fifteen
You multiplied
you overpowered all species
with deceitful
progress
you applied the breaks
what flies
won’t learn of anything else
and what crawls
to stay as is
only you, the almighty
more than any other
searched for the point of Superiority
for allies and Creators
you investigated the sun
and the moon
and all the constellations
excerpt
indeed happened a few years later when the teacher with her
epiphany passed into the sweet embrace of her Lord, only to leave
behind the unhealed scars of ridicule inflicted upon these Indian
girls; scars which they were meant to retain for the rest of their
lives.
Anton’s and Mary’s feelings strengthened as they days
went by and as they had their occasional intimacy when the circumstances
would allow it and when Mary’s psychological state
of mind would cooperate; they felt strongly about their future
which at times they discussed.
“I want us to leave and go someplace far away,” she would
say to Anton.
“I want that too, and I’m certain time will come for it, yet
for now we have a duty to do: what is best for these kids before
we bail out and leave,” Anton would say to her and to which she
never had any objecting word to say. It was enough for her that
she’d have a future with the man she loved and when it would
come together or in which part of the world they might decide to
move she was wholeheartedly willing to give it a chance.
Anton had devoted some of his time to fix his room. He
took all old things out, donated them to the local charity, one’s
leftovers are always someone else’s treasure, as the saying goes;
he also got a couple of gallons of paint and gave his office a fresh
look. He bought a new bed and beddings from the local Hudson’s
Bay store which he transported with his truck to the School and
put it together. He didn’t even ask Father Nicolas whether the
School would cover the expense, he just bought it and with the
new coat of paint the room it looked a lot better than before.
Anton had also developed a very strong friendship with
George the Cretan cook of the School and they often talked of
Anton’s plans which always included Mary and also the fate …
Double
Certainly, it wasn’t I who
jogged along the suburban
houses last night
dominance, security of
four walls, and ambience
with my unbuttoned shirt
like forgotten piety
with my heart surrounded
by the auspices
of the thick darkness
it wasn’t I running like
a dream forgetful of its origin
I wasn’t, but my double
who hid in his bag
old picture of two stars
swimming in a crystal pond
twin faces, glancing at one mirror
as you were coaching me
to hide in your arms and
release my tiredness and
I held the little master key tightly
ready to place in the hole and
open the world like a blooming rose
excerpt
sexual gratification of a bunch of perverts. If this happened to your family,
wouldn’t you want someone to care? Wouldn’t you want someone to
raise a stink? Wouldn’t you want someone to help? That’s all I’m trying
to do. Apparently, to my surprise, it seems this painting was the two by
four needed to apply to the side of your head to get you to pay attention.
My job is to announce to you what has gone on and what continues to
go on. I’m robbing you of your innocence. I’m not going to give you the
chance to say, ‘If only I had known’. Now you know. What are you going
to do about it?”
The mood of the public changed. People began calling to agree with
him. Battle lines were drawn and half – or perhaps even the magic fiftyone
percent – agreed with him.
Ken spent an hour or more each day, at the Columbus Centre, talking
to people who lined up to see the painting and talk to the artist. Thousands
of people came – far more than had attended his opening night.
Ken finished each of his stories with a plea for help. He urged people
not to simply believe his stories, but to investigate and make up their own
minds. And if they discovered that what he said was true, let the government
know how they felt. This was what democracy was about – and he
was appalled at how lightly most people took the democracy they lived in.
“No one that is born here really takes it seriously,” he told them. “Do you
know how many rivers of blood were spilled to have what we have here?
How can we pretend to be this thing that we say we are when you can’t
bother to inform yourselves about what goes on in your own country?
How can you be a nation without knowing what goes on in your own
backyard?”
Ken received a phone call from Wayne Morrison, the executive director
of the Friends of Canadian Broadcasting and the stepson of Northrop
Frye. Could they meet, he asked? Ken invited him to the studio.
Wayne was a dapper and polished gentleman who expressed fascination
with the furor caused by the flag painting. The CBC was about to
suffer large financial cuts, which would seriously endanger its existence,
he said, and he wanted Ken’s help. He wanted to reproduce the flag painting
in full page magazine advertisements with Ken standing beside it
holding a paintbrush with the quote, “I haven’t been this mad in twenty
years.” Below that would be the story of the CBC cutbacks.
Ken said yes, but he was not prepared to use the painting. He would
create another similar one instead. When Diane asked why, he said, “I’m
going to give it to Canada and I don’t want it reproduced. It’s going to go
to the country pure.”
“You’re going to give it away? Good lord, we don’t have enough money to
do what we’re doing and you’re going to give paintings away! Why are you
going to give something to the government? They already take too much!”
