Writer’s Night What is a writers‘ night like? Where does the bus leave from which takes us on the road? And when we get to one of them, will he let us in or not when we ring the bell? Should we bring wine or is the writer not allowed to drink, should we bring music, cigarettes, anything, can we take a picture of him with the smoke billowing in his place, as he paces up and down like a caged lion? Should we bring a book for him to sign, should we bring our own, signed for him or would that be a provocation? Where is the bus leaving from? Perhaps an omnibus, the wrong chariot? Where are the writers, and where is the night that leads us to them?
V We didn’t know them deep inside it was hope that said we had met them in early childhood. Perhaps we had seen them twice and then they went to the ships cargoes of coal, cargoes of crops and our friends vanished beyond the ocean forever. Daybreak finds us beside the tired lamp drawing on paper, awkwardly, painfully ships, mermaids or conches; at dusk we go down the river because it shows us the way to the sea and we spend our nights in cellars smelling of tar. Our friends have left us perhaps we never saw them, perhaps we encountered them when sleep still brought us very close to the breathing wave perhaps we search for them because we search for the other life, beyond the statues.
The Commission For years he counts infinitesimal differences that always leave room for his profit, slight gains perhaps incalculable for most people though very important to the money changer, way of life for the expelled from the Temple in the ancient days which he recalls as re-counts and estimates his gain, old Benjamin, sitting on his stool with a bowl full of gold and silver coins from various countries, he calculates his potential profit and contemplates the time when he’d go along with his loot which perhaps might buy him a better spot in Paradise. Old Benjamin had also missed the point of why he lived his life to just do as expected as he was taught by his wise teachers and you said, he too got caught in the trap of money he too remained an insignificant peon among the innumerable others.
As a child, I first met you on an uphill Phanari side street. A hanging lamp in the Byzantine Temple lit your kind face. Were you, I wonder, one of the myriad faces that Constantine Palaiologos assumed and left behind? Boyaca, Ayacucho, bright and eternal concepts. I was there. We had passed through there to the old borders. Far behind, they had started the fires in Leskovik. During the night, the army climbed up toward the battle from where familiar sounds were heard. Next to it, going down, endless busses carried the wounded. Don’t let anyone get disturbed. Down there is the lake. They’ll pass through here, behind the cane fields. The roads were compromised: work and glory to Hormovitis, who is famous for such things. The whistle is heard. To your positions, march! Come, dismount the horses. Put the cannons in their positions, get a towel, clean the bores, light fuses, hold them tight. The cannon balls are to the right. Vras! Vras, fire, in Albanian: Bolivar!
was down to his last seventy-five dollars. And if they were going to be able to buy gas to get back home, he had to be very careful with the little bit of cash that he did have. Joel and Tanya had just finished tidying up their supplies adjacent to the stalls and were giving the horses one last look when an attractive, middle-aged woman dressed in fancy western wear approached them. From her looks, Joel guessed that she had never cleaned a stall in her life. He only wished that he could say the same for himself—in the last few months he had done enough stall cleaning to last a lifetime. Helping Harry change the bedding in the stalls was more of a workout than what city people would get at high-priced health clubs. “That’s it,” Joel thought. With a chuckle he told himself that if the horse business didn’t work out he could always convert the Circle H into a health and fitness center. One thing was certain, Joel was in the best physical condition that he had been in for years. “You the owner?” the lady asked. “I am,” Joel replied. “Mary Lou Schwartz. Is the palomino for sale?” Joel looked at Tanya and, as he saw the word “No” forming on her lips, stepped up and replied, “Well now, I guess everything is really for sale at the right price isn’t it?” The shock showed on Tanya’s face. As she started to protest, Joel continued, “What did you have in mind?” “I was looking for a young reining horse that could eventually join our broodmare band. This little girl might fit the bill. She’s nicely put together and seems real sweet and gentle. How does 5,000 dollars sound?” “Too low” is what Joel thought, but he bit his tongue, knowing that the offer was just a starting point. He asked, “Would you like to see her papers?” “Sure. You are probably going to tell me that she is some kind of a great-great granddaughter of a Doc Bar or something like that, aren’t you?”
