How Can I Say It to You
How can I say it to you? I want you fresh as buds and braves
now that my heart expands
calm and serene, with no shadows, diaphanous and clear
calling inside it your beautiful reflections.
Heartwarming joy when each of you lean your heads
unsuspecting towards my heart, when
you’re flooded by fairies and their ephemeral beauty
with the secret peaceful light of my dream.
Millennia
Millennia go by like fleeting moments
incising lines in the wings of eternity
like sounds morphing cacophony
while nature’s green garment gets
intoxicated by the aroma of a lilac
and spreads its infinite smile
to the moon dipped in your tears.
The troglodyte stands in front
of the pompous high altar
he still trembles in fear, while
the modern shaman’s imposing
figure with the glittering tiara
always commands him to kneel,
his slavery is a smooth curse
he cannot escape.
The troglodyte still commanded
by the four Golden Gates of Heaven
holding him prisoner of the image.
excerpt
“Do you think Nonno and Nonna will let me borrow the… ukelele sometimes?”
“I think so, yes. But you’ll have to ask them.”
When he talks with his grandparents the next morning, Rick can feel that his question has made them sad. Something that doesn’t need to be said passes between them. Then Nonno Arsenio puts his thick, strong arm around Rick’s shoulders.
“We have give you Enrico’s name, caro. He would be glad you want to make music like him. Many years we save it, to keep him here, with us, but now we see, also, why. We don’t know all that time, but it was for you, too, that we save it. Maybe you play for us when you learn. Tomaso can teach you.”
For the rest of the summer, for a few hours almost every day, he sits with his father in the big front room, learning where to put his fingers, the chords, and the keys. In the fall, he takes it back with him to the city.
Year after year, through the long hot summers, cars come in from the city and park on the grass outside the fieldstone gateposts. Guests with smiling faces bring in their roasts and flowers and bottles of wine. There are hugs and handshakes, kisses, chatter and raillery and laughter.
In the shade of the swamp willow that leans from a corner of the guest bungalow, long trellis tables are set up and covered with white cloth. People in shirt sleeves and suit-pants, in summer dresses and bathing suits with pink, sun-warmed faces renew old intimacies, drink pineapple and cream soda punch or red wine spritzers with ice from frosty, sweating pitchers cruised by flies, smoking, exchanging gossipy tidbits, arguing politics or points of law, flirting outrageously, trading friendly insults, sharing stories and the latest jokes. Theresa, large and gregarious, cooks in the outdoor kitchen, or talks to everyone at once as she pours narrow glasses of homemade Strega, asking after the numerous god-children she mid-wifed into the world, making real estate deals; and Arsenio, round faced, red with exertion and sheer enjoyment, picks lettuce, tomatoes, green peppers, cicoria, dandelion leaves, cucumbers, and onions for the evening salad.
After the children are in bed, those who will stay overnight say good bye to those who are leaving and everyone moves to the arbour of grape leaves near the peach and cherry trees behind the big house.
excerpt
Dennis was a top student, the school rep at the Science Fair.
Afternoons he skinned cats.
– Whatcha watching?
– Show about bugs, replied young Ronnie. Fucking stupid.
Dennis whispered, Got any smoke?
Mrs. Stinson appeared, a towel around her head. Beads of hair
colouring sluiced across her forehead.
– Burt still not going to Aunt Peggy’s? she asked.
The only way the Stinsons could have known about Burt’s recalcitrance
was if someone had told them. Someone like Mom.
Times like that I’d get these pictures in my head. I could see Al
Stinson disguising his voice and mumbling threats into a telephone,
the three conspirators having a good laugh afterwards. My brother
knew about my visions. He figured I had psychic powers.
Aunt Peggy was waiting for us at the bus station. With her was Bud,
the latest boyfriend, and Mark, our cousin.
Bud walked bull-legged and sucked on a toothpick. Mark was an
awkward 12-year-old with eyes the colour of blue marbles. Aunt
Peggy said he wore his cub uniform everywhere.
– Are you a Sixer yet? asked Burt. Before developing other interests,
my brother had been a pack leader himself.
– I need one more badge, Mark said. Knots.
The five of us squeezed into the cab of Bud’s pickup. Mark and his
dripping Popsicle sat on my lap.
Bud said, Don’t blink, fellas, you’ll miss the highlights.
The town of Coppermine was divided by the Similkameen River,
a marauding deluge of glacier-cold aqua roaring through a steep
gorge. Mountains loomed on all sides, leaving the few thousand residents
in shade for all but a couple of hours a day. The mountains
also blocked TV reception.
A bridge joined the wealthier west side of town with the poorer
east. The narrow wooden span was a popular meeting spot for teens.
A resentful congregation dissolved at our crossing.
– That road there, said Aunt Peggy, indicating a gap in the trees,
leads to the Cherry Creek Indian Reserve. They say all this land
belongs to them.
With no Seat
Behind the locked fences, the tumbled houses
sit serenely. Nothing is left but the marks of
the two stove exhaust pipes. The wild babies
of the blind man’s buff perch there when
the others, down at the soccer field, argue for
no reason, and the others untangle the kites
from the tree branches.
