Monotony
One monotonous day is followed by
another identical monotonous day.
The same things will happen, they
will happen again—
the same moments will find us and leave us.
A month goes by and brings another month.
It’s easy to see what’s coming next;
those boring things from the day before.
Till tomorrow doesn’t feel like tomorrow at all.
Sixth Canto
The promontory under my feet shudders
as my brush hits a reverberating stroke
on my diaphanous canvas of fate while
the golden steel controls all past
and future height and depth
of tender life and its
hardest rigidity as the bottom line
rises to a penultimate
element of importance nothing
stands in front of it no one will
stem its future flow nothing
will ever stand as an impediment
to dark eyes and their thoughts
inventing as if gifted from heaven the
first ever organized corporation under
patronage of the teenage church
devising means and plans for
conquering the cosmos through
sharpness of the double ax or
sword or sulfur
of the bomb conventional or atomic
phosphoring fear
schemes world-over
like a bread slice buttered by
movement of the knife in
gluttony’s tenacious hand
covering inside and out of
power lust appetite
for pleasure through darkness
tingling pockets of masters grasping
for purer rarer more as wheat fields
ask the finest question when the cicadas
and I answer from the olive grove:
we can do better
Excerpt
She felt Morley give her hand an extra squeeze to bring her attention
to the scene before her. People were coming out of the church,
laughing and talking, wishing each other a merry Christmas. Among
them, almost at the bottom of the steps, she saw her mother and
dad. Tyne drew in her breath and waited. Her mother looked in their
direction, and her eyes grew large with disbelief. Then she turned to
speak to her husband.
Jeff swung around. In the light from the doorway Tyne saw his expression
change from surprise to displeasure. Then he walked away
from his wife and came towards them.
Tyne let Morley’s hand go, and took a couple of steps to meet her
father. “Hello, Dad. Merry Christmas.” She lifted her face for his kiss.
It landed, cold and stiff, on her cheek.
“What are you doing here, Tyne? We didn’t know you were coming
home.” He glanced at Morley who had moved to her side. “We
would have met you at the bus depot, you know. You didn’t have to
bring Morley in from the farm. I’m sure he has better things to do
on Christmas Eve.”
“Not at all, sir,” Morley said. “I was only too happy to come. And
I’m pleased Tyne invited me to church with her.”
Jeff cleared his throat but did not reply. He turned back to his
daughter. “Well, I see you’re not afraid of being snowed in, after all. I
only hope, for your sake, that you don’t have to miss any days of your
training this close to the end.”
“I’m sure it will be all right, Dad,” Tyne murmured as she turned
to hug her mother who appeared bewildered and anxious.
Tyne felt her mother’s anxiety, and understood. All her married
life, Emily Milligan had lived in her husband’s shadow, obeying him,
pleasing him, keeping the peace within the family as far as it was in
her power to do so. Tyne knew that whatever her mother said to discourage
her daughter’s relationship with Morley was only a reflection
of her husband’s feelings. She said what she knew he would want her
to say, and felt about it the way she perceived her husband to feel.
Tyne hugged her mother hard as tears stung her eyes. Oh, Mom, I
don’t want to bring you grief. Please try to understand, and be strong
for my sake.
Excerpt
One day the dogs heralded the arrival of a new family. They staggered
into camp with barely enough dogs to pull the sleighs. The animals’ ribs
stood out through their fur, and they lay down exhausted, their eyes
glazed. The people had to be helped from their sleds. Inside the big igloo,
they explained that they had come from far away and had left most of
their people behind. They had not found caribou this season and had run
out of food. They had no seal oil for heat. They were dying.
One young man’s toes were badly frostbitten. The elders determined
that they would have to be removed to prevent gangrene, a common condition
in the North where blood circulation to the extremities slowed.
There was no hospital – not even a doctor. The old woman said she
would select the person to perform the operation, but the young man
said he would do it himself.
The old woman stopped Ken as he turned to leave. “No,” she said.
“Kabluna wants to go everywhere and experience everything. This is part
of everything.”
The young man honed a knife and with immense concentration and
deliberation, selected the correct place to amputate the toes. One by one,
he sawed through flesh, sinew, and bone. He did not complain, cry, or
moan, taking the same impassive, measured care that he would if he had
been skinning an animal.
It shocked me. How can someone do that in that way and not fall into
paroxysms of agony? And I knew I had something to learn. I had to investigate
what pain was and how it was dealt with. I knew these people were not
superhuman but their understanding of humanness was very different from
mine and it probably came from eons of living in that environment.
These things set me on a very different track in my own head. They led me
to deal with our concepts of possible/impossible, difficult/not difficult and
so on. Nature is neither good nor bad. Nature is neither kind nor unkind.
Nature simply is. Possible and impossible are things of the imagination –
just as the pain is in our imagination. And seeing as we don’t know enough
to make these judgments, we shouldn’t even consider worrying about them.
If there is something in you to be done that is powerful then you set about
doing it and you take out all the imaginings of the dark monsters you might
meet on the road ahead. They may, in fact, never materialize. These concepts
were the golden door through which I walked toward a completely different
understanding, an understanding that has made it much more difficult for
me to live in our culture.
A council was held to decide the fate of those who had been left behind
to starve to death. Four dog sleighs were loaded with food, blankets, and
other necessities, and when it seemed that Ken was to be left behind…
Veteran
Paul has left one leg
in the dusty road of Falluza
improvised explosive device
they said
when he walked his patrol
April of 2004, deserted road
toothless sculls of houses
with no curtains
merciless sunshine entered
from each direction
conflagrating the internal void
of hovel and warring man
Paul limbs step by step
never got used to crutches
defense contractors annual earnings
report: shares soared to new heights
Excerpt
Thursday morning Los Angeles opens her eyes, staring at the sun rising steadily
on the eastern horizon, gifting the city with warmth and joy. Even the homeless
smile this morning knowing it will be easier to locate food in the restaurant garbage
bin or the neighborhood pub garbage; there’s always something edible
there. The smog overarches the city touching the taller buildings, sitting lazily on
top of the high-rises. Rush hour is beginning and traffic increases with bottlenecks
in main arteries. One can hear the morning sounds of the commercial,
business center as people slowly reach to their destinations, stores open their
doors and customers rush in.
