THIS IS A POEM BY GUILLERMO CASTILLO.
By God's divine will,
I waken sitting in the dark
with my attention set
upon a Screen before me
while God behind me in His closet
with His intricate machines
projects a Moving Picture Show
a masterpiece which we call - LIFE
Showing posts with label Ph Poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ph Poems. Show all posts
Youth
THIS IS A POEM BY MAXIMO D. RAMOS.
These have known the tingling freshness
Of the coming forth from God;
The sweetness of mother's breast
The ringing sinewiness of growth,
The feel of the loved one's cheek, the song
Of April suns and showers...
And these will know
The quiet dimming down of age
And the silent wonder
of going back
to God.
These have known the tingling freshness
Of the coming forth from God;
The sweetness of mother's breast
The ringing sinewiness of growth,
The feel of the loved one's cheek, the song
Of April suns and showers...
And these will know
The quiet dimming down of age
And the silent wonder
of going back
to God.
Death
THIS IS A POEM BY HERMINIO M. BELTRAN.
We are
Leaves of Life's tree --
And death is the wind that shakes
The branches gently 'till its leaves
All fall.
We are
Leaves of Life's tree --
And death is the wind that shakes
The branches gently 'till its leaves
All fall.
I Vialed The Universe
THIS IS A POEM WRITTEN BY LEONCIO P. DERIADA.
I vialed the universe
And laughed at the concentrated Gods.
But the Genie escaped with His halo of riddles.
I pondered anew and unslept.
Thoughts were strange with the strangeness of new towns
Thoughts were as vast as the unvialed God.
I could not bottle or battle Him.
There: I saw Him mark in the matutinal mist.
I surrendered.
I vialed the universe
And laughed at the concentrated Gods.
But the Genie escaped with His halo of riddles.
I pondered anew and unslept.
Thoughts were strange with the strangeness of new towns
Thoughts were as vast as the unvialed God.
I could not bottle or battle Him.
There: I saw Him mark in the matutinal mist.
I surrendered.
Pedagogic
THIS IS A POEM WRITTEN BY CIRILO F. BAUSTISTA.
I walked towards the falling woods
to teach the trees all that I could
of time and birth, the language of men,
the virtues of hate and loving.
They stood with their fingers flaming,
Listened to me with a serious mien:
I knew the footnotes, all the text,
my words were precise and correct—
I was sure that they were learning—
till one tree spoke, speaking in dolor,
to ask why I never changed color.
I walked towards the falling woods
to teach the trees all that I could
of time and birth, the language of men,
the virtues of hate and loving.
They stood with their fingers flaming,
Listened to me with a serious mien:
I knew the footnotes, all the text,
my words were precise and correct—
I was sure that they were learning—
till one tree spoke, speaking in dolor,
to ask why I never changed color.
The Sea Cannot Touch
THIS POEM WAS WRITTEN BY CIRILO F. BAUTISTA.
The sea cannot touch me now
nor the sky
in this room whose arms are
your arms
They would spell the night
I took you for my wife
I do not think of candles in that church
Though they were there
the priest the words though they
were there
I think only of your sad
beautiful face following
the nothing there/the nothing
to construct our lives with/hoping
the singing birds would come
and house among its branches
The sea cannot touch me now
nor the sky
in this room whose arms are
your arms
They would spell the night
I took you for my wife
I do not think of candles in that church
Though they were there
the priest the words though they
were there
I think only of your sad
beautiful face following
the nothing there/the nothing
to construct our lives with/hoping
the singing birds would come
and house among its branches
The Spouse
THIS IS A POEM BY LUIS G. DATO.
Rose in her hand, and moist eyes young with weeping,
She stands upon the threshold of her house,
Fragrant with scent that wakens love from sleeping,
She looks far down to where her husband plows.
Her hair disheveled in the night of passion,
Her warm limbs humid with the sacred strife,
What may she know but man and woman fashion,
Out of the clay of wrath and sorrow, Life?
She holds no joys beyond the days's tomorrow,
She finds no worlds beyond his arms's embrace,
She looks upon the Form behind the furrow,
Who is her Mind, her Motion, Time and Space.
Oh, somber mystery of eyes unspeaking,
And dark enigma of Life's loves for lorn,
The sphinx beside the river smiles with seeking,
The secret answer since the world was born.
