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
Loose Ends All night long, sleepless, you promised not to cry to drive downtown to the family lawyer and tie up loose ends suddenly, you sense his presence so intensely in the car on the driver’s seat he used to call his kingdom you feel as if sitting on top of him his erection deep inside you like when you saddled him back then, in the secluded Horseshoe Bay Park road and you pull the car to the shoulder rapid heartbeat overtakes you a sweet elation runs through your spine down to your torso conspicuously moving forward and backward
Rachael’s voice rose, and in spite of an inner resolve to appear brave, she began to tremble. Ronald stood up. “I’ll take you part way until I know you’re safe. An’ after I leave you, if you see someone you know, ask them for a ride to my folks’ place.” Going to Bobby he lifted him from the chair onto his feet. “Okay, Bob old man, get on my back again.” Rachael knew she had no choice but to follow them. Once they had made it around the house and back onto the street, she hurried to catch up. “I’m scared, Ronnie, I don’t want to go back. Uncle Bill will beat me.” She saw her cousin grit his teeth. “No, he won’t. You tell them you just wanted to see your dad because it’s Christmas. He wouldn’t dare beat you for that; my mom won’t let him.” Rachael wanted to believe him, but she was not so sure. She remembered what her uncle would have done to her that other time if Ronnie hadn’t been there to protect her and take the beating for her. Then, too, there was Lyssa. They walked on in silence. Rachael had felt warmer after being in the shelter of the shed, but now her face began to sting again from the biting wind. She buried it in the sweater still wrapped around her doll. “Oh, Shirley,” she murmured, “I can’t take you back where Lyssa can hurt you again.” When they reached the main street of town, Ronald stopped and lowered Bobby to the ground. “Okay, I’ve gotta go before someone sees me. But you keep goin.’ It’s not far now; you know the way. And, like I said, if you see someone, ask for a ride.” Rachael didn’t answer. He looked at her keenly. “Look, kid, promise me you’ll go back. You can’t go to the farm, it’s too far. My mom’ll take care of you. Now, promise me, Rachael.” She lowered her eyes and gazed at her snow-covered boots, realizing that her feet were numb with cold. What choice did she have, anyway? “Promise me.” Rachael looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “I promise. But where will you go, Ronnie?”
assion doesn’t come from this generation.” “I was. I was raised in an ancient place by somewhat ancient people.” “So, what do you propose I do?” “I propose you find out whether I am telling you the truth.” As he and Rocco left, Ken turned and said, “By the way, I think the gallery should be called The Joseph D. Carrier Gallery.” Carrier smiled. “Of course.” Once work on the gallery began, Ken and Carrier met frequently. When Carrier discovered that Ken’s paternal grandmother, Constanze Inocente, was from Genoa, he declared that the connection made Ken Italian, and a member of the community. With Carrier’s urging, Ken joined the Canadian Italian Business and Professional Association, a dynamic and diverse group that included doctors, lawyers, carpenters, and bricklayers. As opening night of the Carrier Gallery approached, Ken suggested a show of his Arctic paintings, on a massive scale. “You haven’t sold any and you want to start off with a huge explosion? Rocco asked. “What if it fails?” “You’re sounding like my mother. What if…” “I love the idea, but what a risk!” “When you jump off a cliff, make sure you do it head first. Be honourable. Do it big.” What about the cost?” Rocco asked. “Who will pay for it?” “All we have to do is commit to the vision and the rest will follow.” Ken rented the warehouse next door to the framing factory, a space large enough for his Arctic paintings. He painted the ceiling black, the walls white, and the floor battleship gray. Then, he went to work on the giant paintings. Rocco focused on the show. They needed a sponsor, Ken said. The show had to be unique. Canadians didn’t care about the Arctic so everything about it had to be special. “If Canadians don’t care, why are we doing this?” Rocco asked. “Because this story has to be told,” Ken said, explaining that the entire saga had begun on a beach in Portugal. And that’s when it struck him – Portugal would be their sponsor. He wrote a letter to Dr. Antonio Tanger Correia, the Portuguese Consul General. Correia called. “Mr. Kirkby. As if you had to explain yourself! What a delight to get your letter. We must have lunch!” They met for a lunch that extended into dinner. Ken explained that he wanted the invitations for the exhibition to come from the Portuguese people, meaning the Consul General and the Portuguese Ambassador to Canada. “I’m not asking for money,” he said. “I simply want you to issue the invitations.”
boys their usual beers, while Patricia wanted grapefruit juice and Alex had a coke. Appetizers were ordered. Eteo as usual had the mussels his friend George cooked in wine sauce, George’s specialty and Eteo’s favorite appetizer. He suggested Ariana try them and she loved them so much he ordered another plate, which they both relished to the last mussel and the last drop of sauce. Soon their main meals arrived, and they all enjoyed them too. The night went by nicely. Eteo oen caught Logan’s eyes on Ariana, and he noticed too that Logan was talking to her so much that his own date was beginning to feel lonely. He subtly made Logan aware of this and soon the atmosphere was balanced again. Their mood was very jolly and at one point George the cook came out and greeted them. Eteo introduced Ariana to his old friend and noticed that George gave her a couple of glances of admiration, reminding Eteo that soon everyone in the local Greek community would know about the relationship, since George would most likely mention it to his wife Stefania, who would go out of her way to pass it on to all the Greek women she knew, including Eteo’s ex-wife who was still a good friend of Stefania. Eteo imagined the expression on his ex-wife’s face when she found out and a devious smile spread over his own face. Suddenly he leaned over and kissed Ariana on the lips. The others smiled but said nothing, and Ariana’s cheeks reddened, though she loved his spontaneity. At the end of the evening, Logan took the boys home and then Patricia to Coquitlam, where she lived with her parents, while Eteo and Ariana went for a ride to Horseshoe Bay. There he drove to Whytecliff Park and parked. They kissed for a while and then, excited, moved to the back seat, equally hungry for one another. It was the first time she had climbed on top of him and ridden her sensuality to the peak of pleasure, her low moaning driving Eteo even crazier for her body than ever. As they made love, it seemed like all the celestial bodies and constellations paired off in the firmament and sang erotic cadences as each heavenly lover coupled with their mate: Perseus with his Andromeda, Uranus with his Gaia, Zeus and Hera, Rhea and Kronos. All played out their erotic games just as Eteo and Ariana did in a car by the side of the road in Whytecliff Park.
