Finally, we decide
that the loneliest world is the one
where words exist. Every letter has to compensate
for something transient and unforgiveable. When
I was a child, I caught my father staring at me
early in the morning, his expression an
exclamation of missed chances. And did you
see the long, delicious wink that
stranger gave you? The one pure
language is what we say out loud in our
sleep. There lies the reality
of all these silent spaces. Once, I said, god
can only exist on a blank page. Everything written
ceases to be a miracle, stops being
a secret. The heart breaks at the sound
of a leaf falling and all I am allowed
to say is wrapped in the atonement of someone else's bewildered
cry: Look! The sun!
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
The Hour
On the last day of that school year, our English teacher
told us that the theme of the hour was love lost. Judging
from the punctuated groans, you could tell that we wanted
none of that. She begins by drawing
a figure of a woman on the used board. This is
Anna on the tracks, she says, and tells us about fear and how the body
refuses it when it already recognizes when things are too late. She
erases that picture and replaces it with a stick figure and instructs
us to say hello to Humbert, who is chasing after a girl sporting
pigtails and the pigtails turn into white doves, their feathers
flattened under the weight of all that grief. Then comes Oliver
and that infamous line: Love is
never having to say you are sorry. Finally,
we catch on and one of us, a girl in a red skirt,
raises her hand and asks,
Why is the objective of love loss? The teacher
looks out the window; we see the
years falling away from her face, she has never
looked any younger than this. Then a year passes and she says
Because all we want is to want. Anything more
than that is a lie; anything less
lies to waste. She shields her eyes and she pulls down the blinds. It's
a wonder to me even now, how we managed
to sit there, looking at each other
illuminated in that new darkness, hoping
that the final bell would ring
soon enough. And when it did, our bodies rushed out,
leaving the longest hour of our lives in that dark room
with her.
On the last day of that school year, our English teacher
told us that the theme of the hour was love lost. Judging
from the punctuated groans, you could tell that we wanted
none of that. She begins by drawing
a figure of a woman on the used board. This is
Anna on the tracks, she says, and tells us about fear and how the body
refuses it when it already recognizes when things are too late. She
erases that picture and replaces it with a stick figure and instructs
us to say hello to Humbert, who is chasing after a girl sporting
pigtails and the pigtails turn into white doves, their feathers
flattened under the weight of all that grief. Then comes Oliver
and that infamous line: Love is
never having to say you are sorry. Finally,
we catch on and one of us, a girl in a red skirt,
raises her hand and asks,
Why is the objective of love loss? The teacher
looks out the window; we see the
years falling away from her face, she has never
looked any younger than this. Then a year passes and she says
Because all we want is to want. Anything more
than that is a lie; anything less
lies to waste. She shields her eyes and she pulls down the blinds. It's
a wonder to me even now, how we managed
to sit there, looking at each other
illuminated in that new darkness, hoping
that the final bell would ring
soon enough. And when it did, our bodies rushed out,
leaving the longest hour of our lives in that dark room
with her.
What I Would Have Missed Had I Died Today
And I think nothing much, except for, maybe, my father leaning on a wall (his favorite) holding an empty ceramic cup, (not his favorite) the one with small pink flowers lining the curve of the handle. Maybe I would have missed the distance he traveled everyday from his past to the present; I know this is what he does because the empty cup is a signal for me to stop and not exist, because these minutes are all he has and he doesn't want me in them. So it is you, he said when he turned around finally to face me.
I would have not seen my mother walking down an anonymous street without noticing me. She does not say hello because she is dead and the dead no longer know the living, or which heart they once occupied.
I am certain that I would also have missed that lone bird's journey across a sky that has gone weak with worry for those walking under it.
I would have missed the slow, dry wind and the door creaking open with a message: come out and see how much every flower loves you.
I would have walked past my life without seeing you for the first time. You looked me in the eyes and said: I am never lonely. I believed you and I wanted so much to put my hand on your lap but I didn't because moments, sometimes, exclude us. Even the most honest ones exclude us. It exists for itself; it's selfish that way.
I would have missed that terrible meal I had for lunch: a dead fish staring at me with its one good eye, it's mouth an O that was a balloon flying off to a happier, more consistent alternative.
I would have missed complaining to anyone who would listen how unsatisfied my body is with living.
I would have missed taking my glasses off, then seeing a world where everything is color without form, and therefore, without strife.
I would have missed asking you how you feel, do feel better, do you love me now? I would have missed saying: I am the name from where few return; the name you put between all these self-imposed distances.
I would have missed how my heart caved in, seeing the last green leaf buried inconspicuously in the pavement. I would have missed remembering that under all this hardness is a life that will continue long after I cease to be.
I would have missed the sad sigh of a dream that I remembered suddenly while talking to a strange boy who said he'd like to swim naked in the groove of my mouth.
I would have missed waking up to a dream where I was a potato and someone's hand was carving a smile into my brown blank face.
I would have missed the news about the girl who has gone missing for 54 days.
I would have missed saying the first prayer I've said in over a decade. The last time I said God's name was when I was 12 and a faraway volcano erupted that night and the next morning, there was snow on the rooftops for the very first time.
I would have missed my brother say, Today, I have a test and I did not study for it. I would have missed forgiving him, silently, for being the weight that I never could carry wholly.
I would have missed knowing the road home and how lonely I felt walking it.
I would have missed the sound of the sea in the wind saying forgive, let go, believe.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Talking About It
Most often than not, our get-togethers
conclude with talk of how we would each prefer
to die. One is almost certain that she would die by fire,
another a car accident, still another the big C, which
isn't that big anymore, we tell her. We shout our suppositions
at each other, explaining why ours is the best exit. Out
to impress, I tell them
that at the end of my life, I believe I will see a man standing, uncertain
at first, in my living room in the
dark, holding a gun in his right hand. He would ask me a
question that I would not know how to answer and my
ignorance compels him to shoot me.
My friends give an almost silent purr of approval. How romantic, they
say, as if this kind of end is worth seeing through. We sit quietly
for awhile, each lost in our private fears.
If this was a night for honesty, we would
tell each other how we suspect each of us would go. None
of those endings would include a death in October, or a man,
or a conversation, even. No one has the heart to
speak the truth when everyone is having such a good time.
The band launches into its last song and we know it as well as we know
what we'd all wear to our funerals. I let out a low sob at the exact time
the music ends and that lone sound extends in the night air, making
my friends laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
Most often than not, our get-togethers
conclude with talk of how we would each prefer
to die. One is almost certain that she would die by fire,
another a car accident, still another the big C, which
isn't that big anymore, we tell her. We shout our suppositions
at each other, explaining why ours is the best exit. Out
to impress, I tell them
that at the end of my life, I believe I will see a man standing, uncertain
at first, in my living room in the
dark, holding a gun in his right hand. He would ask me a
question that I would not know how to answer and my
ignorance compels him to shoot me.
My friends give an almost silent purr of approval. How romantic, they
say, as if this kind of end is worth seeing through. We sit quietly
for awhile, each lost in our private fears.
If this was a night for honesty, we would
tell each other how we suspect each of us would go. None
of those endings would include a death in October, or a man,
or a conversation, even. No one has the heart to
speak the truth when everyone is having such a good time.
The band launches into its last song and we know it as well as we know
what we'd all wear to our funerals. I let out a low sob at the exact time
the music ends and that lone sound extends in the night air, making
my friends laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
on reading a poem
It isn't true what they say
that the setting must matter, neither
the day. To be honest, a poem could find me anywhere
and still, I would remain half of myself, reading
it. This morning, on a trip home, I found a poem
crumpled up next to the seat I occupied.
I had the sense
that the world moved on, had left my body
which drowned headfirst
in the wet bosom of the first lines. I am standing
in the middle of an old living room and I am helping my husband
with his necktie. The words say that I am lonely and
I felt my hands expressing this while they skimmed
over a pattern of wild geese. The writer says that I am waiting for
my husband to leave me. Upon reaching the end, I learned that he will
never return and I know this is true. The person
who has written this never says it, not directly, but
the honesty he left in the
un-telling frightened me. My feet felt
tired all of a sudden, as if they have walked
over every possible body that wants to turn into
something more accurate and sincere.
What I mean to say is, it was so long ago since anyone
pretended that they were in love
with rain. Over a bowl of soup, my father told me
that the true equilibrium of the world is in the center of the heart
of the last person who believes. There is a lie in me that I cannot wait
to whisper in your ear. I want
to say that the last time I went hungry for something
was when I was ten and convinced my classmates
that I had no arms, so that they can teach me
the goodness of letting go. And in their
words was a solace that I could never
match with anything living afterwards.
But the truth is, I have always recognized that self-same confidence
in a good poem: how much it knows you, how expertly its writer can cradle
you in his arms as if you both sprung
from the same kind of love. Try to
imagine what the heart of a poet looks like. Nothing
special, I suppose, save for that strange fullness, that
unmistakable crick that is trying its hardest to define the tilt that leans
slightly toward all our mysterious days.
that the setting must matter, neither
the day. To be honest, a poem could find me anywhere
and still, I would remain half of myself, reading
it. This morning, on a trip home, I found a poem
crumpled up next to the seat I occupied.
I had the sense
that the world moved on, had left my body
which drowned headfirst
in the wet bosom of the first lines. I am standing
in the middle of an old living room and I am helping my husband
with his necktie. The words say that I am lonely and
I felt my hands expressing this while they skimmed
over a pattern of wild geese. The writer says that I am waiting for
my husband to leave me. Upon reaching the end, I learned that he will
never return and I know this is true. The person
who has written this never says it, not directly, but
the honesty he left in the
un-telling frightened me. My feet felt
tired all of a sudden, as if they have walked
over every possible body that wants to turn into
something more accurate and sincere.
What I mean to say is, it was so long ago since anyone
pretended that they were in love
with rain. Over a bowl of soup, my father told me
that the true equilibrium of the world is in the center of the heart
of the last person who believes. There is a lie in me that I cannot wait
to whisper in your ear. I want
to say that the last time I went hungry for something
was when I was ten and convinced my classmates
that I had no arms, so that they can teach me
the goodness of letting go. And in their
words was a solace that I could never
match with anything living afterwards.
