The Wall
You were born
One month
Before
The Fall of the Berlin Wall
Nine months later
My birthday
Indicated
I was made
For you, albeit
We met each other way too late
Now hopeless, weak, hurt,
I can tell
Walking along a wall – cold, dark
The wall in your heart
Never fell
excerpt
kitchen, sat him at the plain wooden table, and brought out an unlabelled bottle of clear liquid and two glasses. “Na dne, to the bottom,” he shouted, tossing back the fiery substance and watching while Paul did the same. “To Vera’s comrade! What’s your name again, lad?”
To Russians, the word “Paul” in English sounded much like the Russian word for sex, pol. He wanted to divest himself of this name ever since he had noticed Russian speakers smothering a giggle when he was introduced.
Vera cut in quickly. “It’s Pavel in Russian, Papa. He speaks good Russian, don’t you think? He learned it from a bourgeois—a Count.”
“You don’t mind that Vera brought me here?” Paul asked.
“Of course not. Welcome, Pavel,” the older man repeated, but a nervous flicker appeared in his eyes and he addressed Vera next. “He comes from the riverboat excursion of foreigners, you say?”
Vera repeated the whole story of the meeting, including the part about sitting with the political commissar (which was some kind of honour or some kind of punishment, Paul wasn’t sure which) and receiving permission to visit her father’s farm for her time off the following day. She went to some length to describe the passenger lounge, the drinks, the snacks, the western clothing, and the unsmiling cruise director. She excluded the part about the liaison in the boathouse. Paul was surprised that she had noticed so much. His memory of the day involved only her.
“Welcome, Pavel,” Fyodor repeated to Paul, then added, “Won’t you be missed?” And in an aside in a loud whisper to Vera, “It is forbidden to have visitors without permits. Keep him out of sight.”
“My friend Ted knew I was leaving the boat,” Paul said quickly. “They won’t miss me.” It was a lie but justified, he felt.
The evening passed quickly in conversation. Fyodor, mellowed by alcohol, relaxed once more and shuffled outside to tend to the chickens. Vera arranged a makeshift bed for Paul on a narrow window seat by the stove.
“I sleep up there,” she said demurely, pointing at a steep staircase that led to a dark upper floor. “Papa sleeps there,” and she pointed at a bed in the corner. “I’ll get you some water for washing.”
“Do you want me to come up there and tuck you in?” he asked grinning.
She looked uncertain. “What is this ‘tuck you in?’”
Vision
Anywhere I turn my eyes
I see the struggle and I listen to
the groan of my homeland
anywhere I turn I observe
dry imitations unnatural,
sorrowful caricatures and
inhumane mimicry
anywhere I turn my attention
I listen to bitter words and sighs
entelechy is absent from
bodies that tremble in front of
the mind’s worst anguish
and I see frightened people
among the statues and the nettles
where they grope to find
the absent initiation of life
I hear the constant grumble
of my people rising from
the gleaming ancient beauty
that now is mixed with
embarrassment of these brave
men now adorned with
Armani suits and two sips of life
in the neighbourhood pub.
Anywhere I turn I see cheapness
and debauchery the statues see too
and groan in disbelief as the ancient
sun laments the life passing
in front of the imitation of Hermes
who sheds tears of desperation
at high noon, the hour shadows
vanish and the heavy load
of the consumer infiltrates
into the soul of my homeland
this is the time of the miasma
the dawn refuses to look at
or take part in the conspiracy
anywhere I turn my eyes
I see puppets and servants
of a system that buys them out
for the luxury of the little joy
they supposed to need and for which
they remain slaves forever
Hellenic Canadian Literature 