Swamped

excerpt

Day after day, page after page, Eteocles devotes all that summer,
fall, and winter, and almost the whole of the next spring, before he
finally has the book totally transcribed. During that year, he hardly
goes out to play and only just manages to find time for his homework.
This is his last year at the elementary level, and next year he will go
to high school.
When he has completed the last page of his hand-written version
of Erotokritos, he takes all the pages he has written and proudly shows
them to his mom and dad and to Nicolas. They don’t say a single
word. What could one say in such a situation? His parents don’t even
congratulate him. Only Nicolas says “bravo” and that is all. No fanfare,
no balloons, no cheers, just a smile from his dad and a smile
from his mom. Perhaps they don’t understand the enormity of such
an accomplishment. Perhaps the value of such work escapes them,
or perhaps they are just too tired from the daily struggle to find food,
to find work, to procure the necessities, to pay the rent. Eteocles’ family
has no house of their own at that time. They left Crete almost penniless,
and the daily labours of the father provide all they have.
Eteocles’ family has never owned properties, neither olive groves
nor grapevines, like most of their relatives had, nor any other income-
producing assets. Eteocles’s father grew in an orphanage, discarded
by his mother, who conceived him when she was seventeen
years while was working as maid in a rich man’s family in the neighbouring
village. As for Eteocles’s mother, his angel, she at least had a
dowry from her father, a Cretan who knew how to look after his
daughters, but he had five of them and could only give each one a
small part of his estate. And even that bit of property Eteocles’ mother
received from her father had been taken over by an auntie, who used
the old house in which Eteocles and Nicolas were born and lived during
their childhood years as barn for her animals.
What does anyone need in this life? It takes Eteocles many years
to understand how to measure his needs and how to decide what
comes first and what comes second and what people must do to have
what they wish for— and what they may miss in the process.
What does Eteocles’s family need at this juncture of their lives?
A house, perhaps, since having your own house is considered …

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562976

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WP3LMPX

Neo-Hellene Poets, an Anthology of Modern Greek Poetry

POEM FOR THE STELE OF OLYMPIA
DESTROYED BY A TEMPEST
excerpt
In the depths of the sky the gleaming stars dimmed,
the unshakable mountain stirred before me
and vanished into the hungry mouth of the sea.
I had believed the power of all fortune
never could be strong enough to topple you,
my beloved relic of a forgotten race.
Deathless Leviathan, accept my lament.
When I gaze on you I cry,
and though you’ve long been our primeval cornerstone
time has now unlocked you, and your vertebrae
lie scattered on the soil, stepped on by dogs.
Oh, the unimaginable rage and curse of god,
the pitiless thunder that always comes down on you,
the earthquakes and tempests that set themselves against
our best achievements and with sudden power
smash down the greatest of them, one upon the other.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562959

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763513

Impulses

Hero
The last hero confesses pain
and next door the general
is metal dressed by agile hands
his dazzling accomplishment
lies flat on the church floor
a band of light strapped to virtue
knowledge led by protocol
claims the right of silence
of the tumbled brick or fascia
of the cenotaph to the fallen
tile claims anathema
by brotherhood of generals
and you hold onto your paper flag
not sure if to wave or cry

https://draft2digital.com/book/3744513#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073565

