
lethargy of sun loitering in gusto
as the man shivers in his effort to
pronounce words in a way that people
will understand a futile battle
already lost, never to be won
his strong accent annuls any brain
he might have, been considered an
idiot in most groups, a man with such
a different way of talking can not be
the one, one wants to listen to, period.
Neighbourhood Afternoon II
No — it’s nothing — I’m not hungry, you hear me?
It’s just a little headache. I rather go lay down
to put the chin close to the knees — to go to sleep
listening to the wind that grinds its teeth outside.
These faces look so strange
the steps on the sidewalk so strange
and the pepper trees of the street also strange —
the children get frightened by them — and
they pull their hairs without saying any words.
They had tied the rope on the trees over there —
five men stayed there for three nights and three days
like riders of the galloping wind who never got away.
The light of the lamp doesn’t recognize our hands —
the glass is smoked up, you see;
our hands on the table resemble dried up plane-tree leaves
they can’t hold a harmonica, can’t say thank you
or the day after tomorrow;
only when they hold another hand
they become hands again — and then the circle created
by the light of the lamp resembles a dish with warm food
from which two or three or more men can eat
and feel content.
Look, the evening star is rising. A purple dusk
after the rain — the evening star is
like the first I love you of a different spring. Look.
Freshly washed fence walls — the letters are still visible.
Stay by the window for a while yet. Here. We’ll look far away.
Over there to the corner of the road where our old spring
resembles
a green kiosk with many colorful magazines hanging
on cloths-pins fluttering in the breeze as if they clap
joyously;
a kiosk with many cigarette cartons
that the workers stop and buy after work,
a kiosk with small mirrors
where the neighborhood girls stop and pretend
that they don’t look into while absentmindedly
look at the young worker who passes with his hands
in his pockets
and as the mirrors hang slanting in a way
it gives them the impression that the young worker
will fall on them —
as they absentmindedly fix the curls of their hair
that slides on their foreheads like the light slides
on the upper crack of the door that leads to
the next room where two lovers kiss.
Look, then, the evening star has risen.
WHAT WE LOVE
What we love
Is not an apple orchard
available for everyone,
what we love
cannot be taken
and carried far away,
what we love
always
stays at home.
excerpt
up six more cents, leaving a good sixty thousand share purchase
order on the low end. Eteo turned to Logan with a grin, “They obviously
like the stock all of a sudden. Let them buy as much as they
like, but keep an eye out for when they look like they are going out
in case they plan to do that soon.” Logan just nodded and walked
back to his desk.
Eteo’s phone continued ringing all day long because of Platinum
Properties. Even Mario called again, almost at the end of the trading
session, to say how pleased he was that Eteo decided to stay with Platinum
for the long run. Eteo asked him to pass by for a minute or two
after the market closed and Mario agreed and said he would bring
the Nostra Ventures subscription forms with him. Half an hour later,
Mario Messini was sitting in Eteo’s office, his face gleaming with satisfaction.
He waved the forms at Eteo.
“How many copies did you say you needed? I only brought one
of each.”
“No worries, I’ll make some,” Eteo assured him. “Let me see,” he
mused as he studied the forms and thought about who to involve in
this. “Two for Robert and three for me, five altogether.”
“I have to admit, Eteo, that I liked your aggressive buying at the
end of the day,” Mario said. “It up-ticked the stock at once and left it
looking very good for tomorrow’s opening.”
“What can I say,” replied Eteo, smiling. “I like the company, and
I certainly like its trading pattern over the last two weeks. I’ve talked
to my people, and most of them will stay. Some even bought some
extra stock today, but I should also let you know something. Just between
us two. I have your word, right?”
Mario nodded yes.
“The boss is buying most of it.”
“Connors? Hell no! Are you sure?”
Eteo told him about his meeting with Bradley Connors while
Mario shook his head.
“I don’t know whether to take that as good or not,” he finally
replied.
“I know what you mean, but look at it this way. Even if the boss
has a short fuse, as everyone says, at least for the next few days…
Stool I
The house was filled with friends
who suddenly came;
they seemed to be joyous
seen from over the railings.
They were a big bunch.
We even brought the kitchen chairs
with the holes in their middle
that we could all fit together
in the balcony.
I took an old stool.
They were so many friends
we all got mixed together,
we laughed, joked.
None of us had any money.
Suddenly the conversation turned serious —
the tiles were still warm in the sunshine.
Then, suddenly, I felt
that we could separate
we could go away to the four corners of the globe.
And I saw that even if I delayed
that moment
it could soon arrive.
excerpt
what she had been through since four o’clock that afternoon the
condition of the interior of the house had afforded the most welcome
relief she could imagine.
