Cretan Canadian Poet, Author, Translator, Publisher
Author: vequinox
BIOGRAPHY
Manolis (Emmanuel Aligizakis) is a Greek-Canadian poet and author. He was recently appointed an honorary instructor and fellow of the International Arts Academy, and awarded a Master’s for the Arts in Literature. He is recognized for his ability to convey images and thoughts in a rich and evocative way that tugs at something deep within the reader. Born in the village of Kolibari on the island of Crete in 1947, he moved with his family at a young age to Thessaloniki and then to Athens, where he received his Bachelor of Arts in Political Sciences from the Panteion University of Athens. After graduation, he served in the armed forces for two years and emigrated to Vancouver in 1973, where he worked as an iron worker, train labourer, taxi driver, and stock broker, and studied English Literature at Simon Fraser University. He has written three novels and numerous collections of poetry, which are steadily being released as published works. His articles, poems and short stories in both Greek and English have appeared in various magazines and newspapers in Canada, United States, Sweden, Hungary, Slovakia, Romania, Australia, and Greece. His poetry has been translated into Spanish, Romanian, Swedish, German, Hungarian languages and has been published in book form or in magazines in various countries. He now lives in White Rock, where he spends his time writing, gardening, traveling, and heading Libros Libertad, an unorthodox and independent publishing company which he founded in 2006 with the mission of publishing literary books. His translation book “George Seferis-Collected Poems” was shortlisted for the Greek National Literary Awards the highest literary recognition of Greece.
Distinguished Awards
Winner of the Dr. Asha Bhargava Memorial Award, Writers International Network Canada, 2014
“George Seferis-Collected Poems” translated by Manolis, shortlisted for the Greek National Literary Awards, translation category.
1st International Poetry Prize for his translation of “George Seferis-Collected Poems”, 2013
Master of the Arts in Literature, International Arts Academy, 2013
1st Prize for poetry, 7th Volos poetry Competition, 2012
Honorary instructor and fellow, International Arts Academy, 2012
2nd Prize for short story, Interartia festival, 2012
2nd Prize for Poetry, Interartia Festival, 2012
2nd Prize for poetry, Interartia Festival, 2011
3rd prize for short stories, Interartia Festival, 2011
Books by Manolis
Autumn Leaves, poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2014
Übermensch/Υπεράνθρωπος, poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2013
Mythography, paintings and poetry, Libros Libertad, 2012
Nostos and Algos, poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2012
Vortex, poetry, Libros Libertad, 2011
The Circle, novel, Libros Libertad, 2011
Vernal Equinox, poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2011
Opera Bufa, poetry, Libros Libertad, 2010
Vespers, poetry by Manolis paintings by Ken Kirkby, Libros Libertad, 2010
Triptych, poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2010
Nuances, poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2009
Rendition, poetry, Libros Libertad, 2009
Impulses, poetry, Libros Libertad, 2009
Troglodytes, poetry, Libros Libertad, 2008
Petros Spathis, novel, Libros Libertad, 2008
El Greco, poetry, Libros Libertad, 2007
Path of Thorns, poetry, Libros Libertad, 2006
Footprints in Sandstone, poetry, Authorhouse, Bloomington, Indiana, 2006
The Orphans - an Anthology, poetry, Authorhouse, Bloomington, Indiana, 2005
Translations by Manolis
Idolaters, a novel by Joanna Frangia, Libros Libertad, 2014
Tasos Livaditis-Selected Poems, Libros Libertad, 2014
Yannis Ritsos-Selected Poems, Ekstasis Editions, 2013
Cloe and Alexandra-Selected Poems, Libros Libertad, 2013
George Seferis-Collected Poems, Libros Libertad, 2012
Yannis Ritsos-Poems, Libros Libertad, 2010
Constantine P. Cafavy - Poems, Libros Libertad, 2008
Cavafy-Selected Poems, Ekstasis Editions, 2011
Books in other languages
Eszmelet, (Hungarian), poetry by Manolis Aligizakis, translated into Hungarian by Karoly Csiby, AB-ART, Bratislava, Slovakia, 2014
Hierodoules, (Greek), poetry, Sexpirikon, Salonica, Greece, 2014
Yperanthropos,(Greek), poetry, ENEKEN Publications, Salonica, Greece, 2014
Übermensch (German), poetry by Manolis Aligizakis, translated into German by Eniko Thiele Csekei, WINDROSE, Austria, 2014
Nostos si Algos, (Romanian) poetry by Manolis Aligizakis, translated into Romanian by Lucia Gorea, DELLART, Cluj-Napoca, Romania, 2013
Tolmires Anatasis, (Greek) poetry, GAVRIILIDIS EDITIONS, Athens, Greece, 2013
Filloroes, (Greek ) poetry, ENEKEN PUBLICATIONS, Thessaloniki, Greece, 2013
