Routine
Same path every morning
from the train station to the office
two blocks of a walk, three
newspaper stands and halfway
two beggars
dark sky-lobe drenching them
as they strangely multiply along
with the days going by and the index
down for another day, gold
off the mark, the price of oil dropping
what to do with the need for
exhausts and fumes for
statistics that make you wonder
are we truly making progress or careening
brakeless down off-ramps to Hell?
Shopping
Th
e courteous store employee
smiling and always flattering
showed you two dresses
a red one with revealing cleavage
and the other, a snow-white
that covered your voluptuous breast
but falling exquisitely over your body
it demanded everyone’s attention
the employee kept on flattering you
and I signalled to you
the red was my first choice
and the white falling gracefully on you
to the delight of the employee
both, I said —
the red which complimented
your beautiful cleavage
and the white that reminded me
the first time
I conquered your untouched body
Whitewash
As the years passed, by chance, no intention meant, they replaced
the white of the marble with whitewash, certain white,
of course, more blinding, more outside what was needed.
There were many inscriptions and designs on the walls. These
days they whitewash everything: yards, flowerpots, rocks, even
the tree trunks, up the middle; it is an opening, a cleanness, it
smells of health the way the sidewalks and the churches shine
with a new classical simplicity, something that belongs to us.
Each evening, they place on the whitewashed fence wall
a flowerpot with carnations that gaze at the sea. On the front
step of the opposite house, Mrs. Pelagia looks angry, her black
apron is splattered with drops of whitewash as if covered
with small, bloomed daisies.
Long Listed for the 2023 Griffin poetry Awards
Anonymity
We expected Phillip to die soon; I then understood
that all the eons wouldn’t be enough; while we sat
silently a voice was heard from the top of the stairway
“Phillip” it said, and again, “Phillip” without waiting
for an answer; I tried to discern who it was, but no one
was there, when I thought that that voice perhaps was
there all along, I mean it was all we had in the world,
“Phillip” it repeated as if to retain our name for a little
longer amid the eternal catastrophe.
Behind our Eyes
Behind our eyes,
silent and crouched,
we look at the world out there
like through the skylight of a prison.
Behind our eyes,
we make secret plans
we aim and fire as if
behind embrasures
and when evening comes
like we do with windows
we hastily pull the curtains
and turn on the lights.
excerpt
“Why?”
“A painting that is given is all but worthless. It’ll be up in the attic or
down in the basement before you know it. A painting must always be
well paid for and it will be up above the mantel quicker than you can
snap your fingers – and it will stay there. And another thing you need to
know – you never give wealth a gift. It’s one of the ‘middle classes’ really
bad habits.”
When Ken walked into the gallery in Kelowna, Jack Hamilton took
him into the back office and handed him an envelope. “I see you keep
very fancy company,” he said.
Ken tore it open. The premier had written that he would be delighted
to visit the gallery the next morning at eight.
At seven-fifty, Jack staggered down the steps from the apartment above
the gallery, in his rumpled pyjamas, unlocked the front door to let Ken
in, and shuffled back up the stairs. At eight sharp, a chauffeur driven car
pulled up, and Bennett stepped out. He gave Ken a hearty handshake, sat
down at a small table near the front of the gallery and asked to hear stories
of the Arctic. “I thought you were just going up there for a month or
two, but you seem to have gotten yourself lost up there.”
“In a way, I did,” Ken replied. “It’s a long story.”
“I want to hear it.”
He told the Premier about his adventures and the atrocious conditions
the people lived with. He talked about the famine and the disease, and the
autocratic rule of the church, the RCMP, and the Hudson’s Bay Company.
When he finished, he asked if there was anything the Premier could do to
help the people up there.
Bennett stood. “Let’s see your paintings,” he said.
They walked through the gallery.
“What do the red dots signify?” Bennett asked.
“It means they’re sold.”
“It looks like they’re all sold.”
“Yes, they are.”
“You must be doing very well.”
“Yes I am – I’m very lucky.”
“I’d say there’s more than luck involved. I know nothing about art but
I do like what you’re doing, especially that one,” pointing to a landscape
of rolling grasslands. “I’d be interested in owning that one.”
“I’m sorry,” Ken said. “I’m afraid the entire exhibit was sold before it
got here.”
He led him into the back office where three paintings leaned against
the wall. “These are not sold,” he said.
Bennett pointed to one of the high plateau on the Douglas Lake Ranch.
“I like that one. Where is that?”
Dancers
Black dancers arced sprang
and after picking their shoes
they left
in hushed tones so
they didn’t wake old man
front row lost
in dreams of a lavish dance hall
chandeliers and many
fit scantily-clad girls
smiling jewel eyed
their breasts nodding
persuasive firm
contours swell desire
tease out his hand
before black dancers wheeled
just before he fell into divine sleep
excerpt
ROSTOV-NA-DONU, JULY 13, 1974
The Canadian student tour group were old hands at Soviet travel by the time their plane left Leningrad bound for Rostov-na-Donu in the Ukraine. The usual plump stewardesses, more relaxed on this domestic flight, handed out the usual sticky candy. The students played the now familiar game of who had the functioning seatbelts. David had no seatbelt, and he threatened to hang on to Paul’s leg for the duration of the flight should they meet turbulence.
Despite the gloom of parting from Volodya, Jennifer’s spirits lifted slightly. The plane was full of Ukrainians returning home—women in harem pants, swarthy men with metallic, toothy grins carrying bundles, carpets and, in one case, something alive in a cage that screeched at intervals. The passengers moved around the plane freely, paying no attention to the attendant yelling at them.
Jennifer wasn’t the only one who was mourning the loss of a friend in Leningrad. Ted had ended his stay there at a party with students from the institute. He had met them on the street, and over some powerful moonshine liquor they had discoursed heavily on the problems of the cold war and had resolved to bring peace to their various countries. Unfortunately, Ted couldn’t quite recall how they had proposed achieving this lofty aim. Lona had also found some friends in Moscow, it seemed, and was only now telling the group about them. Jennifer wondered if Lona would have admitted the liaison if she had not been spotted outside the hotel with a group of sharp and eager young men whom everyone suspected of being some kind of confidence tricksters. If anyone can take care of herself, it’s Lona, thought Jennifer, and she wondered if Lona’s swains had asked her to help them leave the country. Then, in an attempt to shake off…
Sail
Little cloud made of cotton
rowing
onto its tender oh
melted in the sky blue and
dripped into the edge of your eye
Balance
The apple was red and luscious
virginal mouth not yet kissed
like the soft-white poem
whisper from my beloved’s lips
pen writing
the limpid, bluish song
thought of death dangles
equilibrium
Manolis Aligizakis 