Tag: travel

Neo-Hellene Poets, an Anthology of Modern Greek Poetry

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IV

                        Argonauts

And the soul

if it is to know itself

must look

into its own soul

the stranger and the enemy, we have seen him in the mirror.

They were good boys, the comrades, they didn’t complain

about the tiredness or the thirst or the frost

they had the behaviour of the trees and the waves

that accept the wind and the rain

that accept the night and the sun

without changing in the middle of change.

They were good boys, for days on

they sweated at the oars with lowered eyes

breathing in rhythm

and their blood reddened a submissive skin.

Sometimes they sang, with lowered eyes

when we passed by the deserted island with the prickly pear trees

toward the west, beyond the cape of the dogs

that bark.

If it is to know itself, they said

it must look into its own soul, they said

and the oars struck the gold of the sea

in the sunset.

We passed by many capes, many islands, the sea

that brings another sea, gulls and seals.

Sometimes grieving women wept

lamenting their lost children

and others angrily sought Alexander the Great

and glories lost in the depths of Asia.

We moored on shores filled with night fragrances

with bird chirps, with waters that left on our hands

memory of a great happiness.

But the voyages did not end.

Their souls became one with the oars and the oarlocks

with the solemn face of the prow

with the rudder’s wake

with the water that shattered their image.

The comrades died one by one

with lowered eyes. Their oars

point to the place where they sleep on the shore.

No one remembers them. Justice.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763513

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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Excerpt

He ran to the first aid clinic next door. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“There’s been an accident on the road,” the medic said.
“What sort of accident?”
“A tractor-trailer jackknifed and went off the road.”
“Anyone else involved?”
“A pickup truck. There’s other help coming from town.”
Ken’s skin crawled. He forced the bile in his throat back down into his
gut and ran back to the lab, yelling through the door to John that he was
going to check on Jessica and her family. He cranked up the truck, his
heart pounding, an unnameable fear rising in his chest. He put his foot to
the floor, the truck careening around potholes and over the rutted washboard
road. About thirty miles down the road he saw the flashing lights.
He pulled up, got out of the truck and ran to the RCMP car parked at the
edge of the road. Below him, at the bottom of the embankment, amid the
jagged broken-up pieces of the semi, the pickup burned. Shaking beyond
control, Ken ran, stumbling and sliding down the steep slope. The young
RCMP officer he had met previously was struggling back up toward him.
He held up his hand. “Don’t go down there!” he shouted to Ken.
Ken stumbled toward him.
“Don’t go down there!” He yelled, again.
The officer grabbed at Ken’s shirt. Ken spun away. “Is the pickup blue?”
he shouted.
“I don’t know.” The officer said.
“How many people are in the truck?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many people in the god damned truck?” Ken screamed.
“Three, I think.”
“What do you mean, you think?”
“Don’t go down there, the officer pleaded. “Please don’t go down there.”
Ken ran down; tripped, fell, rolled, picked himself up and scrambled
down. He stopped when he hit the wall of heat bursting from the truck.
The flames were dying; the truck was gutted. But what he saw was a vision
he would spend the rest of his life trying to erase from his mind – a scene
that would come to him in nightmares over and over, until sleep meant
nothing but reliving the carnage – pieces of charred bodies inside the truck
– one of them still wearing a piece of fringed and beaded leather jacket.
I have spent so much of my life trying to contain these feelings – to deal
with these things. For a person of that age I had seen far too much death. I
was born to it – born in it. Anyone looking at me – coming from the right
side of the tracks, from a privileged family – anyone who would imagine the
sort of life a person like that would have would be completely off the mark.
So, I have to deal with these feelings very severely because I can’t make the
pictures go away. They don’t go away.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

He Rode Tall

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Excerpt

The land, the buildings, all of that old
equipment, and the horses. Heck, you wouldn’t even have to
unpack. I’ll write you the check right now and you can cash it at the
bank on the way through town as you head back to the city.”
Joel could have very easily taken the money. Heaven knows he
could use it. He really didn’t have anything that was stopping him
from accepting the offer. And 60,000 dollars could go a long ways
in Costa Rica, or wherever he ended up. Maybe he could even buy
a nice little bar on a sandy beach to keep himself occupied. He
could see himself passing out cool cervezas and renting out
sea-doos to tourists. Or maybe just passing out. That sure would
have been his preferred behavior in the past. But there were a few
things bothering him about the offer. First of all, he just didn’t like
Buck Smith. Secondly, from what Smith had to say, there probably
wouldn’t be a place for Harry in the Buck Smith Ranch Corporation.
Thirdly, the offer just came too easy, and if Joel was any judge
of character, the offer was probably significantly below market
value. Joel was feeling confused. He knew that life was all about
the choices we make, and right now, it seemed as if he was faced
with a big choice. He could either sell the Circle H to Buck Smith
for 60,000 dollars or he could be a stubborn son-of-a-gun and try to
make a go of it in this god-forsaken country.
The consequences were obvious. On the one hand, he could
have the bar on the beach in Costa Rica with the scantily dressed
babes, and on the other hand, he could have a grizzled-up old
ranch-hand and a bunch of horses. What the hell was he thinking?
One thing he knew for sure—right now, standing in the
sparse and desolate yard of the rundown Circle H, there was a
battle going on inside of him between his head and his heart. And
he didn’t know which was winning.
“Let me think it over,” Joel said.
“Think it over. Hell, man. What is there to think over? This is a
good offer and there just aren’t any other buyers for a small
standalone place like this. Besides that, your dad and I had it all
arranged.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897955

