River Poem I fell into a dugout full of white and got burnt. However, the poem is a river with exquisite wetness I believe it softens the silence of its anger since I betrayed it. It’s not my fault, I swear. Some people left a jar with vowels on the self, I could reach. Then I learned to create ships out of rinds of syllables. Small ships, as small as a child’s finger, and I put them in the flowing water. Then I understood: only separation unites people. You know all the rest from my other narratives: that it never comes back or you never get in it twice and such things. They have said these to us, again and again, they didn’t need any explanation. Yet, the poem is a river with foreign tears. The child that grew up, I often see it going back to its source and when it swells it drowns you in its immense love.
…the Hotel Astoria in Leningrad. She took two sheets of artist’s paper and sealed them along three edges using a small bottle of Lepage’s glue. She carefully unrolled the first scroll and placed it between the sheets, then put the seemingly blank sheet in among the other sketches in her knapsack. She repeated this process with the others. None of this would stand up to a vigorous border guard grilling, she realized, but she would take that chance. With any luck, and perhaps a diversion of her own making, she would slip through. The ceramic ewer was ancient and covered in symbols. What purpose it had served in ritual, she was not sure, but the buyers would know. Over the years of recovering lost art and religious items for the consortium, she had developed an intuitive sense of what would sell and what would not be worth the trip. She dipped her tiny artist’s brush into the paints and with great attention to detail, she painted the ewer a hideous, bright green. It would scrape off later. She would have to wait for it to dry before she painted the words “Souvenir of Rostov” on the side. The ewer was bulky and would have to be packed between the wool socks that she had brought with that purpose in mind. It was the pictures that would be the most difficult to pack. She set the ewer aside to dry and picked up one of the paintings. “The Mushroom Gatherers” she said aloud. The oil painting had been the easiest score of all—it had just been dropped off at her hotel room, courtesy of Volodya. More luck. No one could say she wasn’t co-operating with the others; she had been helpful in finding a way for Jennifer White’s handsome Russian man to have a grubstake in the new land. She examined the painting again. Beautifully done. She had told Volodya she believed the artist to be of minor importance, a guess based on a drunken conversation with one of the American art professors, Dr. Henry Smith, on the riverboat. But her instincts were kicking in again and she would place a bet that it would sell for three times what she had paid Volodya for it. Now that he was leaving the country with the group, perhaps he could be persuaded to carry it in his own luggage. No, that wouldn’t work. It was not a good idea to call attention to him. Maybe Linda’s big suitcase would be better. The menorah could go in Hank’s luggage and the figurine into Chopyk’s.
Sometime while I talk I suddenly start laughing uncontrollably because I died at twelve years of age. I remember details, the funeral service, father was drinking a lot, mother was crying, my older brother had gone to the movies and I, wretched in my coffin, was thinking the evening family meeting and the daring position they had found me with my cousin. For this, I’m saying to you, it’d be perfect if one, during a night, was able to lift all forgetfulness off the poor hats and survived eating gauzes in old train stations only to make an armchair for the leftover apples or to cry so much that the grandfather’s clock would ring again and tell to all our friends that all who don’t remember eternity they’ve truly lost it. Now, the hanged people go up riding the elevator, no one notices them, the old woman is fishing in her lentils for all the old drowned men and sometime a delayed one, at night, sees our titles written on the skin of the killed dog.
Initiation Dreamy, borderless image of a cypress in meditation feathery touch of fingers and breaths heavenly sounds experienced and in your eyes in your teardrop I want to discover the inconceivable and cryptic initiation of time.
