Epode III Heavens still reside in the ghetto’s heart yet logos stay imprisoned in the maze of a code and its ever-fast whip like an ape standing outside the big door of salvation bigots holding him at bay and the crystal stars on the horizon sing the hymeneal again. Logos as in a maze of twisted minds is torn between a lustful moon and the freshness of a spring song light of freedom in sunless cells and headmaster still walks around headless or heartless as he’s commanded by his insatiable greed who sees value in the control in the protocol and in the fear fed to the mortals like manna. Troglodytes of the Middle Ages.
…lack of ambition contrasted remarkably with that of Clifford Hamilton who had different aims on human brains. Yet when Caitlin thought about it, she could not avoid the conclusion that maybe Liam’s desire to fill young brains with learning was more worthy, if less prestigious, than Clifford Hamilton’s desire to open them up for medical probing. She admired Liam all the more for his altruism. He was indeed a true disciple of his idol, Father Padraig. Beyond the school the pebble-dashed, two-storey rectory stood back a bit from the lane. Lamplight shone through the window of Padraig’s room upstairs; the rest of the house was in darkness. Padraig shared the rectory with Father Donagh Costello, the priest of the neighbouring parish “over the bridge” in Aughnashannagh. The pious widow, Brid O’Flaherty, lived in the same house as servant and cook to the two parish priests. Caitlin paused outside the rectory, then passed by and climbed the rough-cut steps to the church. Aligned along the ridge, Our Lady Star of the Sea church occupied a spread of flat ground covered with the same beach-pebbles as the footpath from the road. Caitlin paused in the doorway at the west end of the church, stayed for a moment by the clarity and peace of the evening. She gazed out over the gravestones and the grass to the errant line of the cliff-top. Dark grey was the sea beyond, and blue the sky above. The blueness of the sky paled to limpid opalescence where the sun had set. No sound. No movement. Only a shiver in the short grass where the breeze blew across it. Inland the evening shadows darkened the purple hills, the green fields, the grey stone walls, the yellow flowers of spreading whins. Lights in farmhouse windows twinkled like stars. Thin twines of smoke uncoiled from cottage chimneys. Caitlin felt a surge of joy within her. No-one knows how much I love this land, she thought. She opened the church door with a click of the latch and closed it gently behind her. The hush of the evening out of doors deepened between the white walls and the dark, varnished roof-beams of the church. Three small windows high up along each wall admitted light by day but they were gloomy now. Below each window a picture hung. Padraig had told Caitlin their stories. Along the right-hand wall that overlooked the sea the first picture showed Jesus calling the disciples Andrew and John as they worked at their nets by the shore; the second showed Him in a crowded boat ordering the stormy waters to be calm; and the third showed Him walking upon the sea, holding an outstretched hand to Peter. Along the opposite wall the first picture was of Jesus pulling ears of corn as He walked through a field with…
…people in the movies revive others in these situations, so he plugs the boy’s nose and blows into his mouth with all his might, once, twice, and then asks Anthony to compress the chest, until after a minute or so the boy gasps and expels water from his mouth as he comes to his senses. Anthony and Eteocles turn him face down as he continues to cough and spit out water, and in a few moments he is well enough to recognize the women. “Mom” he says quietly, looking up at one of the two women. She sobs and embraces him. The other woman can’t stop thanking and praising the two young heroes. She takes a couple of figs from her bag, peals them, and gives one to each of the boys. Eteocles and Anthony bite into the sweet fruit and thank the woman. As they walked back to their football game, Anthony looks at his cousin as well as all the other boys who crowd around and ask Eteocles where he learned to resuscitate drowning victims. “At the movies,” Eteocles tells them, his chest swelling with pride and happiness. He has brought someone back to life.
