Zeus when Zeus promised my return again to face the loathly teeth of the abyss daring at the elliptical hour of a hot June day as the cicadas’ cantos wake up the high noon with sweet lullabies olive tree leaves sieve sunlight and the loaf allotted to me was kneed without yeast swirls of anger and pictures of people familiar and bearded old beasts of my kin who softly sprang up from the earth’s bottom to release me from the commitment of eternal return sails of caiques plastered on the horizon ambience and nostalgia when I felt my primeval fear reignited nothing but a warning for my true passing through the narrow Symplegades
Alexandrian Kings The Alexandrians gathered to see Cleopatra’s children, Caesarion and his little brothers Alexander and Ptolemy, who they took for the first time to the Gymnasium to proclaim them kings, in front of the brilliant array of the soldiers. They proclaimed Alexander king of Armenia, Media, and of Parthia. Ptolemy—they proclaimed king of Cilicia, Syria, and Phoenicia. Caesarion was standing more to the front, dressed in a rose colored silk, on his breast a bouquet of hyacinths, his belt with a double row of sapphires and amethysts, his shoes tied with white ribbons embroidered with dawn pink pearls. Him they proclaimed higher than the younger ones, they called him King of Kings. The Alexandrians knew perfectly well that these were just theatrical words. But the day was warm and poetic, the sky was a vast light blue, the Alexandrian Gymnasium a triumphant artistic achievement, the splendor of the courtiers superb, Caesarion all grace and beauty (son of Cleopatra, blood of the Lagidae); and so the Alexandrians ran to the feast, and they got enthusiastic and they cheered, in Greek, and in Egyptian, and some in Hebrew, captivated by the nice show— knowing very well what all this meant, what empty words these kingships were.
Heatwave Th e news announcer mentioned the heatwave that came from Sahara over the seas to reach our island which thrown on the blue sea resembled a natural marvel when seen from above and I lean over your body eternal fleshy sensation when a drop of sweat falls on your sculptured beauty exactly on your right breast that unexpectedly reacted with a shiver that released its orgasm and its lust as I said yours, my bright little star and you said always yours, my beloved husband
The Hand For Andreas Embirikos beautiful net that the girl weaved the girl-master as she stood by the window in Nafplion beautiful net hospitable like benevolent god strong like the white piano keys of joy beautiful net she painted with the colour of her eyes and scented with the aroma of her long hair the girl that stood by the window of Nafplion beautiful net beautiful girl a beautiful window that shone in the Nafplion night a beautiful window that cried out a beautiful girl who lighted beautiful among the colours of Nafplion a beautiful net around my neck was girl with your beautiful hair as you comped it by the window in the light beautiful night in your glance was the girl we loved crazy in love naked, naked crazy in love in the net of Nafplion
in the far corner of the bed. Her breath spent, Rachael grew still, and Lyssa released her wrists. Without a word she turned away, walked quietly around the bed and, falling to the floor, gathered the doll into her arms. There she sat and rocked back and forth until both cousins quieted and lay still. Her grief too deep for tears, Rachael lay down on the cold floor. And with the mutilated doll clasped tightly against her chest, she silently made her plans. “It’s been a good Christmas, sweetie,” Tyne said as she snuggled against Morley on their way home from his parents’ farm. “Our first one as an old married couple. Imagine that.” Morley chuckled and took his right hand off the steering wheel to put his arm around her shoulders. “Who’s old? Do you feel old?” Tyne smiled in the darkness. “Not with you around, husband.” For several minutes they drove in silence, a deep peace enveloping Tyne as she relived the highlights of the day. Her first Christmas off duty for several years was in itself cause enough for rejoicing. But the best part had been her dad’s hospitality towards Morley. She had first noticed his change in attitude when the family had gathered at the farm for dinner in the fall, and she silently thanked God for bringing it about. Jeff Milligan had sat with Morley and Jeremy in the living room on Maple Avenue today, and willingly joined in the conversation. In the kitchen, she had been helping her mother and Aunt Millie clean up the remains of breakfast and begin preparations for dinner. She smiled now, remembering how her aunt, dishtowel in hand, had stood by the door to the living room and listened for a few moments to the amiable conversation between the three men. Returning to the counter, Millie had picked up a plate and said to her sister-in-law, “I don’t know what you’re putting in my brother’s tea, Emily, but whatever it is, please keep on doing it.” Tyne’s mother had stifled a laugh, and said in her usual reserved way, “Now, now, Millie ….”
