fingers on the pool of your skin
our thrill, having smashed the megaphones with ball-peen hammers
one on each hand
how clear, even ripples as these from the calluses
conveying how it is to be young again, electrically
to what has never been crumpled, has only ever gazed upon
a liquor and mint boy acting broken. Precisely
knowing what to say only after having said it
forgetting the next moment, when consequence
rears its ugly head
or the pleasure of yours, your flesh-drop earlobes . . .
We practiced our swing on random bottles, hollow blocks
wanting them to be people in our past, or soon-to-be
wanting them to be lawyers, congressmen, the boring patients
of physicians long-winded and starched
why can't we be
let's walk in silence over faded reds, the yellowing
let's look forward to laughing about this on beds
hours apart, arms varnished on our chests
sweet iron kissing all four of our dimples.
Hul 29, 2014
Kibo na lamang ito ng kung sino
Kahit pa rito, sa kutson ng mga silya ng oposisyon
klaro sa lahat na magsasalita ang pinuno
Paano tayo tututol nang ayos sa tsipipay na saplot
pansinin ang mga espasyo sa pagitan ng mga sequin
hindi ba't maihahambing sa hininga
Ng dalubhasa sa sayaw, chairman, at maalam umawit
(nang sabay) pulido, sukat ang pagkakalapat
Hindi bulagsak na dugo sa paligid ng gagong amok
o tubig ng nerbiyosong bumbero. Paanong naipuslit
sa magalang na talastasan ang bumbero
Samantalang balita sa radyo ang palakpakang panggayak
sa isa't kalahating oras ng piyok. Piyok
O iyak? Arsonista raw ang kabuuang hubog nitong henerasyon, mga
scavenger ng relief goods. Hinihika ang iyong kapanalig.
Kung ikaw mismo ang kasama, ilayo mo kaya sa tubig.
klaro sa lahat na magsasalita ang pinuno
Paano tayo tututol nang ayos sa tsipipay na saplot
pansinin ang mga espasyo sa pagitan ng mga sequin
hindi ba't maihahambing sa hininga
Ng dalubhasa sa sayaw, chairman, at maalam umawit
(nang sabay) pulido, sukat ang pagkakalapat
Hindi bulagsak na dugo sa paligid ng gagong amok
o tubig ng nerbiyosong bumbero. Paanong naipuslit
sa magalang na talastasan ang bumbero
Samantalang balita sa radyo ang palakpakang panggayak
sa isa't kalahating oras ng piyok. Piyok
O iyak? Arsonista raw ang kabuuang hubog nitong henerasyon, mga
scavenger ng relief goods. Hinihika ang iyong kapanalig.
Kung ikaw mismo ang kasama, ilayo mo kaya sa tubig.
Hul 28, 2014
Thank you for asking
Very old trees fell to that Wednesday wind, that much you must have heard. It had built up to a howl from the deep night of Tuesday. Before dawn, it had begun to carry the smell of cut grass.
The night Glenda blew across Los Baños, the shut jalousies barely kept to their hinges, a tenacity owed wholly to a millimeter's worth of opening, space enough to ease the howl forced upon them, venting it upward, shaping it to a whistle, slipping its freight of droplets and leaves like tens and tens of tiny mail unasked for, all of these shooting up the curtains so they billow, touching the ceiling and letting go, all those hours, like wings shrugging off the water, across the room, down the floor, on the ill-placed candles and books, and on the shoulders of Elisha—finally—waking her.
Night to morning was thuds and crashes, our minutes spent collecting water, counting canned goods, shuffling contingency plans. You'd think, at any point, that some chair or debris would fly across your window (the case of some computer shops and restaurants near campus) or that a large branch would pierce down your roof (the case of our next-door neighbor). A house a few steps away was unpeeled of its roof, the twisted sheet flung to the neighboring lawn, large and menacing with its bare edges and protruding nails, immovable for days.
Of the torn trunks I saw, none bore evidence of infestation or internal ruin. And I saw many: the Pili trees along Pili drive—once the bane of drunk drivers and sleepy heads—summarily uprooted, the nuts (ripe?) scattered to scavengers; at Forestry, wood upon wood lay crashed beside their own centennial heritage markers; at the lower campus, the royal palms undressed to odd spears; at home, meanwhile, the pink-blossoming acacia and the sterile breadfruit had conceded most of their weight, but the santol and avocado had yielded completely, their green and yellow fruit dotting the yard, attracting what remained of the insects, what yet flitted about or crawled.
