Gratitude
Oh, your hair that you comb
spreads around us
a forest of lemon trees.
We said: ‘what does he need it
in the stones and salinity
that choke our lives?’
Yet secretly we felt gratitude
as our defeated glance moved
along the inaccessible uphill
until it vanished in your glowing hair.
And, at night, when your hair sprang out
of your white pillow and
flooded your naked shoulders
we felt it
in our lessened loneliness.
PRAYER OF THE HUMBLE
Lord, evening comes again, and I beseech You.
No soul have I harmed other than my own,
and those who have harmed me are my own beloved.
I have accepted my own share of bitterness
and others’ too. Joy deserted me,
yet still I wait, knowing that to hope is sin.
I love the fear of the night like happiness,
though none knock at my door, only the wind.
I seek no glory, humble in everything I’ve done.
The rain’s song heard at dusk I have enjoyed,
to children I have given laughter and petting to the dogs,
the farmers I have welcomed returning from their toil.
Now nothing more have I to give or to retain,
nor do I expect reward: who could hope for that?
Oh Lord, grace me with my death, I pray.
Thank you for the plains and mountains that I’ve seen
excerpt
“Coffee, soup and ham sandwiches,” she announced as she laid the tray down on the table in front of them. She handed a paper napkin and a bowl of soup to Tyne. “Now eat. I don’t plan to take any of this back to the cafeteria.”
Tyne grinned at her aunt, and told herself she would do her best to comply.
Their lunch finished, they waited for Moe to come from the ward to tell them they could go in again. When Tyne looked at her watch, she realized that little more than an hour had passed. Then suddenly Moe, in her crisp white uniform, appeared at the door.
“Okay kiddo, you can see Bobby again. He’s rousing, and his vital signs are stabilizing.”
Tyne jumped to her feet and turned to her aunt. But Millie shook her head. “You go ahead, Tyne. I’ll see him tomorrow. He doesn’t know me well, and he doesn’t need to see a strange face staring at him when he wakes up. And take your time, dear. I’m fine here.”
Tyne reached down to pat Aunt Millie’s hand before she followed Moe through the door and towards the childrens’ ward.
“How about Ronald? Has he settled? He was upset when I saw him.”
Moe opened the door and motioned Tyne to go ahead of her. “He had a sleep, and he ate something when he woke up. He’s going to be all right … except for the frostbitten parts. Those are still a question mark, I’m afraid.”
Tyne stepped through the door, but stopped when she saw Dr. Bryce Baldwin speaking to a white-clad nun near Bobby’s bed. Moe left her side and walked towards them, and the three of them conversed for several minutes. The sister was making notes on a chart – Bobby’s chart, presumably. Then she turned her head slightly in Tyne’s direction. Dark lively eyes below her wimple highlighted a pretty face as she spoke to the two people with whom she consulted. Moe said something, and nodded in Tyne’s direction. The sister turned towards her, a smile lighting her eyes. She handed the chart to Moe and started towards the door where Tyne stood.
excerpt
“Come in, my son, come in. Let me introduce you to the Minister of Finance,
Omar Salem. Here’s one of my sons from the United States, minister. His name
is Talal Ahem.”
Omar Salem looks at Talal and smiles.
“He’s one of the seven?”
“Yes.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, sir,” Talal says, and shakes the man’s hand.
“You, too, Talal Ahem,” says the minister. “Should we expect you to return
to your country soon?”
Ibrahim smiles with obvious pleasure as he tells the minister, “He’s a
chemical engineer.”
“A chemical engineer, very good; now, this is a man our country needs, don’t
you think, my good friend, Ibrahim?”
“Yes, of course. Yes, our country needs all her talents to help her in our years
of development.”
“Please tell me, Ibrahim, when your dearest son Hakim will visit us?”
“I hope very soon in the new year, minister.”
Talal shakes the hand of the minister once again and leaves him with Ibrahim
in the study. He finds Emily in the garden and they walk together for a while.
She’s curious to know what happened.
“Who’s meeting with Ibrahim, honey?”
“It’s the Minister of Finance for Iraq.”
“Well, it certainly seems Ibrahim is well-connected here.”
“He’s well-connected all over the world, my love. What surprises me,
though, is that there are seven of us in the United States.”
“What do you mean, seven of you?”
“Hakim and I are in the United States thanks to Ibrahim’s money. Now, I
find out there are another five who have gone to the states for studies, just as
Hakim and I did. I only know Ahmed, in Los Angeles whom I see often, but who
are the other four and where are they?”
“Why did Ibrahim send you if you are not a blood relative?”
“My mission is to be with Hakim and make sure he never feels alone, nor gets
into trouble. To make sure nothing bad happens to him.”
