Old red of blood, shirt stain,
color. Old red of color. New red
of bird-flight, bruise almost breaking,
eye from a twilight of vast
buoyant grief. Old blood
of grief. New blood of birthing,
of knife-wound, of poem.
Papercut and puncture and
the old man said, speak to me
of battle, your wild unraveling flame.
Speak to me of pain. Old pain
of rhythm, of blister, of rain.
Speak to me of grass-blade
and tree and the things we see.
At the foot of a mountain
crickets tell stories and songs
are all we hear. This is not
about music, new ache of music,
of silence. Then strings.
Taut like sound between eardrum
and tongue. Drum beating
like a clenched, bloodlusting
fist. Like heart. Old
beat of heart. Of prison and salt
sounding like some new poem
becoming. Some new dying.
New dying of dawn, lamplight,
firefly. Flicker of mortal flame.
Old, mortal flame, old
immortal flame, old, immortal
poem. Old red beating.
No dying nor birthing.
Only song. * First line (or, first two sentences,) from Joel Toledo. Had two exercises last night, good for two drafts. Will maybe post the other one, some other time. Meanwhile: Waps left this with me. When Drey and I arrived, he was well into his fourth bottle of Red Horse-- alone-- and he had borrowed the waitress' pen and notepad and was scribbling something on recycled, calling-card-sized scraps of paper. Which ended up with me. Here: For the Drunkards
Rafael San Diego I am a dangerous man
because I know how to use my heart.
And I live recklessly through
the ambivalance of the radio
to my pain. As if it does not
care that it plays too sweet music
and I sing along happily
clutching my chest because
I am alone. My blood
is a brambling vine that twists
its way to my face with a pulse
until I grow weary and fraught
with the truth everyone must
face. That this is a bastard
chance, this human life,
and my growth into adulthood
is the weed that rises from
nothing. And if I were a child
I'd drink to goodbyes.
I'd drink to surrender
I'd drink to remember
that this pain in my heel
is my foot stomping at the
world, which says nothing
but come here
and fight me. * Oh, and I also have a video of a drunken Waps standing on two chairs, reading what everyone thought was the poem of the night. Maybe some other time. Kapag nakapost na rin sa kanya 'yung text nu'ng tula. Sige. Wasak. |
