MAYBE MAYBE …
Children’s war is a game,
kids’ buletts are just words!
The wounded are those
who sit on the bench and laugh,
lame little clowns.
Rejoice, the children say,
live, the children say
play, the children say,
stubbornly
for millennia
maybe, maybe …
Excerpt
HAKIM ISONHISWAY to the Sheraton Hotel to meet his uncle so they can go
together to the medical center. He’s worried about what they will find out, but he
doesn’t want this to show. He wants to be courageous and strong for his uncle.
They arrive by limousine and a specialist meets them in a consultation room.
He confirms what’s already known about the tumor in Ibrahim’s liver. He
indicates it’s a very small-sized malignancy. At this stage, it’s unclear what type of
cancer it is, but he confirms that the tumor is a new type they don’t know very
much about. Therefore, it would be inappropriate for him to tell Ibrahim with any
certainty that it will respond positively to the new chemotherapy. For that reason,
he’ll start Ibrahim on a light dose. The specialist has arranged for Ibrahim to be
admitted to a private clinic where the medication is to be administered, and he’ll
be monitored twenty-four hours a day.
The specialist stops briefly, but continues to look at Ibrahim and Hakim to
ensure that, so far, everything is understood. Then he carries on.
“If we see that the drug doesn’t produce any adverse effects, the second dose,
and the third and fourth, can be given orally in the form of a pill that you can take
on your own, in the comfort of your own home. However, the first time the drug
is administered, we would like to monitor you very closely at the clinic. I’ll leave
you alone for a few minutes to absorb what I’ve told you. Then I’ll return with
further instructions.”
He gets up and the other two follow him out of the consultation room.
Hakim turns and gazes him. Ibrahim is pale and shaken. This is the first time
Hakim sees his uncle with fear in his eyes. The pride and gracefulness that he
possessed are gone. A layer of fear has taken over like a black shroud covering the
old man’s eyes.
“I wouldn’t worry they do miracles with medicine these days.” Hakim says
trying to relieve his uncle’s gloom.
“I guess so,” his uncle nods in agreement. “But, it means I cannot go home yet.”
“When were you planning to go home?”
“As soon as I’m done with these guys dear boy; Mara is most anxious for me
to get home; however, now she has to wait for a few more days.”
“You have to be here for only one or two more days so they can see …
Paris
Oh Paris, it was time when I scattered
my dreams in your dark mornings
and now I leave you taking with me
the sorrowful joy that I love you.
The Mediterranean delicate siren
that flows around our ship
with all its frothy lilies
now takes me away from you
but we shall meet again in the future
when light will come carefully to open
my eyes before the gleaming blue day
that helps me live with your memory
and then its islands will charge
Athens, I know, isn’t far behind
and they’ll stand and fight
my sinful love for you, oh Paris,
and they will wish me to forget
how sweetly I gave you my soul
not longing to meet anyone
when I aimlessly saunter in your streets
Excerpt
Jeff’s lean face took on a scowl, but his eyes twinkled. “I’ll thank you not to malign my good old Chevy, young lady. Sure, I still have it. It’s safe and sound in the shed in the back yard.”
Tyne groaned. “I might have known.”
Jeff’s long, slender body reclined against the back of his swivel desk chair. “So what brings you here? Have you been to see your mother?”
“Yes, I just left her. Aunt Millie was there, so we had a good visit. And as for what brings me here – Morley and I would like you all to come to dinner on Sunday evening.”
For just a moment, Jeff looked at her, then he swung his chair towards his typewriter at the side of his desk, and began to hit the keyboard with one determined finger.
Tyne took a deep breath. “Will you come, Dad?”
“I thought you have dinner at noon on the farm,” he said without looking at her.
“We usually do. But we’ll have a light meal after church, and dinner in the evening.”
The typewriter keys flew over the page in the carriage, surprisingly fast for one finger typing. Tyne waited. Finally, her dad turned to face her.
“I don’t know if I can make it … deadline, you know.”
Tyne tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice. “It’s Sunday, Dad. The paper doesn’t come out until Wednesday.” She sat forward. “Look, you’ve been out to the farm only once, and that was just after we were married to bring some of my things. Morley and I have been to see you and Mom several times. Just for a change, I’d like to cook dinner for my family.” She sat back in her chair, and said quietly, “You’re part of my family.”
Jeff drew his lips together in a tight line. “Have you asked your mother?”
“Yes I did. She’d like to come but she said she’d leave it up to you.” As always, Tyne thought. In that respect Emily Milligan had not changed.
Jeff nodded. “I’ll think about it. Your mother will call you tomorrow.” He turned back to his typewriter.
Excerpt
“Leave me alone, will you?” he scowled.
But I wanted to make peace with him.
