Three Symbols

THE MOUNTAIN

Climbing is like lifting a weight, hand over hand, using a pulley. Marathoner in a trance, you ascend rapidly as time slows to near motionlessness.

Trees rustle, rice husks pushing back and forth to dry. Desiccated brush, smallish bundles, tumble downward, roll about. Bamboo thickets, agitated brooms, shiver.

Dislodged by your feet, tiny stones hurtle, soaring arcs increasing in velocity downhill, click-clacking glass marbles knocking together, gradually fading, scattering into silence.

At this height air is rarefied fire. Atop the mountain birds hover overhead, transfixed by the sun more brilliant than a sorcerer’s spell, flanked by clouds, bright balls of electricity.

Strong gusts sand your face roughly, a stone. The wind is cold, the eye of an ascetic just returned from a visit to the dead, fiercely gazing, an eagle clutching a small animal.

The vast plain below mirrors the sky, wet paddies flashing crystal polygons, jewelry turning side to side. Far into the distance, short hills squat, huge emerald droplets, whilst the river, a glittering bracelet, empties into an ocean of light.

Breathless, you are a broken wheel on the wayside. You will climb the mountain again, spellbound by the expenditure of controlled energy, delighted by the sting of sharp gravel underfoot.

Maria Makiling (1947) by Carlos Francisco

THE RIVER

Yesterday the river was lapping at my feet like an old man tapping out a message about time flowing downward from hills remote as hawks.

Today he rises slowly, a momentous pulse pushing seaward, fed by faraway pistons.

At the waterside where air is fresh as a pear, a sweet mist glides forward like a perfumed wrist.

Islands of floating plants drift, joining into continents, rearranging in serpentine tattoos.

Beneath the surface glittery like so many exploding firecrackers, fish swirl, shadowy limbs of an athlete smoothly cutting back and forth.

Denizens gather at the riverbanks in spoonfuls, sprinkling laughter farther than droplets shot from spinning umbrellas.

Distantly a lizard pokes its head into the sun, jerking left and right, vainly divining a future obscured by brightness.

The Biglin Brothers Turning the Stake-Boat (1873) by Thomas Eakins

THE SEA

Down the road a short distance the sea is crashing breakers.

I hear the soft rhythmic roar telling of a distant menace.

We live close enough to the beach to feel the breeze and smell it.

On a hot night it cools the house like a ghostly visitor.

Dark beams exude the odor of sand, old wood a salt fragrance.

Fish and shrimp, squid and snails are the gifts of our brooding neighbor.

We toss them in garlic and soy sauce, shaking them inside the pan.

We serve them steaming, feasting until our stomachs smile.

But in the blackness I cannot be safe enough to call the ocean friend.

He harbors in his belly gigantic aliens and swallows sailors alive.

I hold a match to a kerosene lamp to illumine scroll columns and chairs.

I gaze at the flickering yellow flame, warming within myself.

No one can control this behemoth, this restless surging animal.

If only I could capture this water and leash it to a post.

La Mediterranee (c. 1923-27) by Aristide Maillol

Rain

RAIN

Rain is pushing fingers into the soil, murmuring like winnowing rice. Daylight grays perceptibly.

Water twisting down roof runnels collect in drainpipes shooting bullets at pools expanding rapidly.

Splashing grows louder, runners slapping puddles. Waterfalls spill down steps.

Lightning jabs his blade, lunging at the ground. Thunder loudly slings his whip. Cloud cohorts rumble a war cry.

Rapids swiftly forming in the streets transport dead leaves navigating rudderless around stones and branches.

Rain hammers the roof, rattling construction site. Springing, a leak begins a steady countdown.

Chaos invades the sky, clouds battling the wind. Dislodged by strong gusts, a rain gutter swings wildly, banging repeatedly against the wall.

Water rises all around—canals and rivers surge as dams spew forth streams. One side, the ceiling drips, a coffee percolator.

Electricity goes dead. Whirring fans wane into lifelessness. Hush joins hands with dread. We can only sit and wait in darkness.

