I eat dry bread...

I eat dry bread…

I eat dry bread in the desert:

It tastes like a cake of dust.

I breathe in and out powdery clouds:

Nostrils singe, snorting fire.

I swallow my own saliva:

Thick paste coats my inside throat.

How will I sustain my journey in this land

When my mouth is filled with sand?

I falter inside a steel kettle, sparks popping about.

Black footprints flame at the edges.

I am dried up, a gourd rattling seeds.

Heat waves deceive like the devil.

Thirsty, I lick at a mirage with my eyes.

Twisting, I glimpse the taskmaster sun.

Hands astride hips, he glares mercilessly,

Glowering white noon death rays.

The sky is livid, a clown murderer, crimson lips, grinning.

He spills sacksful of hot ash from above.

Multitudes, buried alive, scratch at the insides of a wooden coffin.

Spiritless as the burning air gone lifeless,

I am dark as a moonless, starless sky,

Staggering in an expanse unbounded beyond extreme sight,

Devoid of any atom of hope,

Despair, a universe expanding endlessly.

Elijah under a broom tree

Tatlong Bayani

FORT SANTIAGO

To José Rizal

I visited your cold, stone prison.

Bereft of spirit,

Empty of words.

Your cell rang like footsteps

Inside a bell. I could not

Imagine you alive.

Supine, you lay

Motionless, a pigeon

Strangled by the hand

Of forces greater than

Your idealism, stronger than

Overpowering sentiment—

Your love of country exceeding

Your love of life, a pearl.

Yes, you penned poems, essays,

Two novels. You wrought

Drawings, paintings, sculptures—

At least one famous piece:

The Triumph of Science over Death.

Buildings, cities, towns, streets

Today carry your name.

Yet you are not deathless.

You are dead,

Slain by migrant necessity

Born of want, poverty

Pulling grubs from the soil,

Nailing down rusty iron sheets

To fashion flimsy shelters

Soon blown apart like paper

By tornadoes, locusts

On annual rampage.

But wait—now I see you rise,

Arms bound, marching off.

As if on a stage, players assemble.

Your back is to the firing line.

At that moment of volley

I see you transformed:

You turn—shot as a traitor,

Dying as a martyr.

Despair spinning into hope.

The Martyrdom of Rizal (1960) by Carlos Francisco

SUPREMO
To Andres Bonifacio

Your bones may be lost forever,

But we are possessed, fortunately,

Of your photograph, in which

You glare—proud, sullen,

Belligerent, yet also brave, staunch,

Inspired—Supremo indeed.

I do not doubt your genius,

Testified by, for one,

Your marvelous capacity

For self-education, though

You must admit that

Your keenness is blunted

By your weakness

In the aspect of strategy:

Your inability to ride

Rapidly transforming events

So that they instead

Rode you, shamefully,

To your wretched execution—

Unjust, no doubt,

Still, result of your failure

To play your cards well.

Unyielding to a fault,

Prickly, reckless,

Flawed by fatal hubris,

You forecast your own fate

In the red and black flags

Of the Katipunan.

Now, standing in dust and smoke

Beclouding your monument

By the illustrious sculptor,

Guillermo Tolentino,

I see the Great Plebeian

Brandishing bolo and gun

And wonder about the message

He purportedly signifies.

Is there wisdom in violence?

Behold, the sword that liberates

Is the selfsame weapon

That tragically destroys!

Andres Bonifacio Poster Design Project (2015) by Carlo San Jose

THE HOUSE OF AGUINALDO
To Emilio Aguinaldo

Your name means Christmas gift,

And yes, you bestowed

Upon your country

A fine gift, your house,

A generous patrimony,

Memorial to courage,

Summons to hope.

As travelers approach,

Many-gabled red roofs

Notably rise into view,

Presided over by a tower

Six storeys high,

A lookout embellished by

Five quaintly pointed spires.

Gracing the front esplanade,

Your bronze statue—

Your visage, undaunted,

Drawn sword at the ready,

Riding your stately mount,

Foreleg upraised, purposefully.

Entering the vestibule,

We see behind glass displays

Your bleached military uniform,

High-cut boots, rusted rifles,

Glossy buttons adorned

With Masonic symbols,

And the sword of the defeated

General Ernesto Aguirre.

Ascending the main stairway,

We encounter at the landing

A crossroads of sorts—

Left, doorways, the first

To a ladder-like stairway

To the third-level Music Room,

Rising to the Mirador

At the top, a tower

Overlooking sweeping views

Of Manila Bay and its environs;

Further down the hallway,

Your children’s bedrooms;

End of the hallway, a patio,

Galeria de los Pecadores,

Your venue for hatching plots

Against the Spaniards—

Right, your living room, commodious,

Harboring the original window,

Now converted into a balcony,

From which you declared

Philippine Independence,

Unfurling the first flag

Of the first Republic,

Marcha Nacional playing.

