Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2014-15 – Via Negativa

The Present

Luisa A. Igloria — Tue, 10 Mar 2015 02:19:11 +0000

Looking around for gifts at the antique
market, I tell you about the door
that swung those many years ago;

and I, not knowing you
were following behind:
running child, made

momentarily breathless by the smack
of my thoughtless passage— I’m rueful
still, though we know of such things

as accident, as what was never
willful or intended. I touch
gilt-edged books on shelves,

their marbled papers, their worn
cloth cases: in one, a verse sings
of a wilderness made tenable, made

bearable by the beloved’s presence:
A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou…
and it is possible to endure all

that is or might be difficult.
So we pause at trays of vintage
photographs, gently handling the past—

Red-tinted, fragile, stemmed:
glassware and a box of thin
ceramic thimbles. Faceted

crystal dishes just shallow enough
for finger and thumb to gather
traceries of salt for scattering

on meat at the dinner table—
And I admire the snowy yokes
of infants’ christening dresses,

their thin laundered white
punctuated with asterisks
of threaded silk: who knows

the names of their stitches? But o,
what matter any loss or ruin from which
these finds were after all gleaned?

They live again: clear amber light
globes strung on chains, sleds with red
metal runners, songs whose words

the needle will trace faithfully
around the turn-table— And yes,
the things of this world

might fall away but love,
love is always its own sweet,
persistent palimpsest.

~ for Ina

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Call and Response

Luisa A. Igloria — Sat, 07 Mar 2015 05:57:44 +0000

Listen, this is not a joke
or a passing fancy.
A moment can feel ripe
even when it appears with an undercurrent
of foreboding. I don’t know where it comes from:
I don’t see it but can tell you
with utter conviction
that there is a second sky
where everything we’ve ever wished for
has grown roots. Like tendrils,
like the roots of mangrove trees,
they’ve thickened from being submerged
in the syrup of longing.
Then one day, an opening appears.
You feel its magnetic prodding
as you make your way, as your craft
comes nearer and nearer and finally
the shapes of dream villages
rise up to offer fields, hills,
a barn, a room where you might bring
your heavy suitcase and set it down.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Instructions for prospective contributors

Luisa A. Igloria — Wed, 04 Mar 2015 20:41:44 +0000

We need less than fifty characters, but be sure to get the depth and breadth and the number of years of your experience covered.

Please identify where you obtained your training certificates.

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There is a short form bio, and a long form. We always prefer the short, but include everything we might possibly need for future reference and duplication.

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When you are done, engage the Social Capital meter on the lower left of the page in order to generate your score.

The green bar indicates good standing and health in your organization and our conglomerates at large. The brown bar indicates dubious areas that may require further investigation.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Ghazal for Unforgetting

Luisa A. Igloria — Wed, 04 Mar 2015 04:26:33 +0000

What was it he needed to read? There was a book on one
of the shelves. He only remembered the cover was green.

88 keys, 11 octaves. After daily exercises,
the lid came down on a felt runner of green.

The first year is paper, the eighth bronze, the twelfth
silk or linen; the sixteenth, a candlestick silvery-green.

What trees grew in front of our first house? One
shed only flame-colored leaves, the other green.

One arrow struck the girl, the other struck the god. He pursued her,
even as her feet grew roots, her arms leafed over with green.

Near the water, there used to be a house of quarantine. On a short
stretch of road, broken shells in the gravel amid tufts of green.

Should your mind quietly open that side door and leave, what
will you remember of us, of our days greener than green?

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Bespoke

Luisa A. Igloria — Mon, 02 Mar 2015 04:17:32 +0000

When the pillars came down
and the foundation shook
us out of our self-absorption,
we promised: if love is never lost
and change is always constant,
we would not calculate the rent
only to declare it wanting.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Epithalamion

Luisa A. Igloria — Thu, 26 Feb 2015 23:17:44 +0000

The future is a bride
crossing a footbridge
lined with votive lights
near midnight, knowing
there isn’t much time.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

[hidden by author]

Luisa A. Igloria — Mon, 23 Feb 2015 22:14:08 +0000

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

House Arrest

Luisa A. Igloria — Sun, 22 Feb 2015 03:01:05 +0000

Weeks of rain or snow or any long stretch of bad weather
make, of course, for cabin fever. And cabin fever breeds
all kinds of nostalgia, because most likely the warmth
we seek cannot be completely delivered by the down-
filled comforter or the lotion-lined boucle socks
bought at the drugstore post-Christmas sale. To fill
the canyon-like longing in the gut is a marathon endeavor,
requiring several box sets of movies and a matching hunger.
Not only do we want to eat everything in sight, but first
fry it in fat, then toss in some salt and sugar. We’ll want
bowls of starch: rice, mashed potato, mac and cheese, pierogis,
Shanghai style dumplings, hot dan-dan noodles, chili cheese fries
till snot runs down our faces. Then we’ll feel gross and fat
and rueful, anxious for the first sign of clearing skies,
for icicles to break off the eaves and stab with vigor
into the tofu-like wasteland that used to be a yard.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Filigree

Luisa A. Igloria — Thu, 19 Feb 2015 03:24:16 +0000

What to do on a day of snow with more on the way? I read and marked my papers, washed all the laundry that could be washed then put a pot to simmer on the stove; I gave the jasmine in the window bay its drink of water, turned all drawers inside out to clean and straighten, and closets too— And the floor was cold but I wanted to feel the grain of the wood smooth against my insteps. Outside, light wove its feeble nets and raised them higher above the trees. It was so quiet, and the glint of ice so bright and milky, pearling on the backs of deck chairs like crowns of baby teeth. I folded blankets and sorted scarves threaded with linen floss, lavish with vines and buds; and found cunning hoops of brass still in their folds of thinnest tissue. I held up what I’d kept or hoarded then found anew— I knew what I’d paid for, why I’d wanted the touch, the shimmer or shape of whatever it was that charmed and broke apart from its backdrop in that store window— A gift I’d bring to you in perfect time; its meaning, that I have not forsaken.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Authorship

Luisa A. Igloria — Wed, 18 Feb 2015 02:57:15 +0000

Who owns the high-pitched whistle of waxwings
and the feathered cheques they serve to the air?

Who owns the sheets that ice the roads
to bring to a halt the commerce in towns?

Who owns the traps set in the wood
that snap at the sudden weight of snow?

And who owns the hands that labor all day
before they touch the pillow or the pen?

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.