Veteran
Paul has left one leg
in the dusty road of Falluza
improvised explosive device
they said
when he walked his patrol
April of 2004, deserted road
toothless sculls of houses
with no curtains
merciless sunshine entered
from each direction
conflagrating the internal void
of hovel and warring man
Paul limbs step by step
never got used to crutches
defense contractors annual earnings
report: shares soared to new heights
Excerpt
Thursday morning Los Angeles opens her eyes, staring at the sun rising steadily
on the eastern horizon, gifting the city with warmth and joy. Even the homeless
smile this morning knowing it will be easier to locate food in the restaurant garbage
bin or the neighborhood pub garbage; there’s always something edible
there. The smog overarches the city touching the taller buildings, sitting lazily on
top of the high-rises. Rush hour is beginning and traffic increases with bottlenecks
in main arteries. One can hear the morning sounds of the commercial,
business center as people slowly reach to their destinations, stores open their
doors and customers rush in.
Ibrahim Hazim Mahdi sips his morning coffee and reads the latest news. He’s
pleased with the way his day went yesterday; he felt pride with Hakim next to
him all along. Sometimes, he remembers having asked Allah why he wasn’t
gifted with a son of his own, yet that was years ago. These days he takes what
comes his way as a gift from the Almighty because he knows the days of each are
counted first by Him and next by His people.
Ibrahim knows deep in his heart that Hakim is going to do just fine with the
money that he’s leaving for him. He also knows that Hakim will take good care of
his Auntie Mara, as long as Allah choses to keep her in this world. Despite all
these positive thoughts there still lingers an unexplained anxiety which has taken
hold of his mind and makes his heart ache; yet he cannot find the reason for it.
He wonders why he feels this now, after has taken care of everything.
The phone rings and he answers to a girl’s voice.
“Good morning, I’m calling from the medical center. Mr. Mahdi, please.”
“This is Ibrahim Mahdi.”
“Sir, I need to arrange an appointment for you with the specialist who
examined you. He has the results from your tests. What would be the best time
for you later today?”
“Any time is fine, young lady.”
“Alright then, is one in the afternoon okay?”
“Yes, that will be fine; I’ll be there at one.”
It’s early evening in Baghdad, and Ibrahim decides to call Mara. He dials his
number at home. The maid gets the phone and calls his wife.
“Hello,” he says, “how are you? I haven’t talked to you for two days.”
He hears Mara weeping on the other end and asks, “Why are you crying, my
beloved? I’ll be home in a couple of days. Is everything alright?”
“Yes, everything is alright,” she manages to say while sobbing. “Are you really
on your way home soon?” She doubts him.
Excerpt
Through the smoke I made out the hem of her dress some distance
away. She was kneeling beside an inert body, which was pierced by
an arrow through the thigh and another in the chest. It was her
husband.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a near-naked man running. The
smoke partially hid him, but I saw he was tall, with strands of black
hair pasted to his chest by sweat and speed and others floating over
his shoulders. Funny, I thought, I have not seen that kind of long
loincloth before.
Then I realized he was charging toward Josefa. He bore a
belligerent expression, and there was blood on his naked chest
under his quiver’s band. A pang of fear hit me like a bucket of cold
water. Surely he wouldn’t kill a woman, would he?
We were both closing in on Josefa and her dead husband but from
different directions. I was closer than he was. Josefa looked up at the
Indian, open-mouthed and white as the ghost she was in danger of
becoming. I sprinted toward her, heart throbbing, and tore the
buckler from her dead husband’s grasp. There was a serviceable
harquebus lying at his side and the sheathed dagger at his belt but I
didn’t want to use any potentially lethal weapon.
I squared my shoulders and braced myself for whatever might
come. It was God’s choice to see us through or not. I raised the small
shield on my forearm as I had seen others do. His bare feet landed
underneath the buckler, and he delivered a savage blow that
shocked its way up my arm, pushing me back, the clang resonating
in my ears.
He held his arm high, ready to deliver another blow. I was
crouching, peering over the buckler. Josefa yelped. I charged and
overthrew him, grunting like a beast. He fell but was on his feet
before I knew it, the hellish macana still in his grasp. His eyes leered
at me from his horribly painted face. I could feel his anger, his pride,
his hate, but there was a fortitude that sent a chill down my spine.
