Moon
Moon moon The moon
yellow round glass in the middle of spring night Behind it
faces of the night shadows gather
and see you – you don’t see them They own you
Here are all the unknowns: unknown pacified
in the silent admission that they shall not be known
calm silent and pale as if known and left behind
Childish
In the little harbor the sea copies
the leaves and the clouds and birds
beautifully carefully and like calligraphy –
from time to time the wind hastily underlines her
mistakes with some thick light blue lines
But the one who writes all day long staring at the sea
Makes no mistakes – my embittered serenity –
and speechless he always yearns for love
to underline his heart – the only mistake
…and the green pastures were faraway
along with the flowering villages
and when each quietened down
in the embrace of the other,
from the groan of the camel
to the prayer of the muezzin,
when everything was left behind,
the thin skinned ascetic and
the slow passing of the caravan
that left behind a sweet
lengthened harmony and
the echo of colours and shadows
of female travellers with
undulating breasts, half covered
women with black eyes and
servants who followed helped by
their canes, tireless women
and the patriarch life that each
evening turned more holy and
blissful of which voyagers
sang with their tired voices.
And when he was left without
the company of passing wild
horses chased by the simoon
in the sunlit paths, the
Tearless felt a strange pain in
his viscera, the Ghost of thirst
that tyrannized him.
It Was a Beautiful Night
The beautiful night reflected in your eyes
and in your songs, that sweet night
in your old songs
night full of stars, exotic night.
The only love in your loneliness
so beautiful so evocative
became passion in your heart
in the loneliness of your heart.
Ah, your old songs which sobbed
ineffably sweet
modestly hid they talked of it.
Ah, your old songs sad
like secrets of love
like sad silent flowers.
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Pendulum
Soft murmur pendulating
between the tip of the last leaf and
the brown earth, ambivalent desire
for a fall or stand against October’s
hoarfrost and the insatiable yearning
for Death in the heart
of autumnal chiaroscuro
cloud witnessing the sequence
between ambivalence and fate
say,
let the cicada’s exoskeleton
on the olive tree trunk
ready to be blown away like
most leftover cadavers chanting
a hymn or Gloria substituting
elegy sung by the mother of the dead poet
what one can say about the unheard
whistling out of her perfectly
contoured lips and
what one can say about his graceful
ride on top of golden mares and
what one can say about Eros
standing firmly between the lips
of the Kore and the blushing breeze
when the poet throws his love
to the four corners of the Earth, thus defining
his borders which Death cannot defile?
Just frost is left and the shock
of rose petals waking up to November’s
thirst for their blood
say,
make haste to the fireplace and
let winter write notes about darkness
April always returns triumphant
excerpt
It snowed during the night, a good two inches which prompted
Cam to say when he came down to breakfast, “Is our skating party
off then? The lake will be covered with snow.”
“Heck, no.” Jeremy slapped butter onto his toast and glanced at
the clock on the kitchen wall. “Some of the guys’ll be out there already
clearing it off. We’d better hurry up and go help them.”
“Really?” Cam pulled a chair out from the table and sat down.
“What do you clear the ice with?”
“We put our skates on and push homemade snow ploughs along
the ice. Someone usually comes with a tractor and pushes the snow
to the side of the lake.” Jeremy helped himself to another dollop of
butter.
Tyne reached across the table and slapped her brother’s hand.
“Enough,” she scolded, thinking she sounded very much like their
dad. More gently she said, “You already have more butter than you
need on one slice of toast. Leave some for Cam.”
Cam grinned as he stirred his coffee. “Leave him alone, big sister.
He’s a growing boy.”
And one who’s used to having butter only when we have company,
Tyne thought. Usually, they had margarine which, until recently, had
been purchased in white unappetizing blocks that had to be mixed
with a capsule of orange colouring. Cam, she was sure, would have
no knowledge of such things. Nor would Morley, of course, since he
had always lived on the farm and had fresh cream and butter year
round.
Why does Morley always have to come to mind, even for the most
mundane things? I’m sure he never thinks about me.
They finished their breakfast and the young men went to their
rooms to change into their outdoor clothes. As Tyne began to clear
the table, her mother appeared at the pantry door, carrying a wicker
picnic basket.
“Leave the dishes, Tyne, and run along. I’ve packed you a little
lunch because I know you won’t think of coming home…
excerpt
…was smashed on the back of a pew. As Liam approached, he saw Padraig’s body lying against the altar at the end of the chancel. With heart pounding from fear at the sight of the still body, Liam rushed to its side and knelt down.
“Oh my God. Oh no. Not Father Padraig.” Liam stretched his trembling hand towards the prostrate body, but drew back. The blood on the chancel floor below Padraig’s head frightened him, as did the cuts and swelling bruises on the side of his face. Liam knew that two fingers placed somewhere on the neck could feel if the pulse was beating but he didn’t know where exactly.
“Father Padraig,” he said, as if trying to rouse the priest from sleep. “Father Padraig.”
He looked around helplessly, wishing that someone with more experience than he had would enter the church. Then he looked again at the inert, bloodied body of the priest. Padraig wasn’t moving; he didn’t appear to be breathing.
“He’s dead. Oh my God, Father Padraig is dead.”
