NINTH DAY
We were making plans for
our death tonight
and it was as if guessing
the songs along with the fishermen
distancing themselves from the shore.
The glance of the sun might be bold
or would the roots of ancient trees
enclose ever tightly
or would we sink in endless waters
with the weight of the days?
metal clatter and chirps
of wounded birds high up in the air
sea made of wheat
or would we die
of the many sunflowers?
Pleasant News
In your mind
all night long, sleepless,
you promised not to cry
to go and arrange flowers
in a plastic vase
fill it with water
from the cemetery fountain
you promised not to cry
perishable hopeless hope
like that first time
in the school yard,
grade one,
he squeezed your fingers
emotional defeat for
the strong grip of the boy
you fell in love and married.
How often do you visit
the grave of your beloved
bringing tales of laughter and
never a single sad story?
excerpt
Sure, he had been gone for many years and there was no doubt
that the Circle H held some harsh memories for him. At the
same time, there was no doubt about it: for him, Joel Hooper, the
Circle H was home. And if there was any doubt in his mind, it
seemed as if nature was reassuring him that he was home with a
magnificent display of a spectacular sunset awash in all kinds of
tones of baby blue and soft pastel pinks. This truly was the legendary
land of the living skies. Alive with all kinds of colors. The
kinds of colors that were capable of temporarily extinguishing
even the gravest worries from one’s mind.
Two days after his trip into Willow Springs for the mail, he was
back up in the hills, sitting on the big buckskin gelding surveying
what must be close to fifty head of Smith’s cattle helping themselves
to his grass. This time he could see where the fence was
down. The cattle had torn the fence down to get at the richer
grass in his pasture. Poor creatures, Joel thought. They must be
half-starved with the slim pickings they have in their own pasture.
With all of the land that Smith has, he must have some
better pasture to move these cattle to. What was he waiting for?
For their ribs to show? Heck, some of them were at that stage
already.
Joel would be the first to admit that he did not know much
about cows, but he did know enough to realize that this was a sad
and sorry lot of cattle.
Realizing that this was going to be more of a major production
than his earlier experience that involved only three heifers, Joel
rode the buckskin back to the ranch and solicited the help of
Harry and Tanya. Harry headed up to the pasture in the old
truck, which he had stocked with a few fence posts, a bale of
barbed wire, and all of the fencing equipment, including a wire
stretcher and post-hole auger. Tanya was just about to finish
working with her last horse of the day, a little bay mare, so she
rode her up to the hills alongside Joel on the buckskin. On the
way to the fence, Joel and Tanya started to round up the intruders,
and in the distance, Harry was busily repairing the fence.
excerpt
“I’m cold, and I’m hungry. I don’t want to go no more. Rachael, I can’t walk no more.” Pulling his hand from hers, he fell to the ground and sat in a shivering little heap, the toy truck clasped in both arms.
“Get up, Bobby, come on, we have to keep movin’.” She remembered the lunch bag that Ronnie had taken from her to carry. “We’ve got food; c’mon, get up and we’ll eat a sandwich while we’re walking.”
Ronald handed the bag over, and bent to lift the little boy to his feet. “Here, Bobby, I’ll carry you piggy-back. Get on my shoulders.”
With Bobby on his back, he set off again. Rachael clutched her doll under one arm as she opened the sack of food. She had started to pull the jam sandwiches out when she heard her cousin’s excited yell.
“We’re there, Rachael. See – there’s your neighbor’s house. And look, there’s your place just ahead.” He began to hurry, the weight of the child on his shoulders no hindrance to his renewed energy.
Rachael shoved the sandwich back into the bag, and ran to catch up to them. She strained her eyes in the murky light so that she could better see the house. And there it was – her home. She thought she had never seen anything so beautiful in all her life. Exhilarated, she ran ahead towards the front door. But, as her feet left the sidewalk to turn onto the path, she realized something didn’t feel right. She looked down. Where once a weed covered path led to the house, a concrete walkway clear of snow made an easy approach to the porch – a porch no longer in a state of disrepair, but standing straight with a coat of bright yellow paint. The steps leading up to it were new, and were also made of concrete. Rachael came to a stop, her mouth hanging open, her eyes wide and staring.
She became aware that Ronnie had come up beside her. “Wow,” he breathed, as he lowered Bobby to the ground.
The little boy stared at the house, then glanced around. “Where are we? Rachael, this ain’t our house.”
