Archive for 18/02/2026

Prairie Roots

Posted: 18/02/2026 by vequinox in Literature

excerpt

…used coal-oil lamps for light and
elbow grease in lieu of household
appliances, with batteries
for amenities such as radios,
which by the way, did not arrive
in our household until about

  1. Everything was done for an
    immediate purpose, namely, shelter,
    clothing and food.
    We moved in late summer
    and the battle to prepare forwinter
    began. There would be no
    grain that year therefore the garden
    in our temporary home had
    to yield enough to keep the family
    through the winter, and the cattle had to be housed and fed.
    Barns with leaking roofs and drafty walls were put up,
    chicken-coops were built and wood was cut and split. Chickens
    were killed, placed in jars and preserved, and Saskatoon berries,
    wild raspberries and cranberries were made into preserves for winter
    consumption. Not as a thick berry fruit for spooning over ice
    cream or cake but as a fruit dessert consisting of 70 percent liquid
    and 30 percent fruit. It was a wonderful winter dessert and we ate it
    with relish, with a slice or two of bread.
    Speaking of bread, Mother baked every three days or so. We
    would eat it as fast as it came out of the oven and her secret was to
    get far enough ahead to permit it to age at least two days. At this
    point it lasted longer because it was harder and less tasty. Mostly it
    was white bread but every so often she did a whole-wheat batch.
    That always lasted longer; we preferred the white.
    Father set many of the eating standards in the house and all the
    boys followed. No beets, “that’s for cows”, no spinach, “grown for
    pigs”, and so on. It was certainly enough to drive Mother to muttering
    at him and at us, and she did that! But we stuck by him…

excerpt

‘How could such an important thing keep slipping your mind?’ Nora was angry that Liam had taken such an important step without consulting her. Yet that was so like him. ‘Where are we moving to?’
‘To Maggie Potter’s old house.’ Liam raised his book again as if the matter were closed. He looked guilty.
Nora was so taken aback she could hardly speak for a moment. That was why he had not told her. ‘We can’t live there,’ she blurted out at last; ‘it’s a filthy hovel.’
‘It is being cleaned, repaired, painted and papered,’ Liam informed her. ‘It will look quite smart when it’s finished.’
‘It’s a pig-sty,’ Nora protested. ‘It should be pulled down and buried under quick-lime and earth.’
‘You are grossly exaggerating, Nora,’ Liam said. ‘Wait till you see it when it’s done.’
Maggie Potter’s house was a two-storeyed cottage about a quarter of a mile along the main road in the direction of Lisnaglass. It stood behind a tall fuchsia hedge with a narrow, damp, black path winding through the tangled flower-beds and rose-bushes to the front door. Maggie Potter had lived there all her life, all sixty-odd years of it, a small, bushy-haired, wrinkled woman with a thin beard and moustache of fine but unusually long, fair hair. She wore an ill-matched motley of gaudy, second-hand clothes and always smelled of urine. This village eccentric—idiot she was not, for she retained all her faculties and more intelligence than most—had been engaged for twenty years to a farmer by the name of Willy Dunn. For twenty years Willy refused to leave his widowed, arthritic mother, and Maggie refused to move in and share their farm, ‘to be wife to the one and nurse to the other,’ as she often said. Everyone knew that the two women could not stand each other, and that sharing the same house would have been unbearable for either of them. Then at the age of thirty-nine Maggie Potter got pregnant. The village talked about nothing else for weeks. The vulgar louts who loitered round the Harbour Bar and the Halfway House had a field-day at the unfortunate couple’s misadventure. What would Maggie Potter do now, poor thing? Some said she had already decided to marry her farmer and nurse his crotchety old mother when Willy Dunn dropped dead behind his plough. Six months later Maggie gave birth to a Down’s syndrome baby boy who lived only till he was fourteen years old. The farce had turned to tragedy. Maggie lived alone in the house, tending to her hens, her cats and her garden till she died herself on 15 August, the day, as someone pointed out, of the Assumption of the Virgin.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562904

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763270

Of Demetrius Soter (162—150 B.C.)
All his expectations turned out wrong!
He imagined that he would do famous deeds,
that he would stop the humiliation
that oppressed his homeland since the Battle of Magnesia,
that Syria would become a strong nation,
with her armies, with her fleets,
with great castles and great wealth.
He suffered, and he felt bitterness in Rome
when he sensed in his friends’ talk,
the youth of great houses,
in all the politeness and refinement
they showed him the son
of King Seleucus Philopator
as he sensed that there was always a secret
indifference toward the Hellenized dynasties,
they had declined; they were not destined for serious works,
were not suitable to lead the people.
He went off on his own, outraged, and swore
that it was not at all the way they thought.
Look, he had the drive,
he would act, fight, and succeed.
If he could only find a way to reach Anatolia,
to manage his escape from Italy,
all this strength that he carries
in his soul, all this ardour
he would pass on to the people.
Ah, if he could only reach Syria!
He left his homeland at such a young age
he hardly remembers its face.
But in his mind, he always thought of it
as something sacred, which you approach on your knees,
as the vision of a beautiful place, a vision
of Hellenic cities and ports.
And now?
Now despair and grief.
The young men in Rome were right.
It is impossible. The dynasties that arose
from the Macedonian Conquest can’t survive.
Irrelevant: he tried,
he fought as much as he could.
And in his dark disappointment,
he thinks of only one thing
with pride; that, even in failure,
he showed the world the same invincible bravery.
The rest were dreams and futile efforts.
This Syria hardly looks like his homeland,
it is the land of Heracleides and Valas.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562856

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763823

Wheat Ears

Posted: 18/02/2026 by vequinox in Literature

Dancers
Black dancers arced sprang
and after picking their shoes
they left
in hushed tones so
they didn’t wake old man
front row lost
in dreams of a lavish dance hall
chandeliers and many
fit scantily-clad girls
smiling jewel eyed
their breasts nodding
persuasive firm
contours swell desire
tease out his hand
before black dancers wheeled
just before he fell into divine sleep

https://draft2digital.com/book/3748127#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BKHW4B4S