Poseidon And the days of Poseidon began as I exhumed a band of sunrays and to the chickadee I gave the chirp ancient brutes clashed in my mind clarity squabbled opposite riddles over my thoughts light against the secret darkness that dwelled in the battle of attrition: one winner the desert monolith was all I inherited, may my linage be blessed, for the pain and pleasure I tasted in my early days the absolute and inexplicable the desirable and the repulsive one thread one pair of scissors two fingers and Poseidon dictated all my moves seven wonders of the world before my eyes and the seven plagues that were to commence later my first concept was my love always vague and irrelevant while my concept of hatred always definite and controlling
To Orpheus This summer, under the constellation of the Lyre, we remain sceptical. What was the use of enchanting Hades and Persephone with your song and they returned Eurydice to you? You, doubting your powers, turned back to re-assure yourself and she vanished again into the kingdom of shadows under the poplars. Then, stooped by the powers of the impossible, you taught the ultimate solitude of truth to the Lyre. For this neither men nor Gods forgave you. The Maenads tore your body to pieces by the banks of Hebros. Only your Lyre and your head, swept by the currents, reached Lesbos. What then is the justification of your song? Perhaps the momentary mixing (a false image the least) of light and darkness? Or perhaps that the Muses hang your Lyre at the exact center of the stars? Under this constellation, in the summer of this year, we remain sceptical.
For I must concentrate—I am making a strong black record for eternity. Lucas will know it, one day soon. It is my legacy.My uttermost Will. This time I must get it right. So I sleep with the black notebooks as my pillow. It isn’t easy to reconstruct my Holy Lore. I need the resources of the British Museum Reading Room, the Bodliean Library, whatever. But the Oakhill doctors think that mad people prefer Readers Digest. I have rely on my hand copied archives; my dictations and visions from the Inner Plane; or memories of memories. I’ve been starting all over again for years. For Poll Pottage dispersed the treasures of the Lore. So shall she burn by aeonic fire and be crushed by thunderstones in the End-Times! That woman has caused me so much extra work, it’s worn out my astral body. It’s not just the scriptorial battle fatigue, an ague in my old claws. No, this channeling is hard and bitter work. But today the woodentops must have under-dosed me. I’m still functioning. Herewith a taster, a private view, just one sample of my wares drafted from the black notebooks, a typical Nicholas Oscar Beardsley production. My methods are multifarious. Last night I got up to no good underneath my smelly blankets. This sample of the Teachings happens to take the form of an unusual radiophonic transmission from the dead. I do this trick as follows: take one transistor radio—the British-made “Roberts Rambler” is probably the best, because of its plywood chassis, good for natural vibrations—and hide it under your pillow. Press your ear very close to the speaker. Tune close to BBC World Service on long wave, but allow the signal to drift on the edge of intelligibility. Keep the volume to the minimum of audibility. Listen for the radio years. Soon, beyond the urgent twaddle of world events, the stratospheric squeal of lost souls, the muezzin wailing from their burning mosques, all the rest of the global anthem, you will hear, filtered through hiss and static, a voice. It is clipped, brisk, extremely British,military, dry as sherry, so very reassuring . . . it is getting louder already . . . “. . . in 1910, I made the acquaintance of a military attache, posted to Central Asia in the service of one of the great European powers. Despite our inevitable differences, we shared the comradeship of bearing arms, and a common interest in arcane matters. I was intrigued by his knowledge of esoteric Tibetan beliefs and practices, especially when he told me that at a ‘gompa’ or spiritual college north of Lhasa there was a ‘gyud pas’ or ‘high teacher’ who had the gift of astral disembodiment.
