But gimme a shady jungle and a can of Mulligan stew. There’s lots of sky and sunshine wherever I chance to roam, But how are you going to see them, if you always stay at home? The men in white coats were passing out cigars when darkness fell and everyone vanished. The tail lights of the President’s car disappeared down the track. Three men came out of the orchard, running toward Poodie, swinging clubs. They knocked him to the ground and began hitting him. He rolled and twisted. The clubs came crashing down. He tried to get up and run, but the men grabbed his arms and legs and ran with him toward the river. His back banged against rocks and stumps. He could feel blood running down his face as they threw him. They watched, laughing, as the current swept him away. He tried to swim, but the water rolled over him. He began to sink, and a whirlpool pulled him down, down toward the bottom.
The Models Let us never forget, he said, the good lessons we learned from the Arts of the Hellenes. The Heavenly always next to the everyday, next to man, to the animal to the thing — a bracelet on the wrist of the naked goddess; a flower fallen on the floor. Remember the beautiful presentations on our clay urns — gods with birds and animals, the lyre with them too, a hammer, an apple, the box, the pliers; ah, and that poem where the god, after finishing his work, takes his bellows from the fire, gathers his tools one by one and places them in the silver chest, then, with a sponge, he wipes his face, his hands, his nervous neck, his hairy chest. Thus, clean, he goes out in the evening, as he does regularly, leaning on the shoulders of golden ephebes — the works of his hands which have strength and thought and voice — goes out to the street, most majestic of all, the limping god, the worker
Autumn Rustle of leaves in tree branches definition of fall soft landing under my soles a game secretly played grayish, foggy October morning prompts smile anticipation of fiery April Easter eggs resurrection philosophy of leaves exegesis harmony purpose
Fugitive Shortly before the meeting, Esther Rhodes swallowed two sedatives. – I’ve got a lot of appointments today, said Lois Daniels, the social worker, sliding the papers across the kitchen table. Is he in his room? According to the re-telling—Mom was present by request, a legal witness to the proceedings—Mrs. Rhodes glared at the social worker before attaching a signature to the consent form. – Well, asked Dad. Was he? My mother lost her train of thought spooning macaroni and wieners onto four plates. As always, the largest share, to satiate the neediest stomach, went to our father. – Do I have to do everything? she snapped. Somebody get the ketchup! Once seated, she asked of no one: Now . . . who was what? – The ’tard, my brother reminded her. Was he in his room? Mom waved a butter knife in Burt’s face. – Use that word one more time, buster . . . Mrs. Rhodes was on Mom’s bowling team, the Renfrew Heights All-Stars. Her son Fender was what people these days refer to as mentally challenged. Back then he was called other things. The papers Mrs. Rhodes signed that morning, the reason for the pills, turned temporary guardianship of her only living offspring over to the Department of Social Services. A spot had opened up in a group home. Mom explained that if Mrs. Rhodes wanted Fender to partake in a program that taught self-sufficiency, she had little choice. – Don’t blame me, Lois Daniels had said. It’s the system. The Rhodes had been our neighbours since the development—the Renfrew Heights Housing Project for War Veterans…
schedule from the wall and placed it on the desk; he’d like to give a fresh coat of paint to the place. Evening came as an August surprise; cool air blew from the northeast horizon gracing Kamloops with a soft feathery touch, people’s faces rejoiced in the soft reprieve of the twilight; muffled chirps of birds were still heard coming from the bushes and trees, the odd owl call was heard from a deserted barn or the top of the huge oak trees or the wild chestnuts. Anton had cleaned his beddings and had placed them on the bed, he had finished all the drying of children’s clothes for the day and had them in bins ready to get to the maids in both the boys’ and girls’ quarters; He sat for a minute to recall the events of the day and closed his eyes in satisfaction that the day was as productive and busy as it should had been; after a couple of minutes of meditative recollection he got up and one by one he pushed the loaded bins two to the boys’ sleeping quarters and two to the girls’. Maids took them from there and did their side of work. He was getting ready to leave for the day when Mary rushed in his domain. Her face gleamed with joy to come and see him; she closed the door before she fell in his arms. They kissed. They touched each other. They wanted each other. Eros took over their moments and before one could imagine it Mary and Anton were under his clean bed-sheets. Lust commanded their bodies to join, there where the earth smelled of endlessness where time didn’t matter nor existed and moments passed fast like their pulse that galloped at the demands of lust and nothing was reserved, nothing was held back. Only their muffled moans were heard for a good length of time until the consummation overpowered everything and relaxation followed. Later that evening, after Anton went home and had the family supper he went to his room to reflect on today’s events
A HYPOTHESIS Look, for the first time I see the grass I tread on every day, The flagstones crossing the two yards And all of a sudden there are a thousand gardens, The woodland strawberries whose leaves have jagged edges I myself grew them some time ago, Like the strangely amazed child Who left home for the first time, I see The daffodils covering all the graves, The shape of the moments goes down into the grass, into the stalks And the wild lilac rising to the sky Rocks small drops of a blue sun And calls me out, “We shall resurrect, we shall resurrect, we shall resurrect!”
