Courtain
Our curtain flutters
game of the breeze, Eros
archaic tendency
before all others
and since they all occur
one after the one
rebellious breeze with its talk,
curtain in its erotic pose,
like your body
I got up to make coffee
and instead of a good morning
I whisper in your ear
I love you
NATURAL, MAYBE
I can no longer distinguish your voice,
I don’t even remember your long hair
that hour was unfortunate, perhaps
natural in unfulfillment.
The evening doesn’t bring us together anymore,
bitter Wednesday is in the deep,
Monday brings you, I come on Friday,
Thursday’s bridges collapsed.
Blue is heavy, snowfall is long,
under the brush of the icon painter –
angels come to chase me away
into the clay of the pot wheel.
excerpt
Perils of the Sea
As if the wind heeded Finten’s prayer for a quick return to Ireland, a stiff breeze
blew the tiny craft steadily southeast, along the coast of Mull. By noon, they were
in sight of Colonsay but the wind died before they came close to Islay. Now they’d
definitely not reach Kintyre before dark when the North Channel currents would be
most treacherous.
Rordan felt miserable that Finten had chosen to sit next to him as if to make sure
he said his prayers aloud with the other Brothers. Why can’t we just pray silently
on our own. I’m not up to all this chatter when we’re cramped together like this. In
chapel it’s different, I don’t have someone breathing down my neck. He tried shifting
away from the priest but Father Finten just seemed to lean in closer.
As evening approached, a chill wind whipped up waves and enclosed the craft in
clinging fog. The monks bobbed around until they lost all sense of direction. For a
few brief moments, the moon appeared through the mist and, by her position, the
seamen knew they were heading north instead of south.
Keallach exclaimed, “My God, we’re sailing in the wrong direction.” He pulled in
the sail while Laoghaire manoeuvred the side rudder to bring the currach around.
The turn took all of fifteen minutes, an eternity in the choppy sea.
The moon hid behind a black cloud as the sky darkened. Chilly sleet drifted over
the huddled crew and icy rivulets seeped down their necks. Finten crawled between
furs, shivering violently, praying his Pater Nosters and Ave Marias. Brother Ailan slid
a cover loosely over his cauldron. He had just gathered the uneaten supper from
wooden plates to be saved for a later meal and had secured the supplies in leather
bags against the mounting storm. The currach began to be walloped by waves, as she
moved up one side and down the other of each mounting swell.
The dizzying lift and drop made Finten nauseous. Soggy bread that had slipped
from its package swished about in the seawater among smelly slices of semi-preserved
whale meat and kippers. All that and the stench of the dying hermit priest
were more than Finten could stand. He grabbed the wooden bucket knowing he
was about to throw up before he could reach the side. “Out of my way.” He knocked
Rordan from his seat as he leaped up dropping the bucket. “Lord, Lord of the Seas.
Ohhh! My churning gut.”
Father Finten stumbled to the leeward and heaved his stomach contents to the
sea. Swiftly, Brother Ailan moved and grabbed his priest to save him from being
washed overboard. He led him gently back to his seat amidst the furs next to Brother
Rordan who turned his head away to avoid the sickly smell of the priest’s breath.
“Brother Rordan, for the love of Jésu, what have you in your bag to soothe this
wretched sickness?” Finten groaned.
How Can I Say It to You
How can I say it to you? I want you fresh as buds and braves
now that my heart expands
calm and serene, with no shadows, diaphanous and clear
calling inside it your beautiful reflections.
Heartwarming joy when each of you lean your heads
unsuspecting towards my heart, when
you’re flooded by fairies and their ephemeral beauty
with the secret peaceful light of my dream.
Return
We came back with a key
for the door of sorrow
under the lone streetlight
eager we were
to open the gates of hope.
There on the sidewalk
of the desolate neighbourhood
until tears flooded our eyes
at the loneliness of the pole and
we stopped wandering around
and promised to lay roots
in the soil, even if it meant
to gaze at the moon through
iron window of the prison cell
and perhaps that would secure us
a place among the heroes we so
much admired when in school
excerpt
Cindy
The Circle H Ranch
Willow Springs, Montana
It was late by the time Joel and Tanya returned home and
unloaded the horses. Once the excitement of the weekend had
started to subside, Joel had become tired and started to dangerously
drift off to sleep as he drove back to the ranch. To prevent
dozing off, he broke the peace and quiet of the long drive by turning
on the radio. Joel and Tanya spent the rest of the way home
listening to country and western music and savoring the joy of
victory.