Rose in her hand, and moist eyes young with weeping,
She stands upon the threshold of her house,
Fragrant with scent that wakens love from sleeping,
She looks far down to where her husband plows.
Her hair disheveled in the night of passion,
Her warm limbs humid with the sacred strife,
What may she know but man and woman fashion,
Out of the clay of wrath and sorrow, Life?
She holds no joys beyond the days's tomorrow,
She finds no worlds beyond his arms's embrace,
She looks upon the Form behind the furrow,
Who is her Mind, her Motion, Time and Space.
Oh, somber mystery of eyes unspeaking,
And dark enigma of Life's loves for lorn,
The sphinx beside the river smiles with seeking,
The secret answer since the world was born.
Walking Around In Brussels
THIS POEM WAS WRITTEN BY CIRILO F. BAUTISTA.
They are building a bigger Metro
in Brussels, it will take three years.
The streets are one large gaping wound, with
their intestines strewn on the sidewalks,
while somewhere in my brain Bob Marley
sings about cutting trees with a small axe.
From Grand Place to Palace Royale
men in orange coats to pick and shovel
the earth to expose the vein for the steel
couplings, electric wires, stone steps,
and metal signs that would link human
muscles with the whirling earth, so that
men would reach it faster, cheaper,
but not Bob Marley’s man, the herbsman,
who can cure his wound with a chant.
What does it want, this city of old folks?
Should they not totter on a cane or drag
their carcass across the lane? Why should
they get nowhere faster, as if their bone
bewailed contemplating tulips
in the sun and birds pecking at crumbs?
Let them move like snails, if need be,
let them stumble and fall on their skin,
let their sorrow begin, but their solitude
also, the whell of their soul, which moves them
to their heart’s tune, not the Metro’s,
nor any architect’s. The paths
of their soul have no texts,
only calling cards that fly with the wind,
and the wind, O the fickle wind,
when it calls them, they crawl from fire
and blanket, still bleary-eyed,
to follow it to yet another vague, fearsome sleep.
(1983)
They are building a bigger Metro
in Brussels, it will take three years.
The streets are one large gaping wound, with
their intestines strewn on the sidewalks,
while somewhere in my brain Bob Marley
sings about cutting trees with a small axe.
From Grand Place to Palace Royale
men in orange coats to pick and shovel
the earth to expose the vein for the steel
couplings, electric wires, stone steps,
and metal signs that would link human
muscles with the whirling earth, so that
men would reach it faster, cheaper,
but not Bob Marley’s man, the herbsman,
who can cure his wound with a chant.
What does it want, this city of old folks?
Should they not totter on a cane or drag
their carcass across the lane? Why should
they get nowhere faster, as if their bone
bewailed contemplating tulips
in the sun and birds pecking at crumbs?
Let them move like snails, if need be,
let them stumble and fall on their skin,
let their sorrow begin, but their solitude
also, the whell of their soul, which moves them
to their heart’s tune, not the Metro’s,
nor any architect’s. The paths
of their soul have no texts,
only calling cards that fly with the wind,
and the wind, O the fickle wind,
when it calls them, they crawl from fire
and blanket, still bleary-eyed,
to follow it to yet another vague, fearsome sleep.
(1983)
Written in Stratford-upon-Avon
THIS POEM WAS WRITTEN BY CIRILO F. BAUTISTA.
You say you never expected it to be
like this, the foot on your head and the camera
scratching your marble. Why should it be
any less dramatic, when even now your tongue
washes with words the streets of Stratford?
I watch them flow with the Avon and feel it
freeze into a wilderness of books;
I watch them spread with the sun
till sunlight seals with alphabet
the inconsistencies of our skins;
I watch them flog my foreign brain
like so much black meat on the stone.
Not “wise enough to be a fool,” yet still
a “corruptor of words,” I sketch my shadow
on the cobbles of your city and compose the lies
that would correct the revenue.
Rascal even in the tomb, sexless now but
disturbing our sex, tell me—how much
did you earn from the flagship of your human
stage? Enough to decorate your memory,
you say, and buy a plot in the decent section
of town. But your text, the script
that enwraps your body’s verges, inhabits
our waking hours to subvert their sanity. So
I embrace the illusion of this place,
the liquid of this river that runs through
the secret chambers of my poems, the fertile
ghosts that fix the garments in my Cambridge lodge,
only in deference to your rest. Foreclosed,
your bankroom swells with madrigals; retired,
you rule this kingdom with a butterknife.
