abo sa dila

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O, ha, Plurk, o, ha!
Radyo? Radyo?
Libreng humirit

Mag-exercise tayo tuwing umaga
Tambay ka muna
Lokal Kolor
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Basa lang nang basa
Tropa ko

    na, mula noong 24 Enero, 2006, ang nakitambay dito

three poems from "The Wesleyan Tradition: Four Decades of American Poetry"
Sunday, March 25, 2007
No Friends of the Heart
Nancy Eimers

Believing the heart was the center of knowledge,
the ancient Egyptians would leave it inside the mummified body
and hope the other organs, bottled and placed inside the catafalque,
might be put to some more enlightened use.
The summer I worked in a factory
I was told by Edelmira to stay in college
to learn more wonderful stories
and teach them to others.
I would say we were almost friends,
working across the table from each other,
oiling and polishing notebook binders and stacking boxes
all day, every day
in a white fluorescent eternity.
By midafternoon the women from Cuba and Puerto Rico and Mexico
had made each other lonely
by talking in Spanish too intimately,
parents, husbands, children, brothers, sisters,
names that went by and imagined the rest,
all the details that get so homesick
we can't stay long with each other's lives.
But when Edelmira was generous with my future,
imagining a white room with windows
and the sound of my voice addressing itself
to a classroom's shy and receptive silences,
she was leaving herself in the dingy present,
the little table with somebody else across from her,
the piles of binders, ring after ring after ring
that would not meet. When I tried to be cheerful--
you have so many friends here--
she answered, putting her hand to her chest,
no friends of the heart.
She said it in English and it sounded true,
breaking out of her language and into mine
with the urgency that has still not learned
to be indirect.
If there is another life,
I hope it is ruled by affection,
which in this life we can only restore to each other
unexpectedly, a chance bit of news, an odor,
an old, bleak feeling just biding its time.
It seems in this life the heart is not yet the center of knowledge,
but we have always been in awe of blood.
When I sat by the pond with you a few days ago
you said one reason to have a child
is so lovers can dwell at last in a single body.
But friends can't live in each other's bodies.
If sometimes language fails them
less than their looking quietly at each other,
if vocalizations, gestures, expressions
are meaningless layers we have to cut through somehow,
I don't know what we will find inside.
For now, all we can do is take care of each other
from the outside,
as when mosquitoes swirled up from the grass
and we brushed them off each other's arms and faces and hair.


Thirty-six Poets
After Sakai Hoitsu
Judith Baumel

Some are drunk. Some are mumbling.
Many are solitary, each in his way fixed.
They are all happy over their very good number,
an easy square; its root six,
itself a lovely number, exponential chrysalis.
And if, in the array of patterns
taken from nature-- clouds, spider webs, starfish--
we might yet find a true square
not one of these thirty-six, not the one,
whose square is on his sleeve or heart, cares.

My old group, my buddies, the Math Team
would measure our drunks by booming
the quadratic formula, gleaming
with rum, slopped over some parents' living-room
rug like these bards in their curtained cabal.
No one of us flubbed our password,
the drinking song, that poem of radicals
pressed in our brains, no gauge at all, absurd.
Minus b plus or minus the square root of
b squared minus four a c over two a.
Now even sober I lose those cancelled lines of youth
and drunk I am easily distracted, say,
by the discriminant, the bee squared et al.
Concentrating on minutiae, I am lost in the well-
folded sleeve of the great poet's silk kimono,
lost on the silkworms trail winding through Japan
and wonder, drunk, watching my steps split by Xeno,
drunk, wonder what led me to the simple numerical plan
and then away like dust in the path of a paper fan.


In My Own Back Yard
David Young

July, I'm dozing in sun on the deck,
one thrush is singing among the high trees,
and Li Po walks by, chanting a poem!
He is drunk, he smells unwashed,
I can see tiny lice in his hari,
and right through him
a brown leaf in the yard
flips over flips
again lies still
all this time
no wind.

From behind November glass I watch the wind
truck all its winter white furnishings
item by item into my yard.
In a dusty raincoat mu neighbor
throws a tennis ball, over and over,
to exercise his police dog.

Sometimes I feel like one of the world's bad headaches,
sometimes I get no closer
to what I have wanted to mean
than the gumshoe calling
up to the bugged ceiling...

You can try to put words to a mood
or tell yourself to ignore it,
but what kind of message is coming
from the chickadee, dapper
in his black mask and skullcap,
grooming himself on the big pine's branch-tip?
His music is small and monotonous,
bit it's his own.

I am turning pages in lamplight.
Outside, above blue snow, in February dusk,
in the double world of glass,
more pages filp, like wings--
this merging of me and the world
done with mirrors and windows.

Hunting for duck eggs at the end of March
I wacth three mallards and a speckled female make
a tight flotilla on the swollen creek.

The dog barks at her counterpart
on the other bank. Nothing is green
the way these mallards' heads are green.

Empty-handed, I turn back to the house.
Small waterlights
play on the underbranches of the ash. High up
the sycamore lifts its light-peeled limbs
against a turning sky.

Late May. Summer coming on again. I think
Li Po may not be back. Worried about
the world's end, as, I realize
I have been most of my life,
I take my work outside
and sit on the deck, distracted.
It was a day like this, I think,
in Hiroshima.
There must be something in the pinecones
that the chickadees-- there's another one.
What's this that's snowing down? Husks, pollen,
freckle-sized petals from our wild cherry trees!

We sneeze and plant tomatoes. Ultimatums. The world
comes close and goes away
in rhythms tthat our years
help us begin to understand.

We haven't long to live.
And the world? Surely the world...
A deep breath. Sunshine.
Mosquitoes, bird calls, petal-hail.
posted by mdlc @ 9:22 PM  
  • At 4:25 PM, Blogger ramblingsoul said…

    aba, aba. nagpost din ulit sa wakas ah. peram ng libro pag tapos ka na.

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