Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Etymology: also malarky, “lies and exaggerations,” 1924,
Amer. Eng., of unknown origin; also a surname.
You say a large, dark weasel? or was it a mink?
& you stared at each other in mutual disbelief?
I believe you more than I believe
the chronically hyperbolic—
untruths that spring from the mouths
of those with aspirations to lead.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
My neighbor’s mother wandered into the hall at three a.m.
Spending the weekend at a daughter’s house, had she forgotten
she wasn’t in her one-floor flat beside the river?
Was she looking for the bathroom when she fell down the stairs?
She spent the weekend with family and friends, yet often forgot;
I too have heard her repeat the same story, tell it over again.
Looking for the bathroom which wasn’t at the bottom of the stairs,
she slipped and fell; her fragile bones sailed headlong into the dark.
I too get stuck in the same stories: I tell them over and over again.
Even the birds sing just two wistful notes, in the rushes by the river.
Old leaves, new flowers— the trees are yellow-gold with sudden shimmer;
see how they change before our eyes. And my neighbor’s mother has flown away.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
I wanted the taste of bitter greens,
of luck that fruited despite the unforgiving soil—
I wanted the smell of cotton in my hair
from pillows woven in the sun—
I wanted the surprising tang of salt,
bursting from tiny clusters of sea-grapes—
I wanted the cloying abundance of scent
spilled from flowers that only bloom at night—
I wanted the scab on my elbows to peel
when they darkened like the skin of plums—
But only the maples redden here, rehearsing
starkness; then drop away with all
that’s brittle, feathered, frail-boned.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Break the skin and a thin
spray of oil escapes—
fullness of gone
summer nights,
full-blossomed
hunger.
In response to small stone (165).
History’s indifferent like that—
Whatever its chroniclers decree
is afterthought, footnote, hind-
sight, perhaps atonement for previous
shortcomings— And therefore,
on the other hand, is it so surprising
we want to feel more than mere
accident: unplanned-for, unhoped-for,
excess bit of baggage someone has to pay
for in steerage? Destiny likes to say
it isn’t going to hand out second chances;
and yet we’re told that history repeats
itself. What are the odds the child
born into poverty becomes the general,
and not the slave substituted for a corpse?
What luck ordained that I have wealth
but only the kind that “doesn’t compute?”
The djinns of the desert and the scripts
of old say the heavens reward all
that’s patient and uncomplaining in its toil;
that the multifoliate rose, in turning,
recalibrates the cosmic energies so she who weeps
or suffers, finds release… But Lord, for a change,
let someone else guard the front lines at battle;
let other hands barter and trade or sharpen
the weapons on the fiery wheel.
In response to Via Negativa: In the voice of Cortez's mistress.
The call of vendors in the streets,
the yowling of a cat drowning out the chitter of birds;
the early morning rabble of roosters in their cages,
the drip of water into plastic pails;
the diesel drone of jeepneys in the alley,
the bickering of neighbors across the fence,
the crying of a child who can’t go back to sleep—
Any one of these, sounds you might swear
you have not heard in many years.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
My memory of breasts is not
all gentle, not always milky—
Long before the daughters came,
and their trusting, hungry mouths
closed around aereolas grown turgid
with food, there was a matinee show
at a theatre, standing room only;
and I, the only pre-teen (but tall
for my age) in a group of older
cousins. It was a comedy, slapstick,
and bodies pressed on all sides
against each other— then a hand
came through the darkness to fumble
at the snaps on my blouse. I clawed
and batted at this unseen intruder
which snaked in and out as if
disembodied. Everyone laughed,
oblivious, preoccupied by the antics
onscreen. Stricken mute, I could
not utter a sound. When we came out,
it was late afternoon. The sun made
the hills look sinuous, but I
saw them lit as if on fire.
In response to small stone (164).
Rain that was promised,
but never fell—
Instead: muggy air,
clouds thick as clotted
cream. Only if you
close your eyes
do crickets sound
like passing showers.
In response to small stone (163).
She touched my jacket admiringly and said we had the same taste,
except she favored black and white, not so much brightness.
I on the other hand was tired of all the overcast shades
in the closet, wanted a shot of lime and vodka, its brightness.
Oh did I say vodka? I meant of course something crisp and light,
not overbearing; something not neon or cloying in its brightness.
The peach and lemony light of summer has swirled away too quickly.
And no one dries their laundry on the line anymore, for brightness.
One-touch and power settings, then time, then start. Then a circuit
shorting, equals a dead microwave. But there’s a stove! Brightness!
Above the clatter of knives and chafing dishes, he said: So when
are you taking me out? That little swell: fishing for brightness.
I exited the hall as the lights were dimmed, and drove toward the water.
The water was all shades of lilac; the street lamps vied for brightness.
In response to small stone (162).
Everyone we listened to had such a gift: if not lightness of tongue, then the language of expansiveness so that we sat, rapt, transfixed in our chairs or as if loosed into the suddenly bright highway of sky beyond the library windows, reeling among the birds that must have said among themselves, What drunken fool just hit me? And what of that gift, that beat of song, restless tattoo that lives beneath the ribcage, wheezing and pleating like a bandoneón in the hands of an itinerant musician? I heard it once and then nothing was the same. Light became the space between the saying of a word and the shape that its sound made, flying in the cave of the throat; became a rain-soaked umbrella, became each quickly vaporizing bead begging to be counted, threaded, tasted, forgiven, fed.
In response to cold mountain (63).