Erotic Idol
Now the secret hour of our voice
empties the skies and
the morning bread
into our hands
now we forget the crosses
and the serene courtyard
and the decree
of the Delphic Cybil
foreign and deaf at the faucets
that flow in the veins of Creation
deaf and foreign to the brotherly
complicity under the tent
excerpt
Death.
Death had become Joe’s silent companion. Always by his side: on deck, in his bunk, even ashore on leave. Death was there constantly. Sometimes Joe felt the gentle tap on his shoulder. His hair would stand on end, and a shiver would run the length of his spine like cold water. Sometimes Death reached right inside, slipping between his ribs like the cold blade of a bayonet and jabbing against his heart till his heart stopped beating and his eyes misted over and his knees trembled and he felt himself about to fall. Death teased him with macabre pleasure but left him as yet unclaimed. Death took only those Joe loved and each time whispered in his ear, ‘Your turn next.’
‘Tickets, please.’
The man’s rustic voice startled Joe. He had not heard the rush of wind nor the amplified clanking and grinding that accompanied the opening of the door in the drunkenly swaying connecting passage from the next coach. He showed the man his ticket.
‘Home on leave, son?’ The tall, paunchy railway man punched another hole in the ticket and handed it back.
‘For a few days.’
‘Is that all?’
Joe realised then how short his leave was going to be and he thought of all he had to pack into it. And the sad, distasteful duty that awaited him on his return, the ordeal that he could not avoid, swamped his mind and filled him with sorrow. ‘Yes,’ he said in answer to the kindly ticket collector’s question.
Something in Joe’s voice and manner—a heaviness, a melancholy—aroused the man’s sympathy. ‘Going far, son?’
‘South of Belfast.’ Joe did not want to talk. He wanted to be left alone with his thoughts.
‘So you’ll be taking the boat across the water tonight. They say the Irish Sea can be very rough at times. But nothing to a sailor like you, I dare say.’
‘No, I’ve been in a lot worse,’ Joe replied politely but reluctantly.
‘Well, good luck to you, son. I hope you smash those Gerries soon and get back home again for good. That’s where you belong. Marry that little girl who’s waiting for you and live happily ever after.’
Joe leaned his forehead on the window pane. Nora’s face appeared in the reflection, her features mingled with the fields, the trees, the farmhouses, the fences. Her face was so lovely. Joe’s hand touched the pane, but his fingers felt only the hard glass. The soft skin, the reddened lips, the eyelids…
From the age of three, when he discovered the magic world he could
create with crayon on paper, Ken had a satisfactory outlet for his creativity.
He seemed intuitively to understand the mechanics of painting and drawing.
This skill was nurtured by both his father and his grandfather, as was his
fascination with history.
Recurring illness had made school attendance problematic and while
the boy had a brilliantly logical mind, he couldn’t seem to master reading
and writing. Kirkby, Sr. suspected that his son was struggling with what
came to be known as dyslexia. He arranged for private tutors in those
subjects Ken found interesting and, blessed with unstoppable curiosity and
a retentive memory, he flourished in the unusual circumstances.
Undeniably erudite, Ken proudly claims less than one semester of
formal education. Although pronounced a genius by academics and others,
he has refused both Honorary Doctorates and university credits claiming
such window dressing would be no advantage in achieving the goals he has
set for himself.
Scholastic tutors came and served their time, but Ken gives particular
credit to four mentors who endowed him with an outstanding education and,
as he says, influenced the man he became.
He spent much of his youth doing physical work under Francisco’s sharp
eye. The knowledgeable, old fisherman became his tutor in practicalities
and life skills, sharing his duties as village handyman with the boy. Ken was
seven when they first met and in his eyes, the tall, gnarled Portuguese man
was endowed with magical qualities. He lived in an intricately constructed
two-room shack affixed to a cave wall and cantilevered above a reef-bordered
bay. This became Ken’s schoolroom and sanctuary.
Under Francisco guiding hand he learned to read the moods and
warnings of the ocean and the winds, to talk the fish into the pot and to cook
seafood seasoned with spicy piri-piri and a mash of red peppers because, in
the words of the old man, “What woman wants a man who cannot cook?”
Ken learned to shift rocks several times his own size using hand tools and
his logical brain, learning the laws of physics in the process. He set dynamite
and became adept at shooting a gun and jigging for fish before he was ten
years of age.
Oblivion
He looked at us as if He wanted to underscore
He was here because of our innocence. We didn’t
exchanged any words but from the fire in His eyes,
inexhaustible spring of a life wild and irritable, we felt
that everything would change in a flash, our struggle
wasn’t in vain, everything would be clarified like
a secret in our thoughts when from the way He stood
straight and flexible opposite the sundown he invited
the nightfall to come since the people were almost ready
to go to sleep when the artist painted strange signs
on his canvas, red fiery emblems of the apocalypse
we happened to see and comprehend.
I like those who torment their God because they love him
and because of his anger they wish to meet their oblivion.
Hellenic Canadian Literature 