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?
“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.
The afternoon sun was hiding behind light clouds as Eteo started his walk. The crowds had arrived at the Ambleside seawall as they did every fine day, and Eteo had to dodge groups of pedestrians from time to time. He saw Frankie again, but he was busy on his phone and only nodded and waved with his free hand. Eteo responded in kind, but suddenly his own phone rang and he stepped to the side of the path to answer. It was Richard calling from Calgary. “You never called me,” Richard complained. “Sorry, I got caught up in things.” “Never mind, I managed. We’ll see lots of buying as early as tomorrow or the next day at the latest. Two big brokers will come in. Stay on the bid and you’ll see.” “What happened?” Eteo needed a bit more detail than that. “Just stay on the bid,” Richard repeated, “and let them come and take the offers. Just follow the market up.” “I’ll keep my eyes open,” Eteo replied, not very happy to be fobbed off with generalities. Afterwards he speculated about the various scenarios of how these new brokers might come into the market.
Worry over everybody’s salvation overwhelmed me. At the moment, my own salvation seemed too big a task. I relaxed in the current and let my body drift as I focused on an old Christmas anthem. Humming, I sunk my head until only my face broke the surface, and relished in the gurgling of the water below and the expanse of mottled sky above framed by brilliant green trees. Some time later, I pulled myself toward shore, with the water under my chin. There was no doubt in my mind where I had left my clothes, but they were not there. A small monkey darted from one bush to another with my frock trailing behind him. I scrambled out of the water and picked up the rosary where I had left it hanging from a branch. I found my undergarments and shoulder cape muddied near the bushes. I put on my pants, and, just as I tied the laces and started off in pursuit, a rustle in the bushes cut me short. I was not at all prepared for such unadorned beauty. It was a young woman. Her large eyes reminded me of the sun drowning in the sea, the moment of its most striking beauty. They glittered, and I could see the light of her gaze sparkling on the ocean between us. Her giggle broke the spell; two dimples appeared at the corners of her mouth. Her teeth were even and white, like pearls. She offered me my frock and I remembered I was almost naked. The monkey ran out of the bushes and climbed up her arm, perching on her shoulder. She was so fulfilling to look at, I almost resented the monkey’s familiarity.Atiara of yellow flowers adorned the head of that wild Aphrodite; her long hair was like braided streams rushing down chocolate-capped mountains. A stream of words tinkled from the sweetest smile. She offered me my frock, and the movement of her arm tore my eyes from her face. She pinched her nose and shook her head, but drifted toward me nonetheless. I recovered my frock and balled it up like a buckler, for she was now close enough for the warmth of her breath to cause the hairs of my nape to stand up on end. I stiffened as her hands came up to my face. She kept on talking. I listened to the inflections of her girlish
III The moon’s glowing silver face smiles as two minnows, the smallness of the world enter. The heart’s gracious great from the watery kingdom all grandiose and official as any small with power of ephemeral duration. Higher than the mighty whales they feel with the waves aside them and they relate life’s state in their bubbly cosmos: “The oceans’ movement has abruptly ceased there are no currents splashing unto Poseidon’s palace. Death in waiting. Psalms and chants we shall sing purifications we must perform for the orphan wavelets.”
As Much as You Can And if you can not lead your life the way you want it, at least try this as much as you can: do not degrade it in a crowded relationship with the world, in too many things and too much talk. Do not degrade it by showing it around, dragging it along and exposing it to the daily nonsense of relationships and associations until it is strange to you and a burden.
man of the board. As she returned to her place, she blinked back tears. Suddenly, the stress and excitement of the last few days – even the last few months – overwhelmed her. The culmination of three years of nurses’ training, the anxiety over her parents’ animosity towards the man she loved, the disappointment that one of her two best friends could not be graduating tonight, all gathered into a river of tears that rose in Tyne’s throat and threatened to gush from her eyes. Panicked, she darted a glance at Moe, and was saved by another broad wink and a cheeky grin from her friend. Good old Moe. Thank you, kid. As graduate after graduate walked to the podium, Tyne tried not to think of Carol Ann who should be with the nurses in the last row, soon going forward to receive the coveted diploma. But, thanks to Bryce Baldwin, Curly’s dream had died with her unborn child. Tyne tried to shake the negative thoughts. After all, Bryce had not acted alone, and Curly must certainly have been a willing partner. And it was hardly his fault that she had resorted to the measures she had to get rid of the baby. He had suggested she get an abortion but he could not make her do it. Tyne now remembered that a few days after her confrontation with Dr. Baldwin in the nursery, she had begun to harbour guilt feelings about the anger she felt towards him. She had finally gone to confess her uncharitable thoughts to a priest. Father O’Malley had been stern, and had given her much greater penance than Tyne thought she deserved. She left the confessional with equally negative thoughts about the priest, and for a moment she wondered if she should go back and confess that, too. However, only hours after her confession, the anger began to surface again. This time, Tyne told herself she had a right to be angry. After all, was there not such a thing as righteous anger? Had not Jesus been angry with the money changers in the temple? So why should she not be angry with Bryce Baldwin after the way he had treated her friend? But she found no peace from holding the grudge, and she recognized that Morley’s influence was having an impact on her conscience. Jesus had told his disciples they must forgive. Not seven times, he had told Peter, but seventy times seven. Tyne finally realized that she had to forgive Dr. Baldwin.
Manolis Aligizakis 