Mosaics, triangles galore,

Wood carvings in relief,

A plethora of symbols

Adorn walls and ceilings—

Eight-rayed, a sun

Honors the first eight provinces

To revolt against Spain;

Inang Bayan flourishes a banner;

Bearing a letter, a dove flies

Towards flags representing

The League of Nations.

Appointments, darkly varnished—

Cabinets of costly hardwood,

Flashing full-length mirrors;

Ornately wrought clamshells, which,

Pulled out from their niches,

Serve handily as pot stands

Attached to pilasters;

Grandiose, an outsize dining table;

Desks with sidewise compartments

To store important documents,

Or arms, for quick brandishing.

One corner of your sala,

A wooden panel swings open,

Disguised as a hat rack,

Concealing a corridor

That exits into your bedroom.

Herein positioned, an aparador

Built by your carpenters

To serve as your hiding place—

Dodging unwanted visitors,

You would sit inside, quiet.

A trapdoor from your bedroom leads

Two ways—one descends to

An indoor swimming pool;

The other, same level,

Is a corridor to your kitchen.

This hallway, Veterans Hall,

Is where you would meet

Your comrades-in-arms.

Their portraits line the upper wall.

Below, benches with backboards

Flip open to reveal hollows for

More documents, more arms.

Your spacious kitchen houses

A central table, its solid wood top

Hiding another passageway

Descending to an underground

Bomb shelter cum tunnel leading to

Santa Maria Magdalena church,

Five hundred meters

Down the main street.

Back of your storied mansion,

Your tomb, very large,

Monolithic, a single block almost.

Round the corner, in the garden,

Your Packard limousine, gleaming

Inside a house of polished glass.

Cleverly constructed, wily—like yourself—

Your entire second floor conceals

False panels, secret passageways,

Hiding places, an underground tunnel—

All of which gives us pause.

Never look a gift horse

In the mouth, they say.

To your consternation,

You might discover jutting teeth,

Or worse, dark jaws of betrayal.

Malacañang portrait of Emilio Aguinaldo (1964) by Galo Ocampo

Nighttime...

Nighttime…

Nighttime, I am alone

In the desert,

Moon, sand, stars,

My only companions.

Clouds have forsaken this land.

Distant tribes, the cirrus and the cumulus,

Pasture elsewhere.

The sky, a wanderer, has left his staff behind.

Knees lower to kiss the dirt floor,

Heels press into haunches,

No pain. The outside world,

Persistent as foraging field mice,

Blinks confusedly at the present.

Disavowing the past,

History stands behind

A tall black rostrum.

Wrestling with the future,

A fugitive struggles, trapped by

Four walls in a dream.

Inside this cave,

Bread, water, salt

Keep me alive. The wind

Feeds my spirit.

 

Desert plant at night

The Song of Creation

THE SONG OF CREATION

To Gerard Manley Hopkins

Creation sings of the glory of God.

We do not hear it but see it

In brilliant interstices

Opening and closing

Of trees waving to and fro

When the world is radiant,

In glittering leaves,

Beaming stones,

Mountain streams, flashing

Metal foil flattened

By fists, smoothed

By hands.

The blind hear the song in the trees yearning to speak.

They inhale it in the attenuated wind,

Taste it in fruits bursting with water.

Bending down to touch the earth,

They become one with the beginning of all things,

Pushing roots into the soil,

Unfolding leaves,

Joining hands with the sun and the dead

Brought back to life.

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

Ordinary Time

Prime

Morning is a swimming pool,

Deepest blue,

Newly replenished,

Chilled overnight,

Rippling gently.

Floating water molecules

Waft fragrant.

Ice cube splashing into a glass,

I dive, do six laps,

Six laps more,

This time backstroke,

Right arm, left arm,

Gazing upward at a cloudless sky,

Protective bubble

Swatting back

Solar radiation—

Stroke, stroke, stroke—

Glide forward, turn,

Push the wall,

Exhaling underwater

Necklaces, carbonated,

Feeling flushed, exhilarated.

No one else here,

I am first one in.

Only turbulence, spume generated by

Slashing arms, windmill,

Churning legs, waterwheel.

V-shaped wake, widening,

Tracks a streamlined hull, torpedo

Guided by black tiles, laser

Aimed at white tiles, target.