Earini Isimeria, (Greek) poetry, ENEKEN PUBLICATIONS, Thessaloniki, Greece, 2011
Stratis o Roukounas, (Greek) novel, MAVRIDIS EDITIONS, Athens, Greece, 1981
Magazines
Canadian Fiction Magazine—Victoria, BC
Pacific Rim Review of Books—Victoria, BC
Canadian Poetry Review—Victoria, BC
Monday Poem, Leaf Press-Lantzville, BC
The Broadkill Review, Milton, Delaware
Ekeken, Thessaloniki, Greece
Envolimon, Beotia, Greece
Annual Literary Review, Athens, Greece
Stigmes, Crete, Greece
Apodimi Krites, Crete, Greece
Patris, Crete, Greece
Nyxta-Mera, Chania, Greece
Wallflowers, Thessaloniki, Greece
Diasporic Literature Spot, Melbourne, Australia
Black Sheep Dances, California, USA
Diasporic Literature Magazine, Melbourne, Australia
Spotlight on the Arts, Surrey, BC
Barnwood, International Poetry Magazine, Seattle, USA
Unrorean, University of Maine, Farmington, Maine, USA
Vakhikon, Athens, Greece
Paremvasi, Kozani, Greece
Szoros Ko, Bratislava, Slovakia
Mediterranean Poetry, Sweden
Apostaktirio, Athens, Greece
Life and Art, Athens, Greece
Logos and Images, Athens, Greece
Contemporary Writers and Thinkers, Athens, Greece
Palinodiae, Athens, Greece
Royal City Poet’s Anthology, 2013, New Westminster, BC, Canada
To parathyro, Paris, France
Ragazine C.C, New Jersey
Artenistas, Athens Greece
Deucalion the Thessalos, Greece.
Literary Lectern, Athens, Greece
Homo Universalis, Athens Greece
Hephaestus Hephaestus laughed at my demand for a new armour as I reverted into my inheritance subject of a former sound another era’s reward I the indisputable heir of the Aegean Sea truly nothing else was as abstract as the lips of the virgin which I kissed under the sun’s guidance when without warning spring arrived as pure as the indiscreet announcement of deeds I was destined to accomplish: a cross to hang around my neck the lone sea anemone to lean on and catching the meaning of duty I had to be worthy of: sea urchins with spikes, rose bushes by the main entrance of my dwelling beloved words spoken by lips cracked and aged like the lemon tree I never watered tears on my pillow which I held tightly in my arms hoping to wake up like a laughter of sunshine in the cows’ watering trough
Theodicity Down on Priam’s feet Achilles cries the old king also cries dressed with Hector’s death. At the Olympus the immortals feast on topaz tables with music and tambourines teasing each other day and night. But when dawn comes it will bring the new star death. Both Troy and Phthia will sink and who cares for the undefeated castle.
‘And to an English girl,’ Caitlin added. ‘Oh it happens to the best people,’ Joe said. ‘You haven’t set your sailor’s sights on one of them flighty little Maltese chickens yet, have you, Joe?’ Michael asked with a wink. ‘What would Joe want with a Maltese chicken, Michael Carrick?’ Caitlin said. ‘Well, with Stephen bringing home an English wife, and Tom maybe landing himself a pretty, young girl from north Africa, if Joe brings one from Malta or Gibraltar or wherever, we could set up a minor League of Nations here in the village. Solve all the world’s problems.’ ‘Cause more problems than solve more likely,’ said Caitlin. Then she lowered her knitting to her lap. ‘Joe, would you like a wee cup of tea? The kettle’s boiling.’ ‘I would if you’re having a drop yourself. Thank you.’ ‘Oh I dare say I could make room for another. Michael, reach me your mug. It’s down there by the fender.’ ‘Is Nora not at home tonight, Mrs Carrick?’ Caitlin stopped on her way across the kitchen. She turned slowly to face Joe and cast a glance at Michael. Joe felt a sudden fear. He too looked at Michael, then back at Caitlin. For a moment no one spoke. ‘Nora?’ Caitlin said softly. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’ Joe blurted out. ‘Joe, didn’t you get her letter?’ Caitlin asked apprehensively. ‘The last letter I got was written a couple of months ago. The post is very uncertain. Tell me, is she all right? Why have you got that look on your face? Both of you. What’s happened?’ ‘Joe,’ Michael said, ‘Nora’s married.’ ‘Nora’s married? No, she can’t be. It’s not true. My mother would have told me.’ Panic wailed like a siren in Joe’s voice. ‘Say it isn’t true, Mrs Carrick.’ Before Caitlin could say, ‘Yes, Joe, I’m afraid it is,’ Joe was sobbing, his head turned away. He did not even hear Caitlin’s confirmation. Michael rose and put an arm around the young man’s shoulder. ‘Joe, I’m very, very sorry. We both thought you knew.’ ‘She wrote to you, Joe,’ Caitlin said. ‘I know she did. And it nearly broke her heart. For the life of me I couldn’t understand it.’ Joe turned to face Michael and Caitlin again. ‘I’m sorry for breaking down like that. But what a shock. My God, I was going to propose to her myself before I left again this time.’
