Searching
Have you seen my nest
in barn’s upper beam
just behind the middle post
hid well from predators
youthful eyes wondering
in an abandoned building
this post an observatory
for owl and clever
wind that dances
grasses and her mind as
she hunts for her young chicks
begging on the beam for evening’s
meal as the surprise of
elements endures patient
meditation on a lower post
Each morning they take a count of us;
each evening we count the leftover plates
the leftover grief in our eyes
as the rain casts the dice with the policemen
night falls and the whistles start echoing.
Now we want to put our hands in our armpits
to look whether a star gleams in the sky,
to remember that face
against the opening of the door
but we can’t remember
we have no time to remember
we don’t have time but to stand tall
and die.
My beloved
I perhaps feel cold when it rains
I perhaps caress the crumbs of memory
in my pockets
my palms that once held you are still hot
but I can’t return.
How can I deny the piece of hardened bread that twenty of us
shared?
How can I deny my mother who expects from me
a cup of sage tea?
How can I deny our child who we promised a wedge
of the sky?
How can I deny Nikolas
who was singing while they aimed to execute him?
When I return we won’t have a lamp to light, we won’t
know where to place our dream.
We shall remain silent.
Excerpt
“Those people didn’t buy a car, did they Irv?”
“They said they’d be back tomorrow, Mr. Torgerson.”
“They won’t be back, Irv. They’ll go down the street to Pearson’s
and buy a Mercury, maybe even a Lincoln, because you didn’t
cinch that deal, Irv. You’ve got to cinch those deals, Irv.”
“I do my best.”
“Your best is going to have to get better, Irv. You call those people
tonight and you get ’em back in here tomorrow. You tell ’em
you’ll make a deal they’ll like, Irv. I want to see ’em sitting at that
table signing things.”
“They’re from up the river.”
“You find ’em. You get ’em in here again. You sell ’em a
Packard.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Torgerson.”
“I know you will, Irv.”
The salesman turned back into the show room. Torgerson’s
voice tracked him.
“Irv, I just know you will.”
Maybe it was because times were good, Torgerson thought, or
maybe it was because the mayor job brought him attention, but
Packard sales were up almost 20 percent over two years ago. A
third of the way through his first term, he was mapping out his
next campaign. Only I’ll really run, he thought. Last time was a
fluke, I know that. Ken Spear, he’s the one who could take it away,
but I don’t think he realizes it. Somebody will tell him. You can
count on that, because a lot of people would like me out. I piss off
too many of them. But, that’s what happens when you make waves
in a little town.
Torgerson looked up from his musing. Poodie James was passing
in front of the window. Torgerson moved through the show
room and out onto the sidewalk just as Poodie stopped his wagon
and reached into the used car lot for a Coke bottle standing in front
of a ’41 Ford Roadster. Torgerson charged over and stepped in
front of him.
“Get out of my lot,” he yelled. “Go on, get out of here. Go on.”
Il Pagliaccio
With his pink face, his tardy pants, his
perennially smiling lips, the pagliaccio*
runs to the stage drawing an imaginary
circle in front of kids who laugh
especially when he pulls a kerchief out
of his pocket, a green kerchief with no
end and after he pulls three meters of
endless fabric and focusing on the faces
of the children the pagliaccio gets ready
for his next act: he takes off his hat and
turning it upside down he puts his hand
in it and after three abracadabra he raises
a snow-white rabbit in the air to the yelling
and laughing kids as the pagliaccio,
as happy as ever with his performance,
disappears behind the big red curtain
not forgetting his duty to the man, he
once was, one who could reach the stars,
who could transcend the flesh and touch
the eternal, which, alas, he never did.
Excerpt
Chapter Eight
The ringing of the alarm clock awakened Tyne. She opened her eyes
to glare at the offending timepiece on the desk across the room. To
heck with it. She closed her eyes and snuggled again into her pillow.
Moe bounced from her bed and grabbed the clock to shut it off.
“Come on, sleepyhead. Get out of that sack. Don’t you know what
day this is?”