ENGINE FRED DROPPED, cleared the gondola car in stride and came to a stop 30 yards beyond his pack and bedroll. Not bad form for an old man, he thought. He acknowledged the brakeman’s wave as the caboose passed and turned to find himself in front of the jungle he had not seen for 15 years. Beyond were sagebrush and bunch grass where he remembered orchard. A chimney rose above the farmhouse’s tumble of charcoal debris. The outbuildings were falling down. The only intact structure in sight was a pickers cabin with a few apple trees around it. Among the rocks and bushes of the jungle, Fred found the ashes of a bonfire, a can with evidence of beans, a six-month-old Saturday Evening Post and a lean-to of scrap lumber and flattened cans. Darkness was falling. He retrieved his pack and set about gathering wood. Poodie sat in the doorway of his cabin with his back against the frame and watched the moon begin to float up, big and white as a dish pan, behind the plateau east of the river. Look at my apples. He liked the thought. My apples. The moonlight is washing over my apples. In the field that had been the orchard, a cat prowled, crouched rigid as stone, sprang, held a mouse between its paws and began to worry it. Nighthawks made their final sorties of the evening. Ripples on the river ran silvery with moonlight. Poodie wondered what the sounds were and was glad to be without them. Tonight, what I see is enough. He closed his eyes, suspended in …
The Allegory of Spring I saw him again. Spring was upon us, he turned and spat on the earth: green, thick saliva, full of caterpillars and worms that took the shape of a leaf’s stem he sprouted a red cone he called the butterflies around he performed the first creation like a parody he swallowed the pill of pollen his dark mind steamed momentarily yet his threat looked like a movement of air like a simple dance, repeated in the ancient allegory of the seasons.
Paul shook his head and glanced up at the statue’s grim face. “It’s illegal to use a false passport.” Jennifer didn’t believe she had heard the words correctly. “You’re talking to me about illegal! You’ve done lots of illegal things lately—jump ship, stay in non-permit areas…you don’t know how many Soviet laws you’re violating.” “But, Jen, I’m the only one that gets in trouble for my actions—and I’m prepared to take that chance. You’re wanting me—and others—to take part in a conspiracy. Defrauding border guards, smuggling illegal aliens. And if he replaced me for the rest of the trip, then all the students would be involved. Is that fair to them?” He glanced over at Ted and Maria who returned his look anxiously. “So that makes it worse than what you’re doing?” Jennifer found that her breath was coming in gasps. “You’re putting us all in jeopardy by leaving. They’ll ask us who knew and we’ll have to admit that we could have stopped you…or we have to lie about it.” “No, you couldn’t have stopped me.” “Keep your voice down. I understand now that nothing we say can stop you. I’m prepared to take that chance, too. Will you help us? Will you talk to Vera? I couldn’t in all conscience walk off with your passport if I thought it would get you in worse trouble.” “As crazy as that seems, you may have come up with something. At least I wouldn’t be interrogated. If I can get a Soviet passport no one will ever know.” Jennifer could feel herself relaxing a little; this scheme was so right for everyone. “I’ll talk to Vera,” he went on. “She’s supposed to meet me here—somewhere. She said she’d find me.” He glanced about nervously. “Thank you, Paul, thank you. This could change my life.” As Jennifer said it, she knew it was true. She had cast her lot now—with the man who up until two weeks ago was a total stranger. Of course, there was still her marriage to Michael back home in Canada. The divorce would be inevitable. She resolved not to think too much about that until she returned. “You can’t tell Natasha anything,” she said. “Just come on the tour today. Act normal. And we’ll have to huddle with the others who know you’re leaving. I’ll need their help.” “Whoa…this is happening way too fast.” Paul staggered a little, then found his footing.
Sgt. McManus, as promised, delivered Fender to hismotherwith the promptness of a pizza. Mrs. Rhodes, when she opened the door that night, thought she was hallucinating. Reeking of animal scent, face and hands coated in a layer of slime, Fender had the beginnings of a moustache and appeared to have grown a few inches. And though he had been in hiding for most of the summer, he seemed especially vigorous. His weight gain puzzled the policeman considerably. It later came out that Fender had used the hour The Fugitive aired on Tuesday evenings to switch hideouts, moving from one refuge to another as the populace gathered around their TV sets. Employing a stealth rare in one so young, he inhabited an abandoned car and then a child’s treehouse. He camped out in the brambles that grew along the banks of Still Creek and took advantage of the Bartons’ garage hideaway. The night of his apprehension, Fender was returning to his new abode, a raccoons’ lair under the school portables. In his pocket they found peanut butter cookies baked by the Widow Nighs. Fender Rhodes accompanied the social worker Lois Daniels to the group home. He stayed two years. It was said he learned to tolerate the routine there and that he became a talented billiards player. Eventually, however, the approach to mental health care evolved. It was now thought progressive to integrate Fender into the community that had formerly sought his detention. A young man now, tall and broad in the shoulders, Fender has returned to his old street corner. He has re-established business relationships. I understand he leaves telephone poles alone, although he has been seen anxiously eyeballing the heights of an old favourite. If you take a drive through the Project you can see him most days. He’s probably there now. Maybe you’ll find him discussing hockey standings. Or — not that anyone would believe him — describing what it’s like living with a family of raccoons.