It was years later that I actually saw the book itself. I felt such specialness to share this history with my grandfather who was a giant of a man, loved by many and respected by all. According to the National Geographic magazine, (Vol. 167, No. 3, March 1985) Dr. Robert Paul Jordan confirms that the Viking traders known as the Rus created Russia’s “first organized state and gave their name to a future empire.” And the story that Ken learned as a wide-eyed boy seems to support that claim. As his maternal grandfather told the story, and as Ken passed it on to his own son—who, at this point, is the last of the Kirkby line—the tale of Rurik of the Rus goes like this: Rurik was the eldest son and he chose to become a sailor, an adventurer and an explorer. Like the Norwegians, the Danes were Vikings—an Old Danish word which means ‘to dip your oar’ or in our terms, ‘traveller’. Norwegians became known as the Norse, and Danes, the Rus. Occupants of the Scandinavian countries realised early that to split the farms into small holdings for their sons would make the land useless. So, in order to preserve that livelihood, only one would inherit the land and the others had to make their fortune elsewhere. The sea was the obvious alternative. Through dint of need, the majority of them became mariners and shipbuilders. They were a strong and courageous people and became the Masters of the Seas as traders and mercenaries. The majority were literate and highly industrious. Those who became mercenary soldiers, a reputable occupation of the day, were known also for their ferocity. They returned from the Middle East with the knowledge of metalworking and equipped with this expertise, they produced exceptionally fine swords and weaponry. This proved to be a great advantage. A fierce minority banded together to form raiding parties and this resulted in the Viking reputation for rape, slaughter and pillage. Much like the dream of the Arctic that drew his future and distant relation to northern Canada, Rurik also had a powerful dream of a vast land beyond the ice; a land shaped by three great rivers. He was determined to sail to that land one day. Rurik was an able navigator and commander of several ships, and eventually he and his fellow mariners set out on a long and arduous journey that took them east and north through the Arctic
Consolation Our memory was burned in the adoration of her body. Buttocks made of honey; we understood we couldn’t divulge our secret preparations while we expected another misfortune to occur. Ticking of clocks lingered between bay and peninsula, tide that raised all our hope, little jasmine flowers, fragrant nuptials twice experienced. Heart beats, anticipation, until the new gathering was announced and we run to welcome Him, the one who, like a myth, sprouted from the roots of our ancestors. Our enemies died of anxiety and we based all our new joy on our enraptured premonition. I like those with overflowing souls who forget of themselves and everything is enclosed inside them because all together will cause their self-destruction.
Although she had suffered terrible humiliation at the hands of Gregorio, and possibly Baruta, there was nothing weak about her. She was undefeated, strong. Like the jaguar, I thought, bold and proud. Perhaps Tamanoa found her independent spirit was unbecoming for her sex. As she bathed, Apacuana told us more. The night before, apparently Baruta had gone to the river looking for her in vain. When she returned, they argued, for she had told him she was going to get water; instead, she went to feed me. That night she had cried in my arms because Baruta wanted to take her with him to Suruapo, Guacaipuro’s village up in the mountains, as his woman. Apacuana had refused and ended up telling him she did not want to marry him, at least not yet. Baruta had reached for the macana, intending to hammer some sense into his betrothed. As I had guessed, Baruta had pressed Yulema into talking. She sang like a nightingale, telling him everything except the precise whereabouts of the cave. Instead she had led him off the track, thereby allowing time to forewarn Apacuana. Fuming with his inherited hatred of white men, Baruta had set off to find me, but he had looked further east of the river. “Will Baruta keep looking for us?” I asked. She thought not. Guacaipurowas anticipating Paramaconi’s answer with the greatest urgency, and so Baruta’s duty to his father would have to take precedence. It was very important business, Apacuana told us. Paramaconiwas being summoned to a war council in Suruapo. The meeting would take place very soon, in a matter of days. All the principal caciques of the region were being called upon to unite forces in a major attack against Losada in the valley of San Francisco. I waded further downstream where I might discreetly disrobe and wash my privates. I was obliged, by my race, to warn Losada, but Apacuana had just run away from her betrothed because of me, she had been raped by Gregorio, and I couldn’t possibly take her back to the valley of San Francisco.
