Mycenae
Ancient ground under your feet
subterranean impulses once
alive and a wild pear tree
ponders her forlornness
in the arms of wind standing
ghosts of prehistory relics
modern mysteries unfold
as you tread rained polished
stones no need for chisels hammers
anointing oil burlap
sigh escapes unnoticed
by lonely wild pear tree
by the ghosts of Agamemnon
and unfaithful Clytemnestra
Nightly Chronicle
Large dark rooms darkness multiplied
in the cheerless mirrors Endless hallways
above the world and rows of closed doors
and at the far end a statue in a raincoat Suddenly
sound of excavators red lights flashing down the street
the traffic controller was running the wood worker threw his
mask away
I had nothing to be afraid of – not even myself
I put on my child’s shoes and I limp along the wall
excerpt
David smiled. “You know, I don’t know when Gorky wrote that, but it’s the utterly perfect story for this country in 1974. Don’t you find that so much that’s told to us is a beautiful illusion when the truth is really ‘bitter’?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Paul continued. “The Soviets are like the old man—they just ignore the failures. The elevators that don’t work. The trucks that break down. The harvests that don’t yield what they expect. We visitors are like the father—we have to put a name to it, admire the beauty, then we point out that it’s not the truth. It’s no wonder they don’t really like our visits.”
“This is great philosophizing,” Maria cut in, “but I hear the truth right now.” She leaned over the railing. “I’m sure I hear a real nightingale singing.” The notes were pure and true, haunting. The group was quiet for a long time, listening, delighted.
Finally Paul got up from his deck chair. “Nah, it was just a scrubby little village lad.”
★
Paul Mercier returned to his cabin with the intention of diving into the definitive biography of the Sentimentalist period writer Karamzin that he had been trying to finish before the end of the trip. It had been difficult to find any study time because of their rigorous sightseeing schedule, though his conversations in Chopyk’s advanced class had been informative. That’s one thing about the guy, he is a serious scholar. He wondered if academia was truly his own calling. Did he really want to end up like Chopyk—an old lady, unloved by students and women alike? When they started out on this trip, he had found it easier to read the Sentimentalist view of nature in literature than to be out in the streets of Moscow actually viewing the real thing. But while they were in Leningrad something new had been emerging, something not found in books. He had been taking enjoyment from the scenery; it was refreshing. And he had even been moved by the rich, barbaric Russian history he saw depicted in paintings and church frescoes. For amusement, Paul had been keeping an informal list of the countless statues of Lenin they had seen to date, the endless art galleries, museums, and palaces of culture they had visited, but now he threw down these lists in disgust.
Palliative Care
She’s stationed in the palliative care
looking after the ready to pass
patients, old fogeys, loners from
nursing homes, citizens abandoned
by the state, by family, nonexistent
friends, people discarded by all,
she takes care of them, Suzan, truly
the forever nurse, endlessly in the same
position, ready to undress, re-dress,
prepare the corpse before it stiffs,
pull the partition curtain around
isolate death within the 48 square
feet of hospital space and place
the traditional purple butterfly
on the outside of the curtain, Suzan
familiar with the nondebatable
horrific truth of knowing the past
present and future of these people,
of what is about to happen, the same
as what occurred in the past which
will occur in the future, Suzan
the nurse in the palliative care
of the hospital ward, has seen their
smooth, transparent, pale skin
she has heard the rasping breath
of agony soon to be followed by
the serene breath of the last seconds
she has touched dried-up lips and
felt the slow heartbeats of a dying
person, the last relieving excrement
Suzan knows her job well and has taken
care of hundreds of them as they end
their presence on this earth
Suzan knows all the details before
the proper entries are posted on
the logs, her final diagnosis, end
of a person’s lifespan in the hands
of Suzan the palliative care nurse who
has seen them all time and again.
excerpt
A light snow had been falling for two hours when Tyne got off duty at 3 o’clock. She hurried to her car in the hospital parking lot, threw her handbag on the passenger seat and climbed in. In the trunk were the gifts for the Conrad children, as well as a box of Mandarin oranges and another box full of homemade fudge. She smiled as she put the car into gear and headed towards town, remembering the fun she and Aunt Millie had had making the candy treat.
As a child, Tyne had gone to her aunt’s house a few days before Christmas every year, and together they had made enough dark and light fudge for the family and at least half a dozen friends. This year, Aunt Millie had insisted on making an extra batch for the Harrison household.
The idea of taking gifts to Rachael and Bobby and not to the others, had been worrying Tyne ever since she and Morley had bought the doll and the dump truck in Medicine Hat. How could she single out two children, and leave five other young ones out? The oranges might help, but were not personal gifts. So the homemade fudge, which they had packaged individually in white tissue paper bags, tied with colourful ribbons and a tag with each child’s name, might make up for any disappointment at being left out.