My speech grows roots, flying from your voice,
searching for silence to slash the thickness
of my disbelief. I dislocate my ancestry
in obeisance to yours—my art is fraught
with danger at every turn. But I will not
have you burn my blood, no, I did
my dying long ago, some twenty years
in a foreigh cul-de-sac, though as for that
my skeleton still can rattle verses
to scare the unware. A catalogue of charity
will not restore the firelight in your eyes
nor the flood that flaunted ink
on your foolscap, but skulls will, and goblins,
and a bloody dagger. To paralyze
tradition you traded pomp for a poetry
which exhorts the living to die in the eternal life
of your make-believe. Your discrouse pulls the water
from the sea and drowns the moon in Abu Dhabi,
the same moon that holds the walls of Illyria in your office
at Stratford or gilds the silver bells in Manila:
the sky in London drips with sugar from
your breath, while bread impressed with your teeth marks
adorns the houss in Bulgaria: Language flexing
its muscles, no doubt, locking in antique
boxes our singing thoughts. The wood
and nails warm our hope for hope,
because in this captivity light is only
a metaphor to prevent decay. The dark
solidifies our resolve to cut a door
through your heart, crawl in the void, and dissolve
in language’s disguises, until the verbal silence
propels our faces to Asia. Oh, Asia, Asia,
Asia! Asia loads my mind with grief,
tears me to pieves, here in this English
masquerade. For this serenade
thousands eat porridge on the run
in my country, fleeing from the turmoil
of nationhood. There time is the thief
where subreption stains the bank vaults
and cathedral choirs. You do not make me
forget them, no, the mouths in want of rice
and voice in need of grammar, the fire
and pestilence and decline that wear
democracy’s clothes, though you beguile me
with castellated paradoxes and seachests
filled with sunsets. Oh, I must die again
to deny your magic, I have no gesture to break
the fact that we must feed on your flesh
for salvation. I walk your streets
with strings pulling my bones, my sadness
floundering in the festival of your death.
(July 1987)
You say you never expected it to be
like this, the foot on your head and the camera
scratching your marble. Why should it be
any less dramatic, when even now your tongue
washes with words the streets of Stratford?
I watch them flow with the Avon and feel it
freeze into a wilderness of books;
I watch them spread with the sun
till sunlight seals with alphabet
the inconsistencies of our skins;
I watch them flog my foreign brain
like so much black meat on the stone.
Not “wise enough to be a fool,” yet still
a “corruptor of words,” I sketch my shadow
on the cobbles of your city and compose the lies
that would correct the revenue.
Rascal even in the tomb, sexless now but
disturbing our sex, tell me—how much
did you earn from the flagship of your human
stage? Enough to decorate your memory,
you say, and buy a plot in the decent section
of town. But your text, the script
that enwraps your body’s verges, inhabits
our waking hours to subvert their sanity. So
I embrace the illusion of this place,
the liquid of this river that runs through
the secret chambers of my poems, the fertile
ghosts that fix the garments in my Cambridge lodge,
only in deference to your rest. Foreclosed,
your bankroom swells with madrigals; retired,
you rule this kingdom with a butterknife.
My speech grows roots, flying from your voice,
searching for silence to slash the thickness
of my disbelief. I dislocate my ancestry
in obeisance to yours—my art is fraught
with danger at every turn. But I will not
have you burn my blood, no, I did
my dying long ago, some twenty years
in a foreigh cul-de-sac, though as for that
my skeleton still can rattle verses
to scare the unware. A catalogue of charity
will not restore the firelight in your eyes
nor the flood that flaunted ink
on your foolscap, but skulls will, and goblins,
and a bloody dagger. To paralyze
tradition you traded pomp for a poetry
which exhorts the living to die in the eternal life
of your make-believe. Your discrouse pulls the water
from the sea and drowns the moon in Abu Dhabi,
the same moon that holds the walls of Illyria in your office
at Stratford or gilds the silver bells in Manila:
the sky in London drips with sugar from
your breath, while bread impressed with your teeth marks
adorns the houss in Bulgaria: Language flexing
its muscles, no doubt, locking in antique
boxes our singing thoughts. The wood
and nails warm our hope for hope,
because in this captivity light is only
a metaphor to prevent decay. The dark
solidifies our resolve to cut a door
through your heart, crawl in the void, and dissolve
in language’s disguises, until the verbal silence
propels our faces to Asia. Oh, Asia, Asia,
Asia! Asia loads my mind with grief,
tears me to pieves, here in this English
masquerade. For this serenade
thousands eat porridge on the run
in my country, fleeing from the turmoil
of nationhood. There time is the thief
where subreption stains the bank vaults
and cathedral choirs. You do not make me
forget them, no, the mouths in want of rice
and voice in need of grammar, the fire
and pestilence and decline that wear
democracy’s clothes, though you beguile me
with castellated paradoxes and seachests
filled with sunsets. Oh, I must die again
to deny your magic, I have no gesture to break
the fact that we must feed on your flesh
for salvation. I walk your streets
with strings pulling my bones, my sadness
floundering in the festival of your death.