Requiem He then stood before the throne of the king. He laughed at the king’s tarnished crown and said to him in a solemn voice: in the thick mud of your thoughts sits the white dove that will lead you where people live, let go of the rock you’ve hanged from for eons, embrace the courage of the defeated soldiers, cry like a newborn, nature gave you tears for your benefit, the world isn’t yours, nor anybody else’s, flesh is your strength and fear is your tool. I am the forerunner of thunderbolt, a heavy raindrop from the black cloud, that is nothing other than the Übermensch.
He had fallen silent again, and Sarah felt too weary to bother with small talk. She had done her part – the rest was up to him. She could not understand him, and surely had not expected this indifference. Had she done something wrong? She wondered if his reticence was caused by nervousness. If so, he certainly did not show it. His long, lean hands rested easily on the steering wheel and his lanky body slouched in the seat. Sarah sighed and turned her head to watch the passing landscape. Mile after mile of wheat fields rolled by the window, their uniformity broken only by an occasional stand of poplar trees. Reddish bristly spikes of foxtail lined the roadside, and clumps of Russian thistle struggled in the wind to be free of the barbed wire of the picket fences. Poking their heads above the couch grass on the borders of the fields, and dotting the billowing carpets of grain, were numerous yellow flowers of the wild mustard plant. She marvelled at the flatness of the prairie. The horizon seemed to stretch to infinity, the sky so big and blue that Sarah felt she could float up and into it. A lone gopher emerged from the underbrush and skittered across the road. A hawk wheeled and dived overhead. Sarah wondered idly if the rodent’s flight was an effort to escape the mechanical menace bearing down on it, or the winged menace from above. She turned her head to mention her observation to Ben but the set of his lips did not encourage conversation. She focussed again on the scenery. They passed two or three farms, and Sarah noted with astonishment that none of the houses or outbuildings showed signs of having been painted. They stood out on the prairie like beacons but, rather than giving a sense of welcome to the traveller on the road, they appeared drab and cheerless. The roar from the old motor and the stifling air inside the pickup were making Sarah feel ill. She closed her eyes but they were jolted wide open by Ben’s sudden announcement. “Mrs. Thompson can’t come ’til tomorrow.” Sarah stiffened. Her mouth went dry and she felt her stomach heave. “You said she would come tonight.”
a few minutes to pretend of listening to their pleas and needs, then the elections are over the politicians disappear as they have done before and the Indians carry on living their substandard life with no light anywhere to be seen. These are the people the Anglos have to give a voice and a sense of what freedom means by way of example and by way of re-distributing part of this country’s wealth and share some of it with the Indians. However I can’t see the Christian Anglo ever getting to that point of psycho-spiritual advancement that he’ll accept this idea as something doable. Then, they talk of racism and that they stand against any form of it but not by example: only in their hollow talk and the promises which they don’t keep.” Anton’s father sighed and stirred in his chair. Then he continued. “Here we have two different cultures, totally opposite to each other and each of them preaching their ways to the members of their society and the hatred one feels for the other which results only to a short-lived victory for either side thinking they each make some progress while in reality the fundamental differences remain and are perpetuated and all this because there is no dialogue. None of the two sides truly want to sit down and talk since each side distrusts the other and as long as that distrust exists between them there won’t ever be a dialogue, there won’t ever be an embracement. The only way forward is that small room for dialogue, the exchange of ideas, views, thoughts, images, and perhaps one day something positive will emerge; this is the chance both sides must take because there isn’t any other way forward, except of hatred, enmity, endless doubt, hell.” He stopped again and took a deep breath; yes it was much to take for anyone; besides the truth always hurt the ones who didn’t like it.
Manolis Aligizakis 