Requiem
Th
e explosion
back then, vivid image forever
stilled on his retina
bodies scattered in the scrapes
pieces of sky tumbling
fogged flash of light
eyes flooded my moment’s end
darkness awaited
to capture absolution
his arm raised the knife
that came down fiercely
violating flesh
fogged darkness flooding
in and out of his psyche
once twice thrice
thesis antithesis synthesis
now a tear flows down silently
slowly repeating the end concept
darkness, darkness, darkness
excerpt
“Yes, he spent so many years earning blood money, Bevan. I know; you’re
right. The agency is the first and foremost concern for all of you. The agency, no
matter what the result, no matter what the human cost,” Emily says, angrily.
Bevan knows this feeling of helplessness, this feeling of betrayal, and this
feeling of loss, particularly when the loss is for something you don’t agree with.
He knows all this because he feels that way most of the time himself.
“Yet, there is a reason why everything happens as it happens, my dear Emily,”
he says, as a way of inserting a sense of justice into something gone wrong.
“Also, don’t forget the police lieutenant mentioned that you told him, as you
told me, that Matthew was cleaning his service pistol that morning. After you
left, the accident took place.”
“Yes, Bevan, the accident took place while I was out with Cathy,” she repeats
monotonously.
The devastation is impossible to describe and the words are so humble and poor, trying
to explain to the flawless mind the inconceivable, the disappearance of logic, and
the return of mass mania for the slavery of feelings in the thirst for blood. The blood is
someone’s, anyone’s, as long as blood is shed and it paints the roads and the cobblestone
streets of this desolate place in red, this place that belongs to people who know
well the hunger and thirst for life.
The houses are mostly demolished; one cannot tell the wall of one from the yard
of the other—the doors, windows, gates, all destroyed. The roofs have collapsed and
walls lean on other walls as injured people try to hang onto one another in order to
stand. They resemble people trying to stay on their feet as others struggle to walk
uphill on crutches.
People shyly and full of fear come out of one hole or another, one by one, like
rodents in the fields popping their heads out to see the devastated condition of the
land and the devastated condition of the human race whose advanced technology
has enabled them to create so much destruction. People come out of their holes to
witness whether death has surpassed them, whether he went to the neighbor’s
house or took some unknown person; after all, Hades is here to take. They come out
of their holes to see whether Hades is still around in the form of a bullet from the
rifle of the soldier from the foreign land. The older ones have seen this before and
know well the pain and anger, but the children, for the first time, taste the loss of a
mother or a father who has died under the cement of their collapsed house, or the
loss of a brother or a dear friend killed by the non-discriminating bombs that fall
from the arms of the sky. The children run out into the desolate backyards and
behind the armored cars of the soldiers. They try to steal something of value…
Unfamiliar Place
Peter emigrated to the Orient, and Alex to the West.
We haven’t heard how they have been doing. We stayed
here at this crossroads. We took care of the place,
put up signs and wrote names. Then the wind blew
down the signs. Men pass with carriages loaded with
apples, grapes, or oranges. They ask: “Is this the way
to Sparta? Is this the way to Argos?” We shake our heads
as if saying “yes” so we won’t point out that we’ve forgotten
over the years, we blow our smoke through our nostrils
as if we burn inside, what fire and what knowledge?
Yet we survive we even manage to get by; sometimes
we even smile or clean our front teeth with our nails,
and we look as if we know something we never knew.
And perhaps what we didn’t disclose keeps us still
waiting for the hour of disclosure.
Alice
„Don’t push me!
It is a trap!
A rabbit hole!”
But you realised that
And even shut the door
Becoming
It seems to me
That when I start
To speak to you
Through worlds apart
With words becoming poetry
Love is still true
excerpt
VOLGA RIVER, JULY 17, 1974
“She’s madder than a hornet, and she’s calling for your blood,” teased Marty. He ducked out of Hank’s way. It was lunch time on the morning after Hank had found Lona’s mysterious black book. “I guess she tortured your waitress friend until she confessed.”
“I’ll go find her,” Hank muttered. “I don’t want Chopyk or Jennifer to find out. Don’t say anything, okay?”
He didn’t have far to look. They smacked into one another at the door to the dining room.
“You…creep,” Lona growled at Hank, her usual Cheshire cat smile missing. “Now, give me back my book!”
He couldn’t resist one last stand. “Uh…whatcha talking about?” She was about to raise her voice again, when he hustled her down the hall, one hand firmly on her back, until they were out of earshot of the passengers.
“Okay, so I took it. It was a stupid thing to do, but I wanted to know why you’re on this trip—and don’t give me that line about being a student.”
Lona drew herself up to her full height and bristled like an alley cat prepared to do battle. She thrust out her hand imperiously. “It’s none of your business, you thief. I want my book back right now!”
Hank knew when he was licked. “I just …heck, I’d still like to know. I’ll get it for you.” He walked her to his cabin, and she waited at the door, tapping her toe, until he placed the worn black book in her hand. “Come on, Lona. I just wanted to get to know you. Maybe we could still be friends.”
In fact, the book had been a big disappointment—besides a list of Russian names and addresses there were only a few other notes on icons
II
Your hair floating, waving
ruffled by the wind
sunshine reflects
in your irises
exquisitely as you stand
idol of an ancient goddess
undefined bubbling
ethereal model of a painter
motionless and undulating
with erotic lines
that momentarily define
my awe as I stare at
the statue of a goddess
who I don’t touch
excerpt
it a new coat of paint, I might spend some nights here…I might
be able to witness certain things.”
Mary smiled at the thought, “when you might spend some
nights here, you’d be very close to me, all night long…” she said
with joyous way.
Anton looked in her eyes before he said, “I’d love to spend
my nights with you in my arms, baby.”