Water in the Wilderness

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Excerpt

Tyne did not feel like giving her a civil answer. She did not feel like answering at all. But she glanced at Miss Larson, and saw both compassion and encouragement in her eyes. So she spoke as kindly as she could. “No, we’re going to wait until I get home. And, if it makes you feel better, my mother is with the children while I’m at work.”
Ruby did not reply. She took the coffee mug and drank thirstily, then put it down and stood up. “I gotta get outta here, I need a smoke.” At the door she paused. “I’ll speak to my husband and we’ll make other arrangements for the kids,” she said haughtily, then left the room without asking again to see her sister.
It’s just as well, Tyne thought, because she knew that Lydia’s body had been removed to the funeral home earlier that morning.
Miss Larson looked at her nurse whose eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m sorry, Tyne. That was rough. She had no cause to say what she did.”
Tyne sniffed and lifted her shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. “Well, she’s upset. I don’t care what she thinks about me, but it sure hurts when people say unkind things about Morley. He’s a good man, Miss Larson. He lives his faith, that’s why people call him a Bible… a ….” She could not finish. Two tears slid down her cheeks, and she brushed them away roughly with her hand.
“This is the tough part of our job, Tyne, having to deal with bereaved relatives. We never really get used to it.”
Tyne nodded and reached into the pocket of her uniform for a tissue. “In the OR I didn’t have to deal with family, no matter what happened. I suppose I was insulated from the real world. I don’t know if I can handle it.”
“You will, Tyne. When you’re called upon to do it, you will. But, as I said, it isn’t easy.”
On the Cresswell farm, Rachael stood beside the fence and watched Morley herd the milk cows out to the lush green pasture. She didn’t know what was wrong with her today; she felt listless and lonely.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676319X

Still Waters

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Excerpt

Carol Ann tossed her head. “I can’t think of anything better.”
Tyne grinned and glanced at her watch. “Hey look, gang, it’s getting
on to dinner time. I’d like to go have a peek at the roster before
we eat. So hurry up and change, then we can get to the cafeteria before
the rush. I’m starved.”
A few minutes later, as they hurried along the corridor, Tyne said,
“Did either of you see the menu board? What’s for dinner?”
“It’s Sunday. Need you ask?”
“Oh no, not beef stroganoff on my first day back?”
Moe poked her in the ribs. “No, sorry to disappoint you, kiddo.
Not beef stroganoff. That’s just their fancy name for it. It’s plain old
beef stew.”
Tyne groaned. The house mother, having overheard their comments,
looked up and scowled as they passed her desk.
As they spilled out the door onto the street, Tyne murmured under
her breath, “Oh, Mom, I sure miss you now.” 
Tyne stood at the nursing station on St. Francis and listened intently
as Sister Mary Louise assigned the graduates and student nurses
their duties for the day. Six of them gathered around the desk, two of
them third-year students. Joan Farr from the September class looked
nervous. She had just attained her third-year status, and probably
did not feel quite ready for the private patients on St. Francis, many
of whom were professional people, two of them doctors.
Tyne remembered Moe’s words as the three roomies ate breakfast
in the dining hall that morning. “It doesn’t matter how much money
they have, Tyne. Just remember that in bed with nothing on but a
skimpy nightshirt, they’re just the same as you and me.”
Tyne repeated the words to herself as she made her way down the
corridor with a tray of medications.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763068

