Dog Hunt
Horse drawn start from the ancient family dwelling
to the gate of fire and water
chosen arrival at the hanged col
in the deserted endlessness of the sky
as if the spoke-wheeled sleigh
of a faraway certainty
trees band and signal and respect
or bend to the violent passing of the fruitful wind.
Were they the Fates?
Were they the Myrrh-bearing Women?
VI
The eye of the sun opens its
fanning fingers again as
the fire from the bowels of
the angry abyss is commanded
to constantly grace the Kore’s
figure and the handsome ephebe
with its flaming agility while its
tongue ploughs scars on the earthly
face as soil lovingly sighs and
the virgin’s lips glimmer.
Fire hugs the melancholy log
and the thermal voice of heat
warms the coldest room
all four walls and arches
all four corners stop shivering.
Conscience in peace, like a queen
reigns over the mystified
anchorites and the lonely
days of the initiates; sunlit creeks,
dancing nights, frothy waves
noon hour with no shadows
suffuse in a unified euphony
to compliment the dream of the troglodyte.
Vulture 1748
(painter’s explanation)
The right or wrong longing drove
the twilight
of the young peltast
to the unstopped nocturnal mountains
into the wild crevasses of Orthodoxy
into the thick glens and cypresses of panic
to the moral promotion
of the tough Fate along
colonnades of morning matins and torpor?
Who could be the leader
of rebellion
fame
love
rhetor?
They have been true to who’s bidding
but the petty officers?
Father killers and good pedophiles
with only
the secondary necrophilia
as justification
for the endless, and extremely vile, attacks
against the glory seekers?
Wonder whether, hearing the, oh, children,
of the pain seeker painters
the metaphysical city
is hidden inside the presented paintings
and while the warring hammers
fall onto heads
and the ravines buzz
from the ruin of battle
and the hymns
of fighting saints
the voice is heard:
“Marko Kralle, what do you want?
Here is no play and laughter.
Here are the Balkans”
excerpt
have to do now is carry on one day at a time. I’m sure we’ll manage. If you are
concerned about money, don’t worry, we’ll find our way.”
“I don’t worry about money, mother—not at all. I’m just trying to see life
without Dad from now on. It will be hard to adjust.”
“We’ll manage, you’ll see. Just be careful and take care of yourself. Hakim
appears to be a very good man and I know he’s to come into a lot of money. Your
father told me all about it.”
“Why did Dad look into Hakim’s life, Mom?”
“Well, honey, that was your father.”
Later at around six, Hakim tells Jennifer he wants to go see how his uncle is.
The limo will take him to the Sheraton Hotel and from there, when he’s done
with Ibrahim, the driver will drive him to his apartment. Cathy gets up also and
says goodnight to Emily.
“Don’t forget to call anytime, remember?”
Helena also says goodnight and leaves.
“I’d like to go with Hakim, Mom. Are you going to be alright?”
“I’ll be just fine, honey. Go, I’ll be just fine. Talal may stay for a while to keep
me company. You just go.”
Hakim is ready to go, when Talal whispers in his ear, “I’ll stay for a while to
keep Emily company, okay?”
“Are you going to be okay?” Hakim asks, looking at Talal.
“We’ll be just fine. You guys go and see Ibrahim. Say hi to him for me.”
They walk out to the limo and Rassan sits in the front with the driver and
Hakim with Jennifer sit in the back. Fifteen minutes later they arrive at the
Sheraton. They find Ibrahim in his suite happy because he’s out of the clinic and
because the chemotherapy hasn’t given him any negative side-effects, so far.
“Hello, my uncle, how are you?”
“I’m fine, my dear boy. What is this about Jennifer’s dad?”
“He is dead, sir. The police are doing their work now; we’ll hear from the
medical examiner in the next little while,” Jennifer says.
“Oh, my dear, oh, I’m so sorry,” he opens his arms as if ready to hug Jennifer.
She takes the opportunity and falls into his arms. Ibrahim is a bit surprised by
this; however, he knows that this is customary for North Americans, and he hugs
the young woman. Hakim smiles. His uncle is very fond of Jennifer, and that
pleases him a lot.
Ibrahim is already prepared for his return home and Rassan is making the
flight arrangements for as early as tomorrow. Mara will be most happy to have
him home with her.
https://libroslibertad.com/2016/11/09/the-circle-a-novel-by-manolis/
Jewelry Box
In front of the mirror
she is trying one
jewel after another
comparing them
to the gleam of her eyes
she smiles, placing a diamond
between her breasts
tiny yet exquisitely bright
adorning her curves
where the hungry eyes
of men always fall
men whom she’ll meet
at tonight’s ballroom
excerpt
Gregorio, mounted on Babieca, joined half a dozen riders who
were pursuing the runaways. Several of the riders were herding the
natives with the points of their spears. There were older men among
the natives, but no warriors.
In the distance, Gregorio chased a young woman who refused to
stop. He took his foot out of the stirrup and landed a kick on her back
that sent her flying. She fell head over heels in the tall grass. When I
saw Gregorio leap off Babieca and throw himself upon the girl, my
legs began moving before I had time to think.
I could see Gregorio’s back in the tall grass and I feared he would
rape her. Beneath him, the girl shrieked. From a distance, I could not
see her face. Losada had explicitly forbidden any harm to the
natives, as the king had forbidden their enslavement, apparently to
the same effect.
