Letter
Thought of writing you a letter
to say that I loved you
but soon I recalled
people don’t write letters anymore
and grabbing the mobile phone
I texted that
I wanted to see
your playful eyes
when you turned on your phone
and you appeared on the screen
with your laughing eyes
and you laughed, and laughed
and said that I was
a student of the old school
and I agreed and sent a kiss to you
from the other side of the planet
excerpt
With the help of the two constables they placed the body
in a plastic bag and carried it to their car. Soon they drove away to
the lab. The two constables left in their cruiser after Ron promised
to come back next day for a more detailed examination. They
still had to find the knife in question. Soon as they left Sister
Gladys with the help of Mary cleaned up the floor off the blood
stains. Father Jerome advised everyone to go and lie down it was
a very hectic day full of sadness and the unexpected passing of
Father Thomas at the hands of a brute.
George the cook reached Anton’s house in five minutes
of a fast walk. Not wanting to risk waking up Anton’s parents he
walked to the back and knocked at the basement door. Anton
opened. He looked at the cook with surprise written on his eyes.
The cook walked inside and in one breath, as if he had recanted
in his mind the whole sentence many times he informed Anton
about Father Thomas’ killing and who the killer was and where
he along with his sister were this very moment.
Anton was dumbfounded. He knew the youth, Marcus,
would someday take revenge on the misfortunes and abuses him
and his sister suffered under the rules of the Residential School,
however he didn’t expected it to happen so soon.
George told him the youth had thrown the knife he took
from George’s kitchen in the water of Thompson River and asked
what they could do for the two youths. Anton didn’t know what to
do and looking at George he realized he didn’t have a clue either.
Then as if an epiphany struck Anton he said,
“Let’s go; I know where to take them,” and with that they
both got in Anton’s truck and drove back to George’s place. They
found the two youths who looked scared and cold.
excerpt
‘Oh I’m in for the long haul, Caitlin. I’ve signed up for twenty-five years. Army life suits me.’
‘You won’t go back to the fishing then?’
‘No,’ Tom replied. ‘The Drumard Maid, your father’s old boat, the one my father bought, she has long since gone. Sold for scrap and probably did her bit for the war effort. No, I’m going to stay in the army.’ Then he turned to his companion. ‘Do you remember Gerard Sweeney, Caitlin? I know you do, Seamus.’
‘I don’t know if I would have recognised you, Gerard,’ Caitlin declared. ‘You’ve been in America a long time.’
‘Not too long,’ said Gerard. ‘Ten years. I was eighteen. Finbar got the farm, and I got sent out to the colonies.’
‘Better not let any Yank hear you say that,’ Seamus warned light-heartedly. ‘You wanted to go to America, if I remember rightly.’
‘Best decision I ever made, Seamus. I love it out there. Married a beautiful woman. I’ve a son aged six and a daughter aged four, a house, a car, a good job when I go back. I’m one lucky guy.’
‘Gerard likes that chick that Michael’s dancing with,’ Tom said. ‘He wants an introduction.’
‘You’re married, Gerard Sweeney,’ Caitlin scolded mockingly. ‘And so is she.’
‘And she’s here with her husband,’ Seamus added.
Tom slapped his friend on the back. ‘Too bad, Gerry, old sod. You’ll have to wait till you’re back in California.’
‘Lots of time, Tommy, my bold soldier laddie,’ Gerard said. ‘As Caitlin has pointed out, this party could go on all night, and what chick can resist a man in uniform?’
‘You’re a reprobate, Gerard Sweeney.’ Tom looked at Caitlin. ‘Don’t listen to him, Caitlin. He’s big-headed like most Yanks. They think they’re God’s gift to humanity.’ Tom paused to pull a swig from his bottle of beer. ‘Well, we just came over to say hello. I’ll call up to the house, Caitlin, before I leave. Have a chat with you and Michael, if he ever let’s go of that girl. And I want to see Nora as well.’
‘She’ll be happy to see you, Tom. And bring Gerard with you.’
‘I don’t know if I should introduce Gerry to Nora. She’s much too pretty.’
‘She’s married too, Tom. Remember.’
Perfect Day
It wasn’t the seashore
of Salonica during the daybreak
so cleanly washed by
the hues of the rain
nor the sea
hoarse, violent,
wild lion with blue flames,
it wasn’t the benches in rows
with the fatty loneliness
of their emptiness,
it was that last night I dreamed
perhaps for once
for the first time, first time death
you entered my body
behind my soul
under the mouths of the body,
you entered me and stayed.
