City Smog I inhale the city smog that covers my thoughts with its velvety garment, a golden thread stitched on my sigh as I lament your loss among the asphodels — You need to buy gas for the mower, the can is almost empty My desire to talk back to her hangs from my lips, and the voice of the rose in the flowerpot commands me to shut my mouth and open the bashful curtains to let the sun rays in —Don’t wear that tight shirt, we aren’t in the seventies anymore, you know! A sick man with his life still existing in drips and breathing machines stays motionless as if he’s ordered not to disturb the nurse’s round, and he stays mute as the dust particles that hover midair, and the sunlight reveal the secret of an upcoming death — Help me, please, tell me what distance to leave between these two pictures. Bell tolls for the last time when the ancient Fury unfolds the bed sheets of the sick man who’s ready to make his final peace with his wounded heart; another gracious moment for the last hurrah of life, and I think of you, my beloved, and my heart aches —I have no more patience with you; come put the coffee pot on, it’s your day, you know!
same feeling about you as I had about where that puck would be.” “I want to help you,” he said one day over lunch. “I’d appreciate all the help I can get,” Ken said. “There hasn’t been a helluva a lot of it at this point.” “Yes, so I gather.” Virgil Pires, a tall Portuguese man, became another frequent visitor. “You come from my country,” he said when he introduced himself. “You’re almost Portuguese. I love what is in the papers and on TV. You talk about my country with so much love. “I wasn’t born in Portugal,” Ken said. “But I think that part of my soul is Portuguese.” The collection of paintings for the show grew, most of them featuring an Inukshuk standing sentinel over the stark Arctic landscape. Irving and Virgil visited almost daily, moving the paintings around, discussing the merits of each one, and arguing about who should purchase which. Virgil liked to say proudly, “He’s Portuguese, you know.” Irving argued, “Portuguese, my ass. He’s no more Portuguese than I am. He’s a mongrel – Danish, Irish, Spanish, French, Italian, Jewish grandmothers, Christian grandfathers – grew up in Portugal – I tell you, he’s a mongrel!” “Oh no!” Virgil protested. “This is brilliant! This is magnificent! It was written in heaven! This man has a place in heaven!” Ken painted, working in a world he was entering for the first time. These visions of the Arctic had been bottled up inside him for years, and a great dam had burst open, spilling out a Niagara of creativity. The faster he painted, the more powerful the pictures. The week before the show, Irving and Virgil began to choose the paintings they wanted, arguing good-naturedly over several of them. “You can’t have them all,” Ken said. “You can only have twenty paintings!” “Between us or each?” Virgil asked. Were they serious? Ken wondered, beginning to feel excited. “Each,” Ken said. He had completed ninety-six canvases. Virgil and Irving fell on them with the glee of schoolboys who had just been told they could choose a dozen of any sort of candy in the store. They argued, talked, and wrangled possessively over one or two of the larger paintings, until each had a pile of twenty. “How much?” they wanted to know. Ken forced his voice to remain calm. He studied each painting and methodically wrote the price on a slip of paper. The forty canvases totalled eighty-five thousand dollars. Neither man flinched. Instead, they insisted on a celebration, and over a bottle of good wine, Ken explained that their paintings would be part of the exhibit – and he recalled one of Alex Fraser’s pieces of advice.
