Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2011-12 – Via Negativa

Dear shadow,

Luisa A. Igloria — Sat, 17 Mar 2012 03:55:06 +0000

it is certain you’ll travel to what waits
ahead: not the intersection with its lights

already changing, not the fringe of rain-
spattered fields nor the road unbuckling

toward dusk. Even the lone truck you might hear
starting and stopping, engine running as if on

empty, will fade from sight. Just like
at the optometrist’s, when the technician

asks you to look through the viewfinder
and straight ahead at the red barn

with a silo and no stick weathervane. Then
she’ll blow a puff of air into your open

eyes, before sliding the window down.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Field Note

Luisa A. Igloria — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 03:47:49 +0000

A lone ricebird perches
on the shoulder of the water buffalo.

Three of them, four, twenty:
flotilla of wings against the sky.

How many would it take,
before their weight felt like a burden?

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Cusp

Luisa A. Igloria — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 03:27:54 +0000

A little warmth, and look—
the writhing earth, how it opens
like a heart to the sun.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

How have I failed to notice until now

Luisa A. Igloria — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 03:58:17 +0000

that the earnest-sounding clerk calling
all shoppers to gather round his station
between the produce and meat sections
at the price club, is doing his demo
of Ginsu knives by slicing through
not a steak, but the metal head of a claw
hammer? There’s a small collective gasp
when the same steel blade that severs
the claws which fall like little Toblerone
shapes on the chopping block, swiftly renders
a tomato into paper-thin circles. While this
is not exactly the state of “disruptive wonder”
which the TED lecturer was talking about in that
viral video, in which she describes how her passion
to find “the hidden talents of everyday things”
led to the paper record player-invitation she made
for friends getting married— still, the suddenly
Ginsu-happy crowd might see in the photophoric
gleam of new steel bonded to textured no-slip
polypropylene or wood handles, a few other
things they might not have paid attention to
before: the tiniest flinch in a cut of brittle
green nori wrapped around a savory mouthful
of rice; the even perfection of carrot stars
and radish wheels; the elegance of cucumber
matchsticks, pale and smooth as jade.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Dear Epictetus, this is to you attributed:

Luisa A. Igloria — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 03:59:19 +0000

Thou art a little soul bearing about a corpse.
And even then you were talking to all of us, weren’t you:
ghostly presences in a future that we now inhabit,
tumbling swiftly from one gate to another. Last week,

moments before the train departed the platform at the Jackson
Street station for O’Hare and the flight I had no idea
would be canceled three times before I could board— a woman
got on, breathless, asking passengers nearest the doors:

Chinatown? Chinatown? She had on a thin cloth coat,
and her short bob of greying hair was plastered to her forehead.
No one even blinked. Perhaps they couldn’t hear from whatever
was playing on their earphones, or maybe they were tourists

with no idea either. Before the doors swung shut I caught
her eye and shook my head; yelled Red line, red line, and she
darted off. I don’t know if she ever made it to her destination,
whatever that might have been. And in a related meditation

I read how Time is like a river made up of the events which
happen, and a violent stream: for as soon as a thing has been seen,
it is carried away, and another comes in its place… Therefore,
all that afternoon into evening, as thin snow began to fall again

on the tarmac, streaking the windows, chilling the glass,
seats filled and emptied, emptied and filled; and it is
as though the blue light flickering near the ceiling
of the concourse were that same river’s garment.

Passengers anxious about missed connections watched
as TV monitors showed footage of town after town in southern
Indiana hit by a single tornado— New Pekin, Henryville,
Marysville, Chelsea— before it crossed the Ohio River

into Kentucky. The hours stretched, and in their fluid arms
there might have been the call of the mourning dove, there
might have been a sparrow slight as the child borne aloft
before the dark column of air set her down in the field.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Saturday Afternoon at the Y