Ibrahim Hazim Mahdi sips his morning coffee and reads the latest news. He’s
pleased with the way his day went yesterday; he felt pride with Hakim next to
him all along. Sometimes, he remembers having asked Allah why he wasn’t
gifted with a son of his own, yet that was years ago. These days he takes what
comes his way as a gift from the Almighty because he knows the days of each are
counted first by Him and next by His people.
Ibrahim knows deep in his heart that Hakim is going to do just fine with the
money that he’s leaving for him. He also knows that Hakim will take good care of
his Auntie Mara, as long as Allah choses to keep her in this world. Despite all
these positive thoughts there still lingers an unexplained anxiety which has taken
hold of his mind and makes his heart ache; yet he cannot find the reason for it.
He wonders why he feels this now, after has taken care of everything.
The phone rings and he answers to a girl’s voice.
“Good morning, I’m calling from the medical center. Mr. Mahdi, please.”
“This is Ibrahim Mahdi.”
“Sir, I need to arrange an appointment for you with the specialist who
examined you. He has the results from your tests. What would be the best time
for you later today?”
“Any time is fine, young lady.”
“Alright then, is one in the afternoon okay?”
“Yes, that will be fine; I’ll be there at one.”
It’s early evening in Baghdad, and Ibrahim decides to call Mara. He dials his
number at home. The maid gets the phone and calls his wife.
“Hello,” he says, “how are you? I haven’t talked to you for two days.”
He hears Mara weeping on the other end and asks, “Why are you crying, my
beloved? I’ll be home in a couple of days. Is everything alright?”
“Yes, everything is alright,” she manages to say while sobbing. “Are you really
on your way home soon?” She doubts him.
Excerpt
Through the smoke I made out the hem of her dress some distance
away. She was kneeling beside an inert body, which was pierced by
an arrow through the thigh and another in the chest. It was her
husband.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a near-naked man running. The
smoke partially hid him, but I saw he was tall, with strands of black
hair pasted to his chest by sweat and speed and others floating over
his shoulders. Funny, I thought, I have not seen that kind of long
loincloth before.
Then I realized he was charging toward Josefa. He bore a
belligerent expression, and there was blood on his naked chest
under his quiver’s band. A pang of fear hit me like a bucket of cold
water. Surely he wouldn’t kill a woman, would he?
We were both closing in on Josefa and her dead husband but from
different directions. I was closer than he was. Josefa looked up at the
Indian, open-mouthed and white as the ghost she was in danger of
becoming. I sprinted toward her, heart throbbing, and tore the
buckler from her dead husband’s grasp. There was a serviceable
harquebus lying at his side and the sheathed dagger at his belt but I
didn’t want to use any potentially lethal weapon.
I squared my shoulders and braced myself for whatever might
come. It was God’s choice to see us through or not. I raised the small
shield on my forearm as I had seen others do. His bare feet landed
underneath the buckler, and he delivered a savage blow that
shocked its way up my arm, pushing me back, the clang resonating
in my ears.
He held his arm high, ready to deliver another blow. I was
crouching, peering over the buckler. Josefa yelped. I charged and
overthrew him, grunting like a beast. He fell but was on his feet
before I knew it, the hellish macana still in his grasp. His eyes leered
at me from his horribly painted face. I could feel his anger, his pride,
his hate, but there was a fortitude that sent a chill down my spine.
He turned and swung at my belly, but I leapt backwards as the
macana came within inches. “Run!” I shouted.
Leaves
Green leaves of courage
brown leaves of frustration
their endless endurance
against decay
that settles each autumn
as we stand by the tree roots
listening to secrets
told in sunbeams
or moonless nights
and silence still controls
forgotten thoughts
begotten aspirations
while leaves don’t bother
with systemic schemes
rules of engagement
and thoughts residing
in analyzing minds
BOLIVAR
and nations and borders and other similar things that
don’t inspire
but because they both always stood alone, free, great,
brave and strong throughout the eons.
And now, I despair that even today no one ever
understood me, but what am I saying, nobody wished
to understand me.
Certainly, the same luck might be applied to the words
about Bolivar which I’ll repeat tomorrow about
Androutsos?
Besides, it isn’t easy, to sense the importance of faces
such as Androutsos and Bolivar
Similar symbols.
But let us pass quickly: no, in the name of God, not
any emotions, exaggerations and despairs.
Indifferent, my voice was meant for the eons.
(In the near or distant future, in a few or many years,
perhaps the day after tomorrow or the day after that,
until the hour when the Earth will start flowing empty,
useless and dead in space, new people will wake up,
with mathematical accuracy, during the wild nights,
on their beds, they might shed tears on their pillows
and wondered who I was, thinking that I existed once,
what words I said, and hymns I sang.
And the huge waves that each evening splash onto
the seven shores of Hydra
and the wild rocks and the high mountain from which
the storm charges down
endlessly, tirelessly, they shall call my name).
Parasites
The big rivers of the world
swallow the little ones
my mind travels
to the bloodied dreams of creeks
to bloomed shadows
unexpressed souls
poems that weren’t finished
here where everything changes
the immutable parasites lurk
they erotically wrap themselves
around innocence
declaring the coming of loneliness
Manolis Aligizakis 