At the Metro II
Your wandering eyes
met mine and
with a slight movement
you guided my glance
to the couple, who were kissing
three rows in front of us
I squeezed your hand
love, baby
I whispered
and kissed your lips
excerpt
He laughs and turns to look the other way. They are walking to her car, the
same old Chevy Impala; it must be at least twenty years old by now. He
remembers her having that car for a long time.
“You still drive this Impala? I’m amazed it’s still running; and, yes, to come
back to the subject of retirement, I’m thinking of retiring next year. And yes, I
can see myself without the service.”
“What are you going to do? Most people, after so many years with an
organization, go downhill as soon as they retire, because they don’t know what to
do with themselves. What are you going to do, Bevan?”
“I haven’t thought about that yet, Evelyn. Perhaps I’ll come this way and
retire with you in your hermitage and be as isolated as you for the rest of my life.”
He makes fun of her.
She starts the car and drives out of the parking lot; it’s a busy evening as most
people have finished their work week and are headed home for the weekend.
“You would be welcome to come and stay with us for as long as you like; but I
know you, you like to be with lots of people. You could never live isolated in a
hermitage, as you call it.”
He turns to her.
“Sometimes, one can feel isolated even among people, my dear Evelyn,
particularly in the midst of lots of people, trust me.”
Evelyn doesn’t respond as she concentrates on driving the busy streets of San
Francisco. It takes forty minutes to get to her house, and they find William half
asleep in his chair, watching TV.
Evelyn shouts at him, “William, for God’s sake, you’re asleep, at six in the
evening.”
William gets up and shakes Bevan’s hand.
“Hello, Bevan, what brings you this way?”
“Hello, William.”
Talal and Hakim take the bags and go inside. The house smells stuffy from being
closed up for so many days. The flowers in the pots are dry and Emily takes the
watering can to freshen them up as she talks to Jennifer about her trip. It is, of
course, hard for anyone to understand by just listening.
“You’d have to go there to understand what it’s like, sweetheart; it’s difficult
to grasp the way they live, which is so different from the way we do things here.
Life goes on for them as it does for us. They’re people with dreams and…
Self-Betrayal
He was naked. ey stoned him in the city.
And he le with blood dripping behind him.
“He wants to look defenseless” wise men said.
But when we found him dead, further out
in the fields, we saw on his naked breast the large
painted bird eating his last garment.
…the beads are chairs of cafes
that forbid
the passionate
discussions
about politics
and playing backgammon
and when the heavy burdens
arrive
then the tassels take charge
the worries scatter
away from us
as if by a miracle
the clouds vanish
the sun shines again
the tears dry up
the sirens stop
and free again
we toss around
in the tugboats
and crafts
of lust
bells chime
in the neighbourhoods of the city
in the side streets of Truba
the guitars
create havoc
as they narrate…
excerpt
Caitlin was clutching at straws and she knew it. In her heart of hearts she knew that ten-weeks-old Rowan Hanlon had been left to their care. This conclusion was reinforced within a couple of hours when Michael returned from his walk to the telephone kiosk.
‘The Hanlons’ telephone has been disconnected,’ he announced. ‘It seems that they’ve gone.’
‘And left us with their baby,’ Caitlin added. ‘What are we going to do, Michael?’
‘What can we do? We either adopt and keep him, or put him up for someone else to adopt.’ Michael was feeling nervous and guilty. ‘We always wanted a boy. Maybe we should keep him.’
Caitlin looked at the sleeping baby, and her heart warmed to him in a way it never did to her daughter Nora. ‘I’m fifty-four, Michael. Do I want to start rearing a baby again at my age?’
‘I don’t know, Caitlin. That’s for you to decide.’
A week later Michael came in from the fields for his dinner. The baby was asleep in a large basket in front of the kitchen range, and Caitlin sat in the armchair beside it. Michael crossed the room and kissed her on the cheek.
‘What have you got there?’ he asked. ‘A letter?’
‘This came this morning. It’s addressed to you.’ Caitlin opened all the post that came to the house, no matter to which one of them it was addressed. ‘The envelope is postmarked Baile Átha Cliath, and my first thought was that Flynn Casey had gone back to Dublin. But it’s not a letter; it’s Rowan’s birth certificate.’
‘From Robert and Connie.’
‘But there’s no letter. Just the birth certificate.’ Caitlin looked up at Michael who was standing before her. ‘Michael, you are named as this baby’s father. Look.’ She handed the certificate to her husband. ‘At first I thought, No this can’t be true. Then I remembered that week last May when Connie stayed at the cottage on her own. You were having sex with her then, weren’t you?’
Michael shuffled uneasily, staring at his own name as the father of Rowan Michael.
‘May to February is nine months, Michael.’ Caitlin’s voice was calm and controlled. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
Michael at last looked at Caitlin. ‘I’m sorry, Caitlin. I’m truly sorry. But ….’
‘But you just couldn’t resist her. Isn’t that it? You just couldn’t resist her.’
Manolis Aligizakis 