one One thousand years of darkness one thousand years of twilight one thousand lonely writers weren’t enough to hide knowledge one thousand painters didn’t bring a Renaissance tens of thousands of sculptors the ancient Hellenes too idolized the body and the Fourth Racism suddenly appeared
Daring The man with the thick eyeglasses and the gigantic moustache dared his creator and challenged his claim over the sickly thin body, an auspicious gift could return to its maker at any time; death never took hold of his undying soul and creative pneuma, the man sitting at the end of the dining room, of whom the other patrons of the humble pension hashed words of wonder and awe, who could have done it or other wondering phrases people say before the superhuman mind, the Übermensch of his creator, who dared challenge his maker and who reached the ultimate step of the abyss and dared it too, the man who each time the hammer struck him the echo of his unyielding strength reciprocated with a thud more deafening than the first, the man who stood upon the human greatness and made it stronger and more enduring, the man with the thick eyeglasses and the gigantic moustache sitting at the edge of the dining room and staring at the people eating or in the hallway, no need to look outside the window, his battle was always waged against his internal enemy, himself
You can’t replace the whole forest with a wooden statuette on the table. The wind howls. The wind is looking for us. Its steps are heard even in our sleep, like the steps of the soldiers in the domed hallway of the baths when we took off our last garment and the orphan nakedness was left undefended; the silent confrontation, the awkward laughter opposite the certain one, the joyous curse and the curse that tries to be a curse the timid palm that still hesitates to hide — We were like children in the shrubs of steam we weren’t children so ambitious, ambitious we create our Sunday cloths out of nakedness. But now, there’s not any confrontation with you, or him, we’re all naked. We have to confront this wind. Have you lost your leg, my brother? Lean on me. When you lean on me, I lean on the world. We all lean on the world. The wind howls. How beautiful we all walk together in the wind. The sun will rise soon as we go over that mountain.
The Blind Man With The Oil Lamp It was dark, and I had taken the biggest decision of the century: I would save the world! But how? Thousands of thoughts pounded my mind when I heard footsteps; I opened the door and saw the blind man from the opposite room holding an oil lamp, and, walking in the hallway, he was ready to go down the stairs. “What does he need the oil lamp for?” I ask myself when suddenly the thought came to me: I had found the solution, “my brother,” I said to him, “God has sent you.” And we both eagerly commenced our duty.
About the Death of the Spanish Poet Federico Garcia Lorca on the 19th of August 1936 in the Ditch on Camino De La Fuente …una accion vil y disgraciado art and poetry don’t help us live art and poetry help us die absolute disdain fits all noises research comments over comments that often state the unemployed vain writers under mysterious and lewd conditions of the execution of the fateful Lorca by the fascists but finally: everyone knows that for a long time especially during these bad years they make it a habit of murdering poets
Eyebrows Time stays still on your eyelids colorless wave lapping on the shore chirp of the last bird unfolds musical notes onto my tympanums sea waves and windless emotion when the canvas turns bloody like the horizon at sundown crickets start their arias about lovemaking under the moon’s promises the tired sun searches for its bed and us two in the embrace of the evening try to turn our dream into reality
Despite all the atrocities the Indian children have experienced the system couldn’t change them, couldn’t mould them to their ways. Why these kids can’t become like the proselytizing Anglos? What keeps them and sustains them and they remain Indians? How these savages know how to maintain their beliefs and way of life despite the efforts of the occupiers and proselytizing church fathers? The only answer lies in the natural abilities of these savages to never compromise their beliefs and rights which is the only way they can maintain their sense of goal and purpose in life. And so they take the hits and strikes and punishments while they maintain their composure and their rigidity knowing well in their hearts that what goes around comes around. Truly this has kept them alive and strong and optimistic that one day things might turn to their favor. Suddenly a thought came to Anton, an epiphany one could say: he could go and take up studies as his father would like him to do. Yes that could be his future, a higher diploma and a new career. A university in the East would serve well in that respect and Mary could feel good to go with him. Yes, a new beginning. He couldn’t wait until he asked Mary what her feelings would be for something like that. ❧ Marcus and Lucas got very angry upon learning about last night’s incident and the light punishment Mr. Wilson received from Father Jerome. George was very angry too, so was Anton, but both Anton and George knew the law had to be abided and vigilante solutions weren’t the best under the circumstances. So they only hoped that the RCMP would charge the teacher and the case would end up in a court of law where he would be sentenced properly. However these explanations weren’t at all satisfactory to the two Indian youths who would like to see the guilty man…
Manolis Aligizakis 