The Shall and the Should of Death
This way, then, you retained many insignificant images
in your eyes.
Who will have time to get baptized in the Lake of
memory?
Eternity lasts so little
yet, it’s possible that certain justice must exist somewhere
that explains
under which pretensions a man dies
with so many shall and should which death whispers
his whole life vanishes
since, you know, only one second is enough
for the change of course his wings can take
and don’t listen to them, seconds are precious
since the man who dies is penniless
with the choked death rattle of a haunted man
he needed minutes, thousands of seconds
to buy what? Insignificant images, yet, how
can he repay? What can he borrow now?
How many images of his memory can he sell?
Minutes give birth to a dynasty of aged images
and the interest seems to be unbearable.
Is there anyone, then, who can pay for it?
excerpt
the shop poor Willy had replaced the pagan turmoil of Hrothgar’s Feast with
the blissed-out cooing of George Harrison. Larry grimaced at the music, took
a hit off the joint. As minutes passed he grew into an Easter Island statue, a pitted
mask smitten with sinister benevolence, relishing cosmic absurdities . . .
I wasn’t interested in more drugs. I was cultivating a new yearning—for
comforting fetishes like Turkish rugs or French etchings, or at least quality
post-war British stuff, the old Pye Black Box gramophones, Hornby Trains in
the original blue boxes, I was fed up with bankrupt stock and garage-sale
rejects. And I wanted something with class. Something safe, please. Nothing
too radical.
“It’s not weapons, is it, Larry?”
He passed the joint and began prising open the tea chest with a bent fork.
“Just weird shit. Specially for you.”
The chest contained thick folio-sized notebooks, bulging box files, a crumpled
set of plans or blueprints, and half a dozen books in uniform bindings,
ex-lib, half-calf and purple clo, gilt lttr, top edge gilt, gilt device on sp, approx 200 pp,
frnt brds sl warped and stained, torn frontis in Vol I, some neat inscr, otherwise v good,
ideal for a proper bookseller with a catalogue, not my Surprise Book Bins.
“They’ve been in storage for years . . .” Larry sniffed defensively. A yellowed
newspaper cutting fell out. ‘Fears of Red Atom Bombs’.
He told me he’d acquired this heap of forties memorabilia as payment for
some dope. I asked him which clients usually paid in waste paper.
Larry looked uneasy. He liked to keep the different strata of his life separate.
“A photographer that my gorgeous creature did some work for. A young
guy. But ugly, thank God. She says he snuffles while he’s setting up the poses.
Like a great rat . . .” He sucked the joint and giggled. “He’s heavily into cuisine
and wine. I guess he can’t perform vintage sex.”
Despite the dope I was getting impatient. I might raise something on tomes
with fancy bindings, but as for wartime diaries, old blueprints—I inquired as to
where the stuff originated.
“Some old attic, south of the river. Like Norwood, or Streatham Common.
ForGod’s sake, Nick, I only went there once. One of those high old houses with
stained glass in the porch window. A Victorian rose-window with cruciform
panels . . .” He exhaled slowly,seemingly bemused by the sudden emergence of
this elegant adjective.
“I suppose there aren’t any pieces from the windows in that trunk?” I was
seized with entrepreneurial glee at discovering yet another way of repackaging
splinters of the past, little sunset glints of nostalgia for an already uneasy seventies.
“Too late. His gaffer was tearing the place apart, converting it into a shop
Troubadour
Troubadour tunes chords chime on
the listening wall of loneliness
clouds attend flimsily
just enough to grasp a few notes
the red ‘do’ or the shrouded ‘mi’
when the blue eyes of her highness
shed brackish tears
dubious fidelity
as the amorphous grasps
a shape a headless idol while
crusader sharpens
his command and
sword another head served
on a blasphemous altar
son of man exiled
leaves ravenous void
I Want You ‘Now’
Now, here, next to me!
I don’t want you to come tomorrow. I don’t want you to tell me what time you’ll come.
I want you to come in the night and ring the doorbell, suddenly, when I’m asleep.
Without me knowing it!
Unexpectedly!
To come and ring the bell and as I would open the door half asleep and startled you’ll slip under my blankets and I would never wake up until morning and in your arms.
I want to wake up and smell the fragrance of your cologne when you shave in the bathroom.
You’ll kiss me as you leave and I shall go back to the unravelled bed sheets. I’ll hear the door close behind you I’ll smile as if I’m in a dream, while I would still be asleep.
And when I get up hours later not to know whether it was a dream or reality that I dreamed or I truly experienced all this.
Manolis Aligizakis 