Via Negativa

say the signs stenciled across
the wing of the plane. Meaning this
is an edge, or danger— whether 
the aircraft is at rest or in flight.
Such warnings anticipate the possible
before the actual, the impulse before
it materializes as the decision to move
in a certain direction. It means someone
thought of consequences others might not
have foreseen— and so there are neon-
colored guard rails, there are graded
ramps up the entrances to buildings. 
Break glass in case of emergency, printed
across the fire extinguisher box affixed
to the wall. Alarm Bell, says the sign
above a hand-sized red button near 
the stairwell. There are similar 
devices that only certain individuals 
can activate, if they perceive a threat
(whether the perception is correct or
the person was just kidding). Such devices 
could start wars, could even nuke our entire 
planet. In such cases, there isn’t a failsafe. 
No moment after for saying Oops, my bad.

I am poor and I owe
an incalculable debt
to the world— I have taken
more than my share of what
it has given, and still 
it does not begrudge another
chance to secure my so-called
fortune. I owe a debt to my
friends, who puzzle, together
with me, the ledger figures
in our shared accounting of 
this life. On one side, I am
still short of a complete
reckoning, a clearing of 
the slate. On the other, 
the hourglass sheds its
crystals at a faster rate.
It has a narrow waist 
that reminds me of a certain 
ache that falls somewhere 
between needing more and 
wanting less, that at some 
point it will start its motion 
all over again, not out 
of meanness or spite
but because that is its 
nature. And I am rich with
a surplus, always, of feeling.
There is so much, I often
don’t know what to do with it;
and other times, it saves me
from thinking I am completely 
bereft, empty as a pauper’s purse.

~ after "The Funeral of Shelley," Louis Edouard Fournier; 1889


Soft tissue, mostly.
Hair, skin, nails, muscles, 
organs. All the water of the body
turns to vapor. Some parts of teeth 
survive the heat, though gums liquefy 
as pulp. Bone fragments can also survive; 
and the jaw, the skull. In Fournier's 
picture, Mary Shelley kneels in the sand, 
hands crossed over her breast. Byron, 
Trelawney and Hunt argue over the charred 
bit of muscle that surprisingly survives 
the fire— but Mary gets to keep what was 
believed to be her poet-husband's calcified 
heart, after he drowned and was cremated 
on a beach in Viareggio. She wrapped it in 
a bit of silk or linen and some pages of 
his poetry. It lay in her drawer until 
its discovery after her death.

I don't remember what I was doing the year I turned 14.
Besides school, I mean. I was not yet in high school, but
I know my parents were talking about transferring me out
of the Catholic school I'd attended since kindergarten.
My father in particular wanted me to go to the University
of the Philippines high school in our city, because he 
himself was a U.P. (Law School) graduate, and because
he claimed he was willing to risk my becoming an atheist
as long as it meant I could get a good education, one
that would teach me how to use my mind. 

We were a family of avid readers, but changing schools
did make a difference— I felt more challenged, among my 
new cohort who were not only smart but also (I thought)
seemed so much more worldly and cool in comparison to
my awkward self. Super introverted, I didn't talk much 
unless called on. But even then, I knew I was good 
with words. I knew that I wanted to write, though I
wasn't quite sure what that meant, back then. 

Before I transferred high schools, a previous
teacher had given our class an oral test on metaphor;
I failed it, I think not because of a complete lack
of understanding, but because the premises were not
correct. That teacher had us take turns looking at 
a simple watercolor (mountains, trees) on her desk,
and asked us to think of metaphors (remember, no "like" 
or "as"). Everyone else seemed to have no lack of things
to say, which also meant they were totally spin-doctoring
the assignment. When it was my turn, I looked at the flat 
watercolor which had no nuance or detail. I said, It's just 
a mountain and some trees. 

Despite that seemingly inauspicious experience, my path 
has led to where I am today— and I feel so very grateful 
and lucky that I'm able to do what I love best— write 
and teach writing and literature, talk poetry and writing 
with students and colleagues and a community of writing 
friends both where I am and through virtual connection— 
many of these thanks to Via Negativa and Dave Bonta, 
for the space he's shared here where I've kept a daily 
writing practice (writing and posting at least) a poem 
a day for the last 14 years.  

This daily practice has allowed me to put at least 4 books
and chapbooks together. More importantly, it's given me 
so many kinds of insight about myself and my writing; it's
the high point of every day, and it's here where I get 
excited about trying new things or mulling over 
returning questions.

Here's to the next 14 - and more.

When we arrived, there was only one chair in the upper room, 
and a square of sunlight.

Isn't it endearing, that prelude before the camera picks up 
the details? You can see how slow time is even as it lapses.

The hairline fissure in the corner is patched with plaster.

It is a known fact that even houses shift and breathe.

November again, and here  ground is stitched with 
the shadows of leaves.

For weeks now, after trash pickup, we've found our bins
on the other side of the street. A neighbor wants to start 
a petition to address this.

We have a twelve-year-old bottle of wine that still sits 
unopened on the rack. 

Nothing was promised to us though we made promises. 

Perhaps the tiny diamond that loosened from 
its prongs winks somewhere under the floorboards.
 
Last week the skies glowed a deep magenta shot through
with green— like blown glass tempered with gold salts and
metal oxides.