Originally published in The Galway Review (February 15, 2016)

Rapids swiftly forming in the streets...

Three Silence Poems

SILENCE

I’ve begun to realize that you can listen to silence and learn from it. It has a quality and a dimension all its own.—Chaim Potok, The Chosen

Two o’clock in the morning.

How silent is the room…

Just before a motorcycle roars,

Chopping the air into jagged chips of din

Thrown round and round a flywheel,

Spiraling into the orifice of the outer ear,

Noisy swirling water inside a gurgling drain,

Bowling ball rolling heavily down wooden planks…

Then it fades...

Sawdust bursting in air,

Settling, a fine layer of manna,

Powdery film on the workshop floor.

You cannot hear anything again.

Silence is thick bread—

It lies on a plate and makes a crusty whisper

Only if perturbed by buttering.

Solid door of heavy beams tightly riveted by iron knobs,

Slammed shut and bolted,

Sealed even in its tiniest crevices,

Stands guard at the portal to the strange habitation of another world.

Sparkling river of silence…

Sparkling river of silence,

Traveler along a shadowy forest floor—

I drink deep draughts, lasting,

Of your overflowing stillness!

Tipping your goblet,

I taste your darkness

As floral wine

Swirling inside a crystal

And breathe in perfume.

Fingers of a spellbound existence         

Stop my ears.

Awe, black thief, steals my voice.

Bereft of noise, I am

Transfixed as the blood moon

Hovering, windless night,

Balanced on the sword tip of time.

The world is motionless

As my spirit moves

And my stumbling heart is filled

By a presence…and quiet…

A quiet presence.

NOCTURNE

I am a lover of the moon and silence,

Silence milky as the moon,

Moon radiant as silence.

Silence is silver fish in black water,

Moon, bright flour and hot yeast,

Rolled into a fist,

Exhaling as it rises.

Push night against day,

Leave a small opening

—the moon.

Feed the wind

So it lies quietly,

Rising with effort

—silence.

Faraway plume of white smoke,

Twilight crossing the border,

Comet in exclamation,

I see, not hear.

Heartbeats quickened by grief,

Engine roar beyond the wall,

Secrets spoken in a dream,

I hear, not see.

Blinded by the moon, I call out in my heart to silence striding into blackness beyond earshot.

Silence: Communication without Words by Ian McCall

You Are My Brother

YOU ARE MY BROTHER

I saw you dirty, sleeping in the street,

Your dry hide, carbon smudged ancient pottery,

Your fingernails, black as oil pooling in the driveway,

Your hair spiked like hawk feathers clumped by doormat mud.

I mistook you for an asphalt ball

Tumbling out of a truck,

Raked then rolled into the road,

Or dung of vegetarian animals, dark green

Sea urchin exploding needles, grass.

What stroke of misfortune befell you?

Has some broken gene uncoupled your logic?

Why are your glassy eyes transfixed by chimeras?

Did some personal tragedy tear your psyche into two?

No bread for a father,

No home for a mother,

No education for currency, unemployed,

Misfit piece in a manufacturing assembly line,

You wander about, a gyrating flywheel unconnected to a machine.

If I filled your cup with coins, I myself would go begging

Because your needs are a bottomless horn of empty.

Am I, Cain, being called to account for your destitution?

Am I, Dives, caressed by fine silk, thickened by choice meats?

I tell myself I will live simply,

Giving to you beyond the needs of my family,

Working to create a better society in which the poor

Are less destitute and the destitute are less.

See, my heart is a pocket fraying holes.

Tracked by an accusatory finger,

I want to look away but I cannot—

You are my brother.

Homeless Jesus (2013) by Timothy Schmalz

Semana Santa

SEMANA SANTA

The time of year when the world

Transforms into the inside of a tin can

Cooking in the noontime sun

Is when Jesus Christ is crucified

To astonishment of delirious crowds

Dropping in heat like dead insects

As reservoirs languish and asphalt streets,

Cracked, peeling, cry out for water.

