Behind our Eyes
Behind our eyes,
silent and crouched,
we look at the world out there
like through the skylight of a prison.
Behind our eyes,
we make secret plans
we aim and fire as if
behind embrasures
and when evening comes
like we do with windows
we hastily pull the curtains
and turn on the lights.
excerpt
“Why?”
“A painting that is given is all but worthless. It’ll be up in the attic or
down in the basement before you know it. A painting must always be
well paid for and it will be up above the mantel quicker than you can
snap your fingers – and it will stay there. And another thing you need to
know – you never give wealth a gift. It’s one of the ‘middle classes’ really
bad habits.”
When Ken walked into the gallery in Kelowna, Jack Hamilton took
him into the back office and handed him an envelope. “I see you keep
very fancy company,” he said.
Ken tore it open. The premier had written that he would be delighted
to visit the gallery the next morning at eight.
At seven-fifty, Jack staggered down the steps from the apartment above
the gallery, in his rumpled pyjamas, unlocked the front door to let Ken
in, and shuffled back up the stairs. At eight sharp, a chauffeur driven car
pulled up, and Bennett stepped out. He gave Ken a hearty handshake, sat
down at a small table near the front of the gallery and asked to hear stories
of the Arctic. “I thought you were just going up there for a month or
two, but you seem to have gotten yourself lost up there.”
“In a way, I did,” Ken replied. “It’s a long story.”
“I want to hear it.”
He told the Premier about his adventures and the atrocious conditions
the people lived with. He talked about the famine and the disease, and the
autocratic rule of the church, the RCMP, and the Hudson’s Bay Company.
When he finished, he asked if there was anything the Premier could do to
help the people up there.
Bennett stood. “Let’s see your paintings,” he said.
They walked through the gallery.
“What do the red dots signify?” Bennett asked.
“It means they’re sold.”
“It looks like they’re all sold.”
“Yes, they are.”
“You must be doing very well.”
“Yes I am – I’m very lucky.”
“I’d say there’s more than luck involved. I know nothing about art but
I do like what you’re doing, especially that one,” pointing to a landscape
of rolling grasslands. “I’d be interested in owning that one.”
“I’m sorry,” Ken said. “I’m afraid the entire exhibit was sold before it
got here.”
He led him into the back office where three paintings leaned against
the wall. “These are not sold,” he said.
Bennett pointed to one of the high plateau on the Douglas Lake Ranch.
“I like that one. Where is that?”
Dancers
Black dancers arced sprang
and after picking their shoes
they left
in hushed tones so
they didn’t wake old man
front row lost
in dreams of a lavish dance hall
chandeliers and many
fit scantily-clad girls
smiling jewel eyed
their breasts nodding
persuasive firm
contours swell desire
tease out his hand
before black dancers wheeled
just before he fell into divine sleep
excerpt
ROSTOV-NA-DONU, JULY 13, 1974
The Canadian student tour group were old hands at Soviet travel by the time their plane left Leningrad bound for Rostov-na-Donu in the Ukraine. The usual plump stewardesses, more relaxed on this domestic flight, handed out the usual sticky candy. The students played the now familiar game of who had the functioning seatbelts. David had no seatbelt, and he threatened to hang on to Paul’s leg for the duration of the flight should they meet turbulence.
Despite the gloom of parting from Volodya, Jennifer’s spirits lifted slightly. The plane was full of Ukrainians returning home—women in harem pants, swarthy men with metallic, toothy grins carrying bundles, carpets and, in one case, something alive in a cage that screeched at intervals. The passengers moved around the plane freely, paying no attention to the attendant yelling at them.
Jennifer wasn’t the only one who was mourning the loss of a friend in Leningrad. Ted had ended his stay there at a party with students from the institute. He had met them on the street, and over some powerful moonshine liquor they had discoursed heavily on the problems of the cold war and had resolved to bring peace to their various countries. Unfortunately, Ted couldn’t quite recall how they had proposed achieving this lofty aim. Lona had also found some friends in Moscow, it seemed, and was only now telling the group about them. Jennifer wondered if Lona would have admitted the liaison if she had not been spotted outside the hotel with a group of sharp and eager young men whom everyone suspected of being some kind of confidence tricksters. If anyone can take care of herself, it’s Lona, thought Jennifer, and she wondered if Lona’s swains had asked her to help them leave the country. Then, in an attempt to shake off…
Sail
Little cloud made of cotton
rowing
onto its tender oh
melted in the sky blue and
dripped into the edge of your eye
Balance
The apple was red and luscious
virginal mouth not yet kissed
like the soft-white poem
whisper from my beloved’s lips
pen writing
the limpid, bluish song
thought of death dangles
equilibrium
IX
The harbour is old, I can not wait any longer
neither for the friend who left for the island with the pines
nor for the friend who left for the island with the plane trees
nor for the friend who left for the open sea.
I caress the rusted cannons, I caress the oars
that my body will be reborn and decide.
The sails only give off the smell
of the other storm’s salinity.
If I decided to remain alone, I seek
the solitude, not this kind of waiting
the shattering of my soul on the horizon
these lines, these colours, this silence.
Stars of the night return me to Odysseus and
his anticipation of the dead among the asphodels.
When we moored over here among the asphodels
we hoped to find
the glen that saw the wounded Adonis.
Discarded Items
Years and years he collected other
people’s discarded stuff, undoubtedly
useless to them although perhaps
useful to someone else, time and
again, he has pondered on this, Thomas,
the retired garbage collector, who
hasn’t heard any news from his son
for the last three years and he knows
one day he won’t be able to care
for himself anymore, when that day
arrives, as it always does, they will
discard him in the big bin along with
the garbage of the old folks’ home
which has been his home now, just
to be collected by the lonely and
the dedicated mega garbage collector
the Almighty Thanatos with his big sickle
the unerring cleaner of our fair earth
old Thomas too did as he was told, he too
followed the societal rules, he too
led the life of the donkey, with his
short rope tied to a stick in the ground
he too never found the strength to
stand up and throw a pebble
to dare disturb the calm lake waters.
GYPSY
Hellenes, chasers of Christians
polytheists, leftover relics
selected and accounted, you
followers of the Nazarene
populace guided by priests
shout, burn with light, curse
oh you, all idolaters.
None of you and none other
even the most wisest and
honorable will ever keep
the sunlight bestowed unto
you by its rays.
In the dark depths of the ocean
live some huge cetaceans
beyond the light of day, and
they see while the sun doesn’t
touch them, their bodies do
produce their own sun
phosphorescence is their foggy sun
that spreads a dreamy gleam
in the dark depths of the ocean
you too live like cetaceans.
Modesty
I don’t want anyone to feel
the beauty I hide inside me
no one can come near it
without hurting it.
I have a bloomed lily inside me
without any shadow on its face
it has never longed for lust
nor ever anyone has kissed it.
I have inside me a rose that
balances on its own flame
and as a holocaust
it keeps silent and blesses.
I have inside me an ambivalent daisy
with its ever agreeing heart
that sways in its loneliness
and adorns its own beauty
and I have other symbols flowers
and others that intoxicate
yet the most delicate ones
bloom only in their imagination.
The beauty I hide inside me
no one ever will feel
if one hurts it a fool he’d be
and he won’t even regret it.
Manolis Aligizakis 