Hypnotic My sacred pebbles I sacrifice and my golden sand I offer you, oh, Great Spirit of man and beast who make their nights peaceful and grace their days with struggle trying to define their passing through this life until they come again to mark my sand with their soles and use their pebbles to skip onto my surface
Today is one of those times. After school, the two sides gather in the school yard and make all the customary arrangements: putting goal “posts” in place, deciding who will play what positions, and drawing straws to see who has the ball first. Then the game commences. On this day, they play for half an hour and are tied two goals apiece before all hell breaks loose when Nicolas scores a goal the other side calls “out,” and Nicolas and his team insist it was a fair goal and the other team shouts in unison, “Asshole,” which is all the trigger Nicolas needs to land a couple of good blows with his fists on the two nearest kids on the other team, and then they all take part in their ritual and fight, and not even a sudden shower of rain can stop the upper village kids fighting their age mates from the lower village until three or four from each side have bleeding noses and bruised arms and faces. Nicolas of course is the keenest fighter on the upper village side, and he manages to inflict most of the damage on the enemy until everyone has had enough of fighting and the two teams go their separate ways They may be tired of fighting, but their blood is still boiling, and this is why, when far away from the school grounds, the upper village kids turn at the side of the hill, from where they cannot be seen from the school anymore, take off their shoes and socks, lie down on the wet soil, and give the lower village kids their open hands and toes. This is their fiercest act of defiance. It is the height of ridicule in this part of the world to be shown the open palm of another and especially when even the toes and soles of the feet take part in the insult. Afterwards, in their respective houses, the children from both sides have to contend with their mothers’ angry questions: “what has happened to you?” and “who have you been fighting?” and “why have you got into another fight?” and “how many times have I told you not to do this?” These are questions they have all heard many times but that never stop them from repeating their ritual. On another day the boys go hunting, all geared up and ready. It is the middle of July, as hot on Crete as it is every July, and they leave
Finten took the potion, looked at it and handed it back without even tasting. “What is this vile green stuff? It’s going to make me retch again.” “It’s allium and mint. Drink it. You’ll feel better.” “Garlic juice! If it kills me, I’ll be relieved.” Finten closed his eyes and quickly drained the cup. He took a deep breath, then another. Slowly, the nausea passed. “Ah, my dear, good friend. Thank you. Thank you. Bless you, Brother. Now look after your patient, Father Gofraidh.” Rordan moved toward the old man but Gofraidh motioned him away. Rordan sat and closed his eyes to the impending headache that always came in stressful situations. As the sky grew dark, the wind intensified to gale force. The sea roiled and heaved. Mountains of angry water tossed the small craft dizzily through the air to the top of a white-capped wave. Brother Ailan cried out above the howling wind, “Holy Mother of God.” Father Finten completed the prayer, “Ora pro nobis.” A reflex bred out of habit. “Lord, save us,” the usually jovial Ailan whispered as the cauldron shifted, the lid popped off, and the hapless cook grabbed to rescue a chunk of peat. “Ouch! Damn!” The tiny craft slipped back, down, down, down. A fountain of icy water washed over the six miserable monks, huddled together, holding on to the shifting struts. Leather bulged and snapped against bleeding fingers. Brother Ailan struggled to unstop a bag of whale oil to pour the contents on the frothy waves. The bag slipped from his grasp. Putrid smelling oil ran over his feet into the bottom of the boat and sloshed over Rordan’s and Finten’s feet. “Merda!” Shit! Rordan swore. Father Finten didn’t even look up. Once more, Ailan lifted the bag over the side. A wave crashed in, spreading more oil in the currach than on the waters. While he struggled to return the remaining whale oil to its storage under the floorboards, Brother Ailan watched a wall of water crash in to knock the lid from his peat cauldron once more and swamp the smouldering contents with a mighty hiss. The shape of the boat seemed to change with each twist and turn. Like a struggling sheep nipped in shearing, the currach pranced, kicked, and butted with creaks and groans. The wind howled like demons in agony. Each time a wave broke against the bow, a torrent of spray swamped the boat. The Brothers bailed for their lives with buckets and cooking pots. Father Gofraidh lay half submerged by water in the bottom of the currach. The old man held a crucifix firmly in his left hand while his right held desperately to the seat above him. Mountains of water marched, threatened, marched on. The wind tore the tops off the waves. Sleet drove horizontally, caking hair and clothing in dripping slush. Brother Rordan, to stem his own fear, chanted, shakily at first then with increasing gusto,“Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae.” Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy. His voice rose above the wind and waves as though the angels sang. The wind paused to listen. For an instant, there was calm. Then, a mountain of dark green water rose above the tiny craft and the miserable mortals were about to be flattened by one giant slap. Miraculously, the currach glided slowly up the sheer wall.
Innosence or Recantation That I may have you as my banner, grace of my dove on my dark path opposite the black clocked raven a shield to fence my sin. That evil won’t be my lot that I may remain with no light like the ancient lyre player I know you return: last angel with a branch of an olive tree.
Manolis Aligizakis 