(July 1987)
Sa Aking Mga Kababata
THIS IS A POEM WRITTEN BY OUR NATIONAL HERO, JOSE PROTACIO RIZAL MERCADO y ALONZO REALONDA.
Kapagka ang baya'y sadyang umiibig
sa kanyang salitang kaloob ng langit,
sanglang kalayaan nasa ring malapit,
katulad ng ibong nasa himpapawid.
Pagka't ang salita'y isang kahatulan
sa bayan, sa nayo't mga kaharian,
at ang isang tao'y katulad, kabagay
ng alinmang likha noong kalayaan.
Ang hindi magmahal sa kanyang salita'y
mahigit sa hayop at malansang isda,
kaya ang marapat ay pagyamaning kusa
na tulad sa inang tunay na pinagpala.
Ang wikang Tagalog tulad din sa Latin,
sa Ingles, Kastila't sa salitang anghel,
sapagka't ang Poong maalam tumingin
ang Siyang naggawad, nagbigay sa atin.
Ang salita natin huwad din sa iba
na may alfabeto at sariling letra,
na kaya nawala'y dinatnan ng sigwa
ang lunday sa lawa noong dakong una
Kapagka ang baya'y sadyang umiibig
sa kanyang salitang kaloob ng langit,
sanglang kalayaan nasa ring malapit,
katulad ng ibong nasa himpapawid.
Pagka't ang salita'y isang kahatulan
sa bayan, sa nayo't mga kaharian,
at ang isang tao'y katulad, kabagay
ng alinmang likha noong kalayaan.
Ang hindi magmahal sa kanyang salita'y
mahigit sa hayop at malansang isda,
kaya ang marapat ay pagyamaning kusa
na tulad sa inang tunay na pinagpala.
Ang wikang Tagalog tulad din sa Latin,
sa Ingles, Kastila't sa salitang anghel,
sapagka't ang Poong maalam tumingin
ang Siyang naggawad, nagbigay sa atin.
Ang salita natin huwad din sa iba
na may alfabeto at sariling letra,
na kaya nawala'y dinatnan ng sigwa
ang lunday sa lawa noong dakong una
Dead Weight: In Memoriam
THIS POEM WAS WRITTEN BY CIRILO F. BAUTISTA.
A death that stuns the wheels of government
And carves enmity in the hearts of men—
How do we sing the darkness in this thing?
There is a need to fix our voice against
The weight of our loss, so that all in all,
As we polish the weapons to blast the threat
Of his ghost, our discourse does not disclose
Our kinship with his blood, but from monstrous
Corners of memory bring out poisoned
Phrases to fling at his flesh—“Thief,” “Scoundrel,”
“Usurper of heritage”—those terrible
Maledictions he finely deserves, so much
Did he trick us in his long governance.
We will yield no quarter in this noble fight
To cleanse history of his stench! Let him rot
Abroad, let his brood burn in our anger’s heat,
Let us persecute his friends—those blind lackeys
Who still lick his prints! An eye for an eye. . .
Bah! He started it all, and the law upholds
The virtue of our violence. Let us then
Be firm: our vision of one happy nation
Founded on Faith, Honor and Justice must not
Be shaken by this abominable
Carcass or the pleadings of his clan—lock
The waterways, patrol the air, check the land—
He Must Not Come Home, He Must Not Rest in Peace!
(1 October 1989)
A death that stuns the wheels of government
And carves enmity in the hearts of men—
How do we sing the darkness in this thing?