Beneath the surface tumult,

Water, transparent backwards, forwards,

Tranquil as a pipe

Fuming wispy aphorisms

Or dolphins wondrously examining

Mirror images of themselves

Slightly distorted

By visual deformations,

Akin to optical effects wrought by

Heat waves rising above

Desert stretches, or

Asphalt roads, disappearing.

Deeper, stiller,

Clearer, cleaner,

Keener, wiser.

Touching the wall,

I stop, pop my head

Above water,

Bobbing ball,

Dripping like a dog,

Mermaid undulating

Sine waves, low amplitude,

Alive, lightning,

Thunderously huffing,

Euphoric, inflated,

Rising, happy balloon.

Life is water—

Cold, fresh, clean.

Breakfast

Dark-headed coffee is a keen companion

Of depth and wit,

Finely calibrated scientific instrument.

Swinging his censer just below my nostrils,

He slays my logic with perfume.

“What crow has stolen your words?”

He asks. “Has your eloquence

Turned into baubles in his nest?”

I pay no attention to the ribbing.

He is too valuable a vizier.

I mine gold every morning.

I take my breakfast like a king—

To my right salted fish,

To my left steaming rice,

Fresh egg is the jester.

Butter, a bird, is eyeing the bread.

Milk dives smoothly into coffee.

Sugar disappears, memory of a dream.

A cock crosses swords with the day.

Things to do arrange themselves,

Tallest to shortest.

Digesting a bolus,

I rise ready to run the next marathon,

Wakeful as a bat, electric as a hawk.

Tree Sparrow

Chirps scatter…

You, slight, alight,

Switch your head,

Hop, swivel,

Tuck your arms tight,

Preen, puff, shiver…

Ready…

Burst in flight,

Bullet of feathers, wings, tail—

Prodigy of creation,

Breathless creature

So frail.

Eurasian tree sparrow

Waiting

The sky is clarity,

The wind, perfume,

You, a comely valley

In a sunlit room.

The sun arranges flowers

Along a window sill.

Your vine ascends, curling

About an iron grill.

Rooms by the Sea (1951) by Edward Hopper

Melancholy

The words of a rainy day

Drift incessantly, sighing.

Clouds wander about, homeless.

Soughing water vanishes.

The earth melts, insensate.

Shiny rocks rise in assembly.

Silence bends a strong arm.

Belief sits, quiet as bread.

Mystery and Melancholy of a Street (1914) by Giorgio de Chirico

Is There No Balm in Gilead?

“You’re allergic to coffee,” the specialist says.

I had been wondering about those skin rashes—roseate, swollen, itchy.

I thought I had been bitten by a tarantula.

Blister clusters filled with aqueous liquid,

They popped painfully.

Morbidly, I had imagined I was leprous, beseeching

St. Damien of Molokai to deliver me.

“Take this pill after breakfast, this one twice a day.” He adds,

“Apply this cream after your bath.”

Pausing as if to ponder the fallibility of medicine,

“Come back to see me after two weeks.”

I muse that capricious Nature would be tamed

By Science, no less, methodical knife

That is as much the geyser of serendipity

Or Providence’s boon as it is purported genius.

I console myself that descending clouds

Hide blessings. Afflictions work miracles…

A broken leg is the first step of a spiritual journey…

An ambitious man turns into a holy fool…

A widow in penury transforms into a horn of plenty.

Reversals abound. A bold man serves lepers,

Is himself ravaged by leprosy—blamelessly, ostensibly.

His pustules and ulcers, like rutted soil,

Bear fruit, nourishing ears of generosity, sweet stalks

Of charity, miracles wrought by the dying.

Hapless in life, he works miracles after death…

A woman prays to the saint, her cancer vanishes.

Turning a corner sharply, a nurse, smartly pressed,

Head-to-toe white, pushes a wheelchair, smoothly gliding. Riding,

Unshaven, a befuddled old man wrapped in a moist bathrobe.

Fronting the glass doorway, his limousine pulls up, gleaming.

He rises, his back twisted, a drooping flower.

Drooling, his head bobs uncontrollably.

Pierced by unspeakable mystery, wounded, stricken bird,

I shuffle outside, sky neither gray nor blue.

Sighing, “I guess I’ll have to drink tea instead.”

 

Head of an Old Man in a Cap (c. 1630) by Rembrandt van Rijn

Documentary

Snake swallows frog.

Marten bites snake.

Snake coughs up frog.

Snake wriggles free.

Frog swims away.

Frog snares dragonfly.

Frog swallows dragonfly.

Snake goes hungry.

Marten goes hungry.

Frog is gratified.

Pine marten