They walk hand in hand, silently, while Talal tries to figure out who the rest
of the seven could be and where they may be now. There must be a reason the old
man sent us all to the United States. Talal knows he needs to find that out before
they return home, so he can brief Hakim before he gets involved with Bevan and
his plans.
“Tomorrow we’re going to the gulf. Are you not excited?” he asks Emily.
NOW
Now,
not tomorrow.
Not another time,
not in another season.
Now.
What I have to do now,
now is the time for it,
and what I should do tomorrow
or at another time,
in another season,
I will do it then,
immediately,
on the spot.
Tell me now what you have to say,
and destroy
what you have to destroy,
lift up,
what you have to lift up,
live what you have to live.
Every upcoming day
Live what you have to live.
As nothing is left
for us.
Just the death…
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C7KT7ZFV
Twenty-Second Hour
In the hands of zealots He places
matches and they march to the burning site
where they conflagrate holy books
and the enemy’s hovels
ostracized reason rebels
against simple thought
invisible bow strikes notes
and the birds of prey swallow
bitter beads sweating multitudes
gather and an archaic ziggurat decays
in their arrogant minds when
like silence of untold myths the
pandemonium of arcane words
impede all progress and vanity
of dramatic scenes neglects
sanctity of pious peasants
and artful efforts of
thought police the moralists
insisting on the absurdity
as Jehovah breaks
a sinister smile at the chaos His
gift of the polyglot concept erupting
more futile in vain whitewashed bodies
and I ask her to slightly open her lips
to define my finger guiding
her smile against the mirror’s wish
as outside our open window
pieced-out souls go by
with seamed partitions
one for the spring another
for Death one for summer
at last one for the red egg and
smiling Death peeks from behind
the tree freeing a laughing
ladybug onto jasmine
and dons the polka dot tie with
confidence of the omniscient He
brings in the ever-sharp
translator asking ‘why?’
and the slum lord’s greed answers: who cares?
The Body
The body between the hands — history and music, word
and deed — oh, stone limbs and the wall, he said, the
wall; horse riders passed outside; the spurs shone in
the night gleam, the smell of the horses remained and
the air of their leave stirred the corner of the tablecloth
a little, and the only flower. We had to find the continuance
in things indifferent to us when the colourful lights of the
display windows were turned off and if there was something
beyond death, it was exactly that slow and pale colour
that rose from within death.
SKETCHES FOR A SUMMER
A Word For Summer
We’ve returned to autumn again, the summer
like an exercise book that we are tired of writing in remains
filled with deletions, abstract designs
and question marks in the margin, we’ve returned
to the season of eyes staring
into the mirror under the electric light
tightened lips and the people strangers
in the rooms the streets under the pepper trees
while headlights of cars massacre
thousands of pale masks.
We’ve returned; we always start out to return
to loneliness, a fistful of soil, to the empty hands.
And yet once I fell in love with Syngrou Avenue
the double up and down of the great road
leading us as though miraculously to the sea
the eternal sea to cleanse us of our sins
once I fell in love with some unknown people
that I suddenly met at the end of the day
talking to themselves like captains of a sunken armada
evidence that the world is immense.
And yet I loved these roads here, these columns
even though I was born on the other shore near
reeds and rushes, islands
that had water springing out of the sand to quench
the thirst of the rower, even though I was born near
the sea that I fold and unfold with my fingers
when I’m tired—I no longer know where I was born.
In an Old Book
In an old book, about a hundred years old,
forgotten amid its pages,
I found an unsigned watercolour.
It must have been the work of a good artist.
It had the title, “Presentation of Love.”
But a more fitting title would be “Love of the extremely sensual.”
Because it was obvious when you looked at the piece
(the artist’s idea was easily felt)
that the young man in the picture
was not meant for those who love
in somewhat healthy ways,
and within accepted boundaries,
with his deep brown eyes,
and the extraordinary beauty of his face,
the beauty of his deviate attractions,
with his ideal lips that grace
a beloved body with sensual delight
with his ideal lips made for beds
common morality calls shameless.
Helena
On the first day of spring, I call you
‘Come, let us spread colours
to the edge of the plain
to the far end of the cosmos
a cyclamen deep in the rock fissure
of empathy, ‘Come, let us unfold
the whitewash of hyacinths
unto the hoarfrost of last night
perhaps the impulse of blood
will turn its icy mirror into
the freshest cicada song
a new illumination
that becomes a fireball like
the virgin sun ray that
opens a smile on the gardenia
white petals
exploring the laughter
of your emotions and the crystal
star blushes in the embrace
of the serene firmament
https://draft2digital.com/book/3747032#print
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1771715987
Manolis Aligizakis 