IV
At the edge of memory the sea ends
away from the windows the world begins
books get worn out in our hands
the books over which we spend hour after hour
the ones we discuss in the closed room.
Regret of the awkward deed
more tyrannical than the illegal act.
The wise cities of Europe are far away,
with their stooping roofs, chimneys
that don’t know the agony
of the illegal gathering.
A thousand paths lead to freedom.
THE DREAM
Listen to my dream, my love,
my goddess of beauty.
I dreamed that one night
I walked out with you.
We sauntered together
in a beautiful garden
and in awe you gazed
at all the gleaming stars.
So I asked them, tell me,
oh stars, are any of you
up there as bright as
the eyes of my love?
Tell me if you’ve ever seen
such glorious hair,
or such a hand, or such a leg
such otherworldly beauty
which anyone who sees
at once demands to know
how such an angel can exist
on earth here, without wings.
With every kiss that night
you sweetly gave me, oh my love,
a new rose bloomed
in that garden of roses
and bloomed the whole night long
until the dawn light
discovered us together,
our faces pallid now.
My love, this was my dream.
It now depends on you
to keep me in your heart
until my dream becomes reality
Excerpt
“It was your choice. I can remember those lights in the living room. Who
are you kidding? “
She stubs out her fag and composes herself. “You know, Lucas, if you were a
single working mother with a little boy—just like you—who was trying to sort
out her life after divorcing a very destructive man, and somebody offered you
some really useful money to tell your side of the story, to help other people, I
think that even you would kid yourself that it was worth a go.”
She watches him squat down on the circular rug, amid the scattered video
cassettes. It’s sometimes best to play it cool with Lucas. Although she’s still hot
and cold all over, in shock, a very nasty after-shock. After all these years the
dread vibrations won’t stop, the business of Nick goes on exhuming itself.
Now Lucas starts to shift mechanically through his overlapping
papers—the exam results slip, his college prospectuses, the list of phone calls
he hasn’t made—as if some emerging permutation of words will spell out the
secret knowledge he’s craving, or dreading. But he’s not going to give up.
“Surely as your only child I have a right to know . . .”
“Lucas, I’ve told you all you need to know. I’d like it to remain my problem,
please. ” She’s keeping extremely busy and business-like, tidying away the
half-empty bottles of red wine, Lucas’s scattered socks, last week’s Guardian
and the new work-scheme she hasn’t even started. She must assert her control,
no more tears, keep up the balancing act.
Neither of them look at the telly, which now seems to exist in its own isolated
space in the corner of the darkened room. The shimmering image of
Pauline is suspended there like a watery reflection of the moon. There’s an
odd tang in the air, not the freshness of summer rain, but a faint ammoniac
taint. The storm rumbles on.
Lucas wanders around the furniture in circles. He’s both unpredictable, and
relentless, like the weather. “All you’ve said, in effect, is ‘Your father’s been a
horrible embarrassment to everybody, especially his ex-wife, but if you’re ever
so good you’ll be able to visit him annually and watch him taking his big purple
pills and going gaga . . .’ That’s been the idea, hasn’t it? Containment. A
father-free zone. What’s this creature you’re protecting me from? ”
Last year that gaunt bespectacled figure in pajamas was too doped to do
anything except grin vacantly on a cue from beefy orderlies. It was all
stage-managed. “There’s your fine upstanding lad, Nick. How about a smile
for Lucas, then? ” After fifteen minutes of watching that empty grin, those
wandering eyes, Lucas couldn’t take any more, he was close to screaming. But
Dad could still slur mysteriously in his ear. Which made them fellow-conspirators.
excerpt
BEVAN LONGHORN is in his office Monday morning, his desk covered in
paperwork that he has to get through before the day is over. His personnel have
just adjusted to Matthew Roberts’s absence and Bevan has been left with only two
middle managers to handle the work of three. He considers promoting one officer
to Matthew’s post, but there are twenty-odd people to choose from, all qualified for
the position. Bevan must give it more serious consideration.
He wants to make major changes to the structure of the office, but he has to
fight with the rest of the brass, particularly the ones well-connected with the
administration and the state department. He cannot put up any longer with the
way things are done and the way things they produce are used by the hawks in
higher places.
He has his own circle of people who would agree with him on certain
things; it would just be a matter of rallying the troops. His friend Jerry
Wolverton is the best example. He retired as a three- star general and left the
army seven years ago with pride and a sense of accomplishment after working
in Iraq for five and a half years, in charge of the reconstruction of public
projects that accommodated all Iraqi government personnel of various
departments. Jeremiah Wolverton got his extra star and a very good severance
package, and although retired, can still pull a lot of strings both in the state
department and within the ranks of the army.
Bevan decides to call him.
“Hello, Bevan, my old friend. Are you still in service?” Jerry jokes when he
hears who’s calling him.
“Of course I’m still in service. We cannot all retire at the same time; the army
wouldn’t know what to do without us”
“You’re right about that, my good, old friend; what makes you remember
me? Trouble?”
It’s Bevan’s turn to laugh at the general’s comment.
“No, no trouble at all; just the need to say hi to my good friend and see what
he’s up to these days.”
“Well, I’m doing okay. I play the odd golf game here and there, I walk a lot,
still take holidays with the old woman; other than that, nothing much.
excerpt
But gimme a shady jungle and a can of Mulligan stew.
