ORIGAMI
TELEPHONE CONVERSATION
Marjorie Evasco
Wole Soyinka
This word unfolds, gathers up wind to speed the crane's flight north of my sun to you.
The price seemed reasonable, location
I am shaping this poem out of paper, folding distances between our seasons.
"I hate a wasted journey - I am African."
This paper is a crane. When its wings unfold, The paper will be pure and empty.
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully.
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived Off premises. Nothing remained But self-confession. "Madam", I warned, Silence. Silenced transmission of Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came, Lipstick coated, long gold rolled "HOW DARK?"...I had not misheard. ..."ARE YOU LIGHT OR VERY DARK?" Button B. Button A. Stench Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak. Red booth. Red pillar-box. Red double-tiered Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed By ill-mannered silence, surrender Pushed dumbfoundment to beg simplification. Considerate she was, varying the emphasis"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came. "You mean - like plain or milk chocolate?" Her accent was clinical, crushing in its light Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted, I chose. "West African sepia" - and as afterthought, "Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic Flight of fancy, till truthfulness changed her accent Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding "DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette." "THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether. Facially, I am brunette, but madam, you should see The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet Are a peroxide blond. Friction, causedFoolishly madam - by sitting down, has turned My bottom raven black - One moment madam! - sensing Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap About my ears "Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather See for yourself?"
First Death in Nova Scotia
The gracious royal couples
Elizabeth Bishop
were warm in red and ermine; their feet were well wrapped up
In the cold, cold parlor
in the ladies' ermine trains.
my mother laid out Arthur
They invited Arthur to be
beneath the chromographs:
the smallest page at court.
Edward, Prince of Wales,
But how could Arthur go,
with Princess Alexandra,
clutching his tiny lily,
and King George with Queen Mary.
with his eyes shut up so tight and the roads deep in snow?
Below them on the table stood a stuffed loon shot and stuffed by Uncle
Because I could not stop for death
Arthur, Arthur's father.
Emily Dickinson
Since Uncle Arthur fired
Because I could not stop for Death –
a bullet into him,
He kindly stopped for me –
he hadn't said a word.
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
He kept his own counsel
And Immortality.
on his white, frozen lake, the marble-topped table.
We slowly drove – He knew no haste
His breast was deep and white,
And I had put away
cold and caressable;
My labor and my leisure too,
his eyes were red glass,
For His Civility –
much to be desired. We passed the School, where Children strove "Come," said my mother,
At Recess – in the Ring –
"Come and say good-bye
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
to your little cousin Arthur."
We passed the Setting Sun –
I was lifted up and given one lily of the valley
Or rather – He passed Us –
to put in Arthur's hand.
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
Arthur's coffin was
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
a little frosted cake,
My Tippet – only Tulle –
and the red-eyed loon eyed it from his white, frozen lake.
We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground –
Arthur was very small.
The Roof was scarcely visible –
He was all white, like a doll
The Cornice – in the Ground –
that hadn't been painted yet. Jack Frost had started to paint him
Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
the way he always painted
Feels shorter than the Day
the Maple Leaf (Forever).
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
He had just begun on his hair,
Were toward Eternity –
a few red strokes, and then Jack Frost had dropped the brush and left him white, forever.
TAJ MAJAL Sahir Ludhianvi
PROPAGANDA Allan Popa
The Taj, mayhap, to you may seem, a mark of love supreme You may hold this beauteous vale in great esteem; Yet, my love, meet me hence at some other place! How odd for the poor folk to frequent royal resorts; ‘Tis strange that the amorous souls should tread the regal paths Trodden once by mighty kings and their proud consorts. Behind the facade of love my dear, you had better seen, The marks of imperial might that herein lie screen'd You who take delight in tombs of kings deceased, Should have seen the hutments dark where you and I did wean. Countless men in this world must have loved and gone, Who would say their loves weren't truthful or strong? But in the name of their loves, no memorial is raised For they too, like you and me, belonged to the common throng. These structures and sepulchres, these ramparts and forts, These relics of the mighty dead are, in fact, no more Than the cancerous tumours on the face of earth, Fattened on our ancestor's very blood and bones. They too must have loved, my love, whose hands had made, This marble monument, nicely chiselled and shaped But their dear ones lived and died, unhonoured, unknown, None burnt even a taper on their lowly graves. This bank of Jamuna, this edifice, these groves and lawns, These carved walls and doors, ar ches and alcoves, An emperor on the strength of wealth, Has played with us a cruel joke. Meet me hence, my love, at some other place.
