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Helen The deep meaning of dreams is darkness; their images are explained by other dreams; the description of the lover is also an erotic event. A thought equals my other parallel life. Ezra Pound closes his eyes tight as if they prickle him. His poems get reborn and renewed in his silence. The world with its open mouth below you expects you to say that you love it before it consumes you. Then you put together a love story to protect yourself from the expanse landscape. Menelaus has also lived the drama of beauty as a loser. Dressed in his unstylish purple pants his penis floats like a fish in infected waters. No, it would have been better if he, himself, had created Helen even if she was just a poem.
Abal* Her teary eyes peruse her doll With one of its arms severed Abal still plays with her beloved doll as if nothing had happened The doll still has one arm from which she grabs it fate in the form of the bomb that fell the night of last fall didn’t select between the two girls One arm missing from Abal One arm is missing from her doll Two arms of two dolls missing in action
A girl’s name which means wild rose in Syrian language.
Miraculously it was open, and there appeared to be a supply of beer. He found himself standing behind one of the frenetic Canadians. “Good day,” he said politely in Russian directly into Jennifer’s ear. She jumped. “I beg your forgiveness,” he added hastily, at the same time seizing this opportunity to wedge one foot closer to the drink counter, before a particularly rotund grandmother stepped in his way. The girl from Canada understood Russian, he knew that. He had been listening to them in the waiting room, and he had noticed this one particularly. He handed his token to the attendant. “You have 18 in your group,” he said to the still startled Jennifer. It was better to know for sure. She might say that there’s another group on their way and they are all ahead of you in line for the plane to Moscow. But, instead, she seemed astounded. Perhaps she had never been spoken to by a live Tatar before. Perhaps she thought we were all aliens out here in the republics. “You have 18 in your group. Is that correct?” he asked again. Finally, Jennifer found her tongue. “Yes… uh, no. What do you mean? My Russian is not so good, please.” She seemed covered in confusion. She was not holding a drink coupon but continued to stand at the counter blocking the way. “You must pay the cashier first,” said Sergey helpfully, pointing at his bottle of beer that had been unceremoniously thrust at him. Perhaps she didn’t understand. “Oh yes, thank you,” she answered, looking at his drink and moving away rapidly. Then she stopped and appeared to reconsider. She turned to him and said in impeccable Russian: “Why do you ask how many is in our group?” When the call for loading finally came, Sergey Ivanovich, the machinist from Novizavod, walked out on the tarmac with the group from Canada, though in the rear. The severe lady walked right up front, having relied on an airline representative to do a count. But she might turn around and take stock of her brood at any minute. His English was not good enough to understand what was going on here, but he rather thought that even if he had elected the English language in school, he would be no more enlightened. One thing he had always been able to do well was count. There were 18 here all right—including him. Just recently he had read an article in Krokodil that exhorted him to seize opportunities wherever they might be found to further the socialist…
Seventeen Gradually and reluctantly, Tyne awoke, so relaxed and peaceful that she wanted to stay in this state of semi-consciousness forever. But she felt a presence, someone near speaking quiet words of endearment. Slowly, she opened her eyes. Morley sat beside her, leaning over, caressing her cheek and whispering softly. At first she could not see his face clearly, but the muted light slowly revealed his eyes, red and puffy, and a day’s growth of beard on his flushed cheeks. “Morley?” “It’s all right, sweetheart, I’m right here.” Something, a dream or a memory, began to take form as she lay and looked at him. Suddenly, her eyes opened wide. The storm. She had stayed at the hospital for the night. But how had she got home? She couldn’t remember driving her car last night. There had been a storm, yes, but something more nagged at her, something sinister – something she didn’t think she wanted to remember. The storm – what about the storm? And then, with sudden frightening clarity, it came. She raised her head and grasped Morley’s hand. “The children? Did you … did you find them?” Even as she spoke, she dreaded to hear his answer. Gently, he pushed her back onto the pillow. “Yes, we found them.” “Where? How? Are they all right? Morley ….”
ALL WHO tried to look for us vanished on the way and those who finally rediscovered us found a simple name written on the wall. Yet those who accepted the heavy day kept us forever like women hold a basket with swaddling clothes. Until the day’s trial ended and the dusk arrived which you get to know as the years pass.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 