There is a need to fix our voice against
The weight of our loss, so that all in all,
As we polish the weapons to blast the threat
Of his ghost, our discourse does not disclose
Our kinship with his blood, but from monstrous
Corners of memory bring out poisoned
Phrases to fling at his flesh—“Thief,” “Scoundrel,”
“Usurper of heritage”—those terrible
Maledictions he finely deserves, so much
Did he trick us in his long governance.
We will yield no quarter in this noble fight
To cleanse history of his stench! Let him rot
Abroad, let his brood burn in our anger’s heat,
Let us persecute his friends—those blind lackeys
Who still lick his prints! An eye for an eye. . .
Bah! He started it all, and the law upholds
The virtue of our violence. Let us then
Be firm: our vision of one happy nation
Founded on Faith, Honor and Justice must not
Be shaken by this abominable
Carcass or the pleadings of his clan—lock
The waterways, patrol the air, check the land—
He Must Not Come Home, He Must Not Rest in Peace!
(1 October 1989)
Bonsai
THIS IS A POEM WRITTEN BY EDITH L. TIEMPO.
All that I love
I fold over once
And once again
And keep in a box
Or a slit in a hollow post
Or in my shoe.
All that I love?
Why, yes, but for the moment-
And for all time, both.
Something that folds and keeps easy,
Son’s note or Dad’s one gaudy tie,
A roto picture of a queen,
A blue Indian shawl, even
A money bill.
It’s utter sublimation,
A feat, this heart’s control
Moment to moment
To scale all love down
To a cupped hand’s size
Till seashells are broken pieces
From God’s own bright teeth,
And life and love are real
Things you can run and
Breathless hand over
To the merest child.
All that I love
I fold over once
And once again
And keep in a box
Or a slit in a hollow post
Or in my shoe.
All that I love?
Why, yes, but for the moment-
And for all time, both.
Something that folds and keeps easy,
Son’s note or Dad’s one gaudy tie,
A roto picture of a queen,
A blue Indian shawl, even
A money bill.
It’s utter sublimation,
A feat, this heart’s control
Moment to moment
To scale all love down
To a cupped hand’s size
Till seashells are broken pieces
From God’s own bright teeth,
And life and love are real
Things you can run and
Breathless hand over
To the merest child.
Pasalitang Awit
THIS IS A POEM WRITTEN BY ROLANDO S. TINIO.
(Para kay Ella)
Sa iyo hahapon ang aking umaga,
Sintang maligalig kapag umaalon.
Kulubin mo ako sa usok at baga;
Ang bawat araw ko’y tulutang humapon.
Sa iyo pipitak, liwanag ng loob,
Mahal kong kay rupok, akala mo’y ulap.
Payapa kong ito’y payapa ng tulog,
At lalong payapa tuwing mamumulat.
Sa iyo tataas ang aking tanghali;
Lahat ng anino’y magtatalilisan.
Sa tanghaling tapat, ako ang itangi;
Kasuyo, huwag mo akong bibitawan.
Sa iyo lalatag, pilak ng ligaya,
Aakyat ang buwan, titining ang dagat.
Aba’y biglang-bigla, di halos makaya,
Hudyat ng tag-ulang bubugso, kakalat.
(Para kay Ella)
Sa iyo hahapon ang aking umaga,
Sintang maligalig kapag umaalon.
Kulubin mo ako sa usok at baga;
Ang bawat araw ko’y tulutang humapon.
Sa iyo pipitak, liwanag ng loob,
Mahal kong kay rupok, akala mo’y ulap.
Payapa kong ito’y payapa ng tulog,
At lalong payapa tuwing mamumulat.
Sa iyo tataas ang aking tanghali;
Lahat ng anino’y magtatalilisan.
Sa tanghaling tapat, ako ang itangi;
Kasuyo, huwag mo akong bibitawan.
Sa iyo lalatag, pilak ng ligaya,
Aakyat ang buwan, titining ang dagat.
Aba’y biglang-bigla, di halos makaya,
Hudyat ng tag-ulang bubugso, kakalat.
Montage
THIS IS A POEM WRITTEN BY OPHELIA ALCANTARA DIMALANTA.
Monday jolts and she bogs down, a ragbag
Splayed off at tangents. Windows
To the outside and flecks of faces
Spring the morning clear to set her
Into her old dimensions. Piece by piece
She puts on eight o’ clock, pillows
And bedcovers in a tumble pat her
In place. The clearest outglass
Of grapefruit juice teetering on a silver
Tray for breakfast-in-bed exigencies
(Both for effect and effectivity)
Is for a fact but fictive in the mind.
