Second Canto As the new language of despair formulates new gothic phrases I start painting my canvas with dark red carts carrying cadavers and lonely crosses toward the mountain peak remainder of her flattened breast perches firmly disassembled in the shadow of magnolia leaves the orphan sound of a lyre’s suffering scolds dawn when quiet amplifies the petty and stingy Where in hell is a grand goal to be followed? Where in hell is a maimed soldier to be consoled? Who the devil will keep a black-veiled widow company through dark hours of her soul’s nightmare? Nothing reveals a snip of shredded light other than indifference of the neighbor who trims junipers with a deep satisfaction of sedentary life stitched on his t-shirt’s nonsense logo then what’s left for old Death to do but toy with the ladybug on His hand and enjoy a disjointed farce of the eminent teen who thinks He knows everything? Are they not all alike? The last hurrah comes from hedging trees and withering hibiscus asserting: We can do better
III Oh dark shivering in the root and on the leaves! Appear sleepless stature in the crowded silence raise your head from your cupped hands let your wish be done and tell me again the words that touched and mixed in a bosom’s blood and let your desire bend like a deep walnut shade and let your hair’s grace flood us from the down of the kiss to the leaves of the heart. You lowered your eyes and you had the smile that master painters of bygone days humbly painted Forgotten reading from an ancient gospel your words breathed and your soft voice: “The passing of time is gentle and unworldly and pain rows softly in my soul down incising the sky, dream remains unsinkable and it is as though fragrant shrubs pass by. With the eye’s startling, with the body’s blushing flocks of doves awaken and descend their low circular fluttering encompasses me the stars a human touch on my breast. The distant and indescribable lament of the world I hear as in a conch mixed by the adversary’s buzz only for moments that vanish and the thought of my two pronged desire reigns alone. As though I had risen naked in a captured recollection when you came familiar and foreign, my precious to grant me bowing the endless deliverance that I seek from the wind’s swift sistrum…” The broken sundown faded and vanished as it seemed a fallacy to ask for the gifts of heaven. Your eyes were lowered. The moon’s thorn sprouted and you feared the mountain shadows. …How our love diminishes in the mirror dreams in our sleep, school of forgetfulness in the depths of time, how our hearts turn narrow and vanish in the rocking of a foreign embrace…
“But where would they go, otherwise?” Millie said. “There doesn’t appear to be much choice, does there? Corky, as nice a guy as he is when he’s sober, certainly isn’t a fit parent.” When Tyne didn’t answer, Millie pulled herself erect and stared at her. “You’re not thinking you should … that you could …? Tyne?” Tyne looked down and began to move her coffee mug in circles on the table. “Yes, Aunt Millie, we have talked about fostering the children. Would that be so bad?” Millie reached to cover Tyne’s hand, stopping its circular motion. Tyne looked up. “Goodness no, child, it isn’t wrong to want to do that. In fact, it would be really kind of you and Morley to take the children in. But are you ready for that? Have you thought of the commitment it would take to raise two young ones? And you’re just starting out in your marriage.” “I know … I know what you mean, Auntie. It would be a big decision, but we’ve grown to love Rachael and Bobby. Neither one of us can stand the thought of them being neglected like Ruby’s kids are.” And she went on to tell her aunt some of the ways the children had endeared themselves during the time they had lived on the farm. When they got up from the table to start the dinner, they were both laughing through their tears. Tyne carried their mugs to the sink, saying as she went, “It may be a moot point, anyway. We can’t make any plans until we know Corky’s wishes. But he’s a reasonable kind of guy when he’s sober; the trick will be in catching him when he is sober, and talking to him.” Millie put an arm around Tyne’s shoulders. “Leave it in God’s hands, dear, and seek his will. Remember, all things work together for good to those who love him.” Tyne smiled and covered her aunt’s hand with her own. “Yes, Auntie, I know that even though it’s a hard lesson to learn sometimes.” She turned and kissed Millie’s smooth cheek. “Thanks for being here for me like always. I love you.” As they set to work to prepare the noon meal, Tyne’s heart felt lighter than it had for days.
