Lost
In the darkest night with
my hoping soul I long to see
the sun I saw for the first time
to just appear before me
now that the wailing
announces the new destruction
I long for the serene hour
and its evening greet
now that snow has spread
like a shroud over dryness
I long for the return
of the faraway swallow
I long for all the lost
and the witch old woman
tells me the shadows that
go away always return.
excerpt
to the look on Morley’s face. He looked down at her with a frown,
clearly bewildered. The expressions on Mr. and Mrs. Cresswell’s faces
showed that they simply had no idea what was going on. Tyne
could not see Aunt Millie until she turned her head. Then she almost
gasped at the look of outrage on the older woman’s flushed face.
“No,” Tyne said stiffly, “I didn’t know. Cam and I have no reason to
be in touch. But I can see how pleased you must be, Mrs. Tournquist,
that your son is coming home.” She then turned to her mother with a
forced smile. “I’ll probably be going closer to home myself now that
graduation is over. I think I’d like to work in a small hospital.”
Emily Milligan’s mouth curved in a sudden smile; then she glanced at
her husband and quickly sobered. He wore the same expression of outrage
as his sister had a moment earlier, but for quite a different reason.
The remainder of the evening became a blur to Tyne. She barely
remembered thanking her host and hostess, and saying goodnight to
her family as they left for their hotel. She remembered Aunt Millie
whispering in her ear as she hugged her, “Good night, sweet graduate.
We’ll see you in the morning before we leave.”
Morley drove his dad’s car through the city streets with uncharacteristic
silence. Mr. Cresswell, sitting in the back seat beside his
wife remained strangely silent, too. Only Rose Cresswell seemed not
to be affected by the events of the last few hours. She did her best
to keep the conversation flowing, and Tyne found herself answering
mechanically. At the entrance to their hotel, Morley helped his parents
out of the car while Tyne got out to shake hands with them, and
thank them for coming to her graduation.
Back in the car Morley drove for several blocks in silence, concentrating
on the unfamiliar city streets. Finally, when she no longer had
to direct him, Tyne chanced to speak.
“Is something the matter, Morley? You’ve been very quiet. Did
something at the Tournquists’ upset you?”
“I think you know, Tyne,” he said quietly.
“Do you mean that business about Cameron Tournquist coming
to the Holy Cross to intern?”
He nodded, grim-faced.
“But Morley, that has nothing to do with me. I personally don’t
Long-Listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards
May the Lord rest the soul
of your servants
hallelujah
it blows
An old man is half asleep
the stucco man’s uniform is dusted by asbestos
there is no exit
the Slavs threaten us
war
quietness, quietness Mr. Minister is talking
war
hallelujah
it blows between the cripple’s crutches
which strike the city doors
it blows from within the guitar of the blind man
who plays at the street corner
it blows amid the bones of the dead
A frightened woman holds her child tightly;
the child hurts and starts crying
the minister yells “shut up”
the bakery worker spits
“pigs
hallelujah”
and his spit, thickened by flour, rises
like bread, tomorrow’s bread
come and eat
it blows
Workers in the sewers, cement workers, garbage collectors,
workers of the gas company, masons, butchery workers
women who sell vegetables in the open market
girls who warm up their hands underarm
some gigantic red hands ravaged by washing
e nation is threatened
for the cause of freedom
but you have to rush, your excellency
they wait for us, for our tea
Virtue
For those who’ll follow, I took two bales
of shredded paper and covered their footprints;
the divided element of matter mattered too:
a husk, a kernel, a lump of dirt, dry and soft like
our guilt that was too strong when the doorbell rang,
my dead cousin got up and went to let Him in,
the elated one, our wildest dream, the deathless
dreamer, our flesh avenger, the angel with a sword
in His right hand and with our future misery in His left
when He laughed uncontrollably: the Eraser of our fear,
of our fear littleness, and humanness, our most profound
dignity our Übermensch.
I like those who love their virtue, which is their
wish for self-destruction and the arrow of longing.
excerpt
We followed the river until it converged with the same river
Guaire which ran the length of the valley.
We were one mile from our destination.
We crossed the Guaire from south to north, following the path of
those who had survived one of the two previous expeditions that
had made it this far. The Guaire was not deep, but, having lived all
my life near rivers, I knew how mighty it could become with the
proper amount of rain.
Soon after, we crossed a creek called Catuche, along which
soursop trees grew by the hundreds, hence the creek’s name, which
in Carib meant soursop. Tamanoa brought me one of its fruits and
ripped it open beforemyeyes. It was white, succulent and aromatic.
