Canadian Prairie
Mustard fields dressed
in yellow garments
fenced by indifference
forsaken by hills
forgotten by war lords
and poppy growers
tractor reminiscing
days of duty when at
daybreak tilling soil
and pulling dust over hung shirts
over flower beds lonely
farmer drinking his hot
chocolate before sending
a young hound to fetch
his dusty sandals
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(excerpt)
Words weren’t of much use this morning. All three knew this day was to develop much like all other days, except for Anton and his new job at the Kamloops Indian Residential School. Soon as he finished his breakfast and he said goodbye he jumped in his truck and drove away towards the other side of the river, just five minutes away.
The city was awakened to the prodding of the sun and to the light that needed to be enjoyed and felt on backs of people, on buds almost ready to bloom, on facades of stores and on the walls of houses arrayed along the few streets that make up Kamloops, the center of earth for the travellers, for the logging truck drivers, for the occasional tourists who pass by on their way to the coast, the city that you couldn’t call pretty, what could really be called pretty in Kamloops? Yet this small interior city was a marvellous natural beauty sitting in the middle of cross roads that connected north to south and east to west, a beautiful city with two big supermarkets, two big department stores; what one would never see in Kamloops was people swarming the sidewalks and roads, only, sometimes, one might meet a swarm of customers in one of the two supermarkets especially when they offered certain popular items on a good sale.
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Disorientation
In the summer the trees won us Some people went down to the
sea
others climbed up the mountains During the day the thorns
shine golden
amid the marbles The young waiters with blond moustaches
who work for the two seashore restaurants wear red armbands
During the night the ambulance arrives very late
The crowd gathers around it as though to discover someone
they know among the injured The youngest wears
a snow white shirt and a gold buckle on his belt And as soon as
the stretchers by the lampposts disappear music recommences
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Excerpt XXXVII
VII
Big, dead, yellow, green, purple fishes fell on the floor
when we opened the blinds each morning. The casket
maker was down in the street along with the fool,
the limping man, the blind, the tradesman, the cop in civilian
cloths,
the hidden motorcycle, the school bus, the butcher’s daughter,
the baker, the female flower vendor, the lying fish market
vendor with the frozen fishes, the sunshine on one side of
the sidewalk —
they all tried to convince, some themselves,
a few others to convince others, while themselves didn’t
exist.
Why? Stergios asked, why this story and why the general
story?
There was no answer; I won’t stop asking: why?
Through the chimney, on top of the stairs, under it,
in the prison, from opposite the sundown, with the woman’s
panties held tightly under my arm,
with the half burnt wooden dolls laid on the tailor’s bench,
with the stuffed stork in the barbershop mirror,
with pussy hair carefully kept in a beautiful chocolate box.
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Time flowed slowly like the river water, anguish and concern, vague anticipation of something he won’t like to face, thoughts into which he delved and which dived deep inside him in his viscera that was in an active mode. He lay down on the grass, stretched himself, felt one with the earth, he smelled its fragrance: pure, simple, devoted, gracious, benevolent earth always giving and providing. He felt a sudden unexpected fullness, something made him feel content, this very moment, something was around him, protecting him, saying to him, don’t be concern, what is to be revealed let it come to show itself and when that happens, notice it, write it in your essence and think, consider what you might be able to do with it or about it.
With that thought his pulse calmed down and his whole body felt a lot more relaxed. He got up and drove back home slowly. The rest of the afternoon he spent in his room until his father came from work. Their house was situated on the west side of Columbia Street, just fifteen minute walk to the CP Rail yard where his dad worked. As they had their supper sharp at 6:00 o’clock like any other evening his father looked at him and that was when Anton informed him that he was hired as a caretaker at the Residential School.
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VERY SELDOM
He is an old man. Worn out and hunched,
maimed by the years, and his own excesses,
walking slowly he crosses the narrow street.
And yet as he enters his house and hides
his old age and his terrible condition, he contemplates
the share he still has of youth.
Ephebes recite his verses now.
His visions flash through their lively eyes.
Their healthy, lustful minds,
their firm, well-shaped bodies,
are stirred by the way he expressed beauty.
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Manolis Aligizakis 