Disconnected
The baby cries in the room with the fireplace.
The priest comes down the hillside.
There are more mountains further down.
Snow, clouds, sunshine, windowpanes.
The crow up high
its shadow on the ground.
Here, here
present,
absent
present,
in the general absence
and the sharp wind, on the road, flutters
a coloured picture
of the familiar soccer team.
Long Listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards
End of the Line
Little tenderness, childhood love stronger than
the adults’
flowing over the adults, up to the sparrows,
the stickers
and to all other simple and endless things.
Everything distant, foggy and irreversible
as if someone else has lived them and I’m left
with only one thing: death.
excerpt
Here he was, starting out with something that is common to all humanity
– making food and eating. And of course, the two great things in Portugal
are language and food. I think it is one of the marks of a great, great culture
that they take those two things and put them at the front of the list. My lessons
in the realities of the world began while I was sitting on that counter,
damn near naked, watching my clothing dry in front of the stove. And it
seemed to be the most natural thing on earth.
Ken’s first lesson in food preparation, although technically precise, was
also enormously romantic. In Francisco’s world, there was no separation
between science and the soul – it all blended into one. To Francisco the
world made sense on a large, universal scale – and though Ken had no
words to explain it at the time, that view of the world made sense to him.
While the salad absorbed a dressing of olive oil, in an old wooden
bowl, Francisco opened a cupboard door and brought out some crusty
rolls, a hunk of cheese and a bottle of Vino Verte. He poured two glasses.
“Salud!”
Ken took his first sip of wine and thought it very fine indeed. Then they
set about devouring the bread, and cheese and salad, eating their entire meal
with their fingers. While they ate, they talked – Francisco in Portuguese and
Ken with a mixture of English and Spanish and the few Portuguese words
he had learned – and they understood each other perfectly.
excerpt
When Tyne returned to the emergency room, she found that Jim and his assistant, Tom Dayton, had transferred Barry to the examining table. The injured man’s eyes were closed and his breath came in short, stertorous gasps. Tyne pulled the anesthetic machine to the bed and turned on the oxygen. Even as she placed the oxygen mask over Barry’s face, a cold dread took hold of her.
Please God, she prayed silently, don’t let Barry die. Lord, he’s only nineteen. And she thought of his family – his parents and two sisters. He’s the only son, please don’t let him die. It could be Jeremy on this table. He’s an only son, too.
She looked up at Jim, and saw him watching her with eyes full of compassion.
“Are you going to be all right, Tyne?”
She nodded. “I’m fine. But Jim, would you please see to Steve. He’s pretty upset and I don’t even know if he’s hurt badly.”
Jim reached out and patted her arm. “Sure, Tyne. I don’t think he has severe injuries.” He turned to go but Tyne’s quiet voice stopped him as he reached the door.
“Jim, who was driving?”
He turned and looked at her and she saw the pain in his eyes. “Steve,” he said. “Steve was driving. He went out of control at the bypass and hit a power pole.” He hesitated. “It’s going to be rough on him if … if Barry …” He turned away and left the room.
Wind Howl
Edge of the Inukshuk’s arms leading
wolf ’s howl brings a tempest
recalling her vocal anger
by bellowing back frosty fangs
harpoons clouding darkness
targeting Husky team, igloo
warmed up by dedication
close touch of ground and sky
bloodthirsty wind ravaging
dwarf willow, under her the
sacred arctic hare blinks his
eyes at awesome power
just above and out
from benevolent hope for peace
dwelling deep in his psyche
Manolis Aligizakis 