“Soon,” she said with joyous voice.
The funeral finished; everyone went inside; Anton and
Mary too. Anton to his basement work place and Mary back to
her desk.
The day crawled as if didn’t want to pass and afternoon came.
The kids were in class, the cooks and their helpers had cleaned the
kitchen and were now sitting and having their break when Anton
went for an afternoon coffee and found George the Hellene cook
with Tyson in the eating area. He grabbed his coffee and sat with
them; they were obviously debating something or arguing about
something because their voices were loud and their hand mannerisms
showed they could start a fist fight any moment now.
“What is it with you two?” Anton asked them.
“This pig,” George said referring to Tyson “is trying to
make fun of the way I talk again,” then turning to Tyson he said
sarcastically, “what? What? Stick your stupid what you know
where,” he added as his attention was on Tyson. Then turning
to Anton he carried on, “These brutes, Anglos, what one could
expect of them? They forget that when we the Cretans created
civilizations four thousand years ago they still existed in the form
of specs in the testicles of the bears and the monkeys; now all of
a sudden they have become the upper class and all us who have
come here from other places are the second,” George insisted in
utter disgust.
excerpt
Then Liam was still. With a low moan his body relaxed, and she felt the full weight of it pressing on her. For a moment he lay upon her with his chin on her shoulder. Then he pulled himself away and rolled over on to his back with a sigh. Nora winced at the hurt of his withdrawal and burst into tears.
҂
Liam Dooley sat in his armchair by the fire reading an old, leather-bound copy of The Confessions of Saint Augustine that was old even when his grandfather bought it in Smithfield Market in Belfast many years before.
‘Grandda, if I was to ask you to name the book that most influenced you,’ Liam had once asked of the old man, ‘which one would you choose?’
‘The Confessions of St. Augustine,’ Grandfather Owen Dooley had replied with no hesitation. ‘That book gave me a whole new way to think about God and religion. It took me deep into the meaning of life, and continues to do so. He’s been the most influential thinker that I’ve ever read. I have an old copy in the bookcase there. Read it as often as you can. And when I die, I want you to have it and cherish it.’
When his grandfather died the book had indeed passed to Liam, the only physical keepsake Liam had of the old man whom he had venerated for as long as he could remember. Often he felt that his grandfather watched over him from Heaven, that everything he did had to be good because his grandfather was always there, watching. Liam’s great fear was that his grandfather could read his thoughts too. But he calmed himself by arguing that his grandfather would understand the often lustful thoughts of a young, single man. As long as Liam kept his lust on a tight leash his grandfather would appreciate the struggle and commend him on its victory. Only once had he surrendered; and since the day of his lapse with Nora Carrick he had taken to praying not to God, not to the Virgin, not to St Francis, but to his grandfather, asking his grandfather to forgive the humiliation he had caused him in the sight of God and begging the old man to intercede for him with the blessed saints, with God Himself.
‘I’m not like Padraig,’ Liam argued with the spirit of his grandfather. ‘I am not a priest. I have taken no vow of celibacy. Nora is an adult woman. She came to me of her own free will. Pressed her body against mine. I could not have done what I did otherwise. You know that. I would never touch a woman unless she encouraged me. And Nora encouraged me. It was she who suggested going to bed. She wanted to have sex with me.’
Liam looked up from his book. The fire was low.
Mail
Before the birds start their morning
chirping postman takes to the roads
with his bag hanging off his shoulder
postman brings the good news
to every house, no warning, no fear
of the dog in each yard, the dog which
usually attacks him, he enters each
place and drop letters in the box, news
of a relative’s marriage, the letter from
the lad who lives in a faraway country
addressed to his mother who takes and
with trembling hands opens the letter
to read her son’s latest news and the
lone postman walks out of the yard
heading to the next house with
the good news about a newborn baby, letter
left in the owner’s box while his
tears always roll down his face for
the letter he too hoped to receive.
excerpt
“I would like to see Mr. McQuaid, the branch manager,”
said Joel.
“I’m sorry Mr. Hooper, but Mr. McQuaid is no longer with this
branch. He has transferred to our Denver offices. I am the new
branch manager, can I help you with something?” said the attractive,
middle-aged woman who Joel, conditioned in his paradigm
of chauvinism, had mistaken as a receptionist.
“Well ma’am, I sure hope so.” Joel hoped he would have a clean
slate with this manager, and not have to deal with the negative
impression he had made on his earlier visit. Joel continued, “You
see, my daddy used to bank here, and I am running short of cash
and was hoping that maybe you could help me out with a loan.”
“Why don’t you come into my office, Mr. Hooper, and let’s see
what we can do for you.”
Even if he didn’t get any money, Joel was certainly appreciating
the treatment he was receiving on this visit. The last time he was
here after his dad died, he had waited over ninety minutes to see
Mr. McQuaid, who, as the secretary explained, “was a very busy
man.” Finally, when he did get to sit down with him, Mr.
McQuaid told him that an old, rundown ranch yard and a
half-section of land really had no market value. According to Mr.
McQuaid, the Circle H could never be a functioning cattle operation
without access to at least several additional sections of
pastureland, and his home ranch was essentially worthless. Furthermore,
Mr. McQuaid also advised him that horses were worth
a dime a dozen. Joel had tried to explain the breeding and value of
his livestock to the young, city-raised banker, but it all fell on
deaf ears and he was quickly dismissed.
Finding himself on the street outside the bank within five minutes
of being ushered into the branch manager’s office, Joel had
retreated back to the ranch and made up his mind to cut expenses
wherever possible.
But now, he had run out of ways to cut costs any further. Joel
needed cash not just to pay off some of the bills …
Manolis Aligizakis 