Ben did not look up so she spoke above the voice on the radio.
“I hope you won’t think me rude if I retire early, Ben, but I’m extremely
weary.”
He nodded. “Be turning in myself soon.”
“Very well. Good night.”
He looked up then and smiled briefly. “G’night.”
In the bedroom she closed the door firmly behind her. There
was no key in the lock. After a moment’s hesitation she carried the
chair from beside the bed and shoved the high back under the door
handle.
She took a cotton nightgown and a hair brush from her overnight
bag, removed the dress she had worn for three days on the
train and hung it, along with her underwear, on a two-inch spike
in the bedroom door. When she had pulled the nightgown over her
head she went to the window, pushed the lacy white curtains aside
and raised the sash. If the flies wanted to come in, so be it, because
she could not stay in that room without fresh air.
Twilight lingered, streaking the western sky red. There were no
outbuildings on this side of the house. The wind of the daylight
hours had diminished to a light breeze in which a field of wheat
waved gently. The faint sweet scent of goldenrod wafted in through
the window. On a fence post a robin sat to warble its evensong.
To the right of the house stood a clump of poplar trees surrounded
by scrub brush. Through them, Sarah discerned the outline of
a small rooftop. Realizing it must be an outhouse she experienced
a moment of panic when she suddenly felt the call of nature. Why
had she not thought to go out before she readied herself for bed?
She didn’t feel inclined to dress again but she certainly had no intention
of embarrassing herself by running into him as she passed
through the kitchen in her robe and slippers. Besides, who knew
what wild animals or species of snake may lurk in the bushes in the
fading light?
Only one hope remained. Sarah quickly got down on her knees
and lifted a corner of the counterpane to peer under the bed. Yes,
there it was – a white chamber pot. She sat back on her haunches…
verses the sun will go pop pop. But that’s in the multiplicity of sacred time.We
live in a single vulgar time, time for the butcher boy apprentices to come into
their own, swaggering out into the garden to escort me inside for tea. Soon
they will be shouting for Fuckbeard the Freaker.
I can’t complain about the name. I probably uttered it myself in one of my
ecstasies . . . These damned drugs have erased so much, so many cut-outs,
cut-ups, my golden memory chart is all such a tat album design, my head full of
flowers and stars and triangles and spheres and tits and bums and fiery swastikas.
Later I will carry on secreting all my secrets. Like a scared insect, I mean a
sacred insect . . .
And Lucas may make his annual visitation. Minded by PP, scowling in the
middle distance. I only want a flying visit, Icarus descending for a brief lesson
with Dedalus, nothing histrionic. Just a chat under the shelter of the Brain
Tree. To talk living eternities. I need help to implement the salvation, transformation
of the world. Why, Pol Pot, you bitch, you talking cactus in a pot,
why have you washed out my son’s brain, flooded it with your serums of
untruth? Why, why won’t he come?
I woke up this morning
Mr Blues all around my bed
Mr Blues he’s mean and evil
He done messed up my happy head
Rocking Rod was sprawled on a pile of cushions in the dayroom, strumming
his boogie on an old acoustic guitar, singing de blooze in a thin weaselly voice
with a Cockney Delta accent. I knew that voice. It had roots, long and tangled
as his hair, as his ratty moustache.
When he saw me, he leapt up, switched to a Stones riff, and began a
duck-walk around the ward. At the end of the room, a cluster of huge cardboard
boxes had been upended in a semicircle. The cartons displayed the logos
of great multinational drug companies—Wellcome, Bayer, Glaxo, Sandoz—as
if they were sponsoring this world tour. He stopped in front of the biggest box,
and made a jabbing bayonet thrust with his guitar. He whirled an arm to hit an
inaudible power chord and froze the pose.
“Get a load of that back line! Four five-hundred watt Marshalls.
Fanfuckingtastic, man! You can’t beat the old valve amps when it comes to
raunch, right?”
nineteen
Father
of the father
of the European
with proof will be identified
as killer
of the Neanderthal
whom he met
in his mad procession
captive
in the delusional lens of time
while
on his first encounter
with the different
the first
racist
murder is documented
Wind Howl
Edge of the Inukshuk’s arms leading
wolf ’s howl brings a tempest
recalling her vocal anger
by bellowing back frosty fangs
harpoons clouding darkness
targeting Husky team, igloo
warmed up by dedication
close touch of ground and sky
bloodthirsty wind ravaging
dwarf willow, under her the
sacred arctic hare blinks his
eyes at awesome power
just above and out
from benevolent hope for peace
dwelling deep in his psyche
Manolis Aligizakis 