But the truth is, I have always recognized that self-same confidence
in a good poem: how much it knows you, how expertly its writer can cradle
you in his arms as if you both sprung
from the same kind of love. Try to
imagine what the heart of a poet looks like. Nothing
special, I suppose, save for that strange fullness, that
unmistakable crick that is trying its hardest to define the tilt that leans
slightly toward all our mysterious days.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
what i want to become of all this
My aunt tells me that the first English word I uttered
was the word dead. I was three and didn't know
any better. How easy it
was then to say something as trite and irresolute as the word
dead and make someone happy enough to remember
it for the rest of her life. Now I feel the stiff competition for
words, as if everyone else is using up all of mine, what
I am trying my best to say. There is so much I do not
know how to explain or talk about. My father
once asked me to write a story about him after he dies
and I could not imagine how he got the courage
to say something like that out loud. Maybe it was his belief
in that first word and the way I feared it
that convinced him that it would all be true
some day. What I would not give to be able to take a slim collection
of unused words out of my pocket, all saying how much I loved
the living and the man who first asked if the hunger
I was feeling was the kind he could do
something about.
was the word dead. I was three and didn't know
any better. How easy it
was then to say something as trite and irresolute as the word
dead and make someone happy enough to remember
it for the rest of her life. Now I feel the stiff competition for
words, as if everyone else is using up all of mine, what
I am trying my best to say. There is so much I do not
know how to explain or talk about. My father
once asked me to write a story about him after he dies
and I could not imagine how he got the courage
to say something like that out loud. Maybe it was his belief
in that first word and the way I feared it
that convinced him that it would all be true
some day. What I would not give to be able to take a slim collection
of unused words out of my pocket, all saying how much I loved
the living and the man who first asked if the hunger
I was feeling was the kind he could do
something about.
an elderly woman talks about her daughter
The world has lost these pretty young girls.
Their angst has woven a different, more impenetrable
planet around them. They sob and weep about
atrocities that take place in other dimensions of space where
everyone else is a lost mother , a drunken father, a
neglected urchin of chance - versions of monsters under beds,
the dagger in the closet. They no longer know the importance of
mystery, of holding out because everything now
takes place outdoors. I would like to peep under their skirts and
find out if the myth is true -- if down there, there is really nothing
much you can see but a built in boombox, a transistor, and
dozens of blue and red connectors stumbling
all over themselves, pricking their veins that
are seas so blue they look painted on.
Their mouths are always hungry for trophies
of intellect, for disasters then and now,
for vague properties of love. They say words
like "atrophy" or "vindication"as if they were
new weapons that still have the capability to hurt.
But their convictions are different.
They prefer them raw these days so that they’d
be easier on the palate when they swallow
them whole. This fact alone makes me think
less of the weaker ones - the ones who scar easily or
those who consider a bad hair day an opportunity for suicide.
Maybe this is just me, wasting time.
In dreams, I see my younger self,
running with bared teeth, my brown skin
soiled with so much anger. I remember being unafraid.
But now, I ask myself, what was I running against? And for whom?
Their angst has woven a different, more impenetrable
planet around them. They sob and weep about
atrocities that take place in other dimensions of space where
everyone else is a lost mother , a drunken father, a
neglected urchin of chance - versions of monsters under beds,
the dagger in the closet. They no longer know the importance of
mystery, of holding out because everything now
takes place outdoors. I would like to peep under their skirts and
find out if the myth is true -- if down there, there is really nothing
much you can see but a built in boombox, a transistor, and
dozens of blue and red connectors stumbling
all over themselves, pricking their veins that
are seas so blue they look painted on.
Their mouths are always hungry for trophies
of intellect, for disasters then and now,
for vague properties of love. They say words
like "atrophy" or "vindication"as if they were
new weapons that still have the capability to hurt.
But their convictions are different.
They prefer them raw these days so that they’d
be easier on the palate when they swallow
them whole. This fact alone makes me think
less of the weaker ones - the ones who scar easily or
those who consider a bad hair day an opportunity for suicide.
Maybe this is just me, wasting time.
In dreams, I see my younger self,
running with bared teeth, my brown skin
soiled with so much anger. I remember being unafraid.
But now, I ask myself, what was I running against? And for whom?
after the fiesta
Some things are left here:
Bright confetti spilled on hard ground,
as if by mistake.There is a lonely, inflated balloon near the
spot where the stage used to be. The remains of
candied apples are peeking out of hiding places.
A solitary chair is waiting for someone.
A forgotten teddy bear lies on its side, its face
noticeably askew - testifying to rampage, to carelessness.
And there is a boy of eight, standing in the middle
of it all,whose mouth is open with wonder.
He thinks it is a battlefield and believes that
he has seen glory. Already, he has forgotten how the
place looked like some nights before. He does not
recall the parades, the whirlwind happiness, the
clowns who cried, Step right up and you will see
the miracle that is your life.
He prefers the debris that laughter leaves.
It reminds him that he aches when he is bruised.
Suddenly, he hears music that he cannot place.
He makes a sidestep into a remembered dance.
The tune that he carries, which for a moment sustains him,
guides him years afterwards.
Still, he does not remember where he heard it first.
Bright confetti spilled on hard ground,
as if by mistake.There is a lonely, inflated balloon near the
spot where the stage used to be. The remains of
candied apples are peeking out of hiding places.
A solitary chair is waiting for someone.
A forgotten teddy bear lies on its side, its face
noticeably askew - testifying to rampage, to carelessness.
And there is a boy of eight, standing in the middle
of it all,whose mouth is open with wonder.
He thinks it is a battlefield and believes that
he has seen glory. Already, he has forgotten how the
place looked like some nights before. He does not
recall the parades, the whirlwind happiness, the
clowns who cried, Step right up and you will see
the miracle that is your life.
He prefers the debris that laughter leaves.
It reminds him that he aches when he is bruised.
Suddenly, he hears music that he cannot place.
He makes a sidestep into a remembered dance.
The tune that he carries, which for a moment sustains him,
guides him years afterwards.
Still, he does not remember where he heard it first.
dinner at the mckenzie's
First thing: Make eye contact. Be polite. Always say,
please Pass the salt/vegetables/potatotes. You are dependent
on everyone on the table but nobody
will tell you that this is the case. It is best to start a conversation
with the people seated beside you. Nowadays, it does not matter
whether it's with the person to your right or left side; most
probably, they would have the same convictions, same
issues they'd like to move you
over to, but again, they are not aware of this. Indulge
their private delusion that
they are the most interesting people you will ever meet
in your lifetime. Smile and say That's wonderful! or frown and
say That's too bad, accordingly.
It is okay to think about other things while dining. You are not
the inventor of nostalgia or boredom. It is okay to think about your
children - dreaming the dreams of the innocent, unknown to you now.
But be alert, in case someone asks you about
the oil spill in town. You'd look
strange if you said nothing, offered no
opinion about the world. It might render you
unfeeling for life, a nomad who does
not fit in the grand scheme of things.
Keep your hand gestures to a mimimum so that
you wouldn't feel so uncontrolled and ugly afterwards, remembering
your nervous, big hands and wondering how you
have landed here at this peculiar time in your life. If
someone drops something, keep quiet so that you would
not let on that you have noticed, or else everyone
will turn their attention on you the whole night. And you
would not like that. Best to keep still so that you
can move along to wake up in the morning
and feel nothing for your wife beside you,
for the life you have decided to lead.
When they bring in the scented water,
dip your fingers in it, slowly, so as not to
show that you are not used to all this; are not
here at all but you are back in that
cold nipa hut and waiting with your mother for
the big, fresh potatoes that your father hauled in from the fields today.
In the water, you think you see your face, but it is his - your father's
expression bewildered and saddened now
by your wet, pink hands.
please Pass the salt/vegetables/potatotes. You are dependent
on everyone on the table but nobody
will tell you that this is the case. It is best to start a conversation
with the people seated beside you. Nowadays, it does not matter
whether it's with the person to your right or left side; most
probably, they would have the same convictions, same
issues they'd like to move you
over to, but again, they are not aware of this. Indulge
their private delusion that
they are the most interesting people you will ever meet
in your lifetime. Smile and say That's wonderful! or frown and
say That's too bad, accordingly.
It is okay to think about other things while dining. You are not
the inventor of nostalgia or boredom. It is okay to think about your
children - dreaming the dreams of the innocent, unknown to you now.
But be alert, in case someone asks you about
the oil spill in town. You'd look
strange if you said nothing, offered no
opinion about the world. It might render you
unfeeling for life, a nomad who does
not fit in the grand scheme of things.
Keep your hand gestures to a mimimum so that
you wouldn't feel so uncontrolled and ugly afterwards, remembering
your nervous, big hands and wondering how you
have landed here at this peculiar time in your life. If
someone drops something, keep quiet so that you would
not let on that you have noticed, or else everyone
will turn their attention on you the whole night. And you
would not like that. Best to keep still so that you
can move along to wake up in the morning
and feel nothing for your wife beside you,
for the life you have decided to lead.
When they bring in the scented water,
dip your fingers in it, slowly, so as not to
show that you are not used to all this; are not
here at all but you are back in that
cold nipa hut and waiting with your mother for
the big, fresh potatoes that your father hauled in from the fields today.
In the water, you think you see your face, but it is his - your father's
expression bewildered and saddened now
by your wet, pink hands.
surviving chance
I received him as a guest once. That was the night when he felt like
being a cliche and decided to knock on someone's door,
which turned out to be ours.
He asked me to take him in, so I did. Should've thought
it out before my whole family wrapped around him like a
bandage. I believed things would be interesting that first day when
I took him to my room and announced, This is my life, and slid some
of the torn magazines under the bed with my foot.
He looked around, cast an eye
on the books soldered to the desk and said,
This is enough, I guess. One thing
about him is, he did not like board games
and storybooks. Whenever I went
downstairs to read Cinderella to my youngest sister,
he went to the rooftop, put
on music so strange and angry that it breathed in a
life of its own, glowered at
passersby. The children in the house tiptoed
around our strange guest, gave him
food that he said he did not want.
We've got lots of time for that, he said, as
he stared at the beautiful girls coming down the road with pink
tank tops on. One night, I said something to him,
I think I mocked him, I don't really remember. He got
so angry his fists became waves
that appeared and hid underneath the floorplanks.
Next day, he was gone.
It has been
six years and we are all still here. We leave a light on for him but
now, there's only the slow, dry wind.
being a cliche and decided to knock on someone's door,
which turned out to be ours.
He asked me to take him in, so I did. Should've thought
it out before my whole family wrapped around him like a
bandage. I believed things would be interesting that first day when
I took him to my room and announced, This is my life, and slid some
of the torn magazines under the bed with my foot.