Jazz with Ella

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Excerpt

The day’s itinerary included lessons, a visit to the Kremlin and Lenin’s tomb, followed by a trip to the Lenin Museum. Evening was reserved for the ballet.
“I’m thrilled about the Kremlin,” whispered Paul, “but frankly I don’t want to see the Lenin Museum.”
“It’s early days yet,” Jennifer whispered back. “Don’t start an international incident.” She speared a wedge of sausage that sat in a grease slick beside a rubbery poached egg. “The bus is leaving at 9. Let’s eat this delightful repast and get going.”
★
Yawning and groaning, the group boarded the bus under Natasha’s watchful eye, then waited while Paul was dispatched to round up the twins who had already found the hotel’s souvenir shop. “Just ask if they’ve seen two copies of Liza Minnelli wandering about,” Hank called after him. The twins certainly resembled the movie star although with an extra twenty pounds of weight per twin.
They waited again while Professor Chopyk delivered a brief but pompous speech of welcome. Aaargh! Why does he do things like that? Jennifer thought. It’s so irritating.
The bus took them across Red Square and parked two minutes later at one of the Kremlin gates.
“That was hardly worth the ride,” grumbled Marty.
“Arriving by bus marks us as foreign visitors,” said David, who was laden with camera equipment, “and we get privileged treatment on the tours.” It was true. Natasha marched them behind the Kremlin walls, past the many line-ups, ignoring the passive stares of the crowds, and ushered them into each historic location. They visited the quiet, simple Church of the Assumption, examined the Tsar’s Bell that had never been rung and the Tsar’s Cannon that had never been fired, and they gazed across a closely guarded, cobblestoned courtyard at the imposing edifice of the Supreme Soviet.
The Kremlin’s armoury museum was not a house of weapons as Jennifer had expected. Instead, it was a dazzling display of fine crafts, jewellery, ornate costumes, royal regalia and richly decorated carriages.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

Arrows

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Excerpt

I gripped the lifelines, my habit soaked and
pasted to my body. He shook his head and curled his mouth as he
placed his bare feet on the steps.
Bartolomé glared when I came up to the quarterdeck. He and the
helmsman were fighting with the long tiller to steer the Isabella who
was surfing a wave downwind with increasing speed. He was too
busy to pay me attention.
I could see he was thinking hard, for he had seen men break their
bones when propelled by the long tiller as the waves jerked the
rudder.
The pilot concentrated on the movements of the needle in the
compass set in a wooden box fixed onto the binnacle. A sailor tried
to record the time and course while another minded the sandglass.
Every man there had a duty to perform; all others were tucked away
in the relative safety of the ship’s innards. Bartolomé chewed his
inner cheek, as he always did when considering his options.
The visibility was nil, no other ships were in sight. Every vessel
was on its own now, each full of men fighting for their lives and
praying, the galleons surely better off than the Isabella. They didn’t
have the wretched high castles fore and aft, taking all the wind and
making the vessel ungovernable.
Bartolomé growled, covering his eyes with one hand and
lowering his head without releasing his grip on the tiller. I saw his
lips move silently amid the roar of wind and sea. He could attune his
senses to the mood of the wind, feeling it on his nape, sniffing it out
of the air, hearing it on the sails and rigging.
Bartolomé knew I was adamant about staying on deck; nothing
short of an angel or God’s thunderous voice would send me down.
He aimed a sullen glare in my direction and yelled to the sailor
minding the sandglass to pass me a coil of line. I caught it in the air
and fumbled, keeping an eye out for waves until I found the end of
it. Bartolomé motioned me to bring it around my waist. I managed a
knot above my Franciscan cord and tied myself to the rail as the
others were to the binnacle, but he sighed, nodded to the pilot, let go
of the tiller and came to tie the knot to his liking.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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Excerpt

The bush pilot told Ken that there was no such place as the Arctic – it
was an arbitrary dotted line drawn on a map, by people who had never
been there. The Arctic was a hundred thousand million places, he said,
with an enormous variety of climates and vast distances between small
communities. You might find a few people on the land, he said, but not
many. Most of them had been rounded up and put into camps built like
villages. The idea of the Eskimo as one homogenous group of people was
as big a myth as to say that all Europeans were one race.
Nevertheless, the government had decided that the Eskimos had to be
gathered together – regardless of tribe or dialect – and placed in communities,
which they would use as a base to go out and trap fur animals
for the Hudson’s Bay Company. Then they depended on the company for
their survival and were, in fact, essentially owned by it. Each Eskimo had
been given a number and a letter. Those west of Coppermine River were
assigned the letter W and a number. Those East of the area were given an
E and a number, and in some cases, those letters and numbers were tattooed
on their arms.
Ken was horrified. He repeated to Jessica, Patrick, and Long John what
the pilot had told him. John was furious, not at the government, but at
Ken and his wild dreams. “You’re on a wild goose chase! You’re mad!” he
shouted. “There’s nothing to go to – thousands of square miles of absolutely
nothing but ice, wind, and rocks – lots of frozen rocks and no
people. I tell you, there are no people there. The place is a bloody, frozen
desert. You’re made of flesh and blood – you’re not a god! What is it with
you English and your half-baked need to go to desolate places? As if life
isn’t difficult enough without going looking for trouble!”
“For someone who’s never been to the Arctic you seem to have a helluva
lot of knowledge about it,” Ken said. “How do you know there’s nothing
there?”
“I don’t need to go there,” John said. “I can read. There’s a place called
“The Barrens” and I imagine it’s called that for a good reason, don’t you
think?” John pulled out a map and pointed to the place. “Read it – it’s
right there. The Barrens – there’s nothing there. When he first looked at
the place, one of the explorers wrote in his diary, ‘This is the place that
God gave to Cain’. All I can see is that the place is going to kill you – not
much different from every other Englishman who’s gone up there. I can
see a small headline in some small newspaper somewhere, ‘The Arctic
wastes claim another Englishman.’”
“It didn’t kill Francisco,” Ken argued.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Water in the Wilderness