Peace of a Full Stomach Citizen watches TV ordinarily beer belly exposed tight tee-shirt jogging pants fluffy comfort mind mutated by fat extreme superiority over masses of colourful citizens of the faraway places where beasts live mind mutated by the notion of entitlement revisionists accentuated underscore the importance of new smart bombs that outsmart foreign defences calculations, exact results deleting hypotheses and estimates The unprecedented precision of missiles controlled by a computer dark green glow of a screen fingers manipulate the Enter button boom
Volodya stirred from his place on the bench, one arm over her shoulders. His face betrayed an odd mixture of pride in his home and uneasiness at the conversation. “You have no idea how much suffering,” he replied. “This very spot, these buildings around us, were built by Swedish prisoners of war during Peter’s time. This was a swamp and many of them died working in it, their bodies beneath us in this earth.” He shuddered. “Then, of course, there was bloodshed during the Revolution… That boat—you can almost see it from here, the cruiser Aurora—it fired the first shots after Our Leader, Lenin, arrived in the city to rally the workers in 1917. Those years meant war and famine. There is not much recorded because the state does not want to remember those bad times.” “The city was under siege again in the Second World War, I know,” added Jennifer, “and many died of hunger.” She felt privileged to hear the stories of its history from a real Leningrader and not from their pedantic tour guide. “Yes, those years are well documented. The destruction was visited upon us from the Nazis, not from the revolutionary forces.” He fell quiet for a time. “I love this city,” he went on, “but it illustrates a horrible truth. It seems that anything that rises up and is good must always be built on suffering. This city has a legacy of suffering and bloodshed but it has survived, and it’s good. What was that word you used? Joyous?” “Yes, joyous,” and the thought of the untapped beauty still to be found in this extraordinary place made her swell with emotion. She leaned over to kiss him, not for the physical act of kissing, but because she wanted to seal that thought with something meaningful. He was surprised at her gesture but soon kissed her back. When they finally fell gently away from one another, a few faint stars had appeared in the sky. ★ On the fourth day in Leningrad she noticed that, suddenly, the stores were stocked with Israeli oranges. Everywhere women shopped in pairs, each carrying one handle of a shopping bag overflowing with the fruit. At the end of a long afternoon together, Jennifer and Volodya stood
Ken’s people were caribou people. When the last of the caribou had passed, they dragged the fresh carcasses to several large piles of rocks that they lifted to reveal deep pits lined with more rocks. They lowered the meat into the pits and replaced the rocks. The main danger to their food reserves was marauding wolverines. By caching their meat under rocks too heavy for the wolverines to move, they guaranteed a food supply for the season to come. The days changed. The shiny green bearberry that covered the tundra turned blood red and when Ken gazed across the land he saw a river of crimson. One morning the snow geese flew across in the hundreds of thousands. When they settled on the land a down blanket covered the scarlet sea. The days grew shorter and the temperature dipped dramatically. Ken shivered in his sleeping bag and the old woman gave him two caribou hides – one to put under his bag and one to cover it. He developed a new understanding of the word “cold”. Cold was not simply a word here – it was a palpable, physical thing, which assaulted every sense – it was the god that controlled the land. A few days after giving him the caribou hides, the old woman presented him with a caribou parka lined with Arctic fox. Through her son, she explained that this was to be worn without undergarments, next to the skin. The parka was light, soft and astonishingly warm. They continued to travel east until they came to a lake dotted with a number of small islands, where they had left sleigh dogs that had whelped in early summer. The animals were wild, ferocious, and pugnacious. They took them back to the mainland where they pegged them to the ground, placing the lead dog at the front of the pack. Once a day someone tossed a frozen fish to each dog, which it consumed ravenously. The dogs were born to pull sleighs and once in the traces would run across the ice until they dropped from exhaustion. With the dogs in tow, they continued trekking to the place the old woman called home. She was a Netsielik, People of the Seal. Her husband, who had died of TB, was People of the Caribou. TB had become epidemic among the Inuit. Several people in the group had severe coughs and often spit up bloody phlegm. Snow began to stream across the land, blowing from the west in a million little rivulets. The temperature, already chillingly cold, continued to drop. The old woman gave Ken a pair of trousers made from caribou hide and sewed a wolverine hide along the edge of the hood of Ken’s parka. To the amusement of the Inuit, Ken sat on the frozen tundra in his new clothes, watching the snow dance across the land. He felt fortunate. He was living his childhood dreams. This was the Arctic he had envisioned – the land of Francisco’s stories.