He looked around, cast an eye
on the books soldered to the desk and said,
This is enough, I guess. One thing
about him is, he did not like board games
and storybooks. Whenever I went
downstairs to read Cinderella to my youngest sister,
he went to the rooftop, put
on music so strange and angry that it breathed in a
life of its own, glowered at
passersby. The children in the house tiptoed
around our strange guest, gave him
food that he said he did not want.
We've got lots of time for that, he said, as
he stared at the beautiful girls coming down the road with pink
tank tops on. One night, I said something to him,
I think I mocked him, I don't really remember. He got
so angry his fists became waves
that appeared and hid underneath the floorplanks.
Next day, he was gone.
It has been
six years and we are all still here. We leave a light on for him but
now, there's only the slow, dry wind.
these necessary joys
What is it about happiness that makes you
say At last as if it was something the world
owed you? Today, I woke up and said Someone
is responsible for the sun, for my weak eyes,
for yesterday's bread on the table. Listen,
I'd like to ask if you would know what would
happen to my brother who is sleeping this morning
on someone else's couch. Why doesn't he find it strange,
how comfortable he is in this new world? I can only
come to the conclusion that he is rare, unlike that
person on a tightrope that a poet once talked about. You see,
I believe that the rest of us are defined by what we
fear most. My brother is not, he is spelled out
by the wild look in his eyes every time he witnesses
something new. It's either that or I never really
knew him very well. The riddle his body forms is on
the couch I am looking at and I am wondering now
who is responsible for him, for all these
necessary joys?
say At last as if it was something the world
owed you? Today, I woke up and said Someone
is responsible for the sun, for my weak eyes,
for yesterday's bread on the table. Listen,
I'd like to ask if you would know what would
happen to my brother who is sleeping this morning
on someone else's couch. Why doesn't he find it strange,
how comfortable he is in this new world? I can only
come to the conclusion that he is rare, unlike that
person on a tightrope that a poet once talked about. You see,
I believe that the rest of us are defined by what we
fear most. My brother is not, he is spelled out
by the wild look in his eyes every time he witnesses
something new. It's either that or I never really
knew him very well. The riddle his body forms is on
the couch I am looking at and I am wondering now
who is responsible for him, for all these
necessary joys?
I would like to be married to a poem
What I would like is to be married
to a poem, one that's easy to understand. Of course,
there would be nothing to blame
but love at first sight, the ripple of words
settling on my artless tongue. I would not be able to shake off
the taste of it because its make is much like mine: ash so sullied
that it no longer knows what's safe to contain. A poem is easy
to love because it's not convinced about how complicated
it really is. So unlike its writer, who is beside himself with
grief over his own mystery. You can hold
hands with a poem at night and it won't wonder at
your sudden affection. If you take it to the movies
it will laugh at your favorite parts and will try to mimic
how Woody Allen talks during emptier times. It likes
long walks and dates at the beach because it knows nothing
of cliches. Oh wouldn't it be nice, to be married like that, to
a masterpiece so finite and complete in itself, something that
says, even at your worst days, how much you are loved.
to a poem, one that's easy to understand. Of course,
there would be nothing to blame
but love at first sight, the ripple of words
settling on my artless tongue. I would not be able to shake off
the taste of it because its make is much like mine: ash so sullied
that it no longer knows what's safe to contain. A poem is easy
to love because it's not convinced about how complicated
it really is. So unlike its writer, who is beside himself with
grief over his own mystery. You can hold
hands with a poem at night and it won't wonder at
your sudden affection. If you take it to the movies
it will laugh at your favorite parts and will try to mimic
how Woody Allen talks during emptier times. It likes
long walks and dates at the beach because it knows nothing
of cliches. Oh wouldn't it be nice, to be married like that, to
a masterpiece so finite and complete in itself, something that
says, even at your worst days, how much you are loved.
the pickpocket
In my dreams, it is always summer
and the boy in those dreams is always picking pockets. He
never tells me why. My mother, she
does not know this boy
but he looks a lot like her. I am waiting for him to step
up to me and say On my watch, you're never
going to die. And I dread that day but in my dreams,
everything is still in place so I try not to be too afraid. The dreams
aren't always about the boy. Some of
them are about how the wind
makes the red kite fly. The kite is a miracle
making zigzag patterns on a sky
that is overcast with sadness.
I think I've never seen anything lovelier than that,
except maybe for
the boy's hands, how small and
insignificant they look. I'm sorry,
I could've sworn that the dreams were not all
about him but they were.
Strangely, he moves me. The kite never has, honestly. Like
many things, it acts as a disinterested constant,
floating around and
doing nothing spectacular. But the boy was fast
and careful, always
making someone's load less heavy. In today's dream,
I see him lifting the sun out of someone's
beach bag. For a moment, he
makes believe he is stealing from God.
But I know he is not; I know he knows the truth for
God is not here. He is in someone
else's summer dream,
picking someone else's pockets with
bright, small hands.
and the boy in those dreams is always picking pockets. He
never tells me why. My mother, she
does not know this boy
but he looks a lot like her. I am waiting for him to step
up to me and say On my watch, you're never
going to die. And I dread that day but in my dreams,
everything is still in place so I try not to be too afraid. The dreams
aren't always about the boy. Some of
them are about how the wind
makes the red kite fly. The kite is a miracle
making zigzag patterns on a sky
that is overcast with sadness.
I think I've never seen anything lovelier than that,
except maybe for
the boy's hands, how small and
insignificant they look. I'm sorry,
I could've sworn that the dreams were not all
about him but they were.
Strangely, he moves me. The kite never has, honestly. Like
many things, it acts as a disinterested constant,
floating around and
doing nothing spectacular. But the boy was fast
and careful, always
making someone's load less heavy. In today's dream,
I see him lifting the sun out of someone's
beach bag. For a moment, he
makes believe he is stealing from God.
But I know he is not; I know he knows the truth for
God is not here. He is in someone
else's summer dream,
picking someone else's pockets with
bright, small hands.
Parting Season
This is the season for giving up -- cold and
impersonal; rainwater slinking off the alley like some
anonymous drunk. Somebody invented the first broken
heart to match the color of rain. My grandfather used to tell
me that you would never really know,
wouldn't be able to pinpoint, the exact time
when you are let go by a person you love. Was it on that
specific moment when he was doing something as ordinary
as washing last night's dishes or staring at the green sock on his
left foot when he thought of you as something lost,
as if he received word that you have died yesterday in a collage
of car crashes, mounted secretly in his mind. Or was it
on that very second when he looked at you from across
your small, round dinner table as you said "Pass the green peas, please."
If you had decided to look long enough, you would've noticed
a decision in his glance,forming into a shape of an open door.
Tell me, should there be a number of times, a
repetitive quandry of events before one learns that
to let go is the best course; that it is best to get your body away
before this season ends and translates into sunnier, more forgiving days.
Then, it would be harder, would be inappropriate, even.
It would be as if everything lost rises, as if the world were a place
the people you used to love have never seen; and it was enough
impersonal; rainwater slinking off the alley like some
anonymous drunk. Somebody invented the first broken
heart to match the color of rain. My grandfather used to tell
me that you would never really know,
wouldn't be able to pinpoint, the exact time
when you are let go by a person you love. Was it on that
specific moment when he was doing something as ordinary
as washing last night's dishes or staring at the green sock on his
left foot when he thought of you as something lost,
as if he received word that you have died yesterday in a collage
of car crashes, mounted secretly in his mind. Or was it
on that very second when he looked at you from across
your small, round dinner table as you said "Pass the green peas, please."
If you had decided to look long enough, you would've noticed
a decision in his glance,forming into a shape of an open door.
Tell me, should there be a number of times, a
repetitive quandry of events before one learns that
to let go is the best course; that it is best to get your body away
before this season ends and translates into sunnier, more forgiving days.
Then, it would be harder, would be inappropriate, even.
It would be as if everything lost rises, as if the world were a place
the people you used to love have never seen; and it was enough
If the way I think about you
If
the way I think about you would amount to anything, the red moon
would quit its job for a night. It would slide down as a woman to
the pub you usually frequent. It will be wearing a dress,
red and appropriate, with
one leg exposed to the resting world. After ordering a drink,
it would look around and see you
alone this time, a rare occurence. It would think of you lonely
for someone, maybe me. then the moon
would be lost in its own reveries, as if it were human, as if it also
has suffered a loss as seemingly insignificant as we have.
the way I think about you would amount to anything, the red moon
would quit its job for a night. It would slide down as a woman to
the pub you usually frequent. It will be wearing a dress,
red and appropriate, with
one leg exposed to the resting world. After ordering a drink,
it would look around and see you
alone this time, a rare occurence. It would think of you lonely
for someone, maybe me. then the moon
would be lost in its own reveries, as if it were human, as if it also
has suffered a loss as seemingly insignificant as we have.
For the new year
Some things have changed. Now, I tie my shoelaces
slowly, as if the bus I would be riding on is my own bus
and the other people are merely dream segments, rushing to
and from one another. I also read poetry with my mouth open
which is, of course,a sort of knee-jerk reaction,
a kick in the shin. When I walk I notice
that it is no longer skip skip skip but trot skip clump clump.
when I talk to family members I do not like, I say, please pass the onions.
One night, I was staring at a city light and it looked so finite and sad,
with nightglow all around it, feasting on its one good eye. From that
time on, I kept watching out for those lights, guarding them.
When I eat breakfast, its not just
bacon and eggs but it could be anything! Anything at all -- ice cream,
cold spaghetti, hard pink candy that never melts. I know
now the difference between an empty bench and a lone soldier,
the difference that lies between
the spaces you left behind, what I keep on filling.
slowly, as if the bus I would be riding on is my own bus
and the other people are merely dream segments, rushing to
and from one another. I also read poetry with my mouth open
which is, of course,a sort of knee-jerk reaction,
a kick in the shin. When I walk I notice
that it is no longer skip skip skip but trot skip clump clump.
when I talk to family members I do not like, I say, please pass the onions.
One night, I was staring at a city light and it looked so finite and sad,
with nightglow all around it, feasting on its one good eye. From that
time on, I kept watching out for those lights, guarding them.
When I eat breakfast, its not just
bacon and eggs but it could be anything! Anything at all -- ice cream,
cold spaghetti, hard pink candy that never melts. I know
now the difference between an empty bench and a lone soldier,
the difference that lies between
the spaces you left behind, what I keep on filling.
to the lover
There are days when you are cucumber.
I sharpen my knife
before I peel your skin off, pretending it is flesh on bones.