…every year, were finished, and it’d take at least a month to know the results: it was a great opportunity for him to visit his hometown, to enjoy his walks along the crystal virgin sea, and to stay with his folks for a while. Besides, his father might need a hand with his orchard this time of the year. He leaned against the railing of the ship, gazing far into the horizon, into the immenseness, beauty, endless blue, from the light blue of the sky to the deep blue of the sea and his thoughts blue as everything else around him only see blue and happiness, blue and equality, a blue chance for every citizen of this battered and tarnished land to find his or her way in life and to strengthen roots in the ground and pop flowers on top, like a beautiful narcissus, this he expected of his life and of this country which stagnated under the solid boot of the military, yet he was here too, he was a citizen of this land too, and like all others he owed his duty to the benefit of this land and of its people, yes, the people suffering under the many inequalities, financial, societal or even career inequalities and many other inequalities he had in his thoughts more and more often after his graduation. His glance was attracted by a few seagulls flying overhead, keeping the ship company on its voyage. They became the vessel’s inseparable companions from the beginning of the trip to the end. He wondered how much strength these birds must have had, which enabled them to endure such a journey. There were no clouds anywhere, only small puffs of smoke coming out of the ship’s smokestack, the Same as the smoke from people’s pipes and cigarettes. Hellenes were ardent smokers, and the sky kept on smiling to all as the Lord had asked it. From the other end of the deck came loud voices, and a few children pointed at something with their little hands and laughed. Hermes walked over: it was a school of dolphins playfully jumping in the water. He counted them with a glance; there must have been over ten. Amazing! He had seen them many a time since he was little, yet he still couldn’t help feeling enchanted as these dolphins were…
…by the crucifixion of our Lord, Jesus Christ, so I wanted him to teach me the words that would allow me to tell this story to his people. On the night the Spanish attacked us, I was telling him about Judas Iscariot. I will never forget the way the monkeys howled and the birds screeched at the sound of armoured men and horses bursting through the bushes. The bedlam of conquest. I knew the outcome of this attack even before they were upon us. More butchery. Even as Guacaipuro and his men jumped to their feet and scattered in search of weapons, I knew their defence would be hopeless. “I am staying,” Urquía said. Guacaipuro turned to face her. His eyes met hers, and his expression softened immediately. “I’ll die with you,” she said. He looked straight at me. Where did my allegiances lie? I was about to lower my eyes, but his darted from me to the doorway. Whiffs of unwashed bodies carried on the breeze; Guacaipuro’s nostrils flared. I nodded. Wehad to act quickly. Words would be lost on Urquía, so I placed myself before her, bent and picked her up on myshoulder. She shrieked and hammered her fists into myback and kicked hard. Holding her by the thighs, I rushed to the opening. I looked back at Guacaipuro before leaving the hut and saw him standing proud with a Spanish sword that had belonged to a famous conquistador. His most trusted warriors surrounded him. He glanced to see her go, and I left, giving him the consolation of her safety. I could take her to my cave. Apacuana, too. And her great-grandparents. I knew where to find them. The village roused in alarm. Most people had been sleeping and were now running about in confusion. Holding Urquía tight, and reaching Apacuana’s hut, I asked Apacuana to hold Padumay’s hand. The old piache was unsteady on his feet. Matyba was fine on her own. It was a moonless night—shadows rushed in the darkness, voices whispered, metal flashed and clanked. I could hear orders shouted in Spanish. “Urquía struggled to free herself. “Stop that!” I urged her. “You cannot help him, and he can better defend himself without you…
The Soul of Odysseus I invented myself the native of immenseness gravity exiled me here as if life is a path of ignorance what can I do with Odysseus now conscious of a tribe that commits suicide as it stands and listens to the echo of oars on the horizon the miracle that endlessly collects the dust of dreams when the untouched diaphaneity of myths reaches us away from him and Ithaca.
IV Logos is absent while the heavenly symbolism turns into frozen steel like the kiss of the northern wind commanding its rightful respect. The iridescent symbol of paradise meant to be a crystalline message, for sacred reverence and effulgent constellations weep. Logos is absent as diaphaneity now represents the dread of blind leaders and their blasphemous fear of being robbed when filthy rich fear of starvation when a poor outcast fear of eloping health when healthy fear of dying alone and sick when alone and sick in the pangs of greed and control.