“I mean it, Gregorio. You need a bleeding to drain all those bad
humours and grudges. Hombre! I saw you in battle; if I hadn’t been
so busy running, I would have stayed put to watch you. What
shooting and fighting! You are a born conquistador. From now on, it
will be quite comforting to have you around.”
I uncorked a flask of marigold oil. Gregorio chortled at last. He
took a gulp from the mug he was holding.
“I saw you, too,” he said, “running like a hare.”
“Little wonder! I have never been so frightened in my life!”
Gregorio and Benjamin laughed. Perhaps I was more useful to
them as feckless character, someone to jeer at.
“Why, you don’t want to go to heaven, Friar?” Benjamin taunted.
“I know I am but a sinner,” I smiled. “But I could use a bit more
time before God blows out my candle. I’m hoping to find some way
to skip purgatory.”
“Trying to become a saint, are you?” Gregorio said. “Become a
martyr, then. That will do, won’t it?”
“That would be an improvement, no doubt. I’ve been thinking
about it. Perhaps one of these days someone will favour my
aspirations.”
Gregorio swatted at a hornet that came too close. “We’re going to
make it, I think,” Gregorio said. “Losada knows what he is doing.
You can see it in his face. I’m convinced he knows how the bastards
think. He has lots of experience. But, if you ask me, Francisco Infante
is the better of the two.”
Losada struck me as a man of principle whereas Francisco Infante
impressed me as a schemer, someone who would rather run things
for himself, so I decided not to respond to the bait. It was odd for me
to sometimes feel so close to Gregorio and Benjamin, and yet at the
same time I sensed their camaraderie was fickle, transitory. For
them, the New World was strictly a land of opportunity, and the
state of their souls was a distant second.
Were they ever my friends? Or did they even want to be?
Continuum
Unclasped, it falls buzzing
like a wasp in a clean jar
unclasped from the underbelly
of the airplane
The bomb falls
wirelessly sending a message
to a computer that switches
into replacement mode
factory on alert for a spent bomb
button pushed, memory
card awakes
to build the replacement
absurd absence of sanity
Writer’s Night
What is a writers‘ night like?
Where does the bus leave from
which takes us on the road?
And when we get to one of them,
will he let us in or not when we ring the bell?
Should we bring wine or is the writer not allowed to drink,
should we bring music, cigarettes, anything,
can we take a picture of him with the smoke billowing in his place,
as he paces up and down like a caged lion?
Should we bring a book for him to sign,
should we bring our own, signed for him
or would that be a provocation?
Where is the bus leaving from?
Perhaps an omnibus, the wrong chariot?
Where are the writers, and
where is the night that leads us to them?
V
We didn’t know them
deep inside it was hope that said
we had met them in early childhood.
Perhaps we had seen them twice and then they went to the ships
cargoes of coal, cargoes of crops and our friends
vanished beyond the ocean forever.
Daybreak finds us beside the tired lamp
drawing on paper, awkwardly, painfully
ships, mermaids or conches;
at dusk we go down the river
because it shows us the way to the sea
and we spend our nights in cellars smelling of tar.
Our friends have left us
perhaps we never saw them, perhaps
we encountered them when sleep
still brought us very close to the breathing wave
perhaps we search for them because we search for the other life,
beyond the statues.
The Commission
For years he counts infinitesimal
differences that always leave room
for his profit, slight gains perhaps
incalculable for most people though
very important to the money changer,
way of life for the expelled from the
Temple in the ancient days which he
recalls as re-counts and estimates his
gain, old Benjamin, sitting on his
stool with a bowl full of gold and
silver coins from various countries,
he calculates his potential profit and
contemplates the time when he’d go
along with his loot which perhaps
might buy him a better spot
in Paradise. Old Benjamin had also
missed the point of why he lived
his life to just do as expected
as he was taught by his wise teachers
and you said,
he too got caught in the trap of money
he too remained an insignificant
peon among the innumerable others.
As a child, I first met you on an uphill Phanari
side street.
A hanging lamp in the Byzantine Temple lit
your kind face.
Were you, I wonder, one of the myriad faces
that Constantine Palaiologos assumed and left
behind?
Boyaca, Ayacucho, bright and eternal concepts.
I was there.
We had passed through there to the old borders.
Far behind, they had started the fires in Leskovik.
During the night, the army climbed up toward
the battle
from where familiar sounds were heard. Next to
it, going down, endless busses carried
the wounded.
Don’t let anyone get disturbed. Down there is
the lake.
They’ll pass through here, behind the cane fields.
The roads were compromised: work and glory to
Hormovitis, who is famous for such things.
The whistle is heard. To your positions, march!
Come, dismount the horses. Put the cannons
in their positions, get a towel, clean the bores,
light fuses, hold them tight.
The cannon balls are to the right. Vras!
Vras, fire, in Albanian: Bolivar!
Manolis Aligizakis 