*
A notable exception: the controversial, leaning Dao tree stood fast. The building which it flanked—Student Union—reportedly lost important files to a weak ceiling, but it seems the Dao had nothing to do with this.
On the other hand, A balete tree—one I believed would have outlived me and most probably the children—fell down the road, knocked loose a fire hydrant right across the street, and blocked our path to campus and town supplies.
*
We all spent our days clearing up, days being mostly all we had, our nights total without electricity and little water. The phone signal weakened too, returning only when our batteries were a few hours short of getting drained. Elisha cried one night, by the way, as she'd had enough of the blackout. Noam asked for TV every once in a while, but shifted her attention to paper dolls (or the candle flame) at a moment's notice.
Some of the mornings turned out very happy, those mornings when we cooked and ate outdoors, when the sisters played their games:
gathering and counting fruit
planting sticks on a trunk cut from a dead banana tree
map-reading (pretend)
Four days after Glenda, Monday, I was able to recharge the phones, the laptop, and a small DVD player (for the kids) using the CAS generator. Despite octopus connections spawning more, greedier octopus connections, we had barely enough power for our duties. We worked with what we had. We were even grateful, our stories duly exchanged, our occasional humor taking a decisive turn toward the strange.
Henry—the new storm on the block—came, but took it easy on us.
Friday afternoon: Lights! Water's back too, but the pressure somehow never recovered, our pails sometimes getting little more than a trickle. For some reason, I still can't bring myself to shelve the candles or bring the books back up.
Our people at Forestry has it worse, their water delivered by fire trucks with rusty tanks and brackish rations. Also, they're still in the dark as of this writing. On Wednesday, it'll be two weeks without water and electricity.
*
The uniform meticulously ironed, his eyes covered by shades, the guard at the door of the "powerless" bank: he's had it worse.
I stood at the parking lot, at a safe distance from him, as I waited for my friend B— to finish her transaction. I thought he wouldn't speak to me because he was security, and I was holding an ax. However, I was also hugging a rake; he asked how much it cost me, found it too expensive. He'd been spending his off-duty time fixing his house for it fell apart after the wind had ripped out his roof. He came looking for the roof after the storm subsided only to be met almost immediately by itinerant vendors selling used GI sheets neatly cut into fold-able and portable squares.
On the other hand, our helper and her family took refuge in the neighbor's restroom after Glenda gutted her home. She and her husband slept in a makeshift tent while their daughter spent her nights in a warehouse. A few things remained, among them a dog and the artesian well, and a yard littered with nails, splinters, bits of shattered house. One night, the poso came close to getting stolen and was saved only by the dog's insistent barking and, possibly, by a well-placed nail or two.
The couple never saw or caught the would-be thief, the story of the foiled attempt to be learned only when they woke up the next morning, to be revealed only by the stark drops of blood left on what had been a dark little path toward escape.
*
Cleared of age, of leaves and branches, the sky over Los Baños has grown brighter, larger after these storms of July. Just a matter of time now before we get used to so much sky. Before that, an admission: every morning catches me by surprise and I think (for one awful moment) I see that vast, uncluttered blue as something beautiful, as thick roots unburduned of earth can also (at times, when you're caught unawares) prove quite dazzling, uncovered tails of gnarled, petrified rats.
Or the taste of the worm sprouting a pure head, white from the brown sugar I sprinkled on the halved avocado. I think.
I think, therefore I'm sorry. If only I could bite my thoughts as instantly, as sharply—as often—as I bite my tongue.
The night Glenda blew across Los Baños, the shut jalousies barely kept to their hinges, a tenacity owed wholly to a millimeter's worth of opening, space enough to ease the howl forced upon them, venting it upward, shaping it to a whistle, slipping its freight of droplets and leaves like tens and tens of tiny mail unasked for, all of these shooting up the curtains so they billow, touching the ceiling and letting go, all those hours, like wings shrugging off the water, across the room, down the floor, on the ill-placed candles and books, and on the shoulders of Elisha—finally—waking her.