As the sun descended, the deep green of the cordillera mingled
now with soft blues and yellows. We had turned north and were
ascending the slope of the piedmont when Losada’s voice
resoundingly gave the order to stop. We had finally reached a
destination: the charred remains of what had been the settlement of
San Francisco, half-buried in the vegetation.
Francisco Fajardo had fled the settlement five years ago when he
knew the reinforcements he had pleaded for had been wiped out by
the Arbaco Indians of Terepaima. After painful losses, Fajardo had
divided his forces into two and fled in canoes and pirogues.
It was eerie being in that deserted place. The air smelled strongly
of rain, damp earth and plants. The howling monkeys, chachalacas,
parrots—they were all quiet. That night, as a full moon shone
through thick clouds, the ubiquitous night-song of frogs and
crickets was overridden by the deafening buzz of cicadas.
Losada paced nearly beyond range of the firelight, five strides to
the right, five to the left, hand combing his beard and moustache,
eyes fixed on the ground before him, his grizzled hair reflecting the
silvery moonlight. He anxiously awaited the return of the troupe led
by Diego de Paradas, who finally arrived after midnight, looking
seriously bedraggled.
“What happened?” asked Losada.
Diego de Paradas was wounded. Pánfilo spoke for him.
Loneliness of Time
Now that the world is holed
and time drips out of its wound.
If I love you, I love you in your pain.
If I hate you, it’s because my pain blinds me
my desperation
springs out of its darkness in the night
and squirms sounding like a serpent
in the room
primeval house monster
that comes out of my belly
and gets an epileptic fit
writhes on the floor
my desperation
screams with a fine voice
you you you you
you
you
and the loneliness of time.
II
As shadows elongate bringing
inspiration to the poet’s stanzas
and the nimble movement of
the sparrow marks a feather
the pair marches to the decapitated
oak’s tallest branch.
With their sacred offering
life repents for a sinful deed.
The frozen north wind,
fearsome and forever lonely,
never unjustifiably angry,
groans as a colossal iceberg
and cracks a faint smile
all his thirty-two teeth agree
and shine in the gleaming
moonlit evening as he
pleasurably accepts
the sacred offering.
All the wind stands still and
in attention when they are
advised to dutifully go back
to their perennial task.
Heavenly Flow
Time
reflections of stars
in the eye of Being
a fleeting image-like existence
thundering silence
between myself and death
Eternity
the constant movement of nothing
something sinful breathes these days
no one returns to innocence
for something that isn’t there
what the infinite searches for
and it spreads, whirls
slipping in space-time that constantly births
what could be beyond the heavenly flow
nostalgia for what was
when it was expelled from the warmth
of the obscurity of uterus.
excerpt
back into the bay, “we ought to try a power gurdy. I don’t know if it
would control the lines any better, but it would speed things up.”
“I don’t trust them. The hand gurdy is fine.”
“But, Dad…..”
“Peter. I said the hand gurdy will do for us.”
“Look, I’ll pay for it. If you don’t like it, it goes, and it doesn’t
cost you anything.”
“No. I said no.” The steel of stubborness was in the old man’s
voice. “That’s the end of it.”
Evenings when the boat was in port, Peter rarely had supper
with his folks. He roamed. After midnight, they heard his quiet
steps on the stairs to his room.
“You must say something to him, Ivar,” his mother said. “He’s
going to find trouble.”
“He’s a grown man, Hilda.”
Then, after a few weeks back on the boat and more suggestions,
Pete argued with Ivar about how to do the work, occasionally at first,
and after a couple of years nearly without ceasing. The change in his
son troubled Ivar Torgerson. A scowl seemed engraved on the face of
the young man. Eagerness for work transmuted into a flow of resentment
and quarreling. He swore at people who got in his way when he
walked on the dock. Ivar heard reports of Peter picking fights in bars
and tormenting drunken Indians on the waterfront in Seattle. He
heard worse too, things he would not listen to, about Peter and sailors,
about the kinds of things some sailors do. At Christy’s Tavern, he
knocked Hans Karlson flat when Karlson began to tell him what he’d
heard. Ivar never asked his son where he went on his nights out alone.
He could not bring himself to mention what he knew Karlson and the
others whispered about.
On a Sunday evening, Ivar and Hilda strolled down the hill
toward the bay, relishing the softness of the springtime air and the
quietness of the streets. They looked in store windows, admired
flower beds, ambled along the dock.
“Ivar, you’re headed toward the boat. This is Sunday. Come on,
we’re turning around right now.”
Date
Fate has set
a blind date
for you:
to meet your
Death
this morning.
For this
you smile
and tighten your lips
in agony.
Bon voyage!
Manolis Aligizakis 