… as in the winter when the haughty waters of the rushing creeks flow down, flood fields and sweep away both shepherds and their flocks or when at dawn the sun bestows its light across the earth, consumes innumerable stars above the high Olympus three hundred souls of proud Laconians glorified Assopos and the grove of Marathon. Like them, I seek the steel. Who will give me the thunder of war? Who will lead me to the struggle today? Horrible, hated son of Asia Minor, Ottoman, why are you still here? What is in your mind? Why not escape your death? The time has come: leave, ride your wild Arabian mare and with her gallop to defeat the wind…
they reflect proud as they are in the lakes and their shores are white lyres their music covers our internal sadness and fill our essence with joy serenity the women we love are lakes the women we love are like flags and flutter in the winds of lust their long hair shine during the night in their warm palms, they hold our lives their soft bellies are the sky dome our doors our windows the armadas our stars always live next to them their colours are words of love their lips are the sun and the moon and their sail is the only shroud that suits us
Kin We approached the painter who weighted just a few kilos yet he flew in revolutions that drew circles on the wall. Certain and safe, that someone else had died to fill Hades’ need. Wild and delicate movements, pastel hues and chiaroscuro, straight lines, his emotionally charged brush, his canvas a dusty yard, no flowers, only emotions for background and little huts as punishment for the unrealized dreams of the emigre. He smiled, and from that smile we knew: He understood that we understood, the painter another Übermensch. His alter ego, His beloved kin and of course, ours.
Tamanoa was no fool. He dropped to knees beside me. This show of subservience seemed to please Guacaipuro. He turned and left us. That night we were shown to our own hut. There I fell to my knees, and gave thanks.
Afew days later, much recuperated from my ordeal, I was surprised by a dozen children who had come looking for me. Some wore loincloths, some were naked. They stopped dead at the sight of me, but one of them, a lad of about twelve, overcame his disgust and approached me. “What is your name?” he asked. I told him and asked his. His name was Pariamanaco, and he was Guacaipuro’s nephew. His mother, Tiaroa, was the chief’s sister. For some reason, suddenly being aware of this family structure shook me. In the months to come, I would learn to see the Indian folk with new eyes. Pariamanaco took my hand. “Come,” he said. I tied Tamanoa to my wrist, as Guacaipuro had instructed, and they led us to a nearby stream where I pretended to tie Tamanoa to another tree trunk. We watched as the children ran back and forth, into the water and out, splashing and laughing. Hope sprouted in my heart like a sign of spring. Between those children and me a friendship was born, one that would last until the end. They splashed so much water over me that I forgot about it myself, busy as I was with our playful combat. Pariamanaco’s innate sense of justice soon told him that twelve against one was not fair competition, and he changed sides, coming to stand by me against the others. My strength dwindled, and I sat down on a boulder by the shore. The children didn’t notice and kept at it for some time. When they finally saw me there, they came and sat around me. I pointed at the strings of beads with which they adorned themselves, and soon enough they were teaching me names and splitting their sides
standing on end and their faces were painted in black stripes. Their arms and legs bore tattoos with intricate geometric patterns. The fourth Native, with a full head of white hair, was painted red and covered in shell pendants. Freki ran in alarm to Hjálmar. Atall and Drengr picked up swords and shields. Purs, Orka and Uxi, who had just returned from fence-building, stood by, work axes in hand. Captain Hjálmar, unarmed, stepped forward to meet the visitors. The older Native with red-painted face and arms, wearing a large shell pendant, a feather cape, and white moccasins, approached with arms extended toward the captain who stood flanked by his men. In his hands he held a colourful stick, decorated with feathers, obviously a symbol of his status. The red man offered the stick to Captain Hjálmar, but he was hesitant to accept the proffered gift. Never, in all his travels, had he seen such strange looking creatures. The red man was insistent. Hjálmar looked to Bjorn who signalled “Why not?” Bjorn stepped forward just as his captain accepted the object and passed it to Drengr. A small bowl at the end of the stick held a glowing substance – perhaps a Native fire starter. Drengr examined the token and handed it back to his captain. The savage signed for Hjálmar to put the stick to his mouth. Hjálmar sniffed at the bowl and passed the fire-starter back to the red man who took the stick, put one end to his mouth, then blew a stream of smoke toward the sky. The Norsemen drew back in alarm. Only dragons and devils breathed fire and smoke. This was some form of trickery. Hjálmar took back the proffered pipe, hesitatingly drew in a mouthful of tobacco smoke and coughed violently. The savages laughed until the red man raised his hand to stop them. Atall and Drengr raised their swords, ready to do battle with the evil tricksters. Eagle Talon beckoned to his sons to come forward with baskets of food. Little Wolf brought up sweet corn and Kosumi carried a string of three large fresh salmon which they placed on the ground between the two groups. White Eagle and his braves drew back. Hjálmar, having recovered from his fit of coughing, stepped forward, took a handful of the yellow berries, sniffed and placed several in his mouth. He smiled and nodded to the others to taste the cooked corn. The boy, Mingan Grey Wolf, was proud of his first kill. His arrow had pierced the heart of a white ram as it leapt through the air at the edge of the forest. Such a creature had not been seen before, though tales were told of white-haired mountain animals in the land of the setting sun. Where this wild creature had come from he did not know, but Mingan was happy that its spirit had brought the mighty animal within his power: an answer to his prayer for success in his first hunt. Now, he’d carry the head at the hunting feast and dance the stalking dance in the great creature’s honour, sing his praises and thank the animal’s spirit for the gift of his life. Tallulah Leaping Water, daughter of Eagle Talon, would stretch and cure the hide to serve for their marriage bed in the time of the first snow. She’d also skin and cure the head fur and antlers for Grey Wolf to wear at hunting feasts. With his success in the hunt, Grey Wolf was now a man, made welcome as a member of Eagle Talon’s tribe.
Catharsis And time for my catharsis came vague redeemer that I was holding up my body erected next to the icons before the whip took aim at my back feeble churchgoers had kneeled nightingale started its composition no one ever knew what it meant yet deep in their consciousness a glimmer of hope shone like a soul lost in darkness and begged for its deliverance when time for my catharsis came
NONE knew that my face wasn’t real, and with such cunning (and other shady tricks), I retained this ambivalent mask since we had already lost the most important thing from the first day, and we’ve remained here for such a short time like the hands of beggars that, at night, retreat to their original owners; of course, the house was always locked, though the other man had already gone inside. “I have to go out,” I thought, “otherwise I’m dead,” and I could perhaps manage this, unless my walk betrayed me: that careful walk of the poor who try to avoid the worst, the confused, that even if there wasn’t any sky, we could still end up there.
Raphael, they want you to compose a few lines as an epitaph for the poet Ammonis. Something quite elegant and smooth. You can do it, you are the right person to write what suits the poet Ammonis, our poet. Of course, you will speak of his poems but speak of his beauty as well, his refined beauty that we loved. Your Greek is always beautiful and musical. But now we need all your craftsmanship. Our sorrow and our love pass into a foreign language. Pour your Egyptian feeling into a foreign language. Raphael, let your lines be written in such a way that they have, you know, something of our lives in them, so, the rhythm and each sentence will show that an Alexandrian writes about an Alexandrian.
Hellenic Canadian Literature 