There’s lots of sky and sunshine wherever I chance to roam,
But how are you going to see them, if you always stay at home?
The men in white coats were passing out cigars when darkness fell
and everyone vanished. The tail lights of the President’s car disappeared
down the track. Three men came out of the orchard, running
toward Poodie, swinging clubs. They knocked him to the
ground and began hitting him. He rolled and twisted. The clubs
came crashing down. He tried to get up and run, but the men
grabbed his arms and legs and ran with him toward the river. His
back banged against rocks and stumps. He could feel blood running
down his face as they threw him. They watched, laughing, as
the current swept him away. He tried to swim, but the water rolled
over him. He began to sink, and a whirlpool pulled him down,
down toward the bottom.
The Models
Let us never forget, he said, the good lessons we learned
from the Arts of the Hellenes. The Heavenly always next to
the everyday, next to man, to the animal to the thing —
a bracelet on the wrist of the naked goddess; a flower
fallen on the floor. Remember the beautiful presentations
on our clay urns — gods with birds and animals,
the lyre with them too, a hammer, an apple, the box, the pliers;
ah, and that poem where the god, after finishing his work,
takes his bellows from the fire, gathers his tools one by one
and places them in the silver chest, then, with a sponge, he wipes
his face, his hands, his nervous neck, his hairy chest. Thus,
clean, he goes out in the evening, as he does regularly, leaning
on the shoulders of golden ephebes — the works of his hands
which have strength and thought and voice — goes out to
the street, most majestic of all, the limping god, the worker
Autumn
Rustle of leaves
in tree branches
definition of fall
soft landing
under my soles
a game secretly played
grayish, foggy
October morning
prompts smile
anticipation
of fiery April
Easter eggs
resurrection
philosophy of leaves
exegesis
harmony
purpose
excerpt
Fugitive
Shortly before the meeting, Esther Rhodes swallowed two sedatives.
– I’ve got a lot of appointments today, said Lois Daniels, the social
worker, sliding the papers across the kitchen table. Is he in his room?
According to the re-telling—Mom was present by request, a legal
witness to the proceedings—Mrs. Rhodes glared at the social worker
before attaching a signature to the consent form.
– Well, asked Dad. Was he?
My mother lost her train of thought spooning macaroni and wieners
onto four plates. As always, the largest share, to satiate the neediest
stomach, went to our father.
– Do I have to do everything? she snapped. Somebody get the
ketchup!
Once seated, she asked of no one: Now . . . who was what?
– The ’tard, my brother reminded her. Was he in his room?
Mom waved a butter knife in Burt’s face.
– Use that word one more time, buster . . .
Mrs. Rhodes was on Mom’s bowling team, the Renfrew Heights
All-Stars. Her son Fender was what people these days refer to as mentally
challenged. Back then he was called other things. The papers Mrs.
Rhodes signed that morning, the reason for the pills, turned temporary
guardianship of her only living offspring over to the Department of
Social Services. A spot had opened up in a group home. Mom
explained that if Mrs. Rhodes wanted Fender to partake in a program
that taught self-sufficiency, she had little choice.
– Don’t blame me, Lois Daniels had said. It’s the system.
The Rhodes had been our neighbours since the development—the
Renfrew Heights Housing Project for War Veterans…
excerpt
schedule from the wall and placed it on the desk; he’d like to give
a fresh coat of paint to the place.
Evening came as an August surprise; cool air blew from
the northeast horizon gracing Kamloops with a soft feathery
touch, people’s faces rejoiced in the soft reprieve of the twilight;
muffled chirps of birds were still heard coming from the bushes
and trees, the odd owl call was heard from a deserted barn or
the top of the huge oak trees or the wild chestnuts. Anton had
cleaned his beddings and had placed them on the bed, he had
finished all the drying of children’s clothes for the day and had
them in bins ready to get to the maids in both the boys’ and girls’
quarters; He sat for a minute to recall the events of the day and
closed his eyes in satisfaction that the day was as productive and
busy as it should had been; after a couple of minutes of meditative
recollection he got up and one by one he pushed the loaded bins
two to the boys’ sleeping quarters and two to the girls’. Maids
took them from there and did their side of work.
He was getting ready to leave for the day when Mary
rushed in his domain. Her face gleamed with joy to come and
see him; she closed the door before she fell in his arms. They
kissed. They touched each other. They wanted each other. Eros
took over their moments and before one could imagine it Mary
and Anton were under his clean bed-sheets. Lust commanded
their bodies to join, there where the earth smelled of endlessness
where time didn’t matter nor existed and moments passed fast
like their pulse that galloped at the demands of lust and nothing
was reserved, nothing was held back. Only their muffled moans
were heard for a good length of time until the consummation
overpowered everything and relaxation followed.
Later that evening, after Anton went home and had the
family supper he went to his room to reflect on today’s events
A HYPOTHESIS
Look, for the first time I see the grass
I tread on every day,
The flagstones crossing the two yards
And all of a sudden there are a thousand gardens,
The woodland strawberries whose leaves have jagged edges
I myself grew them some time ago,
Like the strangely amazed child
Who left home for the first time, I see
The daffodils covering all the graves,
The shape of the moments goes down into the grass, into the stalks
And the wild lilac rising to the sky
Rocks small drops of a blue sun
And calls me out,
“We shall resurrect, we shall resurrect, we shall resurrect!”
Manolis Aligizakis 