Past Midnight Cafes and Comets Travellers came and left declared enemies of the same forgetfulness the same passion lumberjacks of the same lust with hearts spread to where the eyes can reach the same black ripped clouds mix up their masts rust their anchors secretly using the conch to whistle the same grief into their ears as if a yellow, golden bright colour paints this black and miserable place mercilessly pierced by the sleepy lights of electric lamps the sleepy lights of an ideal, pitiful prostitution and the sleepy che vuoi of the wretched camel? Do you think so? Think: it is impossible it is useless to shout and say that this flame that eats your viscera and which you, yes, you, keep so well so tightly so imprisoned inside you the travellers, you’d think, left and came they solved the riddle they untied the ropes that held them tied to the quay eh, wasn’t it? a dance kindly sad all these rages of the nostalgic the wave calms as it bites in a rage the net of the dishevelled pines? the pines that disguised themselves just for tonight only that they won’t become comets? A seabird stretches its wings and says: “you’re the new prophet in the den of your lions”
She used to stick up for Nora like an older brother. Fearless, she was. What a girl.” Finn’s voice trailed away, but the wistful look remained. He was recalling scenes from long ago. “I was working on the boat one summer afternoon. Hot as an oven, I remember. Had been for several days. The children were playing on the harbour. Half a dozen of them. Boys and girls. They must have been ten or eleven years-old at the time. Clifford Hamilton was there. He was a bumptious young fellow even then. He started teasing Nora. I don’t know what he was saying because I was too far away. But you know Nora. Always sensitive, easily embarrassed. Whatever young Clifford said, Nora took it ill. It obviously upset her. That got Caitlin’s back up. Man alive, she lit into Clifford like a she-cat. Next we knew, Clifford was over the edge and into the water.” Finn chuckled. “It happened so quickly no one could do anything to prevent it. I saw it coming and I shouted, but I was too late. Even if they heard me, which I doubt. And Caitlin just stood up there on the lip of the harbour, hands on her hips, and continued shouting at poor Clifford who was swimming to the ladder to get out.” “The tide was in then,” Padraig said. “By good fortune it was.” Finn said. “Clifford would have been in one hell of a mess if it hadn’t been.” Then the old man fixed his pale grey eyes on Padraig’s emaciated face for a few moments of silent but stringent admonition. “I hope you’ll leave Caitlin alone, Padraig. I hope you won’t try to force her to conform to your impossible Christian practices. Keep that nonsense for the saintly Nora. Caitlin’s different. She has pride in herself, and I want her to keep it. I want her to know that her accomplishments—and they are many—are her own, her very own. I would hate her to go through life thinking that she owed them to a non-existent god, that they were the hand-outs of divine charity. What pride can anyone derive from that? So leave Caitlin alone. Do you hear me?” Padraig remained silent. He returned Finn’s unwavering gaze with a look of obdurate purpose. The two men sat in this dualistic pose for several seconds. “So that’s how it is,” Finn said at last. Still Padraig did not answer. He looked away from Finn with harrowing sadness and regret, his glance settling on the pale porcelain of the Victory of Samothrace. “Damn you, Padraig,” Finn said with feeling but without raising his
continuing negative press.” Tyne smiled knowingly as she sat down. “Then I take it Dad hasn’t changed his mind about a hospital in Emblem.” “Not one iota. If anything, he’s more adamant than ever.” “You … you said you saw Morley at a society meeting. Is he taking an active part then?” Millie chuckled. “Very active. He’s been elected chairman of the promotions committee so he’s responsible for making us all get out and put the idea across to the public.” “Oh my ….” “I shouldn’t say this but I’m sure that’s one of the reasons your dad is digging in his heels about it.” Tyne’s eyes widened. “Because of Morley?” Millie shrugged. “He’s still afraid the two of you will get back together. So, on that principle, he can’t abide Morley Cresswell. And that is Jeff Milligan’s loss,” she added with conviction. And mine, Tyne thought. If things had been different, Morley and I would still be together, probably planning our wedding. Now wait, Tyne, were you willing to give up your faith for him? Were you willing to make sacrifices for him? No, she thought, I’m afraid I was not. So it wasn’t all Dad’s fault after all. Millie put her cup on the coffee table and looked into her niece’s face. “I hate to see you unhappy, darling.” “But I’m not unhappy, Aunt Millie.” “No? Well, I’m glad. I should probably have said that I hate to see you still grieving over Morley. It seems a hard thing for you now, but I’d like you to consider what Joseph told his brothers years after they sold him into slavery in Egypt – ‘God meant it unto good.’ The Lord has a plan for you too, Tyne honey. Just trust. And I’ll never stop praying for you.” With sobs suddenly choking her, Tyne scrambled to her feet and fell into Aunt Millie’s comforting embrace.