Rachael wavered between excitement and confusion as panic seized her. She turned to Ronald, a question in her eyes. His look did not reassure her.
“D’ya think maybe your dad has moved away from here?”
excerpt
it’s best for their morale, for their belief in the rationality of what they do every
day, and for their steadfastness in moving ahead. He has been around these
people and this agency for a long time since leaving Baghdad, since the days he
thought he had a good future with the CIA. Time has passed along with his belief
in a good future. What went wrong? He has wondered many a time; Ibrahim is
right. Bevan knows deep in his heart that Ibrahim is right. The problem is what
the agency does and what his department does is often questionable. This has
troubled him for a while. He has a hard time understanding the reasoning
behind decisions taken that are based on a mounting fear in the psyche of the
American people. He has been abroad for many years in which he has come
across people of many different nationalities; Muslims and others and they are
seldom the way they have been portrayed by the administration and by the
Ameerican media at the best of times. Following the end of the term of the “war
president” the people elected a different party and the stand of the country
abroad softened a bit, but after a couple of terms they were back at the same old
doctrine of pre-emptive strikes whenever it felt right, and Bevan knows that’s
not the best approach. Sometimes it’s better to sit and talk to a person instead of
unleashing the power of the killing machine and later trying to find answers to
questions you never asked to begin with.
He knows something has to be done about all this. Yet there are times when
he doubts even himself, even the comments from Ibrahim, his good friend. Does
he doubt his friend? A number of times he has thought about that, as well. After a
while his mind gets stuck on the idea that something has to be done with this
department, something has to change; it cannot keep on going like this for ever,
it cannot keep on going on with the killings and the atrocities. Yes, he knows,
something has to change.
He has tried over the past five or six years to change the mentality of a
number of people whom he has talked to; but has found it difficult to convince
most of the people in higher positions that what they do and how they approach
things is wrong. Some seem to thrive on other peoples’ misery and cannot
suddenly change direction because Bevan Longhorn wants it. He knows the only
way something will ever change is when something dramatic happens. Bevan has
been thinking about that for quite a while.
Ibrahim is right; substantial change takes place only when dramatic events
precede, like the attack in New York in 2001. He takes a copy of the memo he has
issued to his personnel and puts it in his wallet. He closes the file and calls his
secretary to pick it up. Then he finishes eating his sandwich and asks Dorothy to
remove his cold coffee.
excerpt
“In one way they were right,” Michael interrupted.
“Yes, that’s true enough,” Caitlin agreed. “The doctor tried to tell the people it was epilepsy, but they said that epilepsy was just a doctor’s big word for seizure by the Devil. Then a fishing boat went down in a storm with the loss of all hands. The people in the fishing village blamed Padraig. They dragged him from the doctor’s house, but on the way to the harbour, where they might have drowned him, he suffered another seizure. He was writhing on the ground and foaming at the mouth when my father rescued him. The doctor agreed with my father that the best thing for his own safety was to let Padraig go.”
“What a terrible life that poor man has had,” Michael observed.
“Only the first dozen years,” Caitlin said. “He was twelve when he came here.”
“So he lived with the doctor and his wife for three years?”
“About that, yes. But he was mostly confined to their house. Children stoned him one day when he went outside.”
“Imagine being stuck in a house for three years.”
“It was a lot better than the house he came from. The doctor continued his education.”
“Padraig’s education?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean, ‘continued’ it?”
“His mother, the school-teacher, educated him herself as best she could under the circumstances in her brother’s house. She did a good job of it too. Padraig is a clever man. A very quick learner.”
“You should know, shouldn’t you?” Michael said. “You spent a lot of time over his books too, as I’ve heard.”
“I learned as much from Padraig as he did from me,” Caitlin said modestly, but honestly. “Old Shaughnessy, the schoolmaster, didn’t know what to make of Padraig. I did. I taught him what I could. Except for theology.”
“Theology?” This was a new word for Michael.
“The study of religion.”
“I see.”
“Padraig was quite well versed in that. The doctor or his wife must have known a lot about it. Padraig actually taught himself, Michael, in between the odd jobs he did for my father. He did well enough to get to university. After that there was no stopping him.”
