TEACHER’S PRAYER
—from Rattle #24, Winter 2005
Tribute to Filipino Poets
__________
R.A. Villanueva: “I live in New York City, where every day itself is a poem.” (web)
TEACHER’S PRAYER
—from Rattle #24, Winter 2005
Tribute to Filipino Poets
__________
R.A. Villanueva: “I live in New York City, where every day itself is a poem.” (web)
Angela Narciso Torres
POSTCARDS FROM BOHOL
1/
Emerald mounds rise from the deep,
their white shoulders shedding turquoise
waters. When we scoop the wet sand
fine putty sluices through our fingers.
Our heels sink inches with every step,
leaving blurred footprints where small
crabs fine-pencil disappearing tracks.
2/
By dusk the tide has receded a hundred feet,
revealing the ribbed sea bed, ghost-pale
in the gathering dark. Scores of starfish
dot the rippled sand, white limbs etched
in gray, splayed under the night sky—
a universe in reverse. Ian, shirt flapping,
lifts a sun starfish, purple knobs radiating
on luminous limbs. We huddle around him,
our cheeks flushed with twilight.
3/
Driving through the country with windows
down, we count nipa huts, their thin walls
woven from palm, dark and light fronds
alternating, a diamond pattern framed in bamboo.
Air infused with green—kamogong, acacia, tanguile.
Dogs bark, a rooster tied to a gatepost scratches
and pecks, cocks its head. Children in faded blue
uniforms wave shyly, their feet coated in red dust.
4/
Rain falls in fits and starts. A drizzle
filters the air like gauze, taming the warm breeze.
Wind brings muffled cries of faraway children,
the hum of cicadas, drums from a fiesta
enfolded in the wash of waves. Across
the verandah, two gardeners in yellow shirts
are sharing a meal of fish and rice.
5/
The waves tell of beauty that comes unbidden,
approaching as a lover walks through a door,
each time familiar yet heart-stopping.
Hermit crabs scuttle sideways on the sand,
their paths crossing and uncrossing, shells
of lavender and coiled pearl plucked
from caves of night. The sea has the calm sadness
of what cannot stay: a waxing gibbous moon,
our sons, bent over a pool of silver fish,
their cheekbones limned with watery light
thin shoulders barely touching.
—from Rattle #24, Winter 2005
Tribute to Filipino Poets
Joël Barraquiel Tan
SOME FRIDAY NIGHTS
for michael p.
sometimes when
drunk feeling young
again limes & mint
rum & white sugar in mid-laugh
i look out of the bar’s
grand window into
the narrow whorish
street catch my reflection
—a thing that approximates
in its dull shadowy way
the softening curve of my
jaw the rounding slope of
my shoulders, once heroic
that ridiculous look on my face
it occurs to me my soul
is slowly leaking
spiteful hiss of air
no one else notices, i suspect
the beautiful men i
call my friends call on
me to dance so i dance
with other beauties, mostly
ghosts now dance until the rainy jags
give way to the cold fog summer
thrill to the same gossip
i’ve been hearing for years
now drink spirits right out
of the bottle openly in the streets
watch the ball-gagged slaves
walk their bearded masters
& repeat the same clever
thing about true democracy
imagine my family
getting older & fewer
now in another city
& the same love breaks
inside me i say a
silent prayer because this
is one of the few ways i know
to really love despite all the
poets who have dedicated work
to me i imagine the span of my life
as muddy terraced steps high above
the mute dream of childhood under that
the first tongue kiss then the years of raging
leading a charge across Sunset
as downtown burns i
peer down lower the decades
30s, 40s, 50s, & so on in tidy sure
steps i am furious & afraid.
—from Rattle #24, Winter 2005
Tribute to Filipino Poets
Jun de la Rosa
STORM NEWS
vi.
A cyclone smashed into Madagascar,
hit the island a second time
three days later; a ferry sinking.
The news brings to us cyclones,
while beach stories are told
among sisters, during storms.
v.
Hurricane slammed the Florida coast.
Chasing it required large amounts of food,
and a megaphone.
If a woman dives into a river
and no one is there to see it,
the body, hands first,
still makes a cutting sound.
iv.
A storm swept out to sea,
beyond Northern Japan—
later lowered to tropical storm,
downgraded to tropical depression.
What a wonder how water
can take so many forms:
a lady turning into a bride,
then a nagging housewife.
iii.
Indonesian plane skidded off the runway
under heavy rains, split into two,
came to rest near a cemetery:
100 yards of prayers.
Water nears,
from Madagascar to Indonesia.
The pond in the garden waits,
expecting an angry mother.
ii.
26 people swept away
by raging floodwaters in Nueva Ecija;
villages buried in a sea of mud.
And water has found us—
with windows closed,
we only know storm
by the sound it makes
against the roof, a swinging door.
i.
Death toll rose
with the super typhoon named after a man.
Later, water will be poured into mugs—
boiling, black, without sugar:
small servings of the storm,
silently brewing.
—from Rattle #24, Winter 2005
Tribute to Filipino Poets
THE RED MODEL II
René Magritte, oil on canvas
—from Rattle #24, Winter 2005
Tribute to Filipino Poets
__________
José Edmundo Ocampo Reyes: “When I was a high school senior, my class would make weekly visits to a nearby public school to tutor a group of sixth-graders. Towards the end of the year, I decided to bring my students some poems. One girl innocently uttered one of the wisest things anyone has ever said about poetry: ‘Poetry is an encyclopedia.’”
Misael Mesina Paranial
AT THE TERMINAL
Six p.m., and the evening
traffic homeward has gone amok.
The opening salvo: an explosion
throwing rush hour into disarray,
sudden rain of shrapnel seeking
solace in warm bodies.
Days ago, the city turned out
to see who kisses the longest.
Today, kisses seemed superfluous
among the burnt dead, caught unaware
or the shell-shocked, wounded
in the aftermath of bombs
exploding everywhere:
a loaded bus, a parked tricycle,
a lone package outside a food stall.
Pressed for sound bites,
our Man in Uniform swallows
his intel reports and concedes,
“Well, you know, it’s very difficult
to safeguard every place.”
And as if to punctuate his remarks
the ruined legs of a boy
dangle out from a rescuer’s arms
lifeless, useless.
—from Rattle #24, Winter 2005
Tribute to Filipino Poets
COOKING FRUTTI DI MARE ON THIS EARLY EVENING BEFORE THE NIGHT FALLS ON KENTUCKY HILLSIDES
—from Rattle #24, Winter 2005
Tribute to Filipino Poets
__________
Mike Maniquiz: “Poetry is water. Let me explain. When I started writing, the results were initially gratifying. But as I got deeper into it, reading more poetry and writing poems that tried to shout back to poetry I was reading (Merwin, Vallejo, Levis, Hernandez, Wright), I found myself unsatisfied like a tree whose roots have to dig further down to find water.”