Inside you, there is nothing but pulp--
fiction lying in wait for the
next lover to immortalize you in poetry.
I slice you into thin pieces
until you are almost opaque, as transparent
as a memory. Sometimes, I make stars out of you,
or rabbits, depending on where he slept
the night before or if he came home early.
At times, you are fresh meat.
I keep you under running water for
more minutes than isnecessary. This is because
I don't want your blood on my hands.The
meat looks wrinkled after this prolonged
exposure to water, as if it is hurt by my
insecurity.I wear gloves
to keep my knuckles clean. At times, I
make like a god andpound at you with my newly bought pestle
until you are as malleable as my heart.It makes me believe
you are human and can be subject to
impermanence.
In this kitchen, I try to find an end to you. All around me are
the bricks that built my life,that define who I am.
Here, I am free to reinvent you.
Outside, he may consider you a kingdom,
a harbor,a masterpiece. But within these walls,you are in
bits and pieces,wrapped up in foil or sometimes
stowed away for future use.You are reduced to elements,
to momentary necessities. But you never go away.
You live here-- sleeping on our bed, peeping through jars,
rotting gracefully on the wooden shelves. You take
the shape of steam rising from noonday kettles.
Your message is darkness and silence.
I sharpen my knife
before I peel your skin off, pretending it is flesh on bones.
Inside you, there is nothing but pulp--
fiction lying in wait for the
next lover to immortalize you in poetry.
I slice you into thin pieces
until you are almost opaque, as transparent
as a memory. Sometimes, I make stars out of you,
or rabbits, depending on where he slept
the night before or if he came home early.
At times, you are fresh meat.
I keep you under running water for
more minutes than isnecessary. This is because
I don't want your blood on my hands.The
meat looks wrinkled after this prolonged
exposure to water, as if it is hurt by my
insecurity.I wear gloves
to keep my knuckles clean. At times, I
make like a god andpound at you with my newly bought pestle
until you are as malleable as my heart.It makes me believe
you are human and can be subject to
impermanence.
In this kitchen, I try to find an end to you. All around me are
the bricks that built my life,that define who I am.
Here, I am free to reinvent you.
Outside, he may consider you a kingdom,
a harbor,a masterpiece. But within these walls,you are in
bits and pieces,wrapped up in foil or sometimes
stowed away for future use.You are reduced to elements,
to momentary necessities. But you never go away.
You live here-- sleeping on our bed, peeping through jars,
rotting gracefully on the wooden shelves. You take
the shape of steam rising from noonday kettles.
Your message is darkness and silence.
We love a love
that puts its head on someone else's reliable shoulder,
that hides between
the experienced thighs of women.
We love a love that belongs
to the sky and sometimes, even the kind that is usually stuck under
the next stranger's left boot.We love a love that
is found between some lines, in the solemn folding and
unfolding of hands. We love a love
that would give us a good fuck, sheets useless and tumbled on the floor
where we were standing, uncertain, minutes ago.
But most of the time,
we love a love that burns and burns in the waiting eye of
several memories tacked together
to form something safe, like a lifetime, or,
a show of paired hands
entwined on a canvas to help others believe that
nothing stops,not even the kind of liquid I have
turned into -- something that keeps on breaking on your open palm.
that hides between
the experienced thighs of women.
We love a love that belongs
to the sky and sometimes, even the kind that is usually stuck under
the next stranger's left boot.We love a love that
is found between some lines, in the solemn folding and
unfolding of hands. We love a love
that would give us a good fuck, sheets useless and tumbled on the floor
where we were standing, uncertain, minutes ago.
But most of the time,
we love a love that burns and burns in the waiting eye of
several memories tacked together
to form something safe, like a lifetime, or,
a show of paired hands
entwined on a canvas to help others believe that
nothing stops,not even the kind of liquid I have
turned into -- something that keeps on breaking on your open palm.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
I would like to be good.
I would like to be good. I would like to be someone who believes in something greater than the mythical silver lining, these small blessings. I would like to look at a child and love him because he is a child and he knows nothing of the world and this love would push me to do great things. I would like to look at women and not feel obliged to forgive them of their weaknesses. I would like to run into a man on a common street and then forget him the moment I turn the corner. I would like to be strong enough to be able to turn that corner. I would like to see my brother and realize how hungry he is, how he is collapsing into deceptive versions of kindness, time and time again, finding out that he has exchanged his eyes for something far less miraculous. I would like to seek out my father, who has been drunk all his life but never lets on. I would like to see him and I will run my hands gently over his face to let him know that I am a child, still, but with strange, almost incoherent needs. And I will suppose that he will understand and recognize me, inspite of his old rage, for he is more me than I am. I would like to visit my mother in her crumbling solitude. I would like to tell her that everything is not what it seems, that the world has turned me into something she might not be able to see fully. And in that warm and familiar place, I will nestle my head on her shoulder, the way I did when I was so much younger, when there was nothing else but love and warm soup on the table. I would like to skip the apologies and move on quickly to something true. I would tell her this and I would hear her talk softly about herself and her body would assume the blank spaces of what we've all forgotten, what we need to accept. This time, I would listen. I would be good.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
For M
they whispered about her infront of her children
claiming they remembered her, or rather
the christmases when everything she bought them
did not fit. this was a sign, they say, that she
never bothered to know them.
she was a mystery to the youngest
sister for she ran off to a convent and said prayers to a god
whom she denounced years after, finding
the right footstool for her faith
and knowing somehow that she
would always be better than who she was
then - a hollow child who breathed her life into
words and dreamt of gold to fill herself, instead
of mopping the floors and helping mother
create kamote sweets to feed the rich.
rich is what she wanted to be. imagine
the length of chances, the various lives she can lead.
her dreams were monsters, they say.
her children hear them whisper that she died of wanting,
of having known hunger and not fearing it. it is late and
they decide to move on to the part of
the narrative when it is already night time. in the scene,
she has snapped. she is commanding everyone
to move out of the house she had bought with
foreign blood. she screamed at their mother. imagine that.
disregard the fact that she was a stranger to them - a stray
wound that everyone forgot existed.
this is their favorite memory of her - she
lying on a yellow sofa, death leaning over her
shoulder. she whispers that she is sorry
but by now, she doesn't know that she's
even saying it. or to whom. it was the
morphine talking, carelessly moving around,
finding resurrection in her veins. it told her stories
of grandeur, stories that she passed
on to her frightened children.
in her passing, her sisters do not
remember her loving notes.
they do not remember her smiles that said
see me. know that i am here.but they are reminded of
everything else - the smell of weakness on
her clothes, fistfuls of her tears, her loss.
they smile a knowing smile.her children,
orphans now, do not say a word. they traipse
down to their newfound sadness and wonder if it is
all true. but when they dream, they
see the bright blue flame of her body. she
advises them not to hurry towards her.
in the morning, they remember their hearts,
so constricted with love that again, they are emptied out.
---------------------
this poem is for my mother, who always smelled of summer rain.
claiming they remembered her, or rather
the christmases when everything she bought them
did not fit. this was a sign, they say, that she
never bothered to know them.
she was a mystery to the youngest
sister for she ran off to a convent and said prayers to a god
whom she denounced years after, finding
the right footstool for her faith
and knowing somehow that she
would always be better than who she was
then - a hollow child who breathed her life into
words and dreamt of gold to fill herself, instead
of mopping the floors and helping mother
create kamote sweets to feed the rich.
rich is what she wanted to be. imagine
the length of chances, the various lives she can lead.
her dreams were monsters, they say.
her children hear them whisper that she died of wanting,
of having known hunger and not fearing it. it is late and
they decide to move on to the part of
the narrative when it is already night time. in the scene,
she has snapped. she is commanding everyone
to move out of the house she had bought with
foreign blood. she screamed at their mother. imagine that.
disregard the fact that she was a stranger to them - a stray
wound that everyone forgot existed.
this is their favorite memory of her - she
lying on a yellow sofa, death leaning over her
shoulder. she whispers that she is sorry
but by now, she doesn't know that she's
even saying it. or to whom. it was the
morphine talking, carelessly moving around,
finding resurrection in her veins. it told her stories
of grandeur, stories that she passed
on to her frightened children.
in her passing, her sisters do not
remember her loving notes.
they do not remember her smiles that said
see me. know that i am here.but they are reminded of
everything else - the smell of weakness on
her clothes, fistfuls of her tears, her loss.
they smile a knowing smile.her children,
orphans now, do not say a word. they traipse
down to their newfound sadness and wonder if it is
all true. but when they dream, they
see the bright blue flame of her body. she
advises them not to hurry towards her.
in the morning, they remember their hearts,
so constricted with love that again, they are emptied out.
---------------------
this poem is for my mother, who always smelled of summer rain.
24 and going
When you say thirteen, the first thing that
would probably come to mind
would be bikes. Or more specifically, bike rides
over the small tuft of land near the backyard,
near the road. You practice short
exhibition stunts infront of your friends.
They copy you meticulously, as if
this were a test. Whenever you leap, you
choose a place to land on, a spot that
would break your fall if things go wrong.
Finally, when you grow a little older, you ride
your bike on the street, braving
the new world laid out before you. Notice that
I said when, not if. This is certain, this
swift moving from one time to another; the
passing of certain rituals that you
would have to shed lest everyone leaves
you young and untroubled.
As the years pass, you acquire new exits.
Slowly, you drink in what you think is your life.
You become successful with a few things. You get
someone to love and a pet dog thrown in. You come
home every night tired, willing
yourself to stay awake and not give up. The
bruises you have accepted remain like bright
goldfish do in filthy aquariums. The bruises
you have forgotten stay silent and watchful,
as if they, as well, have been forgiven.
Occasionally, you read new poems, write things
that surprise even you, bake a cake, go on
travels to places you have not been to,
decide on your faith, skin the goose, swing
the bow, walk the walk, stand on the edge;
your life, a mosaic of cliches that you cannot leap out of.
You no longer look at the mirror. It's
been years since you last screamed.
Tomorrow, you wake up and you are
twenty-five. All of a sudden, you are
all flabby arms and slight paunch, hoping
against hope that today would end soon
enough, swiftly. You wish that you had woken
up eighty with left-arm arthritis and
a wheezing cat. Or maybe, not at all.
These are the years, talking like stealthy ghosts. As you lie on
your bed taking time, you discover the finite truth : that there truly is
nowhere to land now, finally, naked as you are.
would probably come to mind
would be bikes. Or more specifically, bike rides
over the small tuft of land near the backyard,
near the road. You practice short
exhibition stunts infront of your friends.