Which holds the moment a little longer,
Stalls the stupor of the previous night,
Images of her beautiful in blank spaces,
Wandering truant like in a private region;
Clouds of night jammed in one wicked
Corner of sleep. She hoards them
Like a child and triumphantly pieces
Them into a total singular perspective;
Splayed-off tatters of mornings,
A dark undisciplined of clouds settled
Right into the atmosphere recreating
Her Monday-world, jolted suddenly
Into the teeth of everyday people
And cluttering pans of slapdash.
She exudes it now becomingly
As she glides and putters about
Alternately, spreads it as a haze
Enveloping her form, perfectly
Dissolved in solid tones and chromes.
A jewel durably ensphered in mist,
Old gold etched in ever-emerging shades.
Monday jolts and she bogs down, a ragbag
Splayed off at tangents. Windows
To the outside and flecks of faces
Spring the morning clear to set her
Into her old dimensions. Piece by piece
She puts on eight o’ clock, pillows
And bedcovers in a tumble pat her
In place. The clearest outglass
Of grapefruit juice teetering on a silver
Tray for breakfast-in-bed exigencies
(Both for effect and effectivity)
Is for a fact but fictive in the mind.
Which holds the moment a little longer,
Stalls the stupor of the previous night,
Images of her beautiful in blank spaces,
Wandering truant like in a private region;
Clouds of night jammed in one wicked
Corner of sleep. She hoards them
Like a child and triumphantly pieces
Them into a total singular perspective;
Splayed-off tatters of mornings,
A dark undisciplined of clouds settled
Right into the atmosphere recreating
Her Monday-world, jolted suddenly
Into the teeth of everyday people
And cluttering pans of slapdash.
She exudes it now becomingly
As she glides and putters about
Alternately, spreads it as a haze
Enveloping her form, perfectly
Dissolved in solid tones and chromes.
A jewel durably ensphered in mist,
Old gold etched in ever-emerging shades.
The Farmer's Son
THIS IS A POEM BY ALFREDO NAVARRO SALANGA.
There is great power in reason
It comes like so much rain
Or like strong wind in a dry month
My father was bent
by work
his shoulders were bend
by words
in a contract
he never understood
While I was still
a young man
he send me off
to school
and bid me walk
with straight shoulders
Learn, he said
learn words
that you may pry off
these letters
that have made me
old and bent
I came back
many years later
with the words
I knew he wanted
but by then
it was too late
I listened to him
die with words:
you are lucky
to have learned words
they will keep you
from having bent shoulders
By his deathbed
I cried
and spat out
letter's while
my shoulders bent
with grief
There is great power in reason
It comes like so much rain
Or like strong wind in a dry month
My father was bent
by work
his shoulders were bend
by words
in a contract
he never understood
While I was still
a young man
he send me off
to school
and bid me walk
with straight shoulders
Learn, he said
learn words
that you may pry off
these letters
that have made me
old and bent
I came back
many years later
with the words
I knew he wanted
but by then
it was too late
I listened to him
die with words:
you are lucky
to have learned words
they will keep you
from having bent shoulders
By his deathbed
I cried
and spat out
letter's while
my shoulders bent
with grief
Dreamweavers
THIS POEM WAS WRITTEN BY MARJORIE EVASCO.
We are entitled to our own
Definitions of the worlds
We have in common:
Earth house (stay)
Water well (carry)
Fire stove (tend)
Air song (sigh)
Ether dream (die)
And try out new combinations
With key words
Unlocking power:
House on fire sing!
Stove under water stay,
Earth filled well die.
The spells and spellings
Of our vocabularies
Are oracular
In translation
One woman in Pagnito-an
Another in Solentiname
Still another in Harxheim
And many other women
Naming
Half the world together
Can move their earth
Must house their fire
Be water to their song
Will their dreams well.
We are entitled to our own
Definitions of the worlds
We have in common:
Earth house (stay)
Water well (carry)
Fire stove (tend)
Air song (sigh)
Ether dream (die)
And try out new combinations
With key words
Unlocking power:
House on fire sing!
Stove under water stay,
Earth filled well die.
The spells and spellings
Of our vocabularies
Are oracular
In translation
One woman in Pagnito-an
Another in Solentiname
Still another in Harxheim
And many other women
Naming
Half the world together
Can move their earth
Must house their fire
Be water to their song
Will their dreams well.