money we have should be placed on that … just for now though. Recommend it to whoever you think can wait a year or so to get results. Frankie is a patient man, but he does things right. Remember that.” “I’ll work on that, Dad” Logan said, getting up and going back to his desk. As soon as his son left the office, Eteo’s phone rang. Richard Walden was on the line and sounded excited, talking of an oil deal he was planning to get involved in. It was a prime southern Texas location, and a deep well with indications of plenty of reserves. “Come over and bring what you have on it,” Eteo suggested. Richard had not had much success with oil up to now, but Eteo was always ready to listen if a deal sounded promising. Half an hour later Richard walked in with a map and a letter of intent he had already signed. Eteo glanced at the letter and saw that Richard had agreed to contribute 20 percent of the drilling expenses to earn ten per cent participation in one deep well. “This all looks good, as far as I can see,” he said. “Ten percent is a respectable piece of the well, if it’s a good one.” “They’ve been very successful with other wells in the same area” Richard pointed out. “So far so good then. Just a couple of words for caution’s sake though. Make sure before you sign the final agreement that they have enough other participants signed up. You don’t want them using your paper to sell the rest of the well. Second, find out who their operator is in Texas and what he has been involved with over the last, say, five years. I’ve come across horror stories about some of the operators down there.” “Don’t worry, Eteo. It’ll all be fine. I’m flying to Calgary this weekend and meeting the brokers again on Monday morning. I expect lots of buy-in soon.” “That’s great, then” Eteo said, raising his coffee mug to toast the prospect. Richard marched out with his map and a broad smile on his face. Eteo chuckled to himself at Richard’s optimism. He wasn’t quite as sanguine, but he hoped the promoter would return from Calgary with some good news. Then he turned his attention to Golden Veins.
Knife In the talons of fear, all his life, a hell, a schism into which he hid his pride, an apostate in the rocky face of normality he promised to protect his body from darkness his imagination always created his psyche constantly on alert when fearful of all others he raised the knife to defend himself from the innocence of his victim in the body of who the knife dived proving the short truth that only evil can control a man, only the blood of innocent can justify the unnatural existence of the killer on earth he too settled on what his foul mind led him to spend his life imagining that he was human.
“That ideal has died, Padraig. The light has gone out. It goes out for many of us, I’m afraid. Because it’s only an idea, not a reality. The Greeks first had the idea when civilization was young. Didn’t they believe in the human community as commonweal? Didn’t they tell us we were all free equals linked by a shared concern for the common good? Come on, Padraig, you know more about these things than I do.” Padraig swallowed a mouthful of wine and thought for a moment. He wondered if he really did know more about these things than Finn. “You mustn’t overlook the Christian component of your humanitas, Finn: humanity as a moral ideal rather than a biological fact. From Christianity, not from Greece, comes that conviction you mentioned that human life has value. Man was created in God’s own image and was precious enough in the sight of God for God Himself to become man. This is what gives human life its value, Finn, and human life must be protected, must be saved at all cost and returned to God transmuted into spirit, pure and undefiled.” “Another ideal.” “Another aspect of the same ideal.” “But equally unrealistic.” Finn leaned forward and held Padraig in the grip of his eyes as the Ancient Mariner held the wedding guest. “You are still young. The torch you hold aloft to light your way through life still burns with the fierce brightness that youth demands. You are just starting out. But as your journey proceeds and the day wears on, the idealism that fuels your torch burns lower. The light grows dimmer, Padraig, till you no longer see your way with clarity. And you stumble and fall. And every time you stumble or fall you spill some of the fuel you still have burning. And the light grows even dimmer. Long before midnight it’s all gone. And you can’t see your way anymore. You look back for some idea of where you were heading, and of course it’s all darkness there too. The light is gone. The darkness reveals the idealism for what it was: a figment of the human imagination, a fiction born of the unique human capacity for creative thought and nourished by the unique human need to believe.” “It’s too pessimistic, Finn,” Padraig argued. “The light that guides us really burns; it really exists. You can keep it burning brightly right to the end if you have faith. Faith is the fuel, Finn. Pick up your torch again and find the faith to relight it and keep it burning. It will show you freedom, truth, justice, goodness. It will show you love. It will show you God.” Finn smiled. “As I said, Padraig, you are young. You have a fire in your head and in your belly. I am old. My head is cool, and my belly …
My Verses Verses are mine, my blood, friends they speak words and they become pieces of my heart that I give away like tears from my eyes which I gift you. They reach you like saddened smiles since I narrate my life with them I dress them with the sun of day to keep them like belts when I’m dead. My verses oversee sky and earth yet they question what is still missing and they’re bored withering like sons who met their mother-sorrow. The laughter of the smoothest tune the passion of the flute I gift you for them I’ve become the ruler who has lost the love of his people. There they flow and they fade never to stop yet slowly they cry out: turn your glance elsewhere, oh mortal bring your ship, oh forgetfulness, that they’ll sail on it.