Liam rose and ran outside. “Home, boy,” he shouted to the dog as he bounded down the steps. Followed by his old dog, Liam ran all the way to the main street of Corrymore. At the head of the street, the first house on the left was the home of Dr Starkey. Not only would the doctor be able to confirm if Padraig was alive or dead, his house had a telephone by which he could summon the police from Lisnaglass. Frantically Liam pounded on the door until a dishevelled Dr Starkey, wearing a plaid dressing gown, opened it.
“Liam,” said the doctor in surprise. “What’s wrong? Is it your father?”
Ciaran Dooley was known to have a bad heart.
“No, it’s Father Padraig,” Liam replied. “I think he’s dead. I think he’s been murdered.”
“Murdered?” cried the doctor. “Father Padraig? No. It can’t be.”
“I’m afraid it may be so, Dr Starkey. Father Padraig is lying in a pool of blood in the church and he’s not breathing. The pulpit has been knocked over, and I don’t know what other vandalism might have been perpetrated. Can you telephone the RIC in Lisnaglass and then go and see to Father Padraig? If he’s alive he needs help urgently. But I fear he’s dead. Murdered in his own church.”
Liam recalled the glimpse he had caught of the figure fleeing from the church. Could it really have been Michael Carrick? Yes, he was sure in his own mind that it was. But why would Michael do such a terrible thing? Liam troubled himself with questions as he walked down the still-deserted street to his home. Was it because Padraig was preparing Caitlin for the…
excerpt
Emily cannot see where his eyes are looking, but she knows men well; they are all
the same, most of the time. Yet, now a younger man with sad eyes has made her
heart melt; this younger man has managed to make her feel like a young woman
again. Talal is the man for Emily; Talal is her man and she’s willing to go anywhere
he wants to go because she’s so much in love with him.
Talal turns to her side and opens his eyes. Emily is on her back and the gardener
walks to the other side of the grounds. Talal leans over and puts his hand on her. She
squirms for a bit as his touch awakens her flesh to the warmth of his palm.
She turns her head to him, smiles, and says, “You are awake; for a while you
looked like you were asleep.”
“What a beautiful, warm day; pity we have to go and leave it behind,” Talal says.
“I know. Back home, right now it’s getting colder.”
“Well, we can always hope to come back here some time soon; what would
you think of that, my love?”
Silence falls between them for a few moments. Emily feels the warmth of the
sun on her back and sees the brightness all around; the birds are very busy
singing in the beautifully kept yard. These are all things she would like to have
around all the time, and her answer comes at the right time.
“I would love to come back here sometime soon, honey.”
“What if we stayed here for a longer time next time, sweet Emily?”
“I would love to come here with you, my love, and stay as long as you like; a
week, a month, two months, however long.”
He smiles back at her; he leans closer and kisses her lips softy.
“Do you mean you could go wherever, as long as we were together?” he
whispers to her.
“Yes, I could, my sweet Talal,” she says, kissing him.
The rest of the day goes by in peace and serenity and sunshine. They have a
light lunch with Ibrahim and Mara and later in the afternoon come back and
sit to enjoy the warmth of the sun a little longer before getting ready for the
party.
Ibrahim and Mara take their customary siesta for an hour. Then they get
involved with the last preparations for the party; they want everything to be
perfect for when the guests start arriving.
Rassan is the busiest person of all. He has to coordinate the shopping, the extra
cooks hired for the night, the servers, the coat-check people, and everybody else
who will help make the party flow smoothly. He enjoys doing all this, and since he
has been with Ibrahim and Mara for a long time, knows exactly what they want
and what is expected of him. He never disappoints them.
excerpt
It was a big day for them. With over sixty riders in their class,
the competition would be tough. After all, it was the best of
the best. Joel and Tanya both knew that the name of the game
here was to score in the top twenty and advance to the finals
tomorrow night. But as they say, it really is one day at a time, and
in this case, one run at a time. With that in mind, both Tanya
and Joel saddled up and headed to the warm-up arena, knowing
that this is what it was all about for them. This is where it could
all come to an end if they didn’t get the best they could from
themselves and their horses.
Both of the horses showed exceptionally well. Joel got a solid run
from the buckskin and scored a total of 216 from three judges,
which put him in fifteenth place and qualified him for the finals.
There actually were five judges rating each performance, but the
scoring system threw out the high and low score and used the scores
of the remaining three. Joel was pleased with his performance. His
nerves had cost him at least two points, and if he could leave his
nervousness behind, he could do better in the finals.
Tanya did even better. Winning the hearts of the crowd on the
pretty palomino, she put together one of the best runs of the day
with a combined score of 225, which was only beat by her new
friend Cody. Joel had felt real proud as he watched the amazing
Tanya ride the palomino with a skill and competence that he
knew he could never match.
Blood
Most people don’t understand
whether the sun rises
from behind the mountain or
is shot out of the pistol’s barrel
it always burns you.
For this so many of our dreams
remained unrealized
inexplicably happiness was laid
in the display window
of the department store and
loneliness was again eulogized
in churches, while as the years went by
him, the one with the severed arm,
kept on other people’s discolored
walls, truth always decorates
the cement, one word written
with fiery red letters:
blood, blood, blood.
Manolis Aligizakis 