I could see them struggling. I called him again and again, still
forty long paces away. He fumbled at his breeches, while keeping
her down one-handed, and pushed against her. Again she shrieked.
Damn his soul. He was not much better than Pánfilo. I came from
behind and kicked him in the ribs, which thudded like a broken
drum. I tumbled over him. He fell on his side. I scrambled away and
got a glimpse of his disgusting member besmeared with blood.
Gregorio stood up, furious, and grabbed a handful of her hair. He
raised her by the hair, and I beheld her face as she threw up her
hands, her eyes round with terror. A dead weight sank inside me.
Horror, mixed with a shameful joy, gave way to a surge of wrath as I
took in what had happened. It was the girl by the river, the girl with
eyes like the setting sun.
Something moved in the grass at her feet, something with
grey-brown fur. The monkey. My hands curled into fists. As I fought
the urge to punish Gregorio, the monkey clambered up his side and
bit him on the ear.
With a swift motion, Gregorio let go of the girl and grabbed the
monkey by the feet. He swung it against the trunk of a massive
rubber tree as it howled and whined, eyes unfocused but terrified.
The Musician
Often during the night, without noticing it, I’d arrive to
another city where there was no other but an old man who dreamed
that someday he’d become a musician; and now he sat in the rain half
naked; he was covering an old, imaginary violin with his coat over
his knees.
“Can you hear it?” he asks me “yes” I say to him “I’ve always heard it” while at the far end of the road the statue narrated the true voyage to the birds.
Sixteenth Hour
The watermelon drips on my beard
droplets of pleasure under the thick
grapevine shade from where apparitions
of lust spring up to dominate the heated
summer evening uncertain July without
a song on the prophet’s lips teased
from incongruous meditation
on a forgotten algorithm
of a sticky honeybee buzzing
in between gardenia stems of fear uncoiling
ever so tenderly into the lost
will of anathema He lounges still in cloud retreat
reflecting on whether He can triumph in
the fiasco of His first trial
sagacious blue-haired Death
elevates from the
bowels of fiery undercurrents
informs about a savior
warns that what is already
cannot be undone without expense
send them a willing savior
let him hold sin in his hands
and display him to the eyes
of Fates they need something
to meddle in or they risk
growing senile and people comply
when He shortly describes to
them the cross shape taken
from the limbs of a philandering
oak to frame the guest’s body and using forged
blacksmith pins He fastens the extremities
and heart upon the viewpoint
while nails bleat ‘why?’ and red-stained
cross answers: who cares?
Heroes
And we were young, untried
voices, silent, contemplative,
crisp peaches, fresh summer songs
touch of a rose at dawn,
innocence, royalty effusing
each of us having a universe
in our hand like a marble
and they armed us and took us
to the borders; they bestowed death
unto our scopes with the accuracy
of surgeon and what could we do
with such instruments and with targets
standing at the edge of the plain
laughing and scolding us?
We started shooting against
anything moving with such a strange joy
that even now after all these years
I can’t explain
and having taught us how to kill
they euphemized us
by ultimately calling us heroes
excerpt
There is a deep hunger to have the sunshine of their former
homes, and of their great-grandparents’ former homes. There are these
stories that persist about how wonderful life was, and how sunny it was,
and how warm it was. But, with the exception of this little coastal strip,
this is a very cold country. You’re trying to give paintings of vast, distant
places that are freezing cold, to Canadians. Why would anyone, with the
psyche I’ve described, even think of buying one? They won’t even come
out to look at them.”
“Well, Jesus!”
“Go ahead – break my argument.”
“What else about these paintings then?
“One word – pretty. The Canadian art scene is almost non-existent,
but what passes for imagery in the public mind at large is pretty. Doreen!
Doreen! Bring some magazines!”
Fraser grabbed the top one, from the stack Doreen delivered, and
opened it at random. He turned two pages and pointed. “Look – here’s an
ad – it’s perfect. Isn’t that a pretty photograph? Do you notice that it has
a white, sandy beach, a scantily clad couple, and palm trees? People work
very, very hard to make money, so they can save some up and go to that
place – and it’s very pretty. That’s what is in their minds. You and I are the
children and grandchildren of peasants, and we have their tastes.”
Fraser reached into his pack of cigarettes, pulled out a fresh one, and lit
it from the butt that had almost burned down to his fingertips.
“It’s taken Europe an eon to get to its appreciation of art. You’re expecting
too much, too quickly.”
“But, if we don’t push we won’t get anywhere,” Ken said.
“It’s not just a matter of pushing the public. We have to find individuals
who will get behind this. It’s not just good old Alex and Ken who are
going to go and foist this on the country. It’s a much bigger story.”
Ken left the gallery deep in thought. Yes, there was truth in what Fraser
had said but it wasn’t the whole truth. Canada was ready for his paintings.
The Group of Seven was proof. Fraser thought they were rubbish too. If
he wanted to tell his story through his paintings, it wouldn’t be with Alex
Fraser by his side.
Unexpectedly, Ken received a letter from his Aunt Vicki in Madrid. She
had taken the photographs he had sent her, of his latest paintings, and
shown them to a popular gallery owner who wanted to exhibit them.
He tapped the note against his desk, read it again, and picked up a
pen. He wrote a letter to Mr. McEachern, the Minister of Foreign Affairs,
describing his good fortune in coming to Canada, and telling him how
he had arrived in this country. He wrote about his art and said that he
wished to go back to Europe for an exhibition in Madrid.
Manolis Aligizakis 