Secret The great happiness we wish to find in the mysticism of the olive grove, in the moist autumnal fragrance canticle of sounds flowing into ears unaccustomed to beauty there, in the light breeze where the meaning of duty was freely served, in the mind’s serenity we had for years longed although unconcerned we wasted in the wrong throw of the dice, there was our hidden happiness as we couldn’t understand it was we who buried it deep in the rekindled loss of memory while our symbols became daggers for the other man.
When you smiled I’d forget of the leaking roof tiles I’d forget of the holes in the floor I’d also say, here, big red roses will bloom through these holes. Everything was possible in the world, my love back then when you smiled at me. Remember that night when we gazed the sky for hours I felt you trembling in my arms. “My stars, I said, my good stars make our love so ever bright make my beloved so ever joyous. My stars, my good stars, make sure she and I die together.” Thus, that night we got married among the stars and forever. Ah, I’d like to kiss the hands of your father; the knees of your mother who gave birth to you for me; I’d like to kiss all the chairs you touched with your dress as you walked by to hide in my heart, like a charm, a piece of the bed-sheet you slept in. I could even smile to the man who saw you naked before me to even smile at him, who was graced with such happiness. Because I, my beloved, I owe you something more than love I owe you the song and the hope, the tears and again hope. In the tiniest moment with you I lived all my life. You knew how to give yourself, my love.
Monotony One monotonous day is followed by another identical monotonous day. The same things will happen, they will happen again— the same moments will find us and leave us. A month goes by and brings another month. It’s easy to see what’s coming next; those boring things from the day before. Till tomorrow doesn’t feel like tomorrow at all.
Sixth Canto The promontory under my feet shudders as my brush hits a reverberating stroke on my diaphanous canvas of fate while the golden steel controls all past and future height and depth of tender life and its hardest rigidity as the bottom line rises to a penultimate element of importance nothing stands in front of it no one will stem its future flow nothing will ever stand as an impediment to dark eyes and their thoughts inventing as if gifted from heaven the first ever organized corporation under patronage of the teenage church devising means and plans for conquering the cosmos through sharpness of the double ax or sword or sulfur of the bomb conventional or atomic phosphoring fear schemes world-over like a bread slice buttered by movement of the knife in gluttony’s tenacious hand covering inside and out of power lust appetite for pleasure through darkness tingling pockets of masters grasping for purer rarer more as wheat fields ask the finest question when the cicadas and I answer from the olive grove: we can do better
She felt Morley give her hand an extra squeeze to bring her attention to the scene before her. People were coming out of the church, laughing and talking, wishing each other a merry Christmas. Among them, almost at the bottom of the steps, she saw her mother and dad. Tyne drew in her breath and waited. Her mother looked in their direction, and her eyes grew large with disbelief. Then she turned to speak to her husband. Jeff swung around. In the light from the doorway Tyne saw his expression change from surprise to displeasure. Then he walked away from his wife and came towards them. Tyne let Morley’s hand go, and took a couple of steps to meet her father. “Hello, Dad. Merry Christmas.” She lifted her face for his kiss. It landed, cold and stiff, on her cheek. “What are you doing here, Tyne? We didn’t know you were coming home.” He glanced at Morley who had moved to her side. “We would have met you at the bus depot, you know. You didn’t have to bring Morley in from the farm. I’m sure he has better things to do on Christmas Eve.” “Not at all, sir,” Morley said. “I was only too happy to come. And I’m pleased Tyne invited me to church with her.” Jeff cleared his throat but did not reply. He turned back to his daughter. “Well, I see you’re not afraid of being snowed in, after all. I only hope, for your sake, that you don’t have to miss any days of your training this close to the end.” “I’m sure it will be all right, Dad,” Tyne murmured as she turned to hug her mother who appeared bewildered and anxious. Tyne felt her mother’s anxiety, and understood. All her married life, Emily Milligan had lived in her husband’s shadow, obeying him, pleasing him, keeping the peace within the family as far as it was in her power to do so. Tyne knew that whatever her mother said to discourage her daughter’s relationship with Morley was only a reflection of her husband’s feelings. She said what she knew he would want her to say, and felt about it the way she perceived her husband to feel. Tyne hugged her mother hard as tears stung her eyes. Oh, Mom, I don’t want to bring you grief. Please try to understand, and be strong for my sake.
Manolis Aligizakis 