I should look for some of my old poems to post on this blog. Here is a sample. Written about four years ago, this was created during a time of sadness.
From an old life
Heroes Hill, Quezon City
Curtains are a lazy ballerina
or smoke solidified into diaphanous
material: cream-colored, thicker where
the folds are, brighter where
sunlight shimmers through trees.
Ruby ribbons gather cloth
into lissom waists.
Today, I could go on
and on describing drapery.
I dice cheese into squares so even,
so square my son wonders why
they are too square. I say they
are nicer this way.
We eat them in the afternoon
with white rice cakes, tiny and
quartered. I could boil chocolate
tablets, too, in pure water
under low fire. But he simply
I’m back to a day five years ago
the smell of pine or generic forest
pulling me: let’s read Levertov,
or Howe, or Berry until the morning!
Listen to some drumming after.
Then at sunrise, before morning tea,
we can do a slow and dreamy
dance for humanity. Why not
for the galaxy? You see, one day
or one hundred years--
it really doesn’t matter. Today
I have all the time in the world.
From a quiet place
When a beloved leaves,
life goes on.
A bitter space
waits in your hand
when a beloved leaves.
Oblivious to your numbness,
people will want to wound you
lightly, just because.
The sun has to try harder
and shoot its infinite rays golden
in gaps between the sunset cumulus
to rest and bless the sea,
the jumpy leaves, your dark hair.
Whole things are easier
to notice, your gaze stays longer
than needed on a brat, for example,
pulling at two parents,
or that thin girl inside the jeep
with her strident trappings:
beads and boyfriend,
self-aware like a lovesong.
And the day will end, another day,
one more step towards the big question.
In your room, the sliver of moon
falls right in
the center of the window frame.
The stars arrange themselves
precisely about, flickering,
like you, between brilliance
This is a picture that goes very well with this poem. It reminds me of one sad day years and years ago.