Night to morning was thuds and crashes, our minutes spent collecting water, counting canned goods, shuffling contingency plans. You'd think, at any point, that some chair or debris would fly across your window (the case of some computer shops and restaurants near campus) or that a large branch would pierce down your roof (the case of our next-door neighbor). A house a few steps away was unpeeled of its roof, the twisted sheet flung to the neighboring lawn, large and menacing with its bare edges and protruding nails, immovable for days.
Of the torn trunks I saw, none bore evidence of infestation or internal ruin. And I saw many: the Pili trees along Pili drive—once the bane of drunk drivers and sleepy heads—summarily uprooted, the nuts (ripe?) scattered to scavengers; at Forestry, wood upon wood lay crashed beside their own centennial heritage markers; at the lower campus, the royal palms undressed to odd spears; at home, meanwhile, the pink-blossoming acacia and the sterile breadfruit had conceded most of their weight, but the santol and avocado had yielded completely, their green and yellow fruit dotting the yard, attracting what remained of the insects, what yet flitted about or crawled.
*
A notable exception: the controversial, leaning Dao tree stood fast. The building which it flanked—Student Union—reportedly lost important files to a weak ceiling, but it seems the Dao had nothing to do with this.
On the other hand, A balete tree—one I believed would have outlived me and most probably the children—fell down the road, knocked loose a fire hydrant right across the street, and blocked our path to campus and town supplies.
*
We all spent our days clearing up, days being mostly all we had, our nights total without electricity and little water. The phone signal weakened too, returning only when our batteries were a few hours short of getting drained. Elisha cried one night, by the way, as she'd had enough of the blackout. Noam asked for TV every once in a while, but shifted her attention to paper dolls (or the candle flame) at a moment's notice.
Some of the mornings turned out very happy, those mornings when we cooked and ate outdoors, when the sisters played their games:
gathering and counting fruit
planting sticks on a trunk cut from a dead banana tree
map-reading (pretend)
Four days after Glenda, Monday, I was able to recharge the phones, the laptop, and a small DVD player (for the kids) using the CAS generator. Despite octopus connections spawning more, greedier octopus connections, we had barely enough power for our duties. We worked with what we had. We were even grateful, our stories duly exchanged, our occasional humor taking a decisive turn toward the strange.
Henry—the new storm on the block—came, but took it easy on us.
Friday afternoon: Lights! Water's back too, but the pressure somehow never recovered, our pails sometimes getting little more than a trickle. For some reason, I still can't bring myself to shelve the candles or bring the books back up.
Our people at Forestry has it worse, their water delivered by fire trucks with rusty tanks and brackish rations. Also, they're still in the dark as of this writing. On Wednesday, it'll be two weeks without water and electricity.
*
The uniform meticulously ironed, his eyes covered by shades, the guard at the door of the "powerless" bank: he's had it worse.
I stood at the parking lot, at a safe distance from him, as I waited for my friend B— to finish her transaction. I thought he wouldn't speak to me because he was security, and I was holding an ax. However, I was also hugging a rake; he asked how much it cost me, found it too expensive. He'd been spending his off-duty time fixing his house for it fell apart after the wind had ripped out his roof. He came looking for the roof after the storm subsided only to be met almost immediately by itinerant vendors selling used GI sheets neatly cut into fold-able and portable squares.
On the other hand, our helper and her family took refuge in the neighbor's restroom after Glenda gutted her home. She and her husband slept in a makeshift tent while their daughter spent her nights in a warehouse. A few things remained, among them a dog and the artesian well, and a yard littered with nails, splinters, bits of shattered house. One night, the poso came close to getting stolen and was saved only by the dog's insistent barking and, possibly, by a well-placed nail or two.
The couple never saw or caught the would-be thief, the story of the foiled attempt to be learned only when they woke up the next morning, to be revealed only by the stark drops of blood left on what had been a dark little path toward escape.
*
Cleared of age, of leaves and branches, the sky over Los Baños has grown brighter, larger after these storms of July. Just a matter of time now before we get used to so much sky. Before that, an admission: every morning catches me by surprise and I think (for one awful moment) I see that vast, uncluttered blue as something beautiful, as thick roots unburduned of earth can also (at times, when you're caught unawares) prove quite dazzling, uncovered tails of gnarled, petrified rats.
Or the taste of the worm sprouting a pure head, white from the brown sugar I sprinkled on the halved avocado. I think.