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Excerpt

As the others tried to hide their smiles, Morley bit his lip to hold back the laughter. “No, we have to wait for Auntie Tyne.”
“Hymmph,” Bobby mumbled as he stopped chewing, his little cheeks puffed out like a squirrel.
This time no one could disguise their amusement.
The weekend passed too quickly, the late summer days perfect for long walks around the farm and picnicking at Emblem Lake. On Sunday morning Tyne went alone to the Catholic Church while Morley took their guests and the children to his church on the outskirts of Emblem. The night before, as she helped the young ones prepare for bed, Tyne had asked Rachael if her family attended Sunday morning service.
“Nope,” Rachael said briefly as she pulled her pajamas on.
“Then would you like to go to church with Uncle Morley and the Halls tomorrow?”
Rachael shrugged as if it didn’t make any difference to her one way or another. But Bobby jumped up and down and demanded to know where they were going and if they could get ice cream like they had at the lake that afternoon.
Tyne recruited Morley to explain it to the children, and left him sitting on Bobby’s little cot in the room the boy shared with his sister, in serious conversation with the two of them. As she returned to the porch to rejoin their guests, she felt sad that these revelations had to come from a virtual stranger rather than from the children’s own parents. But, at the same time, she felt thankful that she and Morley had the privilege of sharing these things with them even for this short time.
On Sunday afternoon the children were playing outside, and the men had gone to have a last walk around the farm before Moe and Ken had to leave for home. Tyne sat with her friend on the porch, looking out at the cosmos and snapdragons growing in profusion in the shade of a large maple in the front yard.
“It’s been wonderful, Tyne,” Moe said, “I hate to leave. And it’s been good for Ken to get away from the city. He takes work far too seriously and the bosses take advantage of him.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676319X

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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Excerpt

It might have been dropped into the harbour
directly from the China Seas. Ken explored the floating palace and then
stood on the railing leaning over the side, his eyes growing wider as they
passed under the Lions Gate Bridge and chugged into the open waters
of Georgia Strait. The sheer immensity of the snow-capped mountains,
forested islands and vast ocean staggered him. Gulls swooped by, eagles
soared overhead, seals and sea lions dived into the water.
After docking in Nanaimo, Ken drove north on a narrow gravel road,
badly rutted and peppered with potholes. The TR2, with its worn shocks,
rattled up the road that lay at the bottom of a canyon, its sides covered
in giant firs. When he arrived at Nile Creek and found the little cottage
he had been directed to, he knocked on the door and handed his letter of
introduction to the elderly couple who greeted him.
“We’ve heard a lot about you,” they said. “Monsieur Desjardines wrote
to us a number of times; telling us about you, and the wonderful times he
had with you in Portugal, and about how you want to be a Canadian.”
They took Ken out to the mouth of the creek where the water was so
thick with salmon it presented a solid wall.
The next morning they launched a rowboat and rowed out to the kelp
beds, that lay several hundred yards from shore. After tying up to the
outer rim of the semi-translucent mass, they cast their lures along the
edge of the kelp bed. The moment the lure hit the water a fish struck.
Then, miraculously the fish leapt into the air, dancing on the water. Listening
to the old man’s shouted instructions, Ken learned how to handle
Pacific salmon. They pulled in one fish after another, each cast of the line
producing another salmon. When the big box in the bottom of the boat
was almost filled they tossed them back, keeping two for their supper.
Ken spent the rest of the week fishing, and drawing fish – particularly
the cutthroat trout that fascinated him even more than the salmon.
His next trip was to the wild country near Kamloops. As he drew close
to Merritt the countryside grew arid with rugged rolling hills and tall
ponderosa pines, which gradually gave way to a vast grassland covered
with scrub.
He drove up the Nicola Valley, drinking in the smell of sage and basking
in the golden autumn sun. Bees buzzed lazily, half asleep in the golden
fields. Eventually he found the gravel road he was looking for that
climbed up and up into the mountains. He drove through the Stump
Lake Ranch and past the sign that said, “Peter Hope Fishing Camp”. He
drove on through mud puddles so deep that the water seeped through
the floorboards. When he could drive no farther, he parked and walked
across a small creaking bridge to an island with a tiny log cabin wearing
fresh golden logs on one side, and old weathered logs on the other.
Ken knocked on the door.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573