Double Checking the Signals
on the corners of the shadow
the eyes got burned
in the most unbelievable ferocity
of the walls of the zodiac Roxane
lust that charges
as if the result was
never mentioned
hope, curse and flesh
put together the awe
of sleep
they hold the lips
tightly shut
they forget of trickery
in lustful mysteries
the dual salvation
commands
to the dusk the winds raise
the spinning wheel hides us
attracts us
wants the stranger’s passion from us
the pain of the material world
in the honeycombs
of yesterday
the rose, like a true styptic
the secret serenity of the day
the fast symbolic tissue
band of light,
of silence
they feel nostalgic
for the escapee who
will be released
and steal and hide
among the leaves
the body
that was truly loved
Cyclamen
With the first sliver of sunlight, cyclamen unfolds petals in the rock’s schism, the breeze chants a hymn before the virgin light, and the bluish window, like the verse of a faint poem, observes the dawn as I courageously try to balance life after your death
—Get up to gather the leaves of the big oak. They won’t go into the recycling bag on their own
Rose in the vase leans like a star on the right crest of the sky, the lock of the door remembers of all the little songs it has locked outside, and I pray to His majesty to bring you back to me
—If you need three recycling bags, I have more in the storage room
Closer to my retina, I discover a tear that will flow like a ripened fruit, rebellious molecules dancing in a frenetic mode as if to redefine Terpsichore’s flow, the brownish finch discovers our birdfeeder and takes control of his hunger
— Tell me what is on your mind, and you ignore me today?
The colourful dawn paints idols and symbols onto my retinas, and I can almost hear your footsteps, my beloved, echoing on the gleaming floor of the terrace, reminding me of the need to have you
— You don’t care whether I talk to you or not, do you?
excerpt
a sweet humming whisper and my fingers closed around the aluminium body shutting off the little air holes that made it sing. I stuffed it into my shirt pocket and my fingers brushed against the last Spud menthol I’d forgotten to smoke that afternoon after baseball. I pulled it out and straightened it carefully into a limp tube that dribbled dry tobacco from its open end. Scary stuff, lighting up in front of your own house, but what the hell. My scalp came alive with little electric maggots, wriggling. I found some matches in my pants. The end of the Spud flared and settled into a hot core that let sparks off in the breeze when I sucked on the cork tip. I put one foot up behind me against the fence, and the movie came on in my head. My eyes narrowed; my ears sifted the sounds of the city for clues.
Then suddenly they were there, the big boys.
Joey comes up to me, all excited and talking like he wants everybody on the block to hear.
“’ey, Georgie, Pasquale wants you to go to D’Amato’s an get im four cansa Ballantine ale.”
He presses a damp, crumpled bill into my palm and says it again.
“Your nonno, ‘ey, he wants you to get ‘im four Ballantine’s.”
He winks at me, and gives me an elbow. He laughs. His eyes are heavy lidded and his face is damp with sweat. He’s been talking loudly at me so the neighbours can hear, and now he makes a face that says to his buddies, it’s cool, don’t sweat it. I remember that look from dozens of Saturday matinees. I feel the damp currency in my hand. I know there’s something wrong with all this, but I can’t figure it out. Then he bends close to my ear and tells me to meet them in the park.
Sometimes Nonno Pasquale would come and stay with us. On a shelf in the pantry he kept this little tin pail with a lid he’d give me to go and get beer in. The guy behind the bar at D’Amato’s, Gioffo, an old guy, but not as old as Pasquale, always thought I was worth a smile, this little kid with a beer pail, and he knew my nonno from years ago, so he’d wink at me and fill it up and give me a Sarsparilla on the house, and I’d run back home so the foamy draft wouldn’t get warm in the sun, and my grandfather would laugh and give me a nickel, and pinch my cheek and tell my mother what a prize she had for a son.
But I never saw him drink from a beer can, ever. Or even a bottle. Still, it was tonight, and they were having a party in there, and what did I know. So I marched importantly into D’Amato’s Bar & Grill.
Dangerous Things
Said Myrtias (a Syrian student
in Alexandria, during the reign
of Augustus Constans and Augustus Constantios,
partly pagan, partly Christian);
“Strengthened by theory and by study
I shall not fear my passions like a coward.
I shall give my body to carnal delights,
to the pleasures we dream about,
to the most daring erotic desires,
to the lascivious urges of my blood, without
any fear, because, whenever I choose,
and have the will, strengthened
as I shall be by theory and by study—
at the critical moment I shall find
my spirit, as it was before, ascetic.”
Manolis Aligizakis 