Jetstream
Look at the jet stream
I pointed to the sky,
among the clouds, a teardrop
falling on thirsty soil
to absolve death.
The smooth bark of the slender
palm tree that shivers
to annul Hades
rough leaf cut-offs
turned into eternity
over the gravestone’s time.
Why do you say this?
Because the poet’s glance observes
the curvaceous body
of the server with
her red minimal thong
and the airplane-mosquito
with the enormous dream
of the passenger resting
in the seat twenty-four alpha
Burning Bush
Lighthouse that you write letters on the immenseness
on every wounded who dreams
eyelid that flickers in the night
in the wrinkles of fear, you send reflections
whirling star and daydream of the horizon
guard of the rocks hopeless Aegeus
lover of white sails
what could you be at the lakeshore
of a foreign land
without the knowledge of the closing wave
that never reaches
but changes the world
without changing anything
a wise book of immenseness
the illusion of each day starts in the mind
and each day includes
invisible versions of all
complete beings
shivering soul of the bright galaxy
what could you be in a world
filled with certainty
and smooth concepts?
I
Logos in absentia while in the stained
soil, all earthworms burrow
toward the west, trickling anger
undresses the magnolias when
human nakedness like a yellow dandelion
slowly treads down the road
steady pace on its sacred path
to the clothes factory
where it randomly selects fabrics
ethereal designs divine colours
and dresses itself
in softened satin and black velvet.
What then of all waterholes and
all the thirsty sparrows?
Nakedness emerges in phony light,
comes out in flashing fashion
smooth as the knife’s sharpened edge
gleaming like fire from a hungry pistol.
Human nakedness is fully clothed
externally glowing
yet, unbearably naked.
Old Song
The garden railings are wet from the rain, like the poor who
are left outside
but as night falls, a flute or a star speaks for the whole
universe.
When we were children, we hid under the stairway and when
we came out, we had left behind a royal fate.
Silence makes the world bigger, sorrow more just
and later, as young men, we hugged the first tree and
narrated our past to it,
joyless days that you’ve passed; you’ve left behind an emotional
memory
and I, who was crazy for the future, now in agony, I observe
the movement of the clock’s fingers.
Until one night, a man goes along the road singing.
Where have you heard this song before? You don’t remember.
Yet nostalgia of all you dreamed shivers in that song. You
stand by the window
and listen as if enchanted. And suddenly the song stops
at the turn of the road. Everything vanishes. Quiet.
And what will you do now?
excerpt
…grandly feted and on another day, he and Marsha visited the village that
had been his home. They walked up the Avenue of Princes and stopped
in front of number twelve – his home. In the garden, he saw a couple
talking with the gardener. Ken leaned over the garden wall, introduced
himself, and asked if he could look inside his old boyhood home. The
couple frowned, turned their backs on him, and walked into the house,
locking the door behind them.
The gardener said, “You’re Ken.”
“Yes.”
“I’m Francisco’s nephew.”
“How wonderful to meet you. But why are they so upset?”
“They think you’ve come back to claim the house.”
Ken laughed. “I just wanted to go inside and look. I thought it might
be very nice.”
“Oh no. People have been wondering when you would return to take
back what is yours.”
“I’ve never considered it mine,” he said.
They walked on through the village and then down to the beach. Nothing
had changed. The wall he and Francisco had built was still there and
still trapping the sand to create a beautiful stretch of beach. Even the
remains of Francisco’s cabin still clung to the cliffs.
They drove to Peniche, the home of their friend, the Count. Even here
Ken was recognized, not so much for himself, but for his father; a saint
according to the owner of a restaurant, who closed the café in celebration
of Ken’s visit and served up a feast for his honoured guests.
Back in Toronto, Ken settled into a routine that was continuously interrupted.
When he was not working on Isumataq he painted canvases
for the gallery and for the financial company’s new collection. His biggest
challenge was that the media liked him too much. They wanted to know
why he was meeting with presidents in Europe; they wanted to know his
plans – what was next? Too much good press was boring so they sought
out the malcontents – those who had accused him of appropriating a
culture that wasn’t his. He needled them until they fired back. He had
come back from his latest Arctic trip with letters from the grandmothers,
written in Inuktitut and translated into English, stating that they not
only approved of his art, but had also asked him expressly to do what he
was doing. The letters were tucked in a file that Ken suspected might be
useful one day.
Bad press was interesting but outrageous press was better. He had
about twenty unfinished paintings, stacked in a corner of the studio, that
he would likely never complete. He spread them out on the floor and
paced between them.
“What are you doing?” Diane asked, poking her head into the studio.
Manolis Aligizakis 