Alice
„Don’t push me!
It is a trap!
A rabbit hole!”
But you realised that
And even shut the door
Becoming
It seems to me
That when I start
To speak to you
Through worlds apart
With words becoming poetry
Love is still true
Unfulfilled
Jazz with Ella
excerpt
VOLGA RIVER, JULY 17, 1974
“She’s madder than a hornet, and she’s calling for your blood,” teased Marty. He ducked out of Hank’s way. It was lunch time on the morning after Hank had found Lona’s mysterious black book. “I guess she tortured your waitress friend until she confessed.”
“I’ll go find her,” Hank muttered. “I don’t want Chopyk or Jennifer to find out. Don’t say anything, okay?”
He didn’t have far to look. They smacked into one another at the door to the dining room.
“You…creep,” Lona growled at Hank, her usual Cheshire cat smile missing. “Now, give me back my book!”
He couldn’t resist one last stand. “Uh…whatcha talking about?” She was about to raise her voice again, when he hustled her down the hall, one hand firmly on her back, until they were out of earshot of the passengers.
“Okay, so I took it. It was a stupid thing to do, but I wanted to know why you’re on this trip—and don’t give me that line about being a student.”
Lona drew herself up to her full height and bristled like an alley cat prepared to do battle. She thrust out her hand imperiously. “It’s none of your business, you thief. I want my book back right now!”
Hank knew when he was licked. “I just …heck, I’d still like to know. I’ll get it for you.” He walked her to his cabin, and she waited at the door, tapping her toe, until he placed the worn black book in her hand. “Come on, Lona. I just wanted to get to know you. Maybe we could still be friends.”
In fact, the book had been a big disappointment—besides a list of Russian names and addresses there were only a few other notes on icons
Marginal
II
Your hair floating, waving
ruffled by the wind
sunshine reflects
in your irises
exquisitely as you stand
idol of an ancient goddess
undefined bubbling
ethereal model of a painter
motionless and undulating
with erotic lines
that momentarily define
my awe as I stare at
the statue of a goddess
who I don’t touch
Savages and Beasts
excerpt
it a new coat of paint, I might spend some nights here…I might
be able to witness certain things.”
Mary smiled at the thought, “when you might spend some
nights here, you’d be very close to me, all night long…” she said
with joyous way.
Anton looked in her eyes before he said, “I’d love to spend
my nights with you in my arms, baby.”
“Soon,” she said with joyous voice.
The funeral finished; everyone went inside; Anton and
Mary too. Anton to his basement work place and Mary back to
her desk.
The day crawled as if didn’t want to pass and afternoon came.
The kids were in class, the cooks and their helpers had cleaned the
kitchen and were now sitting and having their break when Anton
went for an afternoon coffee and found George the Hellene cook
with Tyson in the eating area. He grabbed his coffee and sat with
them; they were obviously debating something or arguing about
something because their voices were loud and their hand mannerisms
showed they could start a fist fight any moment now.
“What is it with you two?” Anton asked them.
“This pig,” George said referring to Tyson “is trying to
make fun of the way I talk again,” then turning to Tyson he said
sarcastically, “what? What? Stick your stupid what you know
where,” he added as his attention was on Tyson. Then turning
to Anton he carried on, “These brutes, Anglos, what one could
expect of them? They forget that when we the Cretans created
civilizations four thousand years ago they still existed in the form
of specs in the testicles of the bears and the monkeys; now all of
a sudden they have become the upper class and all us who have
come here from other places are the second,” George insisted in
utter disgust.
In Turbulent Times
excerpt
Then Liam was still. With a low moan his body relaxed, and she felt the full weight of it pressing on her. For a moment he lay upon her with his chin on her shoulder. Then he pulled himself away and rolled over on to his back with a sigh. Nora winced at the hurt of his withdrawal and burst into tears.
҂
Liam Dooley sat in his armchair by the fire reading an old, leather-bound copy of The Confessions of Saint Augustine that was old even when his grandfather bought it in Smithfield Market in Belfast many years before.
‘Grandda, if I was to ask you to name the book that most influenced you,’ Liam had once asked of the old man, ‘which one would you choose?’
‘The Confessions of St. Augustine,’ Grandfather Owen Dooley had replied with no hesitation. ‘That book gave me a whole new way to think about God and religion. It took me deep into the meaning of life, and continues to do so. He’s been the most influential thinker that I’ve ever read. I have an old copy in the bookcase there. Read it as often as you can. And when I die, I want you to have it and cherish it.’
When his grandfather died the book had indeed passed to Liam, the only physical keepsake Liam had of the old man whom he had venerated for as long as he could remember. Often he felt that his grandfather watched over him from Heaven, that everything he did had to be good because his grandfather was always there, watching. Liam’s great fear was that his grandfather could read his thoughts too. But he calmed himself by arguing that his grandfather would understand the often lustful thoughts of a young, single man. As long as Liam kept his lust on a tight leash his grandfather would appreciate the struggle and commend him on its victory. Only once had he surrendered; and since the day of his lapse with Nora Carrick he had taken to praying not to God, not to the Virgin, not to St Francis, but to his grandfather, asking his grandfather to forgive the humiliation he had caused him in the sight of God and begging the old man to intercede for him with the blessed saints, with God Himself.
‘I’m not like Padraig,’ Liam argued with the spirit of his grandfather. ‘I am not a priest. I have taken no vow of celibacy. Nora is an adult woman. She came to me of her own free will. Pressed her body against mine. I could not have done what I did otherwise. You know that. I would never touch a woman unless she encouraged me. And Nora encouraged me. It was she who suggested going to bed. She wanted to have sex with me.’
Liam looked up from his book. The fire was low.