Simulan sa pagpatay ng telebisyon. Bunutin ang saksak. Tiklupin ang antena. Luwagan ang mga turnilyo. Hugutin. Buksan ang aparato tulad ng ipinagbabawal Ng polyetong mariing nagbababala Na huwag pakialaman ang hindi-alam. Nang dungawin ko ang dilim sa loob Ng binaklas na telebisyon sa aking kabataan. Isang siyudad ang nabunyag sa kahon. Nagtataasang gusali ng industriya Sa isipan ng batang malikot ang isipan. Walang taong namumuhay roon. Simulan sa pagpatay ng telebisyon. Buksan ang handog. Wala ka roon.
Photograph from September 11
HEAVY METAL SOLILOQUY
Wislawa Szymborska
Yusef Komunyakaa
They jumped from the burning floors— one, two, a few more, higher, lower. The photograph halted them in life, and now keeps them above the earth toward the earth. Each is still complete, with a particular face and blood well hidden. There’s enough time for hair to come loose, for keys and coins to fall from pockets. They’re still within the air’s reach, within the compass of places that have just now opened. I can do only two things for them— describe this flight and not add a last line.
After a nightlong white-hot hellfire of blue steel, we rolled into Baghdad, plugged into government-issued earphones, hearing hard rock. The drum machines & revved-up guitars roared in our heads. All their gods were crawling on all fours. These bloated replicas of horned beetles drew us to targets, as if they could breathe & think. The turrets rotated 360 degrees. The infrared scopes could see through stone. There were mounds of silver in the oily dark. Our helmets were the only shape of the world. Lightning was inside our titanium tanks, & music was almost holy, even if blood was now leaking from our eardrums. We were moving to a predestined score as bodies slumped under the bright heft & weight of thunderous falling sky. Locked in, shielded off from desert sand & equatorial eyes, I was inside a womb, a carmine world, caught in a limbo, my finger on the trigger, getting ready to die, getting ready to be born.
One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII PABLO NERUDA TRANSLATED BY MARK EISNER
I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz, or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself, and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose from the earth lives dimly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you directly without problems or pride: I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love, except in this form in which I am not nor are you, so close that your hand upon my chest is mine, so close that your eyes close with my dreams.
GANAP Carlos Piocos III
Ang mga susunod na tagpo ay maaari lamang makita sa iyong pagpikit. Ganito, ipagpalagay mong may isang labing tikom na lumulutang sa isang basong tubig. Tunghayan ang himala sa pagbuka ng mahiwagang tubig. Tingnan ang garalgal ng lalamunan mula sa ilalim ng lalagyan, ang piyok ng rabaw sa bawat kilapsaw, ang lunok ng ngalangalang lumalangoy sa laway. Masdan kung paano ipinagkakasya ang lahat ng iyong hiling sa isang baso: isang bibig sa isang dangkal na likido— hindi umaapaw at hindi napupuno. Ilublob mo ang iyong daliri sa tubig at haluin ang timpla ng panaginip. Haluin hanggang magbuhol ang dila sa sarili nitong bibig, hanggang malunod ang labi sa sarili nitong halik. Ipagpalagay mong may isang basong tubig sa iyong harapan: isang bibig na lumulutang, isang pares ng labi, dila, ngipin, gilagid, ngalangala at lalamunan. Ipagpalagay mong Maaaring maangkin sa pag-inom ang isang tinig— umaalingawngaw paulit-ulit: pag-ibig, pag-ibig, pag-ibig.*
*Ang huling linya ng tula: pag-ibig, pag-ibig, pagibig ay mula sa huling linya ng tula ni Romulo Baquiran na “Tatlong Hiling” sa aklat na Onyx (Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press, 2003).