He turned and swung at my belly, but I leapt backwards as the
macana came within inches. “Run!” I shouted.
Leaves
Green leaves of courage
brown leaves of frustration
their endless endurance
against decay
that settles each autumn
as we stand by the tree roots
listening to secrets
told in sunbeams
or moonless nights
and silence still controls
forgotten thoughts
begotten aspirations
while leaves don’t bother
with systemic schemes
rules of engagement
and thoughts residing
in analyzing minds
BOLIVAR
and nations and borders and other similar things that
don’t inspire
but because they both always stood alone, free, great,
brave and strong throughout the eons.
And now, I despair that even today no one ever
understood me, but what am I saying, nobody wished
to understand me.
Certainly, the same luck might be applied to the words
about Bolivar which I’ll repeat tomorrow about
Androutsos?
Besides, it isn’t easy, to sense the importance of faces
such as Androutsos and Bolivar
Similar symbols.
But let us pass quickly: no, in the name of God, not
any emotions, exaggerations and despairs.
Indifferent, my voice was meant for the eons.
(In the near or distant future, in a few or many years,
perhaps the day after tomorrow or the day after that,
until the hour when the Earth will start flowing empty,
useless and dead in space, new people will wake up,
with mathematical accuracy, during the wild nights,
on their beds, they might shed tears on their pillows
and wondered who I was, thinking that I existed once,
what words I said, and hymns I sang.
And the huge waves that each evening splash onto
the seven shores of Hydra
and the wild rocks and the high mountain from which
the storm charges down
endlessly, tirelessly, they shall call my name).
Parasites
The big rivers of the world
swallow the little ones
my mind travels
to the bloodied dreams of creeks
to bloomed shadows
unexpressed souls
poems that weren’t finished
here where everything changes
the immutable parasites lurk
they erotically wrap themselves
around innocence
declaring the coming of loneliness
Abal*
Her teary eyes peruse her doll
With one of its arms severed
Abal still plays with her beloved doll
as if nothing had happened
The doll still has one arm
from which she grabs it
fate in the form of the bomb
that fell the night of last fall
didn’t select between the two girls
One arm missing from Abal
One arm is missing from her doll
Two arms of two dolls
missing in action
And when we wanted to talk we suddenly went silent.
Through the open window we listened to the footsteps
of the moribund coming from afar.
How could our talk warm up such frost;
how could our door protect us from all this night
as two people threw their great shadow between us.
What will it become of us, my beloved?
My beloved, are you listening to me?
No, it’s not the wind that reaches from afar.
You’d say thousands of footsteps descended to the roads;
thousands of boots pound their nails on the
asphalt.
Where do they go? How can they go away?
How could I’ve lived away from you, my beloved?
How would I’ve lighted a lamp if it wasn’t to see you?
How would I’ve looked at the wall without your shadow
spread on it?
How would I’ve leaned on a table where you hadn’t rested
your hands?
How could I’ve touched a slice of bread if we didn’t
share it?
This noise becomes stronger in time;
there’s no place to sleep. There’s no corner where
you can sit.
No, it isn’t the wind that comes from far away.
Come, rip our bed-sheet, my beloved, rip
your dress and fill the cracks.
People put all their belongings in a sack
because all their household
THE LAST DAY
The words have left me,
Lord, what a confusion
in my whole being,
what a desolation…
Another dead-beat comes
and it occupies me.
The angel is leaving
because of my carelessness
as I ignored him.
I’m running for the sake of running
making no progress.
Even today,
I’ve ruined time
for it to have fun!
Then a walk in tango steps.
Only the battle noise is heard.
And I’m
waiting for Godot.
Newspaper
He opened the newspaper
under the light of the kitchen
seeking to brighten the news
of last night’s muggings,
break-ins, and murders.
After he took a deep breath
knowing he contributed
in beautifying the world
of this ugly modern city
he put the coffee pot on
as if he had to go to war again
and needed his morning fix
Manolis Aligizakis 