Now you rise again, resolved,
your arms slicing the rising waves
in strong, unhurried, measured strokes.
Then I see that you intend to spare yourself a drowning,
and with this I begin to sink.
Why did I turn away? Why?
Why did you turn away? Why?
Why did you proceed upon your course alone?
Now at the base of the unthinkable descent,
a hand grips mine and pulls me to the surface.
Gasping we break the ceiling of our world and take the clear air,
air charged with the indestructible, the faithful, the true.
It is you. You have returned.
I too am drowning, you say with your eyes.
We are rising, I say with mine,
and we will rise together.
Language, speech, the grammar of the heart:
Where does it come from?
What is it seeking?
Why does it run ever and ever onward
toward union and completion?
Yet speech impedes it,
slows it, weights it,
for uncertainty lies between the speaking and the hearing,
in turgid eddies, cold slipstreams, vortex and whirling pool.
Fear, dark as the rotting beds of old seas
sucks at the limbs.
Still, the question is in our eyes,
though neither of us understands the answer.
Neither can we speak,
for a word once spoken cannot be taken back.
How did we so swiftly lose our common tongue,
the silence which in an instant can become true speech,
or at a whim of thoughtlessness condemn
true speech to the suction of abyss?
Speak to me with your silence, Oh, speak,
for I still dream the drowner’s dreams.
O form, finely wrought,
fire upon the water,
O word of love,
I see you weakened by the long exertion,
by sacrifice,
by energies demanded for the buoyancy of weight and mass.
Tell me in our own tongue what I am to you?
What may I be for you?
What shape and presence, what speech and silence
am I to you?
What form?
What true word
am I to you?
A VOYAGE TAKEN
The compass breaks, the mast is down
my soul heeds this: the world is round;
the rising heart,
the dream and pulse,
on a sea-wind carries us.
The birds are dipping under waves,
the fish bolt upward on their wings
and we, the captain and the crew,
suspended over the abyss,
hold the wheel and rig with faith
as this frail vessel dives beneath.
Good sire, we cry,
the waves are high!
Good youth, he answers from the sky,
beyond the fracture line of land and air
your port is near, your home is there.
THE ASCENT OF THE DOVE
The dove, soaring, sees the distant curve of the earth,
and trembles at its shape—vast, architectural,
the sea surrounding it deeper than fathoming.
Rising higher, he looks down to the small orderings of man,
into valleys, along rows of tilled earth, the threads of roads, the sprinkling of snow,
and lights coming on, one by one, in homes hidden among the folds of mountains.
and the rose fades into violet,
blue bleeds into the black of space.
The stars are there, choruses of singing stars.
He forgets all language, all origins of thought,
for thought itself is fluid light.
But this question still afflicts his flight:
Where am I going in the fathomless waters above the earth?
And why has this voyage begun at the very moment I wearied
and began to prepare for an end?
Why?
Night is coming on, the cold wind takes me
higher.
Higher on the tangent of the wing’s curve, the wind’s curve, the earth’s curve,
the broad-flung arc of the orbit, then beyond into the realm
of infinite expansion.
There is no longer any thought of descent.
Still, the question: how will these small wings carry me?
How, when I am so alone?
In this dark, where distant songs recall
the firmament of solid places, of permanence and order,
I hear a presence beside me, sudden, unseen, there—
the wing-beats match mine.
I speak, who are you?
But there is only silence,
a language I have not yet learned.
Speak to me, Oh, speak, I cry.
Though the silence deepens, the presence does not depart
and we fly together our course through space and time.
It is undefined, this union, this abandonment
as one by one we leave behind the powers of cognition
which sovereign the self no more.
Higher now, propelled by the purified intention of ascent,
afloat above the currents of fear, not yet swimming in the liquid grace
of faithful and indestructible trust.
Now I remember, sighs the dove, I remember such moments,
it was, yes, I recall it was a different shape, but in essence
the same: those days when I was young,
when harvests of hay in the creaking wagons simmered in the sun,
and at end of day I plunged into spring-fed pools carved in the rocks,
scattering the million silver minnows of the fractured sun.
