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.
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.
Vulture 1748 (painter’s explanation) The right or wrong longing drove the twilight of the young peltast to the unstopped nocturnal mountains into the wild crevasses of Orthodoxy into the thick glens and cypresses of panic to the moral promotion of the tough Fate along colonnades of morning matins and torpor? Who could be the leader of rebellion fame love rhetor? They have been true to who’s bidding but the petty officers? Father killers and good pedophiles with only the secondary necrophilia as justification for the endless, and extremely vile, attacks against the glory seekers? Wonder whether, hearing the, oh, children, of the pain seeker painters the metaphysical city is hidden inside the presented paintings and while the warring hammers fall onto heads and the ravines buzz from the ruin of battle and the hymns of fighting saints the voice is heard: “Marko Kralle, what do you want? Here is no play and laughter. Here are the Balkans”
have to do now is carry on one day at a time. I’m sure we’ll manage. If you are concerned about money, don’t worry, we’ll find our way.” “I don’t worry about money, mother—not at all. I’m just trying to see life without Dad from now on. It will be hard to adjust.” “We’ll manage, you’ll see. Just be careful and take care of yourself. Hakim appears to be a very good man and I know he’s to come into a lot of money. Your father told me all about it.” “Why did Dad look into Hakim’s life, Mom?” “Well, honey, that was your father.” Later at around six, Hakim tells Jennifer he wants to go see how his uncle is. The limo will take him to the Sheraton Hotel and from there, when he’s done with Ibrahim, the driver will drive him to his apartment. Cathy gets up also and says goodnight to Emily. “Don’t forget to call anytime, remember?” Helena also says goodnight and leaves. “I’d like to go with Hakim, Mom. Are you going to be alright?” “I’ll be just fine, honey. Go, I’ll be just fine. Talal may stay for a while to keep me company. You just go.” Hakim is ready to go, when Talal whispers in his ear, “I’ll stay for a while to keep Emily company, okay?” “Are you going to be okay?” Hakim asks, looking at Talal. “We’ll be just fine. You guys go and see Ibrahim. Say hi to him for me.” They walk out to the limo and Rassan sits in the front with the driver and Hakim with Jennifer sit in the back. Fifteen minutes later they arrive at the Sheraton. They find Ibrahim in his suite happy because he’s out of the clinic and because the chemotherapy hasn’t given him any negative side-effects, so far. “Hello, my uncle, how are you?” “I’m fine, my dear boy. What is this about Jennifer’s dad?” “He is dead, sir. The police are doing their work now; we’ll hear from the medical examiner in the next little while,” Jennifer says. “Oh, my dear, oh, I’m so sorry,” he opens his arms as if ready to hug Jennifer. She takes the opportunity and falls into his arms. Ibrahim is a bit surprised by this; however, he knows that this is customary for North Americans, and he hugs the young woman. Hakim smiles. His uncle is very fond of Jennifer, and that pleases him a lot. Ibrahim is already prepared for his return home and Rassan is making the flight arrangements for as early as tomorrow. Mara will be most happy to have him home with her.
Jewelry Box In front of the mirror she is trying one jewel after another comparing them to the gleam of her eyes she smiles, placing a diamond between her breasts tiny yet exquisitely bright adorning her curves where the hungry eyes of men always fall men whom she’ll meet at tonight’s ballroom
Gregorio, mounted on Babieca, joined half a dozen riders who were pursuing the runaways. Several of the riders were herding the natives with the points of their spears. There were older men among the natives, but no warriors. In the distance, Gregorio chased a young woman who refused to stop. He took his foot out of the stirrup and landed a kick on her back that sent her flying. She fell head over heels in the tall grass. When I saw Gregorio leap off Babieca and throw himself upon the girl, my legs began moving before I had time to think. I could see Gregorio’s back in the tall grass and I feared he would rape her. Beneath him, the girl shrieked. From a distance, I could not see her face. Losada had explicitly forbidden any harm to the natives, as the king had forbidden their enslavement, apparently to the same effect. I could see them struggling. I called him again and again, still forty long paces away. He fumbled at his breeches, while keeping her down one-handed, and pushed against her. Again she shrieked. Damn his soul. He was not much better than Pánfilo. I came from behind and kicked him in the ribs, which thudded like a broken drum. I tumbled over him. He fell on his side. I scrambled away and got a glimpse of his disgusting member besmeared with blood. Gregorio stood up, furious, and grabbed a handful of her hair. He raised her by the hair, and I beheld her face as she threw up her hands, her eyes round with terror. A dead weight sank inside me. Horror, mixed with a shameful joy, gave way to a surge of wrath as I took in what had happened. It was the girl by the river, the girl with eyes like the setting sun. Something moved in the grass at her feet, something with grey-brown fur. The monkey. My hands curled into fists. As I fought the urge to punish Gregorio, the monkey clambered up his side and bit him on the ear. With a swift motion, Gregorio let go of the girl and grabbed the monkey by the feet. He swung it against the trunk of a massive rubber tree as it howled and whined, eyes unfocused but terrified.
Often during the night, without noticing it, I’d arrive to another city where there was no other but an old man who dreamed that someday he’d become a musician; and now he sat in the rain half naked; he was covering an old, imaginary violin with his coat over his knees. “Can you hear it?” he asks me “yes” I say to him “I’ve always heard it” while at the far end of the road the statue narrated the true voyage to the birds.
Sixteenth Hour The watermelon drips on my beard droplets of pleasure under the thick grapevine shade from where apparitions of lust spring up to dominate the heated summer evening uncertain July without a song on the prophet’s lips teased from incongruous meditation on a forgotten algorithm of a sticky honeybee buzzing in between gardenia stems of fear uncoiling ever so tenderly into the lost will of anathema He lounges still in cloud retreat reflecting on whether He can triumph in the fiasco of His first trial sagacious blue-haired Death elevates from the bowels of fiery undercurrents informs about a savior warns that what is already cannot be undone without expense send them a willing savior let him hold sin in his hands and display him to the eyes of Fates they need something to meddle in or they risk growing senile and people comply when He shortly describes to them the cross shape taken from the limbs of a philandering oak to frame the guest’s body and using forged blacksmith pins He fastens the extremities and heart upon the viewpoint while nails bleat ‘why?’ and red-stained cross answers: who cares?
Manolis Aligizakis 