The Unquiet Land

excerpt

“What’s wrong down there, Tom?”
“Ach it’s yourself, Caitlin.” Tom turned to look at her and Nora with eyes scrunched up against the sun. “Oh they just fished a body out of the harbour.”
Michael, Caitlin thought immediately, and her face paled with fright. “Who… who was it?” she asked in a faltering voice.
“It was your Michael that pulled him out,” Tom declared, as if anxious to be the first to tell her.
“Pulled who out?” Caitlin asked.
“Carney’s youngest boy. Joe-Joe.”
“Is he dead?” Nora asked fearfully.
“I don’t know.” Tom spat tobacco on to the wharf. “Dr Starkey’s down there now.”
“What happened?” Caitlin and Nora, looking down on the boat, could see Michael now. He was bent over in the middle of the group with his hands on his knees.
“Well, I didn’t see it myself,” said Tom. “Seamus Slattery just a while ago came up from the boat saying there was nothing he could do, so he was going to the bar for a drink. As far as he could tell, it seems that young Joe-Joe was fishing over the side of Carney’s boat—your father’s boat—when he fell overboard into the water. Carney was in the galley doing woodwork and he didn’t hear the little fellow calling for help. It was God’s doing that sent Michael Carrick to the boat to ask Carney to do something for your father. He fished Joe-Joe out. I think he jumped in and lifted the boy into one of the rowing boats and then called Carney to bring a rope.”
“Joe-Joe can’t swim then?”
“Oh I dare say he can splash about a bit. But he’s only what? Four? Five? Six? Damned if I can keep track of the youngsters anymore.” Tom spat again. He pushed a gnarled, arthritic hand under his cap and scratched his white head. “I dare say he panicked.”
On the boat Michael straightened up. He saw Caitlin and Nora and waved but he did not smile.
One by one the other men unfolded like ferns and almost hid the slight figure of Dr Starkey. Caitlin saw only the round, bald patch on the back of the doctor’s head. Then someone lifted a bundle wrapped in blankets and carried it over his shoulder from the outer boat across the middle one to the inner boat by the wharf-side. Others reached out hands to help steady the man—Joe Carney himself—as he clambered over the sides of the boats…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562888

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

In the Quiet After Slaughter

excerpt

I possessed neither the strength to stop the torment nor the courage
to try.
– I’m going for more wood.
When I return Larry is flicking lighted matches at Lenore. Her
cheeks are stained with tears.
– Burn, witch!
Larry exits for a pee. Lenore and I face each other across the campfire.
I wonder what it would take to make the poor girl smile, so I use
my roasting stick to scratch a happy face in the dirt. Lenore uses hers
to erase the upturned mouth and replace it with a frown.
– Fee-fi-fo-fum, we hear Larry carolling. Wisely, Lenore retires.
Larry and I decide to sleep outside. We arrange our sleeping bags
around the fire.
– I’m going to move to the States one day, Larry says.
– That would be neat.
– I’m going to join the Marines. Special Forces, probably.
– Wow!
A log tumbles into the flames; a glowing ash disappears into
the star-spangled Washington night. People disappear from our
lives all the time. They move away, promise to write, don’t. They
go wacko, drop dead, find God. You say something stupid and
you’re ostracized for life. It doesn’t take much for us to abandon
each other.
When we were young my mother enrolled Burt and me in free
swim lessons in Stanley Park. The bus ride took an hour each way;
the lessons lasted 20 minutes. Hundreds of kids from East Van sat
shivering on the seawall at Lumberman’s Arch waiting their turn to
blow bubbles in the frigid surf. My brother always pissed in the
water. Later Mom would buy us fish and chips.
– I dreamed about Marilyn Monroe last night, Larry says. His
hands are folded behind his head.
– She’s something, that’s for sure.
– She was bare naked, he said. Just standing there with a tube of
coconut butter, begging, Do my thighs, Larry.
The next day we saw Cindy and Corrine riding in a convertible with
some older guys. They were racing along one of the back roads.
Cindy was standing up in the front seat, arms outstretched,

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562874

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897971

Ken Kirkby – Warrior Painter

excerpt

For the first time since he’d been a kid, Ken had no deadlines or other
people’s needs to accommodate. He could sit, smoke and enjoy the flavours
of the sea air, the sound of the gulls, the calm mornings filled with a distant
hum of passing cars filtering down from the Old Island Highway. The
constant rhythm of waves on the pebble beach soothed him as he read late
into the night. The mental kinks slowly started to release.
The luxury of pursuing my thoughts in an academic fashion, waking
when I chose and stopping when I liked was heaven. Initially I was
spinning from Karen’s rejection and had to regiment my mind or the
pain would have driven me crazy. The pain was still there, but now I
was no longer hiding from my thoughts and I took pleasure in the way
one thought could morph into something else incredibly interesting,
but totally unrelated.
We humans fancy that we have evolved this elevated thing called
‘reason’ when compared to ‘sense’—that is, coming from the senses,
which has been developing over millions of years—reasoning is in the
kindergarten stages. When we talk of premonitions, or gut feel, that
also relates to our senses. We have survived from the beginning as
single cell organisms to this time and place, no thanks to reason, but
through our senses.
When Ken Kirkby moved to Bowser at the end of 2001, he was seeking
complete anonymity. His landlords, Ken and Jeanine Harris, were pleasant
and helpful but respectful of his desire for privacy. If Kirkby appeared in the
yard, they were quick to open a conversation, but other than that, they didn’t
intrude. Over the months, the three became friends as well as neighbours
and the Harris’s encouraged him as he established his programme to gain
back his health.
Ken Harris had retired from a high-pressure career in Vancouver. He
was a physically active person, who kept an eye on the community and
occupied his enquiring mind through study. He enjoyed engaging Kirkby
in conversations, which bordered on debates, and ranged far and wide. As
spring approached and the weather warmed, the two Kens would sit together
in the morning sipping their coffee, and sharing Kirkby’s cigarettes (Harris
claimed he had given up smoking) while discussing whatever surfaced …