To have the warmth and companionship fade away now that he had time to devote to her in the pursuit of her dreams seemed to be nothing short of cruel. Whatever it took to appease Karen would be done. ~~ Now, in Bowser, Ken was faced with the sudden realisation that he had been living life on autopilot. It was a severe jolt for the man who prided himself on being attentive at all times to what was going on, both within himself and in the world surrounding him. As a quicksilver dawn slipped above the scattering of islands offshore, Ken made a fresh pot of coffee and realized he’d made a breakthrough. It had been a long night coming to grips with the situation. Self-awareness was a fundamental state of mind for him, but as he replayed the recent years, he could identify countless occurrences that had ultimately reduced him to this astonishing loss of control. His elusive mind was stubborn in its refusal to follow an orderly chain of thoughts, and he became aware that for months, perhaps even years, his overloaded brain had taken refuge in the distractions provided by an intelligent mind. No matter how vigorously he attempted to discipline it to the process, it slid sideways into something less conflicting. The act of thinking had become busy work, necessary in order to avoid the bleak despair that filled him, most especially intensified when Karen had withdrawn. But he now recognised it was an escape mechanism that needed to be meticulously managed. For the first time in a long while, he was looking with a clear eye at the core of his anguish rather than retreating from it. Gradually he was being filled with certainty that, with this awakening, he was exactly where he should be. My real job now was to be painstaking in programming my healing, much as I did in Portugal when my dad turned the problem of beating my recurring childhood illness over to me. Ken was frequently ill in his early years. Although no medical expense was spared, the ailment remained unnamed. He had grown weaker, thinner and yet more tired following relocation from Britain to Spain. However, in his mother’s Spanish culture, weakness—whether physical or mental— was never to be acknowledged. It was only after the family rejoined Ken’s dad in Parede, Portugal that the six-year-old was permitted to articulate…
Almond Tree And I haven’t yet understood how a woman who’s loved can die An almond tree has grown in my garden just breathing most tenderly and because each morning makes it wilt it won’t give me the joy of its blossom and alas I love it so every morning I walk and kneel before it and with tears and water I water it the almond tree grown in my garden. Oh, the lie of its little life will end and all its still hanging leaves will fall its branches will turn into dry wood spring of its blossom it won’t give me and I, the poorest, have loved it tenderly.
Requiem Th e explosion back then, vivid image forever stilled on his retina bodies scattered in the scrapes pieces of sky tumbling fogged flash of light eyes flooded my moment’s end darkness awaited to capture absolution his arm raised the knife that came down fiercely violating flesh fogged darkness flooding in and out of his psyche once twice thrice thesis antithesis synthesis now a tear flows down silently slowly repeating the end concept darkness, darkness, darkness
“Yes, he spent so many years earning blood money, Bevan. I know; you’re right. The agency is the first and foremost concern for all of you. The agency, no matter what the result, no matter what the human cost,” Emily says, angrily. Bevan knows this feeling of helplessness, this feeling of betrayal, and this feeling of loss, particularly when the loss is for something you don’t agree with. He knows all this because he feels that way most of the time himself. “Yet, there is a reason why everything happens as it happens, my dear Emily,” he says, as a way of inserting a sense of justice into something gone wrong. “Also, don’t forget the police lieutenant mentioned that you told him, as you told me, that Matthew was cleaning his service pistol that morning. After you left, the accident took place.” “Yes, Bevan, the accident took place while I was out with Cathy,” she repeats monotonously.
The devastation is impossible to describe and the words are so humble and poor, trying to explain to the flawless mind the inconceivable, the disappearance of logic, and the return of mass mania for the slavery of feelings in the thirst for blood. The blood is someone’s, anyone’s, as long as blood is shed and it paints the roads and the cobblestone streets of this desolate place in red, this place that belongs to people who know well the hunger and thirst for life. The houses are mostly demolished; one cannot tell the wall of one from the yard of the other—the doors, windows, gates, all destroyed. The roofs have collapsed and walls lean on other walls as injured people try to hang onto one another in order to stand. They resemble people trying to stay on their feet as others struggle to walk uphill on crutches. People shyly and full of fear come out of one hole or another, one by one, like rodents in the fields popping their heads out to see the devastated condition of the land and the devastated condition of the human race whose advanced technology has enabled them to create so much destruction. People come out of their holes to witness whether death has surpassed them, whether he went to the neighbor’s house or took some unknown person; after all, Hades is here to take. They come out of their holes to see whether Hades is still around in the form of a bullet from the rifle of the soldier from the foreign land. The older ones have seen this before and know well the pain and anger, but the children, for the first time, taste the loss of a mother or a father who has died under the cement of their collapsed house, or the loss of a brother or a dear friend killed by the non-discriminating bombs that fall from the arms of the sky. The children run out into the desolate backyards and behind the armored cars of the soldiers. They try to steal something of value…
Unfamiliar Place Peter emigrated to the Orient, and Alex to the West. We haven’t heard how they have been doing. We stayed here at this crossroads. We took care of the place, put up signs and wrote names. Then the wind blew down the signs. Men pass with carriages loaded with apples, grapes, or oranges. They ask: “Is this the way to Sparta? Is this the way to Argos?” We shake our heads as if saying “yes” so we won’t point out that we’ve forgotten over the years, we blow our smoke through our nostrils as if we burn inside, what fire and what knowledge? Yet we survive we even manage to get by; sometimes we even smile or clean our front teeth with our nails, and we look as if we know something we never knew. And perhaps what we didn’t disclose keeps us still waiting for the hour of disclosure.
Manolis Aligizakis 