She carefully navigated the side street where the Harrisons lived…
Futile
Internal voiceless tears of grief
have dried up on my pale cheeks
and unwillingly I’ve searched
for the meaning of my demise
and I stood and asked
all my beautiful adornments
is this supposedly love?
And is this same with life?
And I stood and asked why
in my youth filled with fragrance
I heard the voice, the tedious
voice that was leading my way
and I stood there long enough
for my question-laughter to freeze
until the deep darkness slowly
reflected in my eyes.
No voice reaches here anymore
from all the powerful things I had
the wise people looked at me
and left saying a ghost that I was.
Nightmare
He contemplated the evil
that followed
His forbidden fruit
and in a flash of generosity
He mutated it
and threw it to them
attachment-free
But he woke up
and realized
to err twice
not of a wise God
XIII
Hydra
Dolphins, banners and cannon shots.
The pelagos once so bitter for your soul
carried the many-coloured and glittering ships
it swayed, rolled and pitched them, totally blue with white wings
once so bitter for your soul
now full of colours in the sun.
White sails and sunlight and the wet oars
struck the stilled waters with a rhythm of drums.
Your eyes, gazing, would be beautiful
your arms, extending, would shine
your lips, would be alive, as they used to be
before such miracle;
you searched for it
what did you search for in front of the ashes
or in the rain, in the fog, in the wind
even when the lights were dimmed
and the city was sinking and from the stone pavement
the Nazarene showed you his heart
what did you search for? Why don’t you come?
What did you search for?
excerpt
“Matthew,” she yells, but hears no answer.
She walks upstairs to their bedroom. Everything is the way she left it before
going out. She goes toward the bathroom and before entering, sees his body
through the half-opened door.
“Oh, my God!” she yells to herself. “Oh my God, Matthew…” She leans
against the door frame of the bathroom. “Oh, my God, you found the courage for
that!” It seems as if she’s waiting for an answer from her dead husband.
She lets her body slide down along the door frame to the floor of the bathroom,
and sits staring at him. All the clocks of the world suddenly stop, and Emily
Roberts exists in a timeless state, in a condition of self-absorption and
contemplation, as if amid the petals of a diaphanous flower, or amid the thorns of
a crown an invisible hand has placed on top of her head, and her blood begins to
trickle down her forehead like in a crucifixion. Then suddenly, time strikes loudly
on her left tympanum and pierces her head to the right, making her blink as if
trying to find consolation among the myriad bad thoughts flooding her mind. The
world doesn’t have any consolation for Emily Roberts, not now, not at this
moment, not today. The world has turned into a new purgatory and Emily floats
like a masked misery searching for the proper face. She feels an inexplicable
numbness; not hatred anymore, not anger, not joy—but a feeling of immense
freedom from the chain she has dragged for such a long time. She feels no pain, but
what is it she feels? Is she filled with fear or is she light as a feather, like a free
butterfly flitting from one flower to the other? Time strikes again as if hitting a
loud cymbal and brings her back to this world where she has things to do. She
needs to call Jennifer; she needs to call the police; perhaps she has to call Bevan;
and yes, she needs to call Talal. Oh, God, how she needs to call him now.
She runs downstairs and picks up the phone.
She dials Talal’s number first.
He answers, “hi, sweetheart, what’s up?”
“Matthew. Matthew is dead.”
“What? How? Are you okay? I’m coming right over. Stay calm, I’ll be right
there.”
She dials Jennifer’s cell number.
Jennifer answers, “hi mom, how are you?”
“Sweetheart, it’s your dad. Come home, please. Your dad is dead.”
Jennifer is with Hakim in Ibrahim’s hotel room. They have helped him from the
clinic to his suite at the Sheraton. She’s flabbergasted hearing about her dad being
dead. She says aloud, “What happened? How? I’m coming home, right now.”
Hakim, who has overheard, says, “What happened? Is everything alright?”
“No honey, I have to go home, right now, please. My dad is dead.”
Gardens in the High Noon
The white body of the woman
was lit
from within
with such a bright light
that
I had to
take the lamp
and put it
on the floor
so that
the shadows
of our tender bodies
could be projected
on the wall
with a biblical religiosity
the lamp shone constantly
during the whole night,
the source of oil was inexhaustible,
the following day
and the next one
onto the floor
the rich piled
carpets
the beautiful fruit
the brightest flowers
with white and red
oleanders reigned everywhere
the atmosphere was symbolic,
from a yellow: a golden yellow.
Manolis Aligizakis 