Even then I was not alone, though I felt alone,
for in those days the nights made scented vineyards chant with the love
encoded in all fertile growing things,
the plum and the wild currant and the roses bending with the weight of their fruit,
and you became a shape parting the night with your presence.
Though then, as now, you were unseen with the eye,
the eye ever-yearning for shapes to give form and place to the word,
for in this passion was the all-giving, the non-taking,
the concord and the emblem of our ascent.
Having seen, at once I feel the gyre veer, the tangent curve steep,
the wing-beat beside me audible as it pitches away,
beginning the parabola of descent.
Plunging, I see the distant curve of the earth,
and tremble at its shape—
for it is not the shape that was seen at the ascent;
its balances of orbit and of spin,
the equilibriums of planetary weight and stellar mass,
hold each close in a titan’s dance.
Where now? I cry to the void once filled by you;
where, when the ascent has just begun, are you going?
Then the silence answers:
Back to the place which is the station of our labor and our love.
My own wings’ tangent takes me too,
sure of knowledge that I did not know was mine,
yes, down to the heaving seas, the swaying forests,
the dark sleeping fields, the cold and barren lands,
where the indestructible, the faithful, the true
is needed.
No longer do I see you, no longer hear you,
but you are here.
If you were to speak at last, what would you say?
And if I were to speak at last, what would I say?
In the language which is beyond all speaking:
am here,
I am here,
I am here.
There is no need, there is no need for this,
it is already spoken.
ARGO AWAITING
Let us go to the farthest shore beyond the white mountains under the moon,
to the hidden cove where beloved Argo lies at anchor, the surf lifting her bow, the wind yearning to billow her sails, waiting for us, waiting for the children of Odysseus our father to rise again and seek the horizon where sky and sea meet in dimensions
where only the brave will go with their presence.
Or if we cannot, let us dream of it and not call dreaming folly.
For if we fail to dream, all will fall
into disremembrance and neglect,
and the fires that shape the world, which are the heart of the world,
will grow cold
and the splendid art of existence
will become a solitary’s prison cell.
As you stand in your prisoner’s uniform, think of these:
the wind and dreams,
the fierce and beautiful eyes of captains,
the dance of the grieving giants,
the songs of the frolicking dwarfs,
the laughter of children as they run leaping
along the white beaches of infinite play,
listening to the chant of the sea.
And if it is not to be,
if it is never to be,
at least we thought of it
and loved it and longed for it,
and in this manner we were changed.
If by face to face we never see,
nor touch, hear, smell, or taste
the love that is within the heart of the world,
let us remember this:
within our dreaming minds we met
and were set free.
A PACE REFLECTED IN A SHOP WINDOW
And so the glass behind which little sea dreams swell
has spoken to the heart in which true dreaming dwells.
I cast my eyes to pavement now and walk away,
leave the tokens of my quest for fairer day.
What I have seen will not be lost:
the well of longing has no brim;
Odysseus cannot be quelled in a city’s maze,
nor drowners break their upward gaze,
nor will there cease the poetry of slaves.
Let not by my neglect or grief
the memory of unknown shores grow dim;
though voyage undertaken takes us
where we would not choose to go,
better far to seek and fail
than never to seek and win.
J. L., Split, Croatia, A.D. 2006
CHARACTERS IN
The Island of the World
In Rajska Polja—
Josip Lasta, the central character, a boy of nine years as the novel begins
Miroslav Lasta, his father, a village schoolteacher
Marija Lasta, his mother
Fra Anto (full name forgotten), a Franciscan friar, pastor of the parish
Josipa (full name forgotten), a girl Josip’s age, his first love
Petar Dučić, Josip’s closest friend
Sister Katarina of the Holy Angels, Marija Lasta’s sister, a nun in Split
Emilio, an Italian soldier
In Sarajevo—
Aunt Eva (married name withheld), sister of Marija Lasta and Sister Katarina
Uncle Jure (name withheld), Eva’s husband, a Partisan
Alija (full name unknown), a man on a donkey
The Lastavica of the Sea (name unknown), an armless man
In Split—
Simon Horvatinec, a surgeon and professor of medicine, founder of the resistance movement Dobri Dupin.
