Via Negativa

- after Claire Wahmanholm

J is for the first letter in the names of each of my three 
older daughters, whose father wanted to continue his family's 
tradition of naming. J has no equivalent letter in baybayin,
nor in the Filipino abakada or the Ilocano kinur-it. In Spanish,
J sounds breathy and open, unlike the hard consonant we think
it is. Jamón, jéfe, juego, jóya, jardín; even jubílo, which in English
we know as joy. I was just eighteen, had just started wearing
jeans, was jittery around students on campus (more hip, already
jaded). Marrying young, perhaps I jettisoned my better judgment 
into the bushes; but I promise, it was no jezebel that stepped out. 
When I juxtapose that time against this, I still sometimes hear
the quiet ping of jackstones on porch tile and the children's
voices counting; the clink of jade bangles around their wrists.  

" Over one hundred thousand humanoid robots will be deployed 
in the real world." - "5 AI Predictions For The Year 2030," Forbes,
March 10, 2024



They are in warehouses, moving crates 
and boxes; or in assembly lines, flipping 

cars over with one arm then welding, painting, 
sealing. In Japan, there's a robot whose out-

stretched arms help lift residents in a care home 
out of bed and into their walkers. Little round

vacuum cleaners spin all over the floors
of houses, only occasionally bumping into

corners or falling down the stairs. At a marina
country club in Singapore, robot waiters bring 

chicken rice or chilli crab to your table. They're here 
now, but nothing ever completely surrenders. 

Our hearts still ache when we look into the vastness 
of space or hear water lapping against the shore at night.

I want to be able to say as you say 
              that something has purpose, 
is needed, will come to no harm.
               I think that rather than belief,
this is called active hope—action
               being a setting forth in 
motion, the carrying out of an act,
               a deed. As when a father
wraps himself around his child 
               as they cross the border, 
hiding in the boot of a car; as when 
              a guard peers in then shuts 
the trunk, waves to the sentry 
              at the gate as he yells All clear, 
nothing here! and we know that each 
              of them carried such a seed, 
each one had a moment to decide 
              what he could do with it.

 
I don’t know if poems are conversations
           with God, though I tell my students to think
of poetry as a way to enter a conversation 
           that has been going on through the centuries,
but one in which they can add their voices. 
           At this point, I try to think of a party
analogy, though I have never been very good
           at parties. More likely, I would be among
those who sit on the edge of a couch pretending
           to nibble thoughtfully on an hors d'oeuvre, 
one among a rapt circle listening to the life of any 
          party pulling out one brilliant silk square 
after another from inside his sleeve as beautiful
          birds of thought flutter in the air.

When all the guests are gone and we have gathered
          the napkins, piled the glasses on trays, and wiped
the counter clean, I want to ask those birds a question 
          (where have they gone?) which is really two 
questions, or more—What is the best way to enter, 
          and what is the best way to end? I’m asking 
about poems, of course; but also about the beautiful
          chaos past the middle of this life. One part of me
loves order: an empty hamper, the laundry folded, the sink 
          scrubbed clean. Another part of me loves improvising.
This one turns off the 6:30 alarm and goes back to bed; it wants 
          to return to a dream where I am having conversations with 
people I love who are gone. One of them says don’t hold back,
          spend it all now; another says wait and see, there’s more.