We’re the immortal and uncivilized the cities are dens of serpents and refuges of all the cowards of fighting and self-defeat, dens of wolves, dogs, sheep and shepherds wail and wail again at their homeland! Fences are always our enemies when they enclose the world wild verdure and nettles sprout behind them, misery in their shade; the traitor’s conniving wilts all the mindful ideals and shuts all nightingales of the heart. The sin always dwells like a scorpion inside of them, never the brave lion; the fence marks the evil man and the good is but a baby in opium; work the earth again in your gallows rejuvenate its good and sins pounding it with your hammer on the anvil; Pass over fences, give to your mules wings and ride them like witches the world is whole and endless where the lands end the seas begin. From atop of each mountain that you’ll climb you’ll gaze at other higher mountain peak, a different, mind boggling world and when you’ll reach the highest of the highest peaks you’ll still understand that you live under the same stars.
E The seasons and the people’s passing leader of music and gate keeper was created in the crucible of wailing with the caressing of the Evening Star with precious tears and wreaths of the sun that vanished before dusk with bits of joy gleaming in the sunken wrath of people oh, whispers talkative, talkative songs of girls that touched the flutter of Helicon wings oh, the face won over the downpour of eternity F After the death of authority we waited for the king’s celebrations messengers of the lost war and the orders of the slaughtered on these sunken mountains we waited for the vow of youth forgotten along with the adventure of the roads we carry the light and the spade of the eighth day entrusted in us by the bitterness of God. With the silence of memory that consumes us wrapped like an ivy over our bodies with the music of love spent along the bands of stench with the full of holes prayer of the Esfigmeni monks G The deeds of the eighth day are thrown into a stone water well all around them: thorns and poison and the skin of the tree snake. They don’t yell because they are archetypes of thunder and thunderbolts. When thunderbolts strike subterranean roots onto the virginal mirrors of silence matches are stricken by the fingers of God. Small birds with ready wings flying to the breath of the seventh space become invisible not consumed in their defeated castles that on the day of echoes they render useless the formidable trumpets
Hades My mind clings to the love song I wanted to sing for you, opposite the deadly rhapsody sung to you by Hades, foggy and indiscernible memory before He took you away, my beloved, my heaven, my constantly heartfelt euphoria, I miss you —Don’t forget to pick up the garbage can with both arms: it’s heavy for your ailing heart Hades lurked behind the old oak we passed on our last walk through the glen, where I’m now stranded in the dark forest where nymphs rarely appear —Don’t forget to buy me a box of serviettes when you go to the drugstore. Absurd, that I feel like singing a love song for you and the phone rings and takes me away from my thoughts as if to bring me good news: I’m alive, I can still love you forever, better than the absurdity of serenading the phone receiver as if it makes my loneliness go away —Which cereal did you buy this time? You know I like chocolate Cheerios. Yet during the purple twilight, I mesmerize my mind with the absurd thought of peace, singing a love song to an unknown listener while the missiles keep falling on bald heads and corpses of soldiers, and you’re gone forever —Why don’t we go on a cruise next month? We have the time, don’t we?
Memento of Constantinople on the marble quay of the palace, they have placed, in an almost straight line, piles of wood barges brought from distant shore forests and other piles from thin lissome trunks like a Kore’s body and other piles of gigantic, huge trees it constantly rains and the persistent rain drenches the graceless woods and the marble of the quay gleam as the water washes them repeatedly and the sky is heavy and black, one wonders if anyone knows what time it is, there is no hope for any of that (The opposite shore has vanished as if it never existed) and the sea is moody and wild as if the endless raindrops that hit it have awakened a strong anger inside it that it can hardly hold back no one else is in this deserted place other than I, the same one, and I stand with my drenched red hair glued onto my forehead the travails of love have brought me here to the tender seashore and my mind always flies to a beautiful proud magnolia that thrives and blooms in this place
AND THERE were some days when we lost heart when some appeared coming our way from afar; what news did they bring to us we asked? Leave us in our misfortune, why do we want these deeds, we, the defeated since the ancient days as the sundown came though they never asked for our approval. Thus in order to survive a clear forehead was enough and we spoke but a little until night fell.
Nuance Behind unfurled flags and the horizon wall we searched by borders and crests deciphering lost codes plumbed caverns just below the sideburns of the fat general beyond prison barbwire fences and straitjacket ideals we took arms for an image but didn’t find one god the general polished his stars pronouncing God extinct and people reveled in the square foreseeing his verdict