They copy you meticulously, as if
this were a test. Whenever you leap, you
choose a place to land on, a spot that
would break your fall if things go wrong.
Finally, when you grow a little older, you ride
your bike on the street, braving
the new world laid out before you. Notice that
I said when, not if. This is certain, this
swift moving from one time to another; the
passing of certain rituals that you
would have to shed lest everyone leaves
you young and untroubled.
As the years pass, you acquire new exits.
Slowly, you drink in what you think is your life.
You become successful with a few things. You get
someone to love and a pet dog thrown in. You come
home every night tired, willing
yourself to stay awake and not give up. The
bruises you have accepted remain like bright
goldfish do in filthy aquariums. The bruises
you have forgotten stay silent and watchful,
as if they, as well, have been forgiven.
Occasionally, you read new poems, write things
that surprise even you, bake a cake, go on
travels to places you have not been to,
decide on your faith, skin the goose, swing
the bow, walk the walk, stand on the edge;
your life, a mosaic of cliches that you cannot leap out of.
You no longer look at the mirror. It's
been years since you last screamed.
Tomorrow, you wake up and you are
twenty-five. All of a sudden, you are
all flabby arms and slight paunch, hoping
against hope that today would end soon
enough, swiftly. You wish that you had woken
up eighty with left-arm arthritis and
a wheezing cat. Or maybe, not at all.
These are the years, talking like stealthy ghosts. As you lie on
your bed taking time, you discover the finite truth : that there truly is
nowhere to land now, finally, naked as you are.
Uncertainty
likes lying in bed with me. It helps me think of things
that are unusual and imprecise. If I sneeze, it whispers
that this moment, an unusual disease might be sleeping
fitfully in my body. When, in the middle of night, I realize
that I have dreamt of my father, (wearing his fisherman's hat), the wind
tells me that he might not be in a safe place after all. Yesterday, I bought
a new perfume. Enscribed on the pink bottle are these words:
Welcome the new you! This I do not do
but I say, what the hell.
Hell is another idea that I am not confident about. I wonder if
the fuss it causes really means the world
to that man on the street, saying I will perish someday if I don't repent. His urgency
is atrocious, somewhat contrasting with the backdrop of my life. He needs
something, he says.
Everyone does but we are not sure
what it is. We look for this thing we need everywhere; as if once found, it will
save us from things we do not know. I am saddened by all these
bodies, rubbing up against each other, saying,
however indirectly, You are not what I am looking for. And everyone goes
on with their lives, wondering at their loneliness, their sentiments massive weights
that they carry from one life to the next.
(This ambiguity is with us. It is forming a world between us everytime we meet. To bridge the gap, I imagine you old. We are in our last days. Nothing can ever change now except the shape of the moon, the position of stars.)
The last time
ahe wore the bracelet father gave her
was that Tuesday when we went
out and fed pigeons in the park. She held out the
moldy bread crumbs when we came to the fountain and watched
the birds twittering.
When she grew tired, she asked me to sit beside her
and read her a story, something she
used to do when Danny and I were smaller. Twelve and nine - yes, that’s
how old Danny and I were when the
world, they said, was getting a little bigger
than usual. Let’s make it smaller, they said. Make it something
that can fit in a box that
we can drag around and walk like a dog.
But in the park, I forgot all about these things because
my mother looked so pretty then,
smiling that secret smile of hers while
singing a an old blues song.
That day, she and I forgot about the rain
That day, she and I forgot about the rain
and how treacherous water really is because it swallowed Danny's
body whole, never leaving some of him for us to put our hands on.
This story ends with us realizing that there was really just the two of us,
all hopeful that this kind of peace was everyone else's.
I think at some point, she even whispered,
Come here, closer. But it could have been the wind. It
could have been many things.
hair
If you return to me, the first thing
I would do is get a shave. My hair
is the length of years I have sat here and waited.
It has grown so long that
people five blocks away are complaining
about it. People in China are complaining about it.
In the news yesterday, they featured that old
man in Nantucky, who's saying over and over 'It's itchin'
pretty darned bad!'
Close your eyes when you
think of me. Do not revert to the last time we saw each other
for much has changed. Now, they call me the man of the newest millenium.
I am now everything you have ever wanted.
Whenever I am tempted to look into myself, to see
if the old me is still there, I shrug that
longing off. See, everyone else is changing to suit
everyone else's needs. We are
detergents, improving brands of soap.
Don't feel bad; I am close to fitting in where you are.
Hurry quick, love. Be safe, be true. If minutes
continue to run, all this hair will reach my heart. I will not be
responsible for its twisting
and turning, its strangling hold. If it
succeeds, trust that I will no
longer be here. I will be a figment of your imagination,
the way I have always been.
I would do is get a shave. My hair
is the length of years I have sat here and waited.
It has grown so long that
people five blocks away are complaining
about it. People in China are complaining about it.
In the news yesterday, they featured that old
man in Nantucky, who's saying over and over 'It's itchin'
pretty darned bad!'
Close your eyes when you
think of me. Do not revert to the last time we saw each other
for much has changed. Now, they call me the man of the newest millenium.
I am now everything you have ever wanted.
Whenever I am tempted to look into myself, to see
if the old me is still there, I shrug that
longing off. See, everyone else is changing to suit
everyone else's needs. We are
detergents, improving brands of soap.
Don't feel bad; I am close to fitting in where you are.
Hurry quick, love. Be safe, be true. If minutes
continue to run, all this hair will reach my heart. I will not be
responsible for its twisting
and turning, its strangling hold. If it
succeeds, trust that I will no
longer be here. I will be a figment of your imagination,
the way I have always been.
hand in a jar
Honestly, I don't find anything wrong with stealing. For one thing, we all know that there is a shortage of everything in this world. From cats to pomegrantes, love and accidents. Surely, I say, nothing is wrong with getting something that is not yours. Necessity is the culprit, makes
fools of us all. I am sure that under the heat of the sun you have always felt somewhat lacking; a little out of breath from running for so long. Don't listen to what anyone else says. Just put your hand in there, this cold jar of life, which is everyone's jar, if you think about it. Today, when you pull up your hand, it might be clutching a mouse, dead for 12 years now, smelling so foul that you wish you had died with that aunt of yours who never loved you. You are getting the slow feeling that you were always alone. You keep hoping in the secrets of this jar, wishing that finally it will be there --- the thing you have waited for so patiently. Imagine this then : one ordinary day, you pull it up and it is true to the form you have always thought it would appear to you. You wait for the feeling to overwhelm you; for this object to say I have always been yours. But it remains numb and golden, the eye of a god.
fools of us all. I am sure that under the heat of the sun you have always felt somewhat lacking; a little out of breath from running for so long. Don't listen to what anyone else says. Just put your hand in there, this cold jar of life, which is everyone's jar, if you think about it. Today, when you pull up your hand, it might be clutching a mouse, dead for 12 years now, smelling so foul that you wish you had died with that aunt of yours who never loved you. You are getting the slow feeling that you were always alone. You keep hoping in the secrets of this jar, wishing that finally it will be there --- the thing you have waited for so patiently. Imagine this then : one ordinary day, you pull it up and it is true to the form you have always thought it would appear to you. You wait for the feeling to overwhelm you; for this object to say I have always been yours. But it remains numb and golden, the eye of a god.
local gods
at first, it was not inventiveness but a kind of love that drove us into it -- the fashioning of something out of those afternoons. not everything
had a name, or could be humbly defined by
circumstance. we were much older then -- older
to the people who knew us, who believed that
we knew a thing or two about breathing properly, at the
right staccato points. now, things are more
ruinous, infinitely larger than they truly are. we have set our facts,
felt them on our skins, have seen them in our seperate mirrors. oh how
lovely to still hold true -- this belief that we were once
flying saucers, our own
metaphors.now that we are older, you say my lines hold nothing from you. what
is left is the vision of your slender body thrusting forward, always toward
brighter things.
had a name, or could be humbly defined by
circumstance. we were much older then -- older
to the people who knew us, who believed that
we knew a thing or two about breathing properly, at the
right staccato points. now, things are more
ruinous, infinitely larger than they truly are. we have set our facts,
felt them on our skins, have seen them in our seperate mirrors. oh how
lovely to still hold true -- this belief that we were once
flying saucers, our own
metaphors.now that we are older, you say my lines hold nothing from you. what
is left is the vision of your slender body thrusting forward, always toward
brighter things.
dancing at aunt martha's
Looking back, it was strange how
hard it was raining during someone's
birthday. You were six years old and birthdays
and rain did not equate. That afternoon formed something
delirious in your mind that you could not stop
thinking about. Cousin Fredrich was wearing an orange
hat with a feather stuck on it, a sour note. There
were 12 of you then and Aunt Martha, of course, and
Uncle Benedict who kept on blinking
for some reason. You remember that the first game was
pin the tail on the donkey. In your hand, the tail seemed
short and droopy and had no more hair. You
remember feeling sorry for the donkey but
you did not question his fate because the house's walls were lined with love.
Aunt Martha's eyes wove dreams on your white arm.
Putting on a Beatles record, she announced that you had to dance.
You were supposed to know all the steps. You remember making a few
hesitant moves, then a half-hearted shimmy.
I want to tell you that it was only natural for you to pull back.
You spotted an anonymous
boy in the crowd and dragged him to the center of things.
He was just some boy, same age as you were, perhaps. You are not certain now
about any facts regarding him but you remember
the strange roughness of his white shirt. Years after, you find
that you could not change. Always now, someone beside you, refusing the dance.
hard it was raining during someone's
birthday. You were six years old and birthdays
and rain did not equate. That afternoon formed something
delirious in your mind that you could not stop
thinking about. Cousin Fredrich was wearing an orange
hat with a feather stuck on it, a sour note. There
were 12 of you then and Aunt Martha, of course, and
Uncle Benedict who kept on blinking
for some reason. You remember that the first game was
pin the tail on the donkey. In your hand, the tail seemed
short and droopy and had no more hair. You
remember feeling sorry for the donkey but
you did not question his fate because the house's walls were lined with love.
Aunt Martha's eyes wove dreams on your white arm.
Putting on a Beatles record, she announced that you had to dance.
You were supposed to know all the steps. You remember making a few
hesitant moves, then a half-hearted shimmy.
I want to tell you that it was only natural for you to pull back.
You spotted an anonymous
boy in the crowd and dragged him to the center of things.
