This is a powerful piece; thanks for sharing. My only suggestion is to add a comma after “abandoned spaces” — otherwise one runs out of breath trying to read that passage.

“Better to stay asleep and dream of sprouting a thousand parasols or hiding like a bird beneath its feathers. Better just to stand by the stream and listen to the water, which has mastered the art of running from the sky.”—Dave Bonta, “The Truth About Trees” Via Negativa, 02-27-11

HER PARASOL’S SHADOW

(For Sotera Martinez vda. de Buenaventura+)

Her distant gaze must have transported her
to long lost lands melting into each other,
one cannot shape the sea around them.

Even before she finally closed her eyes,
she did not stay moored among the frayed
sheets she said would bind her to a past

when strolls were walkabouts along
the Paseo del Mar, trips to town were
contrite encounters at some confessional

nook in an empty church across the house
she lived in—La Iglesia de San Guillermo
was her playground of pews and candles.

She was handsome in her purple terna
when we would walk to the Convento,
her warm hand wrapped around my palm,

her parasol’s shadow on her gentle face
that would break into the bright smile
I would look for when lost in fantasies

of abandoned spaces where darkness grabs
waylaid boys and devours their entrails
falling on the narrow rain-soaked streets.

When you left us, abuela, did you somehow
know that it was better to stay asleep
and dream of sprouting a thousand parasols,

and standing by the stream to listen
to the rain tap out on rooftops the rhythm
of remembrances we shall never forget?

Aunque estos son recuerdos y pensamientos
Desolados, queridisima abuela, ellos son
Lluvia que no puedo olvidar nunca jamas.*

I will stay out in the rain today, abuela,
and catch your hand in mine, and hear
you sing the lullaby of the unceasing rain.

—Albert B. Casuga
Mississauga, Ont. 03-03-11
___________
* Although these are sad memories and thoughts,
dearest grandmother, they are the rainfall
that I will never ever forget.

Re-posted in my lit blog (http://ambitsgambit.blogspot.com) March 4, 2011. How intense, did I feel? I drew the sketch of grandmother’s face from memory. Had no picture of her handy.

Thanks, Dave. I thought I got into the root of your poem—and, of course, of the Zen whispers.

By the way, I wrote another “prompted” poem. “Her Parasol’s Shadow” taking off from your “The Truth about Trees”, but was not able to append it there. I’ll send it to you via Morning or ViaNeg (a paean to my departed grandmother who died at 103 in Baguio City, PI years ago). On April 4, she would have been 132.

See you at the Pure Land (the porch, I’d say). (:-)

Very nice, Albert — almost the mirror image of my poem, sincerity instead of irony, Pure Land instead of samsara.

A LAMBENT THING BEYOND

When the valley wakes up on Trillium Trail,
the Sarnath lessons will be the hushed song
of the sunrise breeze: these are blossoms
from the other side where the creek turns
blue and the rivers calm: always, always,
in the maze of imprecise feelings, our mudra
shall shape the passion all lovers put to use
when love is beyond saying, beyond ecstasy.

When we wake up to find a harbour of sails,
we must all go their way, touch them to know
that what we have is not our own, nor yet
the place where we shall be but shall not be.
Beyond longing, beyond desire, we will all
wake up to where we are not. Where love is.

—Albert B. Casuga
Mississauga, Ont. 03-05-11