Tyne forced her eyes open. Moe, standing in the middle of the
room in her short nightshirt, stretched and yawned. “How can you
sleep this morning? We’ve been waiting three years for this day.” She
walked to the door to turn on the ceiling light.
Tyne blinked and pulled the sheet up to shield her eyes from the
sudden brightness. “What day … oh yeah, so it is. Our last day of
training.”
“You don’t sound very excited.” Moe grabbed her dressing gown
from the chair and shrugged into it.
“Believe it or not, I feel a little sad.”
“Oh come on, Moon River. What’s to be sad about? We’ll still be
at the Holy Cross if that’s what’s worrying you, and you’ll be doing
what you like best – helping to cut people up.”
Tyne got up, walked to the dresser and began to brush her hair.
“I didn’t tell Curly when I saw her yesterday that I’m going to be
working in surgery. I thought it would be like rubbing salt into the
wound.”
“That was good of you, but she’ll find out sooner or later. How’s
she doing, anyway?”
Tyne reached for her dressing gown. “Okay, I suppose.”
THE SEAGULLS FROM TRANSYLVANIA
This thorough country called nature
Lost breath of the heaven’s dragons
And from the wide waters of the sea deep from the very beginnings,
Even before the old Pannonian Sea
Added its extensions here,
Yes, this tenacious natural amphitheatre,
Full of thick forests,
Still silencing the Romans’ language,
This Transylvania is
Both the mountain shuddering with memory
And the fairy tale of the eyes suggesting the morning,
And especially the mild anxiety of some seagulls,
By their generations’ adage,
Becoming smaller and more grey
than their ancestors,
Living signs of the millennia,
Of the seas fatally squeezed into rivers,
In whose name there is a constant whisper:
The Someş, the Mureş, the Criş, the Criş, the Criş5 …
How could I not have recognized,
Even if I had not known what they were,
The thin quest of these Transylvanian seagulls
Gravely questioning the waves of my Criş River
And floating almost weightlessly,
As the poplar’s seeds fall;
Who can know if the absolute
Is not the forgotten song
Of the Transylvanian seagull?
5 Rivers from Transylvania
Tenth Canto
I discover eloquence in ash falling
like opened wishes of thirsty lips
and marking my share of urgency
I retract the curtain to reveal
an orchestra and chorus harmonies in
celestial reverb with the dynamism
of a faceless entity that dresses itself
in crimson riding greed on
some apocalyptic horse carrying
conversion coercion assimilation
proselytizing consequence of infidels
the necessity of martyrdom which started in
primeval depths of Miseria Dura
the end justifying any means with colorful
insignia of archons and beacons of
lords and crests flying high potent
cross banners unfolding speed to
deep grooves and flattening the firm virgin’s
breast the zealot’s façade
transforms into wrinkled face of the moon
over me standing on the steep-cut road
indifferent to his imminent demise
I witness a beheading and
everything shifts right
powered by a limited company acting as if
controlling infinite growth as if reaching no end
as the wise dandelion retains
bitterness for blood
virulence spread on faith’s
path unflinching curtain asks the same
question and the off-tune chorus
answers: I can do better
Excerpt
She’s proud of her body and doesn’t hesitate to show it off. She takes
her seat and orders a glass of red wine, as well.
When seated and relaxed, she looks at Emily. Suddenly, she brings her hand
to her mouth and says, “Oh, my God, what is it? Tell me it isn’t—Emily, what’s
going on?”
Emily leans a bit closer.
“What is it? I’m just a happy woman. That’s all.”
“Who is he? Tell me, I know there’s someone. Just tell me who he is!”
Emily laughs at her, and admits, “Yes, there is someone. I’m crazy, Cathy! I’m
crazy to feel this way at my age. I’m crazy, you can say that!”
“Oh no, love, I don’t think you’re crazy at all. Just take a deep breath, and tell
me all about it.”
Emily sips her wine and talks slowly, as if afraid of people in the restaurant
hearing her talk, or as if she is afraid Matthew will hear from where he is. She’s
almost whispering and Cathy has to lean in close to understand her.
