Five Poems about Time

 

THE CLOCK

We divide the clock

Into pie segments

To show, self-indulgently,

We are masters of time.

 

Serving up plates, we

Apportion hours a la carte,

Spearing minutes with a fork.

Wistfully, we sip on seconds.

 

We park our legs high

On a chair, lean back,

Saying, this year I will do this,

Next year that.

 

But time yields to no master:

Heedless brute, it is an

Inexorable mule,

Spinning sun, ruthless.

 

Only a cosmic force,

Colossal as stars collapsing,

Warping space like plastic

Has the arm to rein in time,

 

Rearing neighing stallion,

Bull kept at bay.

Time answers to no one.

We answer to time.

 

Already it holds us

On a leash, shortening:

We strain forward;

It pulls us in.

 

Helpless fish,

We must forsake fruit

Just beyond our reach.

And we are bound to tell time

 

Our narrative when it ends.

Now the clock strikes:

Bells ring, sonorous,

Pure as childhood,

 

Shining as youth,

Florid as love, 

Consummate as wisdom 

…the spring runs out.

 

The clock has come…

The clock has come

To tell the time.

He chimes to close

A line with rhyme,

End a stanza,

Chop chapters short—

A rifle volley,

A loud report,

Rushing winds,

Wistful bells,

Sacrificial flames,

Paper farewells.

So hasten to scatter

Blossoms of love—

Fading below,

Unforgotten above.

 

 

I love to listen to your resonant chimes…

I love to listen to your resonant chimes,

Echoing, full, round,

Collecting clear musical pools,

Bright waterfalls of sound.

I love to hear your brilliant bells

Singing, mountain stream,

Flowing concourse of luminous notes

Arranged to a liquid theme.

I love to hear your hammers strike,

Ripples across a lake.

If clock is water, water is life—

Reminder I am still awake.

 

CONSCIOUSNESS OF TIME

The sun wakes, bright as childhood.

Night sleeps, mountain shadows.

Seasons hurry, traveling rain.

Time ends, fragrance of fresh linen.

 

 

TIME IS NO MORE

The sun dwells in darkness.

The moon lives in light.

The owl hunts at daytime.

The falcon prowls at night.

The dead dines with the living.

The living dreams, awake.

The eternal is not the future.

The river of time is a lake.

 

Clock Tower of Manila City Hall

Three Ekphrastic Poems

 

PLANTING RICE

To Fernando Amorsolo

You capture the special quality

Of the light of our land—

Brilliant but blinding,

Vitalizing yet enervating,

Turning fields green

When the rains arrive,

Roasting grass brittle

When skies are dry.

Beneath broad sun hats,

Sheltered faces shine

As they labor cheerfully

In your pastoral idyll.

Truth be told, planting rice

Is like shoveling coal

In the boiler room,

Bowing constantly.

No matter, art is license

And vision is heritage

Of which we all partake:

We celebrate your genius.

Yellows, radiant pears,

Reds, multihued plums—

Your palette, a fruit bowl,

Vivid feast for hungry eyes.

Your virtuoso brushstrokes

Travel boldly all around,

Testifying to your mastery of oil,

Not to mention draftsmanship.

Your deep rich browns

Bind us to the soil.

Your radiant light

Keeps our sun blazing.

 

 

Planting Rice (1953) by Fernando Amorsolo

JEEPNEYS

To Vicente Manansala

who, made, this, work, of, art,

what, does, it, represent,

where, is, it, the, scene, we, see, that, is,

when, is, it, day, time, please,

why, is, it, abstract,

this, is, your, painting, isn’t, it,

how, do, you, paint, from,

orange, yellow, red,

green, blue, black,

white, yellow orange,

yellow green, blue green, from,

irregular, elliptical, prodigal,

brushstrokes, going, this, way,

that, way, every, which, way,

circles, inside, circles,

floating, half-moons,

overlapping, polygons,

broken, glass, so, many,

bits, and, pieces, of, it,

something, you, see,

but, we, do, not, see,

what, do, you, see, anyway,

wheels, roofs, pedestrians,

smoke, dust, grime,

traffic, air, pollution,

now, we, see, what, you, see,

yes, or, do, we, really, no,

no.

 

 

Jeepneys (1951) by Vicente Manansala

CRUCIFIED WOMAN BY ALMÜTH LUTKENHAUS-LACKEY 

Who do you say that I am?

You are the woman without property or inheritance rights, without the right to vote or to freedom of movement, to employment, health, or education, who is discriminated against because you are considered intrinsically inferior to males—

The object of controlling and manipulative behavior by males at home, school, or work, wherever gender discrimination exists,  

The object of their verbal bullying, threats, isolation, or blame, of physical, sexual, or emotional abuse,

The object of harassment by stalkers—vengeful, love obsessed, erotomanic, psychotic—

The wife, daughter, girl, or mother raped or forced into sexual slavery during wartime, the victim of a state strategy of aggression,

The victim of human trafficking, kidnapped, imprisoned, and then coerced into commercial pornography or prostitution,

The victim of forced marriage by kidnapping, of forced pregnancy, of state breeding programs,

The victim of the honor killings undertaken whenever a woman resists a prearranged marriage or wants to divorce her abusive husband,

The widow killed by ritual suicide or murder,

The child compelled to marry against her will,

The child victim of rape, traumatized for life,

The young woman assaulted by female genital mutilation,

The female infant put to death because of religious, cultural, social, and economic discrimination, killed by drowning, suffocation, starvation, exposure, neglect, physical abuse, poisoning, whatever works,

The fetus aborted because of the obnoxious cultural preference for male children,

The poor and elderly woman convicted of witchcraft, drowned, hanged, or burned at the stake,

The woman demeaned by body shaming, fat shaming, all forms of sexist ridicule— 

 

You are the Christ.

 

Crucified Woman (1976) by Almüth Lutkenhaus-Lackey

The Journey Continues

  

THE JOURNEY CONTINUES

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