He was just some boy, same age as you were, perhaps. You are not certain now
about any facts regarding him but you remember
the strange roughness of his white shirt. Years after, you find
that you could not change. Always now, someone beside you, refusing the dance.
a quick note while looking at a mirror in a different building
Turn around and there I am.
The lights here are more unforgiving, so
different from the ones I am used to.
Something about
foreign feeling makes you feel
all bland inside -- an overripe orange. My
face looks botched up, ready
to be crumpled up at a moment's indecision. I am paper --
still blank but self-important. I do not know
if I am ready to say, Something new please, this time.
The lights here are more unforgiving, so
different from the ones I am used to.
Something about
foreign feeling makes you feel
all bland inside -- an overripe orange. My
face looks botched up, ready
to be crumpled up at a moment's indecision. I am paper --
still blank but self-important. I do not know
if I am ready to say, Something new please, this time.
this poem is a chair
It is composed of four corners,
hard edges, material that burns easily.
Think of all the things it might mean
to the space it occupies. You can do more than
just sit on it. My friend put his books on it once.
If you choose to be a little fanciful, you can
ask a green ostrich to stand on it, sing its
heart out. This is anyone's harbor but
it is no one's refuge. It is still too small --
it needs to be restructured for it to resemble something
close to home. Some people like to argue
about what it represents. The way it just settles here
must mean something to someone. They call me up
at 2 am, insisting that it is more than
its parts. But no, really, it is just a chair. And yes,
it will hold.
hard edges, material that burns easily.
Think of all the things it might mean
to the space it occupies. You can do more than
just sit on it. My friend put his books on it once.
If you choose to be a little fanciful, you can
ask a green ostrich to stand on it, sing its
heart out. This is anyone's harbor but
it is no one's refuge. It is still too small --
it needs to be restructured for it to resemble something
close to home. Some people like to argue
about what it represents. The way it just settles here
must mean something to someone. They call me up
at 2 am, insisting that it is more than
its parts. But no, really, it is just a chair. And yes,
it will hold.
for/against things that will come to pass
It was hard to recognize, then, what he actually meant by sending me those postcards. They were sent every Tuesday when dusk was not permitted to show its face. Part of my confusion was because of the season they were sent. It was so warm then; not the proper time, really, for personal stories scribbled intently on white sheets. In the afternoons, oddly, the postcards' faces smelt of rain. I was more confused about why he chose Tuesdays. Was there supposed to be something good happening on Tuesdays? Were there supposed to be bright-eyed girls hanging on to the arms of their green boys, so beside themselves with newness? Or was there the possibility of singular voices of clarinets, stomping forever inside my mother's cooking dress?No, no, those wild postcards were meant for something else -- for vigilant and cold springs, far from love.
chair-love
When the one met the other, it said, "I will chair-ish you forever." This, without knowing
much about its companion, save for its color and approximate size. You see
in the chair-world, they don't get to meet a lot of other chairs. But since
they were both placed on this plane at this opportune time, they
declared it fate and gave in to the rare luster o' chair-love.
They spoke in chair-whispers when the stadium closed and told each other
about the dreams that used to keep them awake. During days when they
were left out in the rain, the other chair laughed and laughed because the raindrops
tickled its legs. Whenever this happened, the other chair willed its arms to
serve a purpose other than support for
tired, confusing bodies. They did not talk about their inability to
touch, the way they secretly think about what the other smells like. They want a dirty
love --- one that would involve body parts, missed chances,
sloppy kisses. For the first time, they questioned the distance that kept one chair from another,
an unlikely life. They consulted quack doctors,
voodoo masters, dark women who danced under the sun. But nothing could be done.
I will not tell you if they finally drifted apart, if one of them
moved somewhere far and fitful, or if they spent their lives reaching for each other.
But I will tell you this:
In the chair world, there are no miracles.
(Like in ours, love. Like in ours.)
what everyone knows
What everyone knows is
it's hard to love in this body, difficult to cradle another's
in this limited frame. Arms, legs, your fingertips only begin
where the other ends. Say for example,
nights when you feel so cold but
you do not know how to get warmer, you think about that body,
that frame that you'd like to fit in yourself.
You think about how nice it would be to put your hands
all the way in its stomach, feel its squirmy insides. Next
would be your right foot in, then your left.
Then everything, all your body parts
squeezing into another's. People
outside that body would hear you moving around in it,
having a grand time amidst that body's
soft edges. Maybe this will do it -- will help cure the common
cold, will stop wars. Maybe this will define what we need, will make us
stop groping in broad daylight. Maybe this will reveal the
heart of your heart to me, something I borrowed a long time ago.
it's hard to love in this body, difficult to cradle another's
in this limited frame. Arms, legs, your fingertips only begin
where the other ends. Say for example,
nights when you feel so cold but
you do not know how to get warmer, you think about that body,
that frame that you'd like to fit in yourself.
You think about how nice it would be to put your hands
all the way in its stomach, feel its squirmy insides. Next
would be your right foot in, then your left.
Then everything, all your body parts
squeezing into another's. People
outside that body would hear you moving around in it,
having a grand time amidst that body's
soft edges. Maybe this will do it -- will help cure the common
cold, will stop wars. Maybe this will define what we need, will make us
stop groping in broad daylight. Maybe this will reveal the
heart of your heart to me, something I borrowed a long time ago.
your poems
your poems should go some place ---
the tip of your tongue,
beyond no entry signs,
between a stranger's toes, steeped drunkenly
in familiar feeling.
zigzagging on zebra stripes, or,
among hushed voices in the next room.
your poems should belong somewhere ---
at the corner drugstore,
in the long closed diner with mothballs for eyes,
sampling cities that like to let go, to start out;
they should be standing on vacant lots
which never held grudges, kept giving.
your poems should be seen from certain vantage points ---
nestled comfortably between the lines of your
mother's resigned face and the light,
always that light, neon, on your
brother's revealed stomach;
people should see them holding hands
with the one you love, and then, maybe later,
something more 'neath the sheets.
they say your poems should be travelling well
into the world by now --- alone, with daylight
as their only umbrella.
but you know that they are here,
the equivalent of a lifetime of kisses. they
lie with you at night and one after another, make you
climax so many times that your eyes are two scraggly
Xs. they like drawing conclusions
about god on your walls.
in the early mornings, you sit beside
each other. it's a quiet
marriage, one you are happy to be in.
sometimes, for the heck of it, they reach out, shake you.
the tip of your tongue,
beyond no entry signs,
between a stranger's toes, steeped drunkenly
in familiar feeling.
zigzagging on zebra stripes, or,
among hushed voices in the next room.
your poems should belong somewhere ---
at the corner drugstore,
in the long closed diner with mothballs for eyes,
sampling cities that like to let go, to start out;
they should be standing on vacant lots
which never held grudges, kept giving.
your poems should be seen from certain vantage points ---
nestled comfortably between the lines of your
mother's resigned face and the light,
always that light, neon, on your
brother's revealed stomach;
people should see them holding hands
with the one you love, and then, maybe later,
something more 'neath the sheets.
they say your poems should be travelling well
into the world by now --- alone, with daylight
as their only umbrella.
but you know that they are here,
the equivalent of a lifetime of kisses. they
lie with you at night and one after another, make you
climax so many times that your eyes are two scraggly
Xs. they like drawing conclusions
about god on your walls.
in the early mornings, you sit beside
each other. it's a quiet
marriage, one you are happy to be in.
sometimes, for the heck of it, they reach out, shake you.
why i am not married
Sometimes falling is
not at all what they say it is. The survivors always leave
the vital information out --- the after-blood;
the foot out the door,
even at the onset. It starts with a common
choice, between this and the
other less enviable option of cooking dinners alone
and going stag on parties. You never saw
it coming, you say, that afternoon when
a friend called you up, reassuring you that it's just a
short trip. They thought the fresh air
would do you good. You have been lying about
your loneliness for a while now; oh, how
fun an empty house is, you said. While packing,
you remember promising yourself that
you'll come back intact --- arms, ears,
your mistreated esophagus
all in one place. From your vantage
point in the backseat, everything
still seems safe. Amy and Lita are playing
crosswords, everyone else
laughing at the joke about fish and bicycles.
In fact, just sitting there, the road
moving below you, you were happy. You did not
know this then, for you took journeys
at face value, but you will admit to the
feeling while picking up your
laundry -- one night years later -- a
bag containing, always, one of everything.
Once you reach your destination,
it is every man for himself. Your
friends are disappearing, hurtling
their bodies down that secular abyss. You finger
the tight rope that would connect
you to the place you'll be leaving, thinking
about that time when you were 10
and fascinated with old man Roger, who died
scaling the largest building uptown.
You did not know Roger, did not know that
he had three kids who never
travelled far after that day. But this
is you, you are different.
You do things with eyes closed, your
body not just a body now because it is moving
faster than it ever has. You
feel the rope failing you. The survivors
are at the foot of the hill;
they scream that they are tasting stars.
At the last minute, you try to
see if it is true. What meets your eye
is that body before you,
yours, falling again and again, against its chosen hour.
not at all what they say it is. The survivors always leave
the vital information out --- the after-blood;
the foot out the door,
even at the onset. It starts with a common
choice, between this and the
other less enviable option of cooking dinners alone
and going stag on parties. You never saw
it coming, you say, that afternoon when
a friend called you up, reassuring you that it's just a
short trip. They thought the fresh air
would do you good. You have been lying about
your loneliness for a while now; oh, how
fun an empty house is, you said. While packing,
you remember promising yourself that
you'll come back intact --- arms, ears,
your mistreated esophagus
all in one place. From your vantage
point in the backseat, everything
still seems safe. Amy and Lita are playing
crosswords, everyone else
laughing at the joke about fish and bicycles.
In fact, just sitting there, the road
moving below you, you were happy. You did not
know this then, for you took journeys
at face value, but you will admit to the
feeling while picking up your
laundry -- one night years later -- a
bag containing, always, one of everything.
Once you reach your destination,
it is every man for himself. Your
friends are disappearing, hurtling
their bodies down that secular abyss. You finger
the tight rope that would connect
you to the place you'll be leaving, thinking
about that time when you were 10
and fascinated with old man Roger, who died
scaling the largest building uptown.
You did not know Roger, did not know that
he had three kids who never
travelled far after that day. But this
is you, you are different.
You do things with eyes closed, your
body not just a body now because it is moving
faster than it ever has. You
feel the rope failing you. The survivors
are at the foot of the hill;
they scream that they are tasting stars.