Scenario Duty tendance devotion your breath intake gills expand contract create fins order oclude dictate direction depth or height of shallow lake water away from the fisher’s hook yet let it be and let you play with him perhaps a light bite a giggle of the tail shiver runs through his spine and the sun observes movement of line tip of the rod vibration leela laughter and agony for the one that got away
In the general direction of the enemy, Indian servants placed forked poles to hold the muzzles of the heavy harquebuses. The horses whinnied and stamped their hoofs, rustling the foliage as they tugged at their halters. Somewhere farther away, I could hear sheep bleating; closer the squealing of pigs. Losada had mounted his black horse and was now whirling in circles and bellowing orders, sword raised high over his head. I glimpsed an Indian woman scampering into the bush with a toddler on her back, suspended on a thick band hanging from her head. The Indian servants scurried about, grabbing whatever they could and herding the animals. All the riders mounted, and the dust cloud thickened, forcing me to hold my breath. Gregorio ran past me, balancing a harquebus in his hand. “Don’t just stand there, hide!” he bellowed, his voice almost drowned out by the racket. “Where is she?” I yelled back. But he was gone to join the harquebusiers gathering behind the riders. I hunched into myself, rosary tight in my right hand. I came upon the fire, blinking to clear the smoke from my eyes, and found the last place I’d seen her. I stumbled over a basket and nearly fell. In the name of all saints, I didn’t even know her name! The servants had disappeared. I was the only idiot awaiting the arrows. At the sound of grunting, I looked down to see a pig careering into the heart-shaped leaves of a huge philodendron. I followed the pig. It took a moment for my eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness in the jungle. I could discern crouching human silhouettes. Indian women were huddled together on the ground, some crying, others staring vacantly while frightened children clutched at them, some finding oblivion at their mothers’ breasts. I made hushing sounds and touched a shoulder here, another there, gesturing toward the trunk of a big mahogany tree and mimicking the arrows falling
Tanya The Circle H Ranch Willow Springs, Montana It had been a full week since he had been to a meeting, and Joel was thinking that he needed one. Both he and Harry had worked hard with the horses all week. Joel’s ankle had healed after a couple of days; not enough that he was doing jumping jacks, but enough that he was able to saddle up and ride. By now, both Joel and Harry had all of the horses out riding in the hills and he could tell that the animals really loved it. Buddy the Border Collie was also getting a great workout accompanying the horses on the rides. With things going as good as they were, Joel figured that he and Harry could give the horses a day off. They turned the horses out into the big meadow of flowing green grass and declared the day a holiday. Watching the horses lazily graze in the lush meadow, Joel thought that, for the horses and for himself, this was probably as close to heaven as he could be on this planet.Unlike the surrounding harshness of the hill country that was parched from the constant rays of the sun and the whipping of the winds, the meadow was protected on two sides by some of the biggest trees Joel had ever seen in this part of the world. Oaks, he thought. Flowing through the heart of the meadow and contributing to its lush appearance was Paradise Creek, with its headwaters in a spring that was back in the hills. As he stood there and watched the dozen three-year-olds make the most of their holiday, the shrill call of a meadowlark serenaded Joel
Manolis Aligizakis 