II As shadows elongate bringing inspiration to the poet’s stanzas and the nimble movement of the sparrow marks a feather the pair marches to the decapitated oak’s tallest branch. With their sacred offering life repents for a sinful deed. The frozen north wind, fearsome and forever lonely, never unjustifiably angry, groans as a colossal iceberg and cracks a faint smile all his thirty-two teeth agree and shine in the gleaming moonlit evening as he pleasurably accepts the sacred offering. All the wind stands still and in attention when they are advised to dutifully go back to their perennial task.
Heavenly Flow Time reflections of stars in the eye of Being a fleeting image-like existence thundering silence between myself and death Eternity the constant movement of nothing something sinful breathes these days no one returns to innocence for something that isn’t there what the infinite searches for and it spreads, whirls slipping in space-time that constantly births what could be beyond the heavenly flow nostalgia for what was when it was expelled from the warmth of the obscurity of uterus.
back into the bay, “we ought to try a power gurdy. I don’t know if it would control the lines any better, but it would speed things up.” “I don’t trust them. The hand gurdy is fine.” “But, Dad…..” “Peter. I said the hand gurdy will do for us.” “Look, I’ll pay for it. If you don’t like it, it goes, and it doesn’t cost you anything.” “No. I said no.” The steel of stubborness was in the old man’s voice. “That’s the end of it.” Evenings when the boat was in port, Peter rarely had supper with his folks. He roamed. After midnight, they heard his quiet steps on the stairs to his room. “You must say something to him, Ivar,” his mother said. “He’s going to find trouble.” “He’s a grown man, Hilda.” Then, after a few weeks back on the boat and more suggestions, Pete argued with Ivar about how to do the work, occasionally at first, and after a couple of years nearly without ceasing. The change in his son troubled Ivar Torgerson. A scowl seemed engraved on the face of the young man. Eagerness for work transmuted into a flow of resentment and quarreling. He swore at people who got in his way when he walked on the dock. Ivar heard reports of Peter picking fights in bars and tormenting drunken Indians on the waterfront in Seattle. He heard worse too, things he would not listen to, about Peter and sailors, about the kinds of things some sailors do. At Christy’s Tavern, he knocked Hans Karlson flat when Karlson began to tell him what he’d heard. Ivar never asked his son where he went on his nights out alone. He could not bring himself to mention what he knew Karlson and the others whispered about. On a Sunday evening, Ivar and Hilda strolled down the hill toward the bay, relishing the softness of the springtime air and the quietness of the streets. They looked in store windows, admired flower beds, ambled along the dock. “Ivar, you’re headed toward the boat. This is Sunday. Come on, we’re turning around right now.”
When he entered the classroom, he sat on the teacher’s desk, his feet dangling, and told stories about the Arctic. The children listened raptly. He received another speaking request, and then another, and another. He accepted all of them. His talks were a training ground for what was to come. Fraser had been right. “”We’re not selling paintings; we’re selling stories.” He spoke to classrooms of elementary students and to older students in high schools. One time he began with, “Before we get going I want to tell you, just so that no fraud is committed here – I never went to school.” The children gasped. “It’s kind of weird, isn’t it – that I’ve been asked to come and talk to you but I didn’t go to school? Now, make of that what you will. I’m not suggesting that you don’t get a formal education, but I am suggesting that there are those of us who probably fare better if we don’t.” He shared his thoughts on education – what it is and what it is not. He wove his ideas into stories of the Arctic, stories of politics, and stories of old mythology. His stories posed questions. “Why do we think things are right and why do we think other things are wrong? Where did we get all this stuff? Who wrote it down? Who says it’s true?” His speaking invitations multiplied, until he could accept no more. He met with the principal of one school that had made a request, and said, “I want to speak to the whole school. Give me your auditorium. This is a performance, and I don’t want forty-five minutes – I want the entire afternoon.” He asked that the banners in the auditorium be taken down, all the lights turned off, and the windows curtained. He asked for one microphone, with a long cord, and a spotlight on centre stage. There would be no adults in the auditorium, although teachers could position themselves out of sight where they could hear. The children were to come in and sit on the floor. When they were seated, the room would be plunged into total darkness, and the children would sit for three minutes in silence, before he walked on the stage. “Are you out of your mind?” the principal said. “These aren’t children – they’re little animals! It will be chaos! You obviously don’t understand children!” “I probably do,” Ken said. “I was one once and I probably still am.” “It can’t be done.” “Fine. I live in a world where apparently everything can’t be done. Have you ever tried this?” “No.” “Then, you’re educating children and giving them advice based on things you’ve never done. That’s one hell of a way of going about things. Well, that’s my offer – take it or leave it.”
Falling Star Give me a falling star I said, and I shall wish to hold your hand softly during frosty winter nights and to adorn you like a little laughter when you ache before the unaccomplished and coming close to me you kissed my lips and blinking your eyelids you said, I shall give you two
The night is a door only the blind can see; darkness makes the animals hear better and he staggered not from being drunk but from his futile effort to climb up to the tower we had once lost.
Maybe, thought Joel. But, on the other hand, what price can you put on a palomino filly that allowed a young girl to find herself? “Sorry, Mr. Schwartz. I appreciate your offer, but the filly is no longer for sale.” Joel quickly jogged the buckskin to catch up with Tanya, who was way ahead of him by now. When they got back to the barn they gave each other big hugs and lots of words of celebration, telling each other how well they had done. Their section of the barn, which until now was a very quiet and practically abandoned aisle with no other horses and no traffic, all of a sudden filled with lots of people to congratulate Joel and Tanya and take a look at the horses. And that was just the start. With Friday being just the first of the three-day show, Tanya and Joel continued their success. Tanya took first-place on both Saturday and Sunday to sweep the show. And Joel came in as the runner-up both days. After the show was over, Joel could tell that he had witnessed something special. This really wasn’t the end of a show for his young partner, but the start of her career. With her momentum, he wondered how far she could go. It was late on Sunday when they loaded up and pulled out of the show grounds. Joel guided the old truck and the trailer out of Great Falls and then they realized that they hadn’t eaten since noon; they were both running on adrenaline. It would be a few hours before they would even be home for a midnight snack, so they decided to stop at the diner at the last gas station on the edge of the city. Even though it was late, the kitchen was still open and there was one waitress on duty. Joel’s finances were tight and he had to figure out his next move soon, but for now, they both deserved a decent celebratory meal. Over dinner, Tanya said, “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you: as you came out of the ring on the first day of the show, what was that conversation that you had with Mary Lou’s husband?” “Oh, nothing really,” replied Joel. “Come on now. You can’t do that. What did he say to you?”
Window Standing on one foot the disabled dark side of life stuck on Earth by its extremities hidden as if stolen from the safe of the rich man and this small window graces the poor with its view fresh watermelon that relieves the conflagration of July wind, wind whirl, twister exquisite dance of sand song over the shiver of waves urchin in the shallow depression of the rock and its schism into which the crab hides and staring at the above void it delves into the eternal and you, half-naked, stand on the terrace to look at the last passengers disembarking the ship
And you rebel chaser of Christians why you fight with such envy to return the joyous religion and you curse and hate all things while you chant ancient rhythms your ancient gods and books? Your struggle is all in vain. These are different times, different language, different names and remember the Nazarene was unjustly crucified like a thief and like a killer; his heavy shadow passed over the whole earth and the eyes of Virgin Mary nailed you on your spot. Time will come when you both, Pagans and Galileans, will shake hands, oh you, wide eyed and drenched by life’s potion you’ll see ghosts as ghosts and you’ll extend your hands to grasp all that have survived.
Manolis Aligizakis 