Luisa A. Igloria — Sun, 11 Mar 2012 04:57:43 +0000

The dark-haired woman with the death’s head
tattoo wreathed by red roses and flames tosses
her three-year-old into the kiddy pool, and moments
later the child emerges, wildly laughing at the other
end of the lane divider. They do it again. Meanwhile,
I’ve recognized the man with the slight limp and
one palsied arm who sometimes works at the bakery
cafe, doing water exercises: walking from one side
of the pool to the other. Children are flinging
pink and yellow balls, slapping the chlorinated water
with paddles and foam noodles. All this, of course,
for no reason other than the pleasure of doing so.
Late afternoon sun pours through west-facing windows,
mellower counterpoint to the sauna-like haze
indoors. What did the bluebird mean by saving
his best song for the bluest sky? Or Marcus Aurelius,
who wrote about How quickly all things disappear,
in the universe the bodies themselves, but in time
the remembrance of them? When we walk out
of the building, there’s light enough still
to make plans for dinner, or a walk, or a movie
at the mall. Everyone has a piece of china
that’s never been used, shirts hanging in the closet
with their price tags still attached. The bluebird
should sing instead: Eat from the good white plate
tonight. Dress in your best coat, your purest cotton.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Bindings

Luisa A. Igloria — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 01:39:25 +0000

When I was a child did you bend back my little toes
and my big toes, then wrap them in a linen bandage
for years? asks my second daughter, frustrated
that there are fewer grown up styles for size 5 feet.

A signature may consist of a folio or an octavo.
Sewing through the fold makes a nice journal or book—
you have to take care that the binding tape is nicely
aligned on both sides of sewing, on the spine.

A friend chafes at wearing his wedding band in
public; or not at all. I think I’ve only seen it once
or twice: a plain ring with a raised rim in yellow
gold. He and his wife have arguments about that.

The gossip of goldfinches makes a single bright thread
in the day. For a change, how nice it is to have warmth
without shadows, quiet talk, no rancor, no regret. I like
that the mull is mesh material glued to the signature set.

Here is the bone that burnishes smooth, that lays the papers down
with their marbled leaves. Did you know the word volume comes from
volvere, which is related to scroll, thin sheet of parchment wound
like a blind about its staff? As desire returns to its beginnings.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Dear unseen one,

Luisa A. Igloria — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 04:50:23 +0000

tell me the hour isn’t late,
that the all-day, all-night

diner still serves what I crave.
The sky’s cloudy, marbled, shot through

with bits of emerald: the color of expensive
granite countertops, or the supple skin

of certain fish. Pebbly in places, like
day-old bread. This might be the hour

for some old-time miracle: say,
fish and loaves; or wine and water.

Birds twisting free from fire. This time,
console me. My losses, reconstitute.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Augury

Luisa A. Igloria — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 04:54:29 +0000

The old man wants to know which of his daughters loves him the most.

Like robes of silk? like crackling fat? like sheets of hammered gold with garnet crusts?

Like steel vaults, like a suit of mail, like a dome’s marble pillars and carved doors?

Woe to the stammering one who cannot summon her parade of woodpeckers, her retinue of tumbling clowns.

Be careful: bottom-dwellers lurk in the mud, jealous of every bright bubble of original thought.

They’ll want to pull her down, cast her out, call her traitor, demoness, ingrate, stupid bitch.

They won’t remember it was her who lit the fire in the morning, put the pots to bed at night, filled the glass with water that the indifferent hand reached for and drank.

She fashions a gown out of discarded plastic. She gathers water in a sieve.

Her heart fills and fills with salt— fractals like quivering ribs in magicians’ parasols, each more beautiful than the last.

I won’t tell her that she’ll have her day.

But I watch for signs glimpsed from the high window: how the planets align, how trees cast their shadows along the broken boundary; how the wolves howl as they press closer to their prey.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Index

Luisa A. Igloria — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 04:54:43 +0000

When the hero of a thousand journeys is born, part of her soul spirals into a plant that her mother has made to take root in the soil. A sunflower, perhaps. Or a sapling that grows rapidly into a tree, leaning and breaking into blossom against the wind. Between every journey is a threshold. Birds bring news of what comes next, flashing their breasts like pennants rouged with coral or smoke. The stalk bends and straightens. The flower follows the sun’s ascent. The child climbs trees, runs across the grass, hair flying behind her like a sheet of night. Milk in the glass still has the sheen of alabaster. She does not stand in the light of the refrigerator, shifting weight from one foot to the other, mouth sleepless with frustration or ache or hunger. In old stories, the elders speak of warriors with heart: nakem; of growing wiser as growing in heart. Perhaps, what they mean is that capacity not only to survive what gusts in to level us all— Admit we’ve traced the fragile vein in the leaf, in the flower; seen it pulsing at the base of each other’s throats.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.