Chinatown
THIS POEM WAS WRITTEN BY FATIMA V. LIM.
Suddenly, I desire
These narrow streets.
The clanging din
Of a different tongue.
Lighting needles
Puncturing my ribs.
And the drink
Brewed from the root
Twisted into a man.
If only Father lived.
He would read my future
Unfurling in the tea leaves,
Show me the inn
Where they serve
The finest jumping shrimps,
And lead the way to the old pagoda
Where a long-lost uncle lives.
As they trade
Old tales, Father slips
And band of heavy jade
Upon my wrist.
A stone dragon leaps.
I am borne, a quarter-moon-
Eyed child, home, upon
My father's shimmering
Back.
Suddenly, I desire
These narrow streets.
The clanging din
Of a different tongue.
Lighting needles
Puncturing my ribs.
And the drink
Brewed from the root
Twisted into a man.
If only Father lived.
He would read my future
Unfurling in the tea leaves,
Show me the inn
Where they serve
The finest jumping shrimps,
And lead the way to the old pagoda
Where a long-lost uncle lives.
As they trade
Old tales, Father slips
And band of heavy jade
Upon my wrist.
A stone dragon leaps.
I am borne, a quarter-moon-
Eyed child, home, upon
My father's shimmering
Back.
Laughter
THIS IS A POEM WRITTEN BY MANINGNING MICLAT.
He left me
when he could
no longer stand the laughter
that I gave him
while he begged me not
to keep memories
alive in poems
to hurt myself
and make those
who read
sad. I laughed
when he shared
his life with me
while holding him
to make it easier
and maybe
less painful
to live on.
Laugh! I told
him, but
could not get
his attention.
Laugh! I asked
him, but
he left in
anger.
And left
before he understood
the courage
that held my laughter.
He left me
when he could
no longer stand the laughter
that I gave him
while he begged me not
to keep memories
alive in poems
to hurt myself
and make those
who read
sad. I laughed
when he shared
his life with me
while holding him
to make it easier
and maybe
less painful
to live on.
Laugh! I told
him, but
could not get
his attention.
Laugh! I asked
him, but
he left in
anger.
And left
before he understood
the courage
that held my laughter.
God Said, "I Made a Man."
THIS IS A POEM BY JOSE GARCIA VILLA.
God said, “I made a man
Out of clay –
But so bright he, he spun
Himself to brightest Day
Till he was all shining gold,
And oh,
He was handsome to behold!
But in his hands held he a bow
Aimed at me who created
Him. And I said,
‘Wouldst murder me
‘Who am thy Fountainhead’
Then spoke he the man of gold:
‘I will not
Murder thee! I do but
Measure thee. Hold
Thy peace!’ And this I did,
But I was curious
Of this so regal head.
‘Give thy name!’ –Sir! Genius’”
Leaving as heritage this islet this poem,
You and I, this country yours and mine,
This child dreaming on the edges of life.
God said, “I made a man
Out of clay –
But so bright he, he spun
Himself to brightest Day
Till he was all shining gold,
And oh,
He was handsome to behold!
But in his hands held he a bow
Aimed at me who created
Him. And I said,
‘Wouldst murder me
‘Who am thy Fountainhead’
Then spoke he the man of gold:
‘I will not
Murder thee! I do but
Measure thee. Hold
Thy peace!’ And this I did,
But I was curious
Of this so regal head.
‘Give thy name!’ –Sir! Genius’”
Leaving as heritage this islet this poem,
You and I, this country yours and mine,
This child dreaming on the edges of life.
Where is my May?
THIS IS A POEM BY FERNANDO MA. GUERRERO.
My happy days have passed away,
The hills and woods have lost their flower.
Where is my May?
Where are its sweet and charming hours?
Cheer me, my star, and give me light
To see at least a pleasant way;
Show me your eyes so fair and bright,
To find my way.
With thoughts of care I bend my head.
Where is My May?
I am alone, I eat my bread
Away from you so far away.
My happy days have passed away,
The hills and woods have lost their flower.
Where is my May?
Where are its sweet and charming hours?
Cheer me, my star, and give me light
To see at least a pleasant way;
Show me your eyes so fair and bright,
To find my way.
With thoughts of care I bend my head.
Where is My May?
I am alone, I eat my bread
Away from you so far away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)