The Incidentals
Mail
Before the birds start their morning
chirping postman takes to the roads
with his bag hanging off his shoulder
postman brings the good news
to every house, no warning, no fear
of the dog in each yard, the dog which
usually attacks him, he enters each
place and drop letters in the box, news
of a relative’s marriage, the letter from
the lad who lives in a faraway country
addressed to his mother who takes and
with trembling hands opens the letter
to read her son’s latest news and the
lone postman walks out of the yard
heading to the next house with
the good news about a newborn baby, letter
left in the owner’s box while his
tears always roll down his face for
the letter he too hoped to receive.
He Rode Tall
excerpt
“I would like to see Mr. McQuaid, the branch manager,”
said Joel.
“I’m sorry Mr. Hooper, but Mr. McQuaid is no longer with this
branch. He has transferred to our Denver offices. I am the new
branch manager, can I help you with something?” said the attractive,
middle-aged woman who Joel, conditioned in his paradigm
of chauvinism, had mistaken as a receptionist.
“Well ma’am, I sure hope so.” Joel hoped he would have a clean
slate with this manager, and not have to deal with the negative
impression he had made on his earlier visit. Joel continued, “You
see, my daddy used to bank here, and I am running short of cash
and was hoping that maybe you could help me out with a loan.”
“Why don’t you come into my office, Mr. Hooper, and let’s see
what we can do for you.”
Even if he didn’t get any money, Joel was certainly appreciating
the treatment he was receiving on this visit. The last time he was
here after his dad died, he had waited over ninety minutes to see
Mr. McQuaid, who, as the secretary explained, “was a very busy
man.” Finally, when he did get to sit down with him, Mr.
McQuaid told him that an old, rundown ranch yard and a
half-section of land really had no market value. According to Mr.
McQuaid, the Circle H could never be a functioning cattle operation
without access to at least several additional sections of
pastureland, and his home ranch was essentially worthless. Furthermore,
Mr. McQuaid also advised him that horses were worth
a dime a dozen. Joel had tried to explain the breeding and value of
his livestock to the young, city-raised banker, but it all fell on
deaf ears and he was quickly dismissed.
Finding himself on the street outside the bank within five minutes
of being ushered into the branch manager’s office, Joel had
retreated back to the ranch and made up his mind to cut expenses
wherever possible.
But now, he had run out of ways to cut costs any further. Joel
needed cash not just to pay off some of the bills …
Poodie James
excerpt
Poodie saluted. Spanger hesitated, then returned the salute
before he wheeled the cruiser around and headed toward the station.
Pete Torgerson cranked the steering wheel knob as he crossed the
Great Northern tracks and guided the Packard along the dirt road
between the river and town. His headlights swept the curves, illuminating
sagebrush and bunch grass. A jack rabbit bounded in
front of him for a few yards and faded into the blackness of the
road’s margin. Ahead, a few cars rested in a dusty parking area
around a pole supporting a flickering red neon sign that identified
Ted and Angie’s Chicken Inn. George Pearson’s Lincoln, and
Fred Lawrence’s Cadillac were there. He didn’t recognize the
other cars. Inside the two-story log heap, the air was heavy with
smoke and “Tuxedo Junction.” Ted waved from behind the bar. A
man Torgerson recognized as a clerk from the J.C. Penney mens
department pumped nickels into the juke box. At a corner table,
Angie was taking a dinner order from a man who sat alone. Slim
ankles and high heels were just disappearing from the top of the
stairs into the upper hallway. Torgerson heard a slur of a male voice
loudly ask, “Which room?” In a circle of light, four men studied
their cards at a table whose green cover was embellished with stains
and cigarette burns.
“Mr. Mayor,” Pearson greeted him, with a hint of derision,
Torgerson thought, “we just got started. Seven-card stud. Throw
in. It should be an interesting game.”
Torgerson nodded to Pearson, Lawrence and two orchardists
from the north side of Lake Chelan. The growers materialized at
Ted and Angie’s every fall when packing house business with Lawrence
provided an excuse for an overnight stay in town. Angie
delivered the mayor a whiskey sour. Nothing to eat, he told her, he
wouldn’t be staying long. Torgerson anteed. Lawrence dealt.
Torgerson examined his hand. Next time around he called, and
threw two dollars in the pot. The game was underway, and the
mayor got down to business.
Übermensch
Unsaid
He was ready to say something when He looked behind
our shoulders and agreed with those who stood
at the edge of the crowd. He left something unsaid, as
if the lyrics of the song that from young age we had
so much loved, words of ancient dramatists and of uncles
with jet black curling up moustaches and it was a sin
to think of beauty, murder to dream of Paradise.
We were ready to learn another song, although
it insisted to remain silent in our thoughts as if not to be
ever sung; the door opened and the other, the deranged one,
run to the courtyard with his arms loose and his eyes were
focused on Übermensch with his tight lips as if He was
angry and the butterfly insisted to fly over His glorious
head creating a perfect halo.
I like those who give right to the future and sanctify
everything passed because they want it to die with
the present.
George Seferis – Collected Poems
Syngrou Avenue, 1930
To George Theotokas, who discovered it
When the smile that breathes beside you defeats you, tries to bow
and doesn’t consent
when the vertigo that remains from your travels among books
detaches from your mind to the pepper trees on the left
or the right
when you leave the petrified ship traveling toward the
seafloor with broken rigging
the archway with its golden décor
the columns with their meaning that narrows them
when you leave the deliberately carved bodies
for measuring and amassing riches
the soul that doesn’t match your own soul, no matter
what you do,
the toll you pay
that little feminine face in the cradle gleaming in the sun
when you let your heart and your thought become one
with the blackish river that stretches, stiffens and goes away:
Brake the thread of Ariande and voila!
The light-blue body of the mermaid.
Manolis Aligizakis 