Palm Sunday flutters weakly, a flag

Raising his arms in faint breeze.

You listen to the story of the Passion…

By the time Jesus is entombed,

You are wrung out and numb.

Days later, Maundy Thursday is mentholated,

Rising and setting in a wooded garden.

The reprieve is illusory.

Darkness shoves night inside an oven.

Soon you cannot escape Good Friday,

Twice hotter than the night before—

Turning round and round,

You are roasted on all sides,

Dripping as if broiling on a spit.

Two days’ provisions running low,

Holy Saturday finds you sitting peacefully

Beside a corpse for a companion

Inside a tomb pervaded by silence.

Comforted by cold, you imagine the sun

Without seeing the dawn.

You doze off the instant you wake up

To Easter Sunday suddenly present,

Pure, fresh water illumined by glory.

Inhaling a cloud, you glimpse the crystal city.

Originally published in The Galway Review (February 15, 2016)

The Crucifixion (1880) by Thomas Eakins

A Favorite Poem

Recently, I added to my file of favorite poems “Manunggul Jar” by Luisa A. Igloria, first published in Mud Season Review, Issue 16 (January 20, 2016). The poem recalls Wallace Stevens’ “Anecdote of the Jar.”

MANUNGGUL JAR

(Manunggul Cave, Palawan; late Neolithic)

Someone is loosing the rope

that tethered our boat

to the pier. Here we are, easing

forward into the fog, into the cold

that seems to have gotten colder.

We’ll pass the shuttered town,

we’ll slip into the currents

blue with the ink of unborn stars.

We’ll love them no less, no more,

even as the water swirls, changing

from jade to milk. The world we enter

then leave is round as the bowl of our

desires, and here the word for horizon

is the same as faithfulness: invisible

rudder our hands have always held,

even as now we cross our arms

across our chests, preparing

to travel farther, deeper.

Luisa A. Igloria

Manunggul burial jar

Two Bread Poems

Hot fresh bread…

Hot fresh bread, breakfast time:

Fragrant, not a flower,

Warming, not a fire,

Lively, not a flame,

Soothing, not a salve,

Kindly, not a caress;

Dark honey wheat,

Black oat barley,

Sweet cinnamon raisin,

Savory apple walnut,

Ciabatta, Foccacia, Pita,

Bublik, Chapati, Pandesal—

Parmesan, Romano—two-cheese,

Sunflower, sesame, fennel—three-seed,

Every type of loaf

Bundled in brown wrapper,

Crackling in your embrace,

Steaming scented clouds,

Breathe deeply

Atop a mountain;

Billowing, fluffy blanket,

Pull it up,

Tuck it snug

Beneath your chin;

Bracing, poppy fireside,

Cross your arms,

Hold it to your heart.

Fed in deepest winter,

Bathed at height of summer,

Refreshed when day is dry,

Sheltered when life is wet,

Healed when you are pierced,

Becalmed…even after you are violently shaken,

Remade in hope,

Transformed in joy,

Nourished, uplifted…blessed:

Every good thing comes to you

As a loaf of bread.

Let us bake bread…

Let us bake bread today.

Let us labor, let us stir

Wheat flour, honey, butter,

Add salt and warm water,

Leaven—waken yeast,

Breathing now,

Mold it all in one elastic ball,

Polish it with olive oil,

Wrap it,

And wait.

Wait for what?

Don’t ask questions.

Just wait.

It rises:

Promise of surety,

Plume of hope.

Knead the dough, roll it flat,

Fold it thick and thicker,

Push it down using

Heels of your palms.

The best part is

Dough smiles

At becoming

A new creation.

Pressing together,

You, the dough, are one.

More olive oil, wrap again,

Wait again.

Hours.

It rises.

Stoke the oven, shove it in.

Rising some more,

Freshly scented, golden brown,

Dawn has come to the door.

Day raps on the plate.

Napkins fold greetings.

Break off a piece,

Eat.

 

Golden wheat stalks