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562902

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CB8W4CG

Marginal

Epigraphs

I
The graceful indifference
before the alms-giver
must make the first step
that connects him to the superb

II
A second thought
before you give in
to your weakest link:
your first step
connecting you to the superb

III
On a cloudy morning
the only means you have
to remain sane
is to wrap yourself in a blanket
and sit close to the toaster
toasting your slice

https://draft2digital.com/book/3747032#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1771715987

Wheat Ears

Words
Words said on moonlit nights
just before we separated
just words
forgotten amid the flowers
of ancient gardens
words that appear in distracted hours
on the crystal surface of memory
as if they were said moments ago
verbiage
and the nails on the wall
change color each time
you repaint over them
but should you
grind them back to steel
shade of blue-like pain
when you drive them through
the palms of the martyr
red fleshy when
you quench your thirst in blood?

https://draft2digital.com/book/3748127#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BKHW4B4S

Water in the Wilderness

excerpt

… than it had been outside with the frigid wind whipping stinging snow into their faces. Her feet still felt wooden, though, and her fingers were stiff and beginning to hurt. She removed her mittens, then reached for Bobby’s hands and pulled his mittens off. If her fingers were freezing, what must his be like? He whimpered a little as she awkwardly tried to rub his icy fingers.
As she pulled his mittens back on his hands, he slumped over at her feet. “Wanna sleep, Rachael, wanna sleep.”
Ronnie stepped out of the darkness and picked the child up. “No, Bobby, you can’t sleep yet. You’ve gotta keep moving around. I know … let’s all play a game.”
“What game?” Rachael said. “W … we can’t even see. How c …can we play a game?”
Ronnie hesitated, murmuring to himself as if thinking hard. “I know, we can play pattycake. It’ll keep us close together, and keep our hands warm.”
Rachael laughed. “Pattycake? That’s a baby’s game.”
“Okay, Miss Smartypants, what do you suggest?”
“Oh, all right. Let’s do it. Here Bobby, pattycake, pattycake, baker’s man ….”
They pattycaked around the small circle until Bobby suddenly sat down on the board floor. Ronnie reached down for him, but Rachael said sharply, “No, let him be. I’m gonna sit down, too. I don’t wanna play anymore.” She flopped down beside her brother, and put her arms around him. “I just wanna to go to sleep, Ronnie. Please let us go to sleep.”
For several seconds he remained quiet, then he said casually, “Okay, you can sleep – if you don’t mind bein’ woke up by that rat when it runs over your face.”
Rachael screamed and bolted upright. “Where? W … where is it?” She peered around, her eyes trying desperately to penetrate the darkness.
“See, over there,” Ronnie said, “can’t you see its eyes?”
Rachael jumped to her feet, pulling a protesting Bobby with her. “No, no, where?”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562884

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676319X

Kariotakis-Polydouri, The Tragic Love Story

Elysian Fields


Bodies extremely tired
bent, cut in half
souls deserted them, walk alone
on the grass slowly, open books laid
the bodies lied down, crunched
distorted and they appear
at the far end holding roses and with
the dream and passion they go
dust to dust the bodies become
yet far in the horizon, like suns
the souls go down dressed in sky
or like simple smiles on lips

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562951

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763459