“For God, Finn.” “There is no God,” Finn shouted, slapping his open palm on the arm of his chair. “You are so preoccupied with this question of salvation, you don’t stop to think about happiness. All you can say is that happiness is your reward in some vague heaven. After you are dead. Have you given my proud daughter any idea of what she is going to do in this make-believe heaven to make her happy for evermore? What can you promise her, you religious quack? Develop wings, wear white robes, and play the harp? Is that your everlasting happiness? What a load of tripe. Get out of my sight.” Padraig sat quietly in the chair facing him, the cup of tea untasted in his hand. Finn’s words had stung him painfully at first, but then he derived an invigorating pleasure from them, almost an ecstasy. They filled him perversely with a sweet joy. “Your harsh words cannot hurt me, Finn,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you, you puny wretch.” Padraig’s declaration had fanned Finn’s dying anger, and the old man’s voice rose again. “You’re not worth the hurting.” Finn paused momentarily and glanced towards the scullery where he knew Mother Ross to be. “I know what you’re up to,” he went on more calmly. “You’re praying for another miracle, aren’t you? First Joe-Joe Carney; then Caitlin MacLir, then her pagan father. Wouldn’t that establish your reputation as the Jesus Christ of Drumard? Converting Finn MacLir to your sham beliefs. You’d give your life for that doubtful glory, wouldn’t you, Padraig? In fact there’s a layer of ruthlessness under your soft sanctity that makes me believe you’d sacrifice a lot of lives for that doubtful glory.” Padraig winced. The lids drooped over his wide eyes, and the muscles of his jaw tightened into knots. “I am not going to give you that satisfaction,” Finn declared. “I’ll die first. And die more willingly for knowing that I did not serve your base Christian ends. But let me give you a warning. Beware of Michael Carrick. You have been over-zealous in your ardour to save the soul of one repentant sinner. You and your heavenly cohorts might rejoice at that, but one of the ninety and nine just persons is not so delirious with joy. Michael Carrick is a jealous man, Padraig. He’s a quiet man and he’s not easily riled. But there’s enough of his father in him that when he does lose his temper he loses all self-control with it. You were very stupid, Padraig. You want Caitlin for yourself, not for God,”—that hurt Padraig, and the hurt showed on his face like the pain of a fist—“and you’ve forgotten about Michael. You’d best be setting his mind at rest. A troubled mind can make a lot of mischief.”
…good and that they just want to make sure about quality and so on. That’s what he hears from his operator down in Texas.” Bernard shook his head. “I’ve never seen such a miserable market. No bids at all unless I place one. What happened to the healthy market he promised me?” “I understand your concern, but look at it from his side. He wouldn’t like you to sell him back what he paid you to place. Wouldn’t you have done the same in his shoes?” Eteo asked. Without another word Bernard got up, shook Eteo’s hand, and left. Eteo could only wonder where this deal might end up. The results from the drilling needed to be positive. He called Logan, explained the situation, and insisted they get out of this one come rain or hailstones. “We only have two people left in it, Dad. I can call and prod them to sell, but to whom? There are no buyers out there.” “I know. Just keep your eyes open. If you spot a big trade early enough, we might be able to interfere in it and sell some into it,” Eteo instructed. “Oh and ask around in town. See if you can find out what they’re doing with the drilling. Do we know anybody who might have some contact with this operator?” “I’ll ask around. Mitch could also help. He walks the streets.” “Yes, good idea. Ask him to poke around.” “Okay, Dad, will do. By the way, Wheaton looks very good. We should have a good winner out of that one at least.” “Keep on plugging it while you talk to people about this one. Have we mentioned Wheaton to Kenny and his people?” “Yes, he promised to bring a few orders.”
Eteocles is fifteen when his parents send him to spend the summer with his aunties in Crete. Nicolas is working at the furniture factory and can’t leave his job, so Eteocles boards the Angelica at Piraeus one evening in June and after a thirteen hour voyage she reaches Souda the next morning. From there it’s a short bus ride to his village to stay with his auntie Stella, the mother of his old pals Anthony and Yanni.
Hellenic Canadian Literature 