“They’re missing, Tyne. They’ve run away. Ruby and Bill thought they might be here.” She fell into the chair by the desk. “Dear Mother of God, no,” she blurted. “Where … how long?” “They were gone this morning when the family got up. I don’t know what time that was, but the kids must have left in the dark. At least there’s one piece of good news … the eldest boy, Ronald, is probably with them.” Tyne’s relief was short-lived when she realized the boy was probably not yet twelve years old. And the weather … oh, dear God in heaven, no. Even strong, adult men had been known to lose their way from barn to house in a blizzard. “Morley, the weather … how bad is it?” She choked on a sob. “It looks like a blizzard from here.” “Tyne… honey, try not to upset yourself. I know it looks bad, but they’re probably with a neighbor, or someone who saw them and took them in. Ronald’s old enough to know to go for help when the weather turned bad.” “I know, Morley.” She drew in a calming breath. “Please, take care of yourself. I wish I could be there to help you at the barn, and make your dinner.” “I’ll be fine. And listen, Tyne, I don’t want you to leave the hospital. Please tell me you’ll stay there. There must be somewhere you can sleep.” Tyne stifled a sob. She didn’t want Morley to know how scared she felt – scared for the children and scared for him alone on the farm with animals to look after. She gave herself a mental shake and set her mind to gain control of her emotions. “Tyne, the first thing I’d like you to do is call your parents and Aunt Millie to tell them about the kids. Ask them to alert people in their area. Oh wait, is there any possibility they could have gone to your mom’s? You’ve taken them there a few times. Maybe Rachael remembered the way.” “No, I don’t think so. If they had gone there, Mom would have called either you or me.” “Yeah, I suppose.” He sounded deflated.
of his report to Department Chairman Hoefert, so it was important to convey just the right tone. For example, he would make much of the fact that this particular tour of western students had been allowed in to the philological library at the State Institute in Leningrad—a great honour usually requiring a permit from the Ministry of Education. He, Professor Chopyk, was actually allowed right into the stacks, to be surrounded by a rich storehouse of scholarly literature. So much for Professor Hoefert and his boast that he had been allowed into the stacks at the Lenin Library. This was a feather in Chopyk’s cap. Of course, he would not include in the notes that he had bribed the lowly assistant librarian (American dollars), the attendant (bottle of brandy) and even the security guard (flattery and a Cadbury’s bar) to allow him the brief two hours in the library’s inner sanctum. And that those two hours were ones in which the chief librarian was on her extended lunch hour or he would have stood no chance at all. He set his pen down for a moment to relish the memory once more. The porthole was open a crack and a fresh morning breeze played across his face. Other wonderful events had crowded in since his time in the library: touring the art treasures of the Hermitage, attending the Kirov ballet, seeing the monumental statue of Mother Russia at the former Stalingrad, and cruising a stretch of the Volga where no other westerners had been allowed. Russia—no, the Soviet Union—was full of such grand experiences, though none could compare with those two hours spent among the ancient tomes of his linguistic mentors. The journal was filling up. He supposed he would have to write something about the progress of the students—they would receive a grade, after all—and something about the leadership qualities of his second in command, Jennifer White. Chopyk frowned. It was difficult to write about Jennifer. On the one hand, she had done a miraculous job in bringing some of the younger students up to scratch with their Russian. Their verbal abilities had improved greatly during the trip. Of course, total immersion always did that. But they seemed to have more facility with the language, more interest in it. Their written skills had improved, too, if he could believe the mini-essays that Jennifer was assigning them. Even Linda Appleton, whose grammar was superb but who couldn’t string together a simple sentence, had improved. Last night she had actually delivered a brief oral report in Russian on the subject of architecture.
Hephaestus Hephaestus laughed at my demand for a new armour as I reverted into my inheritance subject of a former sound another era’s reward I the indisputable heir of the Aegean Sea truly nothing else was as abstract as the lips of the virgin which I kissed under the sun’s guidance when without warning spring arrived as pure as the indiscreet announcement of deeds I was destined to accomplish: a cross to hang around my neck the lone sea anemone to lean on and catching the meaning of duty I had to be worthy of: sea urchins with spikes, rose bushes by the main entrance of my dwelling beloved words spoken by lips cracked and aged like the lemon tree I never watered tears on my pillow which I held tightly in my arms hoping to wake up like a laughter of sunshine in the cows’ watering trough
Theodicity Down on Priam’s feet Achilles cries the old king also cries dressed with Hector’s death. At the Olympus the immortals feast on topaz tables with music and tambourines teasing each other day and night. But when dawn comes it will bring the new star death. Both Troy and Phthia will sink and who cares for the undefeated castle.
Manolis Aligizakis 