At one point, Cathy interrupts her and says, “My dear Emily, I have been
wondering for a long time when this moment would come. You know, with Matt
always so busy working and out of town. I’m proud of you. Life is for everyone,
you know? We all deserve a share in the sun. The question, of course, is when are
you going to tell Matt? Oh yes, one more question. You lucky girl, a
thirty-something-year-old? Is that Talal’s age?”
Emily laughs again and they both sip their wine. They have ordered salads
and when the waiter serves them they begin eating with relish. As they eat, Cathy
asks, “I suppose no one knows so far? Does Jennifer know?”
“No, no one knows other than you. You must keep it from Bob. I don’t really
know which way things are going to go or which direction I’m going to take right
now.”
Cathy leans closer to her, “There is only oneway to go in things like this, darling,
and that is the way of the heart. Don’t let fear lead you to failure; don’t fail me and
don’t fail yourself. Unless you want to regret it later. One fine day, you’ll wake up
with tears in your eyes and ask the terrible question in front of the mirror.”
“What do you mean? What question?”
“The question that says, ‘how stupid was I not to take the chance when I had
it?’ That’s the question, darling. You see, by that time it’s too darn late, even to
cry about it.”
Emily looks at her and admits Cathy has a good point. Deep in her heart, she
already knows what she wants to do, yet the fear is there, staring at her with a
sardonic smile. Thinking about it makes her spine squirm. How is she going to
find the courage to do what she wants?
Excerpt
“We can’t go back.”
Bobby pulled away from her. “Why can’t we? I want to go.”
“Because they don’t want us, that’s why.”
He looked up, cherub cheeks turning red, big brown eyes full of fire. “Who said so? I don’t believe you.”
Rachael turned on him, her voice rising. “Aunt Ruby said so. She said Auntie Tyne didn’t want us, and was going to send us away. That’s why Auntie Ruby took us in.”
Bobby kicked out at her. “I don’t believe you, Rachael; that’s not true. Auntie Tyne did so want us.”
“She didn’t, Bobby, and neither did Uncle Morley. And Aunt Ruby says we’re not to call them aunt and uncle anymore, because they’re not related to us.”
Bobby’s eyes opened wide as he looked at her. “What are we s’posed to call them?”
“We have to call them Mr. Cresswell and Mrs. Cresswell.”
Defiance written all over his small face, Bobby leapt off the bed and stood there glaring at her, “No, I don’t want to. I won’t, Rachael. You can’t make me.”
Rachael took a deep breath. She felt helpless and frustrated, at a loss to know how to deal with Bobby’s sudden rebellion. She would soon be eight years old, and should be big enough to protect him and make him feel better. But she didn’t know how. She didn’t know if she even believed her aunt, but she had to go along with what the woman said for Bobby’s sake, and her own. Somehow she had to convince Bobby to calm down and not get either of them into trouble.
She reached out and pulled him back onto the bed. “Maybe what Aunt Ruby says isn’t true, Bobby. Let’s just forget it. Why don’t you go play with Freddie now until bedtime?”
Bobby’s lower lip stuck out, and Rachael could see that he was trying hard not to cry.
“Don’t want to play with Freddie. I want to go to bed now.”
Rachael hesitated. She didn’t know if he should go into the boys’ bedroom right away because Ronald had been sent there …
I
The lucidity of rose petals suffuses
as the wind ripples and caresses
the dunes of praying sunlit trees
dressed in their primeval innocence
and abundant feeblemindedness
as the creeks lovingly murmur
songs to one another and
Heaven whispers lullabies to
virgins not yet kissed other than
in dreams, when one buries his
forefathers under the big oak
at the forlorn edge of the village
abiding with nature’s peace
commanding the birth and death
in one breath, all creatures crawl
eastward, life lingers in light
the greater the number
of peaceful days
the higher the oak of death
irresistibly climbs and
the first ode swings in transparency.
Manolis Aligizakis 