At the last minute, you try to
see if it is true. What meets your eye
is that body before you,
yours, falling again and again, against its chosen hour.
starting out in the evening
We should have started out early this morning,
when the leaves were just peeking out, teary-eyed over
something that happened overnight. Yes, this morning,
before I cooked you breakfast, before the milk
curdled into a frown. Or maybe, it would
have been better if we decided on it a little after lunch. Yes, lunch,
when you still have that rare satisfaction all curled up
inside your stomach. You
could've put on those trousers I like and it should've
been all done by now. Really, that would've been the best time,
we could've both done everything else we set out to
do long before, even leaving out some
minutes for that coffee you make so well. But you're right, the best
time should've been at around three, when everything
seems enough, the world an old painter's pallet --
orange, then yellow, then a still-gold,
so rare these days. We could've have felt old without getting old, your
legs wrapped around mine under that cherry tree you used to like
spending time under. Or we could've walked around the block for a
while, waving at people we don't know, but putting ourselves
out, still, because the world is a better place
with all these sweet nobodies to play our funny roles for.
But really, not like this, us setting out this late.
My eyesight is getting worse, you know. Sometimes, I'd just like to leave
my eyeballs by the mailbox, see if they can fare
better than having them attached to
my soft face, skin all loose and discouraged. You're getting tired, too,
I know. I hear your hip bones groaning when
we turn corners. I have this fear, see, something as strong as the wish I
hold --- that things could've been
better if I've seen you earlier today. Then, we could've packed a lot of
memories in my grandfather's old (old!) portmanteau, his
face stuck on one side, scratched
out, as if there was a declaration of a prize behind it.
I could've looked at your body, the sun a spotlight,
and said I've seen you during better days. But now, things can't be
helped. If you think about it, we're still okay. The lamplights
make your skin feel familiar, like a book one likes
to keep reading over and over. It's as if we've grown
up together, instead of the two of us, unlike so many others,
starting out in the evening.
when the leaves were just peeking out, teary-eyed over
something that happened overnight. Yes, this morning,
before I cooked you breakfast, before the milk
curdled into a frown. Or maybe, it would
have been better if we decided on it a little after lunch. Yes, lunch,
when you still have that rare satisfaction all curled up
inside your stomach. You
could've put on those trousers I like and it should've
been all done by now. Really, that would've been the best time,
we could've both done everything else we set out to
do long before, even leaving out some
minutes for that coffee you make so well. But you're right, the best
time should've been at around three, when everything
seems enough, the world an old painter's pallet --
orange, then yellow, then a still-gold,
so rare these days. We could've have felt old without getting old, your
legs wrapped around mine under that cherry tree you used to like
spending time under. Or we could've walked around the block for a
while, waving at people we don't know, but putting ourselves
out, still, because the world is a better place
with all these sweet nobodies to play our funny roles for.
But really, not like this, us setting out this late.
My eyesight is getting worse, you know. Sometimes, I'd just like to leave
my eyeballs by the mailbox, see if they can fare
better than having them attached to
my soft face, skin all loose and discouraged. You're getting tired, too,
I know. I hear your hip bones groaning when
we turn corners. I have this fear, see, something as strong as the wish I
hold --- that things could've been
better if I've seen you earlier today. Then, we could've packed a lot of
memories in my grandfather's old (old!) portmanteau, his
face stuck on one side, scratched
out, as if there was a declaration of a prize behind it.
I could've looked at your body, the sun a spotlight,
and said I've seen you during better days. But now, things can't be
helped. If you think about it, we're still okay. The lamplights
make your skin feel familiar, like a book one likes
to keep reading over and over. It's as if we've grown
up together, instead of the two of us, unlike so many others,
starting out in the evening.
what was to come
We ate out that Friday after the ceremony --
on my lapel, a white ribbon. My father
wished it was for valor but it was not,
only for excellence in creative writing.
The misnomer made him uncomfortable,
prompted him to look at his fingers crusted
with 10 year-old dirt. My mother
was beaming while eating a chicken leg straight
out of the bucket. She smiled and talked about
the upcoming summer workshop. New
writers this time, she hoped. And boys, she whispered with
her signature jugular wink.
I was weak with longing for
something different, maybe fish
at Pizzazi's. My eyes burned and burned,
imagining that fish's long tail,
it's charcoaled mouth, coalescing into a tight fist.
I thought about its pain, how I'd
like to measure it, seek it out as something
different from what the chicken
went through. At the corner of my eye,
I see my father picking at his food. His silence knows
about the fish in my mind, my slow consumption
of impossible things. He is ready to put up a white flag.
But it is my mother, after so many years,
how she sat there, random and ordinary in her happiness,
who has made me wishing now that I was still
there, both of them on either side of me,
alive and unknowing of what was to come.
on my lapel, a white ribbon. My father
wished it was for valor but it was not,
only for excellence in creative writing.
The misnomer made him uncomfortable,
prompted him to look at his fingers crusted
with 10 year-old dirt. My mother
was beaming while eating a chicken leg straight
out of the bucket. She smiled and talked about
the upcoming summer workshop. New
writers this time, she hoped. And boys, she whispered with
her signature jugular wink.
I was weak with longing for
something different, maybe fish
at Pizzazi's. My eyes burned and burned,
imagining that fish's long tail,
it's charcoaled mouth, coalescing into a tight fist.
I thought about its pain, how I'd
like to measure it, seek it out as something
different from what the chicken
went through. At the corner of my eye,
I see my father picking at his food. His silence knows
about the fish in my mind, my slow consumption
of impossible things. He is ready to put up a white flag.
But it is my mother, after so many years,
how she sat there, random and ordinary in her happiness,
who has made me wishing now that I was still
there, both of them on either side of me,
alive and unknowing of what was to come.
the sadness
The sadness you give me rests
as a moustache on my mouth, curling up at the sides.
It looks comfortable there, makes my mouth look lived-in,
rustic, even. Some of my friends tell me it doesn't become me.
I agree with them during most mornings
but at random hours, I find myself combing lints of happiness
out of it, stretching it as far as it
would go. Yesterday, I said
this aloud: This is the only true
thing about me. My dinner
companion left me abruptly, tied an
old chair to the door, which
meant that he might not come back. It's
been five years and
I've stopped hiding it, even from strangers.
They come to me,
asking me to hold their grocery bags
for them and do not return. They assume this sadness
is my real mother, one that ties me to the
oceans I can never cross. When I watch you
sleeping, I wonder
if it would look better as a necklace around your neck. One day,
I might just reach out and
place it over your head, see if you'd think it heavy.
if it was worth everything.
as a moustache on my mouth, curling up at the sides.
It looks comfortable there, makes my mouth look lived-in,
rustic, even. Some of my friends tell me it doesn't become me.
I agree with them during most mornings
but at random hours, I find myself combing lints of happiness
out of it, stretching it as far as it
would go. Yesterday, I said
this aloud: This is the only true
thing about me. My dinner
companion left me abruptly, tied an
old chair to the door, which
meant that he might not come back. It's
been five years and
I've stopped hiding it, even from strangers.
They come to me,
asking me to hold their grocery bags
for them and do not return. They assume this sadness
is my real mother, one that ties me to the
oceans I can never cross. When I watch you
sleeping, I wonder
if it would look better as a necklace around your neck. One day,
I might just reach out and
place it over your head, see if you'd think it heavy.
if it was worth everything.
letter to suzie
Let me begin by saying that
I like you this way.
Far away and distinct from the people
who are all here - talking, eating, dancing,
complaining with me, alongside me, before I do,
after I do. Sometimes, the chaos that they engender
is something that I'd like to keep in box, wrap up with a red,
festive ribbon. I'd put it in a spot
where there is sunlight. All these
experiences, you understand, must grow into something.
Maybe a bilbao tree, all branches and high twigs that
I can't reach. Or it would be nice if it
sprung full force into a dark and jealous cloud.
But what I'd really like these things to be
are the shoes you use going to that factory you
used to write me about. They'd
clamber around your feet, forming a forcefield,
impenetrable but light as love.
I'm sorry if I have come across as too forward.
So let's talk about the
leaves that stay stubbornly on your doorstep.
They are picketting, you know. Complaining
about their existence. (But oh how I wish I were
one of them, lightly, lightly, hanging
on to your old, tight boots)
XXX, Sincerely.
I like you this way.
Far away and distinct from the people
who are all here - talking, eating, dancing,
complaining with me, alongside me, before I do,
after I do. Sometimes, the chaos that they engender
is something that I'd like to keep in box, wrap up with a red,
festive ribbon. I'd put it in a spot
where there is sunlight. All these
experiences, you understand, must grow into something.
Maybe a bilbao tree, all branches and high twigs that
I can't reach. Or it would be nice if it
sprung full force into a dark and jealous cloud.
But what I'd really like these things to be
are the shoes you use going to that factory you
used to write me about. They'd
clamber around your feet, forming a forcefield,
impenetrable but light as love.
I'm sorry if I have come across as too forward.
So let's talk about the
leaves that stay stubbornly on your doorstep.
They are picketting, you know. Complaining
about their existence. (But oh how I wish I were
one of them, lightly, lightly, hanging
on to your old, tight boots)
XXX, Sincerely.
you are here
Some common words inserted in poetry:
hand, which may mean help, which may mean god, which may mean
love. There is ocean, which may be your mother, quietly
cooking an evening meal. It may mean your
sadness, that opens and gives itself to the world. There is
also happiness, always elusive, always the last thing to be found.
Keys can also be easily spotted in poems but never
in your own house. They give way
to doors, which may be sturdy or weak or needs
a magic word before they can be opened.
they are never just doors. There are a lot more, I am sure --
word after word lolling around in your
expectant tongue, waiting for the opportune
moment to pounce at some hapless reader.
They are breaking and entering, doing
everything they can to make your poems
assume the monotony of brittle leaves
put under microscopes. I want to know if you
see me in this poem, standing in one
uncertain corner. You see the red lamp I am
holding? It's new, but they
say it breaks easily. I'd like to ask you,
though, to leave some lines for me because it gets cold at
night around these parts. I hope you've noticed that I have
changed my lipstick brand between the
first two words. If you get a glimpse of the word love,
precariously perching on the edges
of these last lines, that just means
that I am getting ready to come home.
hand, which may mean help, which may mean god, which may mean
love. There is ocean, which may be your mother, quietly
cooking an evening meal. It may mean your
sadness, that opens and gives itself to the world. There is
also happiness, always elusive, always the last thing to be found.