I think, therefore I'm sorry. If only I could bite my thoughts as instantly, as sharply—as often—as I bite my tongue.
Hul 14, 2014
The monsoon
wanting more and more the common things—
garlic, playing cards, houses, the best of friends—
leaving us only the broken and exotic, so we
mix n’ match like kids splashing into a memory
game with little consequence and not a single fit.
In the future shall our hands drift, pieces of different puzzles
borne by a creek, touching every once in a while. Currently
who are we to bare our necks to a wind that will not have us?
Only the more intelligent arrived to swallow the sharp morsels,
and only so to word us more profusely, never letting up, never gracious,
never a finger tracing a way to what had been taken from us.
It was morning when it rained.
You were sleeping when I left.
garlic, playing cards, houses, the best of friends—
leaving us only the broken and exotic, so we
mix n’ match like kids splashing into a memory
game with little consequence and not a single fit.
In the future shall our hands drift, pieces of different puzzles
borne by a creek, touching every once in a while. Currently
who are we to bare our necks to a wind that will not have us?
Only the more intelligent arrived to swallow the sharp morsels,
and only so to word us more profusely, never letting up, never gracious,
never a finger tracing a way to what had been taken from us.
It was morning when it rained.
You were sleeping when I left.
Hul 13, 2014
A—
Maaaring ito na lamang ang nalalabing konteksto kung saan ako maaaring umasenso: kung saan ikaw ang may silbi sa akin habang wala lang ako sa iyo.
(Naisip ko rin, matutuwa ka kaya kapag nalaman mong simula na ng aming pasukan ang iyong Agosto? Matatawa ka ba kapag sinabi kong kahit hindi pa sumasapit ang buwa'y matindi na ang singil nito?)
Kung ikaw ang tatanungin, ano ba ang mas maigi: na may tao sa ulap, o wala? Sa isang banda, walang sisipat sa iyong mga lihim—mga lihim na tila nagsasapot na anino, na hindi ko mawarian kung bakit hinding-hindi mapigilan ang paghahabi. Sa kabilang banda, ayun meron, may tao sa ulap at pinagtatawanan ka nito.
Sakaling may tumatawa, gusto ko sanang marinig ang mismong tawa, kung malutong o parang daluyong ng dagat sa tanghaling-tapat, kung parang sa bata o sa abugado ng bata. Paano kaya kung itong walang tigil na pagbabasa ng mga tula'y pag-aapuhap sa mga saglit, sa mga patikim, sa sari-saring uri ng pagkakabaligtad ng dakilang tawang iyon? Paano, kung itong walang tigil kong pagsusulat (at maaaring ang iyong napigil na pagsusulat) ay hindi panggagaya o pagtugon sa tawang iyon kundi pagsasalin nito sa isang wikang hindi marunong lumigaya?
Ay A—, gusto ko sanang isiping ikaw ang nasa pusisyong humusga. Ngunit nilisan ka na ng lahat ng mga posibleng pusisyon. Nangarap ka at nangarap ako, sabay tayong kumain, salit-salitang nagsalita—at napakagalang natin sa isa't isa—ngunit hindi talaga tayo nakapag-usap.
(Naisip ko rin, matutuwa ka kaya kapag nalaman mong simula na ng aming pasukan ang iyong Agosto? Matatawa ka ba kapag sinabi kong kahit hindi pa sumasapit ang buwa'y matindi na ang singil nito?)
Kung ikaw ang tatanungin, ano ba ang mas maigi: na may tao sa ulap, o wala? Sa isang banda, walang sisipat sa iyong mga lihim—mga lihim na tila nagsasapot na anino, na hindi ko mawarian kung bakit hinding-hindi mapigilan ang paghahabi. Sa kabilang banda, ayun meron, may tao sa ulap at pinagtatawanan ka nito.
Sakaling may tumatawa, gusto ko sanang marinig ang mismong tawa, kung malutong o parang daluyong ng dagat sa tanghaling-tapat, kung parang sa bata o sa abugado ng bata. Paano kaya kung itong walang tigil na pagbabasa ng mga tula'y pag-aapuhap sa mga saglit, sa mga patikim, sa sari-saring uri ng pagkakabaligtad ng dakilang tawang iyon? Paano, kung itong walang tigil kong pagsusulat (at maaaring ang iyong napigil na pagsusulat) ay hindi panggagaya o pagtugon sa tawang iyon kundi pagsasalin nito sa isang wikang hindi marunong lumigaya?
