Return
We came back with a key
for the door of sorrow
under the lone streetlight
eager we were
to open the gates of hope.
There on the sidewalk
of the desolate neighbourhood
until tears flooded our eyes
at the loneliness of the pole and
we stopped wandering around
and promised to lay roots
in the soil, even if it meant
to gaze at the moon through
iron window of the prison cell
and perhaps that would secure us
a place among the heroes we so
much admired when in school
excerpt
Cindy
The Circle H Ranch
Willow Springs, Montana
It was late by the time Joel and Tanya returned home and
unloaded the horses. Once the excitement of the weekend had
started to subside, Joel had become tired and started to dangerously
drift off to sleep as he drove back to the ranch. To prevent
dozing off, he broke the peace and quiet of the long drive by turning
on the radio. Joel and Tanya spent the rest of the way home
listening to country and western music and savoring the joy of
victory.
The next day got off to such a slow start that by the time 9:30
rolled around, Joel decided that it would be a good idea to take the
rest of the day off. Maybe it was the success of the weekend or
maybe it had something to do with the potent fragrance of the
sage wafting in the wind, but for whatever reason, a day off
seemed to make sense. Tanya was pleased to hear Joel declaring
an impromptu holiday. Harry was happy for their success and
also happy to enjoy the benefit of their victory by climbing into
his truck and heading wherever it was that Harry went on the few
occasions that he actually left the Circle H.
After unhooking the trailer from the truck and hosing it down,
Joel went back up to the house and with Tanya’s help the two of
them had a cleaning bee. And by 11:30, the place was looking
very clean. Tanya had always done a nice job of keeping her room
in the basement tidy, but there was no doubt that the upstairs
needed a good cleaning. When the house was finally looking…
XVII
Astyanax
Now that you will leave, take along the boy,
the boy who saw the light under that plane tree
one day when the trumpets sounded and weapons shone
and the sweaty horses bent over the trough to touch
the green surface of the water with their wet nostrils.
The olive trees with the wrinkles of our parents
the rocks with the wisdom of our parents
and our brother’s blood warm on the soil
were a strong joy a rich attitude
for the souls who knew their prayers.
Now that you will leave, now that the day of payment
dawns, now that no one knows
who he will kill and how he will die
take with you the boy who saw the light
under the leaves of that plane tree
and teach him how to study the trees.
Brook
Your ear tuned to conversation
of roots resting in worked soil
graceful maple like
minute shiver with fallen
leaves celebrates seed time
sweaty hands wield a spade
while the cicadas orchestrate
layers in A major
she stands at the spring her smile
torments sweet feelings
roots keep conversing
about rainfall and the heat
the swift brook plummeting and
coursing down the fragile slope
excerpt
Mrs Starkey was unaware of this. When Michael returned about an hour later, she thought it was her husband. She rushed to tell him not to take his coat off but to go up to the MacLir house, the name the large stone house still bore from the family of Caitlin Carrick, whose ancestors, the MacLirs, had built it in the nineteenth century.
‘Michael, it’s yourself back again,’ she said in surprise. ‘Is Dr Starkey at your place?’
‘No, Mrs Starkey, but we need him up there badly.’ Michael’s voice was trembling. A look of distraction agitated his face. ‘Something’s wrong, Mrs Starkey. Caitlin’s yelling and screaming, and Mother Ross says the baby isn’t coming out right. For God’s sake, where’s the doctor?’
‘I don’t know, Michael.’ Mrs Starkey was worried now herself. ‘He should have been here ages ago. Wait and I’ll phone again.’
All Michael could hear was Caitlin’s screaming. It pierced his ears like a torture. It made his heart pound and brought sweat to his forehead, mingling it with the rain. He moved his weight from one foot to the other. He clenched and unclenched his huge fists. ‘Please come, Dr Starkey. Oh my God, please, please come.’
Mrs Starkey appeared at the inner door again. ‘Something’s happened to the doctor, Michael.’ Her voice too quivered with worry. ‘He was visiting the Collinses in Carraghlin and he left an hour and a half ago. They haven’t heard from him. They suggested that I phone the police in Carraghlin, but even before they finished talking, the phone went dead.’
‘Must be a line down,’ Michael said.
‘Could be there’s trees down too,’ said Mrs Starkey. ‘The road’s probably blocked.’
Fear speared Michael’s heart. He felt the blood gush out. It filled his stomach, and he felt nauseated. ‘Mrs Starkey, I must get help for Caitlin,’ he shouted. ‘She’s in agony. This birth is going to kill her, like her own birth killed her mother.’
‘Calm yourself, Michael. Calm yourself. That’s no way to be talking. Caitlin’s in good hands with Mother Ross. Dr Starkey himself hasn’t delivered more babies than she has.’
‘But Mother Ross is frightened now herself,’ cried Michael. ‘She can’t handle this. She told me so. Where does Dr Chapman live?’
‘He’s in Ballydun usually,’ Mrs Starkey replied. ‘But he’s away in England till the New Year. Dr Murray in Lisnaglass is looking after his practice. It’ll take you an hour or more to reach him on a night like this. And I can’t telephone him.’
Flute
Hymn of the flute,
by the shore lily
ally of the breeze
and of your body
that my fingers caress
morning hues
euphoria that swims
in light blue, serene wave
dance of sun rays
and agony over
the stony emotion
that I sang, said
the southwestern wind
the eternal ally of the flesh
Dionysus’ Procession
Damon the craftsman (there is no other
as capable in Peloponessos) carves
the procession of Dionysus in Parian marble.
In front is the god with his divine,
aura, his powerful stride.
Acratos is behind him. At Acratos’ side
Methe pours wine for the Satyrs
from an amphora decorated with ivy. Close
to them is the meek Hedyoinos, his eyes
half closed, hypnotic. Farther down
come the singers Molpos and Hedymelis,
and Comus who holds the revered torch
of the procession and never lets it burn out;
and the most decorous Telete.— Damon carves
all these. And as he works, every so often
he thinks of the reward
he’ll be getting from the king of Syracuse,
three talents, a large sum. With this added
to the rest of his money, he will be able
to live a prosperous life at last,
and he can go into politics—what a joy!—
he too in the senate, he too in the agora.
Breaking Up
The only meaning, he says, is that there is no meaning.
A horse muzzle and a horseshoe hanging off the nail
on the wall. Big flies pinned on the table. The barber enters
to shave the dead man, who turns toward the wall. The barber
looks at himself in the bookcase glass. He shaves himself.
The ugly woman brings a white napkin. She hugs the barber.
The shaving lather drips on the carpet. The flies with the pins
fly away. Outside, the train passes full of suitcases with
stamps from various checkpoints.
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.
Manolis Aligizakis 