Keys can also be easily spotted in poems but never
in your own house. They give way
to doors, which may be sturdy or weak or needs
a magic word before they can be opened.
they are never just doors. There are a lot more, I am sure --
word after word lolling around in your
expectant tongue, waiting for the opportune
moment to pounce at some hapless reader.
They are breaking and entering, doing
everything they can to make your poems
assume the monotony of brittle leaves
put under microscopes. I want to know if you
see me in this poem, standing in one
uncertain corner. You see the red lamp I am
holding? It's new, but they
say it breaks easily. I'd like to ask you,
though, to leave some lines for me because it gets cold at
night around these parts. I hope you've noticed that I have
changed my lipstick brand between the
first two words. If you get a glimpse of the word love,
precariously perching on the edges
of these last lines, that just means
that I am getting ready to come home.
Apple Man
I don't want to lose you -- Apple Man, someone who
I vaguely knew. All I can recall now is
the distinct, hurried sound of fruits taken out from a paper
bag, a certain light-shift from the window to the door.
What it illuminates is a picture I have of you. You are
staring at a tombstone, anonymous to me, the sunshine glaring on
your bald spot. Fat, with your shirt sticking to the sides of your
belly-- not at all the type who would pick the juiciest fruits for
a child who was not even his. Inserted between random pages
of an old album is a picture of me, surrounded by the
reddest apples in the world; my expression comical, caught
in midbite.The memory stops there in
that small canvas, not fit for any occasion. You see,
my childhood is seeping out of me, forming gentle puddles wherever
I go. Remembering you is no longer easy, has not been
translated into a happier morning.
I do not want to lose you -- Apple Man, the void in the center
of all things.
I vaguely knew. All I can recall now is
the distinct, hurried sound of fruits taken out from a paper
bag, a certain light-shift from the window to the door.
What it illuminates is a picture I have of you. You are
staring at a tombstone, anonymous to me, the sunshine glaring on
your bald spot. Fat, with your shirt sticking to the sides of your
belly-- not at all the type who would pick the juiciest fruits for
a child who was not even his. Inserted between random pages
of an old album is a picture of me, surrounded by the
reddest apples in the world; my expression comical, caught
in midbite.The memory stops there in
that small canvas, not fit for any occasion. You see,
my childhood is seeping out of me, forming gentle puddles wherever
I go. Remembering you is no longer easy, has not been
translated into a happier morning.
I do not want to lose you -- Apple Man, the void in the center
of all things.
to anna
I want to tell you that in this light,
I see you as an orange. I hold
oranges in high regard, you know. The first fruit;
in itself, essentially alone. I can see the beginnings
of history's rough seeds in you, their importance
half-hearted but hidden in your pulpy sadness.
Preserve your integrity --- repeat I AM AN
ORANGE. Repeat it 10 times 'til the words come out singing.
It is important to believe in something unimportant--
like phone calls of dead soldiers to their dead wives, like the
solitary flight of birds in the afternoon. Let your prayers be
addressed to yourself. After a rough day
say, Dear orange, I thank you for the strength
you have summoned today.I admire how stoic you
looked in the middle of rows of
other oranges. I liked how I could still
tell you apart from all of them.
After that, sleep. Don't wallow in your
orange-y thoughts about your orange-y day.
Avoid wondering why
no one has picked you among all the others.
You have watched the process
so many times through the shop's
glass window--- the grocer's hand
like a mime's, placing each orange in a
paper bag, so tenderly, as if they were
short-tempered gods. Time will come,
my young orange, when the fruit that is you
would be realized as something more.
Don't be afraid of being alone. Learn to whistle.
When someone does eventually seek you out, don't hang
all your hopes on his shoulders. If you do,
do not be surprised if he flails under
the weight of crossed-fingers and afterglow.
But grow in yourself, be stout and happy
with your distinct roundness. Anyway,
you do not have to listen to me.
I am old and the light
has not decided on anything. At times it withholds more than
it tells. But you are not my story
and you are no one's fruit.
Like right now, the wry twist of your mouth
says that you are already far away,
beyond the once-mighty breath, rolling
on and on; freedom -- the only sound that keeps you going.
I see you as an orange. I hold
oranges in high regard, you know. The first fruit;
in itself, essentially alone. I can see the beginnings
of history's rough seeds in you, their importance
half-hearted but hidden in your pulpy sadness.
Preserve your integrity --- repeat I AM AN
ORANGE. Repeat it 10 times 'til the words come out singing.
It is important to believe in something unimportant--
like phone calls of dead soldiers to their dead wives, like the
solitary flight of birds in the afternoon. Let your prayers be
addressed to yourself. After a rough day
say, Dear orange, I thank you for the strength
you have summoned today.I admire how stoic you
looked in the middle of rows of
other oranges. I liked how I could still
tell you apart from all of them.
After that, sleep. Don't wallow in your
orange-y thoughts about your orange-y day.
Avoid wondering why
no one has picked you among all the others.
You have watched the process
so many times through the shop's
glass window--- the grocer's hand
like a mime's, placing each orange in a
paper bag, so tenderly, as if they were
short-tempered gods. Time will come,
my young orange, when the fruit that is you
would be realized as something more.
Don't be afraid of being alone. Learn to whistle.
When someone does eventually seek you out, don't hang
all your hopes on his shoulders. If you do,
do not be surprised if he flails under
the weight of crossed-fingers and afterglow.
But grow in yourself, be stout and happy
with your distinct roundness. Anyway,
you do not have to listen to me.
I am old and the light
has not decided on anything. At times it withholds more than
it tells. But you are not my story
and you are no one's fruit.
Like right now, the wry twist of your mouth
says that you are already far away,
beyond the once-mighty breath, rolling
on and on; freedom -- the only sound that keeps you going.
beginnings are the cheese in my ice cream float
first, there were only two people sitting on a tree. one was looking at Japan and the other at a star. and at first, they said, hey, this will work. let us put our heads together and try to find a way to get out of this tree. they have never learned equations, having spent so much time where they were, so they couldn't make a graph. they never learned how to make ropes, or sharpen pieces of wood, or dance, or skip, hop, nor jump, or make wine out of water, nor fashion everyday miracles out of air. and all the while, the other thought, i am the only one trying to find a way out of this, and the other, separate from her, thought that it would be good to get a boat because it was summer and it would be nice to go someplace far away when they got down from this tree.
and that boat came between them because the other, who was separate from her, kept thinking about it while munching on leaves, swishing his legs to and fro, then sideways. and the boat became larger and assumed a yellow tint. it loomed so large in her dreams at night that she herself turned yellow for three days.
after some time, she said, i am giving up. maybe i am tired of this. we're looking at different things, anyway. and the other said, well maybe it's time for us to sing something else together. but, said the other, we have never learned how. it was always just you by yourself or me alone, but never together and now its too late because our individual notes are too different and separate. so if we ask a passerby, please sir, have you seen our tune around? he'd say no. i am betting my right foot on it, she who was also now separate from him said. and the other, mustering the last lie, whispered, well i've always known that.
and they continued with what they were doing from the beginning, with one looking at Japan, and the other, at a star. i'm sure that when i first began the story, you thought you knew precisely how it would end -- with a kiss and a life. but really, that just goes to show how unreliable beginnings are.
so much remains
On the last day, you may find it hard to remember
most things. You consider the laughter but
laughter, sadly, is common, too random,
anyone else's. You try to think of their
hands, however, hands
are not as sacred as they once were; even,
admittedly, hers, resting on his bare shoulder.
Faces would be another popular theme, but faces change with
time, no matter how hard we who are left behind try to tell ourselves
that they have not. What I think I remember
are some moments --- her sitting beside me while
riding to town, or a morning when the sunlight formed an
almost-circle around his head, a likely halo. And what
about that day when everyone was laughing about
a dastradly private joke and they were both looking
at me, as if I were responsible for the joke, among
many other laughable things. It's sadness in a box,
the birthday boys chant. Our primary skill is
saying goodbye. No one leaves but everyone seldom returns.
They know this because they are older now -- men with
ghosts for companions, their bare backs toughened by all their
lost afternoons. But on this last day, they brace
themselves for new goodbyes. Au Revoir. Sayonara.
Paalam. However you say it, it remains the same. However you
remember it, so much remains.
most things. You consider the laughter but
laughter, sadly, is common, too random,
anyone else's. You try to think of their
hands, however, hands
are not as sacred as they once were; even,
admittedly, hers, resting on his bare shoulder.
Faces would be another popular theme, but faces change with
time, no matter how hard we who are left behind try to tell ourselves
that they have not. What I think I remember
are some moments --- her sitting beside me while
riding to town, or a morning when the sunlight formed an
almost-circle around his head, a likely halo. And what
about that day when everyone was laughing about
a dastradly private joke and they were both looking
at me, as if I were responsible for the joke, among
many other laughable things. It's sadness in a box,
the birthday boys chant. Our primary skill is
saying goodbye. No one leaves but everyone seldom returns.
They know this because they are older now -- men with
ghosts for companions, their bare backs toughened by all their
lost afternoons. But on this last day, they brace
themselves for new goodbyes. Au Revoir. Sayonara.
Paalam. However you say it, it remains the same. However you
remember it, so much remains.
late birthday poem '08
My mother used to
tell me when I was younger that
my face was not hers, not her husband's, as well.
It belonged to the sea, she said, and my small poems
were fish that kept
moving with the waves. They move because you are, she used
to say, in that conversational manner
of hers that irritated me. Now that
I am half past 20, I hardly believe that anymore. I mean,
what I really want is to hold on to that smirk
she had while she said it. The
years confused me, made me bored
with memory and atonement. But I have forgiven this woman
and her hard eyes, so dark,
they were almost golden. If it is at all possible
to end this poem the way she had,
nakedly losing and having everything all
at once, this is how I would have done it.
tell me when I was younger that
my face was not hers, not her husband's, as well.
It belonged to the sea, she said, and my small poems
were fish that kept
moving with the waves. They move because you are, she used
to say, in that conversational manner
of hers that irritated me. Now that
I am half past 20, I hardly believe that anymore. I mean,
what I really want is to hold on to that smirk
she had while she said it. The
years confused me, made me bored
with memory and atonement. But I have forgiven this woman
and her hard eyes, so dark,
they were almost golden. If it is at all possible
to end this poem the way she had,
nakedly losing and having everything all
at once, this is how I would have done it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)