Ay A—, gusto ko sanang isiping ikaw ang nasa pusisyong humusga. Ngunit nilisan ka na ng lahat ng mga posibleng pusisyon. Nangarap ka at nangarap ako, sabay tayong kumain, salit-salitang nagsalita—at napakagalang natin sa isa't isa—ngunit hindi talaga tayo nakapag-usap.
Hul 11, 2014
Notes on Jill McDonough’s “Ming”
That’s why we don’t keep things in stairwells.
—Mary Warnement, The Boston Athenaeum
When the former curator remembers the Ming,
remembers knocking it over, he remarks, “The thing
took fucking forever to fall.” Shaking
his heavy head. Inside, the Ming’s still taking
its time. Still falling. Look: he opened the magic door,
invented a way of making more
time. All of us always longing for longer, a few extra hot
days in July, sunshine, more time with the kids. Not
this endless loop, cringing eternity, fucking forever in the poor
guy’s vase-sized head. Scott asks if I’d be twenty again. Not for
all the money in the world. But then I sort of take
it back, bargain: would I for sure meet Josey? Could I bank
the money I did not give back to the world—just Jeter’s share,
net worth of the board of Goldman Sachs—relive those years
and then have the rest of my life with her, her and fewer
jobs? A car, dishwasher, dryer. New roof, newer
shoes, Josey’s never-swollen one-shift-a-week knees.
Go back to twenty, to the instant the Ming first leans
into thinner air. This vase makes it through Bruegel,
the new world, microscopes. From bustles to Google
to finally fall. But not finally anything: always it slips
from a half-hearted shelf, fresh from its crated straw, his fingertips
always in reach. You gain a week, say, week of replay, your fault
in the space time continuum, week of stutter and halt
taken back in slivers of seconds, in panicked gasps, sleep rent
again. You gain a week. This is how it’s spent.
*
KAREN—
S.E.—
KAREN—
SARAH—
DENNIS— Maybe our selves beholding the curator beholding the monumental fall of the Ming is itself a moment of awe.
KAREN—
DENNIS— There's something tentative in each stanza, tenuous even, the poem itself like a "half-hearted shelf" of couplets. I'm really drawn to such expressions as "thinner air" and "week of stutter and halt". Some of it seems metapoetic to me, for example "his heavy head. Inside, the Ming’s still taking" which sounds like, yes, it's still actually falling inside this man's life, still claiming him beyond its already super-extended presence. But maybe it's also "still taking" because of the poem or inside the poem, inside couplets that come across as "slivers of seconds" and "panicked gasps"?
KAREN—
CLAUDIA—
KAREN—
DENNIS— Back-reading some of your other posts! Glad you put this up.
KAREN—
S.E.—
KAREN—
Hul 8, 2014
Notes on Matt Rassmussen’s “After Suicide”
But together we decide
which way the dream goes
like spilled water on a table
we carry across the room.
I wait for the phone to ring
while the cord sprouts
and a receiver blooms
like a black cucumber.
KAREN—
SARAH—
DENNIS—I like the way you put this, esp. "planted-ness". Yes, it is sure-footed, but I want to get to an idea: sure-footed, so nothing should go wrong. There's compulsion here: no, don't even think about it, not one misstep, Mr.
KAREN—
DENNIS—How you would plant your feet very carefully as if walking at the edge of the cliff, or the rim of this grave.
KAREN—
DENNIS—Why so? One possibility is that the enjambment gives that "so" the quality of an adverb. Such as: I love you so. I hate it so. "No one is calling so." The absence must be qualified: there is an absence of intensity, perhaps of warmth.
KAREN—
DENNIS—That's one good thing about putting these up on the blog. You can always revisit the source along with your notes. When it's . . . safe?
KAREN—
which way the dream goes
like spilled water on a table
we carry across the room.
I wait for the phone to ring
while the cord sprouts
and a receiver blooms
like a black cucumber.
*
KAREN—
SARAH—
DENNIS—I like the way you put this, esp. "planted-ness". Yes, it is sure-footed, but I want to get to an idea: sure-footed, so nothing should go wrong. There's compulsion here: no, don't even think about it, not one misstep, Mr.