Vera Horvatinec, Simon’s wife, a retired concert pianist
Ariadne Horvatinec, their daughter
Goran Horvatinec, Simon’s brother, a Communist official
Antun Kusić, Josip’s friend at the university
Ivan Radoš, a biologist
VARIOUS MEMBERS OF DOBRI DUPIN:
Tatjana (full name unknown), a poetess from Belgrade
Stjepan (full name unknown), a Croatian novelist
Vlado (full name unknown), a Macedonian sculptor and nihilist
Iria (full name unknown), a classical composer, half Portuguese, raised in Bosnia
Zoran (full name unknown), a Croatian philosophy student
Ana (full name unknown), Zoran’s sister, a medical student from Zagreb
Ivan (full name unknown), a Croatian from Bosnia-Herzegovina, a musician
On Goli Otok—PRISONERS:
Vladimir Lucić, known as Prof, a professor of history from Zagreb
Ante Czobor, known as Propo, “preacher”, an engineer from Serbia
Krunošlav Bošnjaković, known as Svat, “wedding guest”, a seventeen-year-old Bosnian youth
Dalibor Kovačs, known as Budala, “blockhead”, an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old Croatian youth
Tomislav (full name unknown), known as Tata, “papa”, a Croatian priest
Sova, “owl” (real name unknown), a Slovene
PRISON OFFICIALS:
Zmaj, “the dragon”, the camp commandant (real name unknown)
Sokol, “the hawk”, the commandant’s assistant (real name unknown)
Zmija, “the snake”, a guard (real name unknown)
Zohar, “the cockroach”, a guard and toady of Zmija (real name unknown)
In Dalmatia and Istria—
Drago, Marija, and their daughter, Jelena, a family on the shore of the northern Adriatic (family name unknown)
“Brother”, the older brother of Drago
Draz and Pero, two truck drivers
A little boy (name unknown), a disciple of St Francis
A lady with a goat (name unknown)
Sleeping saints (names unknown)
In Italy—
A fruit vendor
Slavica Mazzuolo, a psychologist, born in Croatia
Emilio Mazzuolo, a dentist, Slavica’s husband
Paolo and Chiara, their children
Emilio’s mother
“Chicklet” and “Canary”, a married couple (real names unknown)
A Franciscan friar (name unknown)
“Cass” Conway, wife of an American diplomat
Sarah Sybil-Pfiefer, wife of a British diplomat
“The foreman” (name withheld), director of Italian service employees at the embassy
In New York—
Mrs. Coriander Franklin, a cleaning woman
Caleb Franklin, her son, a “street rat”
Miriam Franklin, Caleb’s wife, a sociologist
Jefferson Franklin, Caleb and Miriam’s young son
Naomi Johnson, Coriander’s grandmother
Carl Johnson, Coriander’s brother
Winston V. Ramamurthy Kanapathipillai, a natural philosopher
Miriam Kanapathipillai, Winston’s wife, a university professor
Christiana, Winston and Miriam’s daughter
Friar Todd, priest of Sts. Cyril and Methodius parish
Abel Kristijan Bogdan, a child
Jason McIsaac, a child
Steve and Sally McIsaac and their other children
Maria Finntree, a businesswoman, Josip’s daughter
Ryan Collins, Maria’s son, a student
A literary critic (name withheld)
Violet Czobor, a fish vendor
In Bosnia-Herzegovina and Croatia—
Two old men at an outdoor café (names unknown)
Ivo Dučić, a young shepherd
Alija ibn Yosuf al-Bosnawi, a tour guide
Branko and Teta Ana, people of Pačići
A poet, an official of the Croatian ministry of culture
Šime, a doctor/prisoner
Author’s Afterword
Dear reader, all that is most improbable in this tale occurred. Only the “ordinary” is i
nvented. Wherever you may be in this world, please know that I presumed to write about your memory, your blood, your loss, as if it were my own, only because I live with you in the lands that are east of the Garden we once knew. In eternity, we will know fully; in Him, we will see face to face. Then we shall understand even as we are understood, and love even as we are loved.
Michael O’Brien, Combermere, Canada
Feast of Saint Joseph the Worker, May 1, 2006