The next day got off to such a slow start that by the time 9:30
rolled around, Joel decided that it would be a good idea to take the
rest of the day off. Maybe it was the success of the weekend or
maybe it had something to do with the potent fragrance of the
sage wafting in the wind, but for whatever reason, a day off
seemed to make sense. Tanya was pleased to hear Joel declaring
an impromptu holiday. Harry was happy for their success and
also happy to enjoy the benefit of their victory by climbing into
his truck and heading wherever it was that Harry went on the few
occasions that he actually left the Circle H.
After unhooking the trailer from the truck and hosing it down,
Joel went back up to the house and with Tanya’s help the two of
them had a cleaning bee. And by 11:30, the place was looking
very clean. Tanya had always done a nice job of keeping her room
in the basement tidy, but there was no doubt that the upstairs
needed a good cleaning. When the house was finally looking…
XVII
Astyanax
Now that you will leave, take along the boy,
the boy who saw the light under that plane tree
one day when the trumpets sounded and weapons shone
and the sweaty horses bent over the trough to touch
the green surface of the water with their wet nostrils.
The olive trees with the wrinkles of our parents
the rocks with the wisdom of our parents
and our brother’s blood warm on the soil
were a strong joy a rich attitude
for the souls who knew their prayers.
Now that you will leave, now that the day of payment
dawns, now that no one knows
who he will kill and how he will die
take with you the boy who saw the light
under the leaves of that plane tree
and teach him how to study the trees.
Brook
Your ear tuned to conversation
of roots resting in worked soil
graceful maple like
minute shiver with fallen
leaves celebrates seed time
sweaty hands wield a spade
while the cicadas orchestrate
layers in A major
she stands at the spring her smile
torments sweet feelings
roots keep conversing
about rainfall and the heat
the swift brook plummeting and
coursing down the fragile slope
excerpt
Mrs Starkey was unaware of this. When Michael returned about an hour later, she thought it was her husband. She rushed to tell him not to take his coat off but to go up to the MacLir house, the name the large stone house still bore from the family of Caitlin Carrick, whose ancestors, the MacLirs, had built it in the nineteenth century.
‘Michael, it’s yourself back again,’ she said in surprise. ‘Is Dr Starkey at your place?’
‘No, Mrs Starkey, but we need him up there badly.’ Michael’s voice was trembling. A look of distraction agitated his face. ‘Something’s wrong, Mrs Starkey. Caitlin’s yelling and screaming, and Mother Ross says the baby isn’t coming out right. For God’s sake, where’s the doctor?’
‘I don’t know, Michael.’ Mrs Starkey was worried now herself. ‘He should have been here ages ago. Wait and I’ll phone again.’
All Michael could hear was Caitlin’s screaming. It pierced his ears like a torture. It made his heart pound and brought sweat to his forehead, mingling it with the rain. He moved his weight from one foot to the other. He clenched and unclenched his huge fists. ‘Please come, Dr Starkey. Oh my God, please, please come.’
Mrs Starkey appeared at the inner door again. ‘Something’s happened to the doctor, Michael.’ Her voice too quivered with worry. ‘He was visiting the Collinses in Carraghlin and he left an hour and a half ago. They haven’t heard from him. They suggested that I phone the police in Carraghlin, but even before they finished talking, the phone went dead.’
‘Must be a line down,’ Michael said.
‘Could be there’s trees down too,’ said Mrs Starkey. ‘The road’s probably blocked.’
Fear speared Michael’s heart. He felt the blood gush out. It filled his stomach, and he felt nauseated. ‘Mrs Starkey, I must get help for Caitlin,’ he shouted. ‘She’s in agony. This birth is going to kill her, like her own birth killed her mother.’
‘Calm yourself, Michael. Calm yourself. That’s no way to be talking. Caitlin’s in good hands with Mother Ross. Dr Starkey himself hasn’t delivered more babies than she has.’
‘But Mother Ross is frightened now herself,’ cried Michael. ‘She can’t handle this. She told me so. Where does Dr Chapman live?’
‘He’s in Ballydun usually,’ Mrs Starkey replied. ‘But he’s away in England till the New Year. Dr Murray in Lisnaglass is looking after his practice. It’ll take you an hour or more to reach him on a night like this. And I can’t telephone him.’
Flute
Hymn of the flute,
by the shore lily
ally of the breeze
and of your body
that my fingers caress
morning hues
euphoria that swims
in light blue, serene wave
dance of sun rays
and agony over
the stony emotion
that I sang, said
the southwestern wind
the eternal ally of the flesh
Manolis Aligizakis 