Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
What is it to want
something that makes
a little counterpoint
to the merely expected?
Perhaps because she always
changed the recipe—
Into the cookie batter,
a delicate stream of black pepper.
Into the mouth, salty fish eye
and its cellophane soup pouch.
Who ordained
everything beautiful be gold
or gilt to the touch;
or sharp
the shadow of a spear,
broad the skirt of a shield?
In youth
the muscles’ hard ripples
copper over the bones.
Do not mistake
the bees that come
and go
in weak sunlight—
each one a small loyalty
to what lies in the hive.
In response to Via Negativa: Youth revisited.
May you never have need
of signal flares to use on the deck
of a ship going down; or flags to flash
frantic messages for help from the rooftop.
Let the only frenzy
be from wings beneath the broad
canopy—
And may nothing crumble beneath your feet
except for the dust that stones have discarded.
In response to Via Negativa: Handheld.
Were we ever like these wooden gods, scattered like rock-climbers along the atrium, unafraid of heights, unperturbed by stillness?
All the walls are matte, off-white in their perfect composure. Our steps echo on each staircase, fingers winding a blushing thread.
In the gallery of erotic sculptures, each form is simultaneously transparent and ambiguous. There are furred bouquets to fondle, benches on which a litany of captions could linger.
The wood on a birthing chair is polished: hue of dark silk. What is it that we commemorate, framed in paint and glossed leather?
Perhaps the rain has an answer. The ducks in the pond don’t know some hours are designated for pleasure, and the rest for a quiet like that of the tomb when all the candles have burned down.
Shadows darken in the reeds when everyone has gone away. Beribboned metal horses on the hoods of jeepneys seem to plunge ahead on the road back into town.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
If leave your shoes by the house post,
they may be uprooted along with the ferns.
*
Grandmother says you will become a lawyer.
You will become a lawyer.
*
A barking dog knows only one song.
That is why the stars are superior.
*
Like overnight wealth, grass multiplies
in wide swales with hidden pockets of rain.
*
Interfering with tyrants
can lead to a change of landscape.
*
Always make airline reservations at the counter
where attendants wear the identical shade of lip color.
*
There are no guarantees of refunds, but trust someone
to leave a wire cage under the bridge for ducks.
In response to Via Negativa: Leveler.
“…our difference is no more
and so I eat” ~ D. Bonta
Avoid the raw,
we were told: uncooked
fish and shellfish, fruit
and vegetables disguised
in wrinkled leather coats—
Avoid the small,
feathered bodies of animals
that let themselves be beaten
with sticks then turned
and turned above a fire—
What should we eat
and drink then? we asked,
but were given no answer: only
a salt-rimmed glass, the trail
left by snails and ants.
In response to Via Negativa: Long pig.
(Artocarpus heterophyllus)
We tore the pods
from their cellulose husks,
careful not to let the sap
darken our fingers.
The fruit’s yellow flesh
flowered from a rind
of spiked green armor:
for every desire, first,
a pillaging.
It’s true,
as soon as we venture
into deeper water
I tend to become
afraid.
Between waves
it may be calm
but I think of things
that are treacherous
and deceiving—
I hold out my arms
against the blue-
green onrush.
Even with arms
wrapped around me,
I know ledges of sand
shift neither
from charity nor cruelty;
what washes up again
and again, pitching
and roiling,
does not necessarily
single any one thing out.
That’s what
unnerves me
the most: not
the pointed intention,
but its apparent absence.
I am trying to figure out the future,
but you understand the difficulty.
I stand at the window and stare at the rigs
on skinny stilts in the middle of the bay,
at the marks made by thin wading birds
lifting into the cloudy distance.
Some of my questions
about what will happen relate
to the past and the present—
For instance, as my mother used to say,
how the kind of bed I made
determines what I get to sleep in.
I’ve figured out there’s a certain amount
of choice possible— pillows and sheets
can be changed, the whole bed itself
might be sold or donated. But there’s no way
to know how or when the floor might dissolve
and the waters overtake us, what to do
when we wake in the middle of the night,
all edges drenched by lapping water.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
“…in the timber
a ship of my own” ~ D. Bonta
Wood of dusky smoke,
wood that may have been
a funeral post: remnant
stained a regal black
and whittled— Folded
arms and folded knees,
stoic guardian set above
the counter where we keep
the grain. Every hard
thing has a dented heart;
every stiffened joint
green, once, in the wild.
In response to Via Negativa: Evening walk.