KAREN—
DENNIS—How you would plant your feet very carefully as if walking at the edge of the cliff, or the rim of this grave.
KAREN—
DENNIS—Why so? One possibility is that the enjambment gives that "so" the quality of an adverb. Such as: I love you so. I hate it so. "No one is calling so." The absence must be qualified: there is an absence of intensity, perhaps of warmth.
KAREN—
DENNIS—That's one good thing about putting these up on the blog. You can always revisit the source along with your notes. When it's . . . safe?
KAREN—
identidad; mga salik at puwersa
Worrying helps me feel better.” / bilang ganap
na dominyon ng karunungan at isa sa paraan ng pag-unawa
lays the groundwork—the meaning
para sa iba’t ibang madla at iba’t ibang
humuhubog at hinuhubog ng mga ito; mga yaman halimbawa
There is never enough.
life./ Mga elemento ng matematika, pagpapahalaga
peacably in the face of competing claims, opposing
resources./ Mga simulain ng ugaling pang-
rumination increases insight into situations
“mahalaga ang pagiging hinog ng ating
my fretting is uncontrollable
pagpapahalaga sa mga praktikal, intelektuwal
in this document; 2. Apply and inter- or cross-
into new and possibly more injurous forms
deemed repealed, revoked, or rescinded
tayo ay magiging kampante, tayo ay bubulagain
na dominyon ng karunungan at isa sa paraan ng pag-unawa
lays the groundwork—the meaning
para sa iba’t ibang madla at iba’t ibang
humuhubog at hinuhubog ng mga ito; mga yaman halimbawa
There is never enough.
life./ Mga elemento ng matematika, pagpapahalaga
peacably in the face of competing claims, opposing
resources./ Mga simulain ng ugaling pang-
rumination increases insight into situations
“mahalaga ang pagiging hinog ng ating
my fretting is uncontrollable
pagpapahalaga sa mga praktikal, intelektuwal
in this document; 2. Apply and inter- or cross-
into new and possibly more injurous forms
deemed repealed, revoked, or rescinded
tayo ay magiging kampante, tayo ay bubulagain
Hul 6, 2014
Nakalulon ang banig
Nakatiklop?
Nakalulon.
Sapagkat madali. Kung gayon
bakit hindi mo ginawa?
Mas tiwala siya sa paghihirap.
Araw-araw na lang tayong ganito, ngumingiti
nagpapakilala . . .
Sagad ang pagpapahalaga sa sarili
akala mo kung sino.
Nais mo siyang magkawang-gawa.
Iyon, o igapos sa kulambo.
Ipatapon ang kanyang sarili, managot.
Nakasalalay man ang mga lumang diyaryo
parating na ang lamig.
Nakalulon ang bata?
Nakatiklop.
Nakalulon.
Sapagkat madali. Kung gayon
bakit hindi mo ginawa?
Mas tiwala siya sa paghihirap.
Araw-araw na lang tayong ganito, ngumingiti
nagpapakilala . . .
Sagad ang pagpapahalaga sa sarili
akala mo kung sino.
Nais mo siyang magkawang-gawa.
Iyon, o igapos sa kulambo.
Ipatapon ang kanyang sarili, managot.
Nakasalalay man ang mga lumang diyaryo
parating na ang lamig.
Nakalulon ang bata?
Nakatiklop.
Hul 2, 2014
Ambush
walang anu-ano'y
pinasuso mo ang aking tenga sa tibok ng iyong puso
. . . mads naman / Makinig ka
ipagpalagay nating kabibe ito
at abot-hangin lamang ang himig ng alat
samantala, kung relo
isa-isa nitong tinatapos ang ating mga pinupunterya
Kinukuha sila, at hindi ibinabalik
Sandali na lang ako / ano itong umiihip
at bakit hindi na kita maaaring kalimutan?
/ Makinig ka sabi
pinasuso mo ang aking tenga sa tibok ng iyong puso
. . . mads naman / Makinig ka
ipagpalagay nating kabibe ito
at abot-hangin lamang ang himig ng alat
samantala, kung relo
isa-isa nitong tinatapos ang ating mga pinupunterya
Kinukuha sila, at hindi ibinabalik
Sandali na lang ako / ano itong umiihip
at bakit hindi na kita maaaring kalimutan?
/ Makinig ka sabi
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