Tag: Luisa A. Igloria

“…who caught and sang the sun in flight” ~ Dylan Thomas

Redundant rain, then mist, then fog—
and finally I want to pour out what I have left:

grief’s worn beads in my pockets, their weight, their
exaggerated rattle when I walk; their bloat, their

abacus of stain, regret, omission— Hear me say
goodbye, adios, dasvidaniya as the escalator

ascends into the dark nave of the station,
into the transit corridors that let out where

neon signs indifferently flash the name of this stop.
Suffering, said the old masters, painting the horse

tethered to the tree— Suffering is the itch
that stings more exquisitely than the mayfly’s sting,

high on the hind leg of the animal where he cannot reach.
Every time I hear someone use the word “journey,” I

don’t quite know, therefore, whether to laugh or cry—
You and I, so solitary, and yet so similar in our yearning:

it’s unseemly though, you must agree, when this word
names all struggles equal. I shift to one side,

gravity the motor beneath that pulls everything back,
origins married to the same gravitas

from which I want so dearly to lift,
to buoy, inhabit some tenable version of

harbor, hospice, heaven. Is this foolishness?
Evening falls. The air, cooled by rain,

lends columns on the avenue a soft,
intuitive aspect, as if they knew

grief’s coin, surrendered at the stile, eventually
hollows in the large, anonymous collection—

The ticket is returned; the traveler may pass.

In response to thus: small stone (220) and Via Negativa: Mr. P.'s Poetry.

Among the ginger lilies and hibiscus,
rough pebbles and patches of grass—
But some kinds of food we could grow:
chayote hanging from curly vines
wound through a makeshift trellis,
clumps of mint that we could tear
and scatter over strips of sizzled
meat; mottled loquat and avocado,
fronds of salad fern. And water—
rationed three times a week: miserly
trickle to try the patience,
going through the rusted pipes.
We filled rows of old juice bottles,
plastic pails; but when it rained,
we gathered at least two extra drums.
Living was clumsy like this, in more
ways than one— mornings and nights,
the cold coming through thin walls
and windows, staunched by musty
piles of woven blankets. The way we
held our breath for as long as we could,
just to watch thin ribbons of vapor
uncoiling like snails as they left
the warm house of our mouths.

In response to Via Negativa: Blankets and small stone (219).

“Santa Clarang pinong-pino / Ako po ay bigyan mo / Ng asawang labintatlo / Sa gastos ‘di magreklamo!”
(“Saint Clare, most refined / Upon me please bestow / Spouses thirteen in all / As for the expense, I won’t complain!”)
~ traditional lyric sung in fertility rituals; Obando, Bulacan

The shiver in the skin
of fire tree leaves

The smallest tear
in the egg’s membrane

Hot skies in May
blue enough to drop

Cartwheels in the wombs
of skirted saints

In response to Via Negativa: Easy Rider.

“Tell me, what shall we do with this hour of abundance?” ~ Deryn Rees-Jones

From between the window
and its screens, I lift whole
insect bodies swathed in webs

like spun cotton: funerary
vestments, or the finished
playbill after dress

rehearsal— Dinner first,
then that other hunger,
sex. Who served, who

waited for the visitor
to dally? In that space—
interstitial, between

entry and egress—
filaments are threshed
the same as time.

Here are jewels it has left
behind: blue vein of tattered
wing, dark prismed eye.

In response to small stone (217).

“They were being taught to thank the sun for their lives and the warmth that it brought, the life that it brought to the earth and they were told to do that right before they did their sun salutation exercises…” ~ complaining parent quoted in 09 January 2013 NPR news article “Promoting Hinduism? Parents Demand Removal Of School Yoga Class”

And why should we not thank the sun
for life and warmth it lavishes on all
regardless of caste or class; why not

thank the mountains that sustain and are
far older than the buildings and townhouses
lining the avenues, older than the giant

letters that have spelled Hollywood
in bright white only since 1923, older
than Grauman’s Chinese Theatre

and its forecourt bearing the handprints,
footprints, and signatures of movie stars?
And why should we not give thanks

for the heart expanding, the lungs filling
with our common lien of breath, the ribcage
hinging open as the body is reminded

how it feels to press its length along the ground
then rises like a cobra, like a tree, like an eagle
balancing upon a rock? And what is prayer

but a way to teach— in any tongue, by any
means— the kind of quiet that extends
farther than comprehension; and what

is wonder but what might link us once again
to vastness, leaf outward as gratitude, no matter
circumstance or clime? Just ask the oldest

giant sequoia— so old it must have started
growing in the iron age, rooted first
as seed before reaching for the sun.

In response to Yoga School Program....

Who has
not yearned
that way?

I had a friend
who often said
he preferred

the company
of strangers
walking about,

hatless and
anonymous
like him

in the cold
and windy city;
or the sounds

made by his own
bathroom commode
to the thin

discourses
leaking out
of mouths

no longer
on fire—
Give me

the garrulous
voices of all
kinds of rain,

crickets, frogs:
their naked words,
their saying.

In response to Via Negativa: Gunfire.

Someone said
answering a question
with a question
is a cop-out:

glib evasion, un-
truth, weakness,
folly— But is it
possible to answer

when the question is
how to be a well
that never runs out
of water, a moon or boat

floating endlessly;
a cicada reciting its
only poem before
dying in the tree?

In response to Via Negativa: Extreme position.

It will not always wait for you,
it will not always seem
inexhaustible—

It will not, for it cannot,
offer only oranges and wine,
mutton or sweets from the depths
of its frayed gunny sack—

It will not always countenance
retreat, deferment, time-outs, pleas
for one more, refusal to engage—

And it will not grow
any leaner, any fatter, any
kinder, any darker from the tithe
of your particular suffering—

For what is the nature of life
but this grand indifference which all
are equally apportioned—

And what is the nature of becoming
if not the always-coming-back
into the body and what
it must finally learn—

For why should the road be
half-trodden, why should the song
be partially unbreathed—

Even the half-ruined
barrels by the wayside
can open their mouths
to collect the rain—

In response to Via Negativa: Burden.