Te Quiero Verde: Cuatro Poemas

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

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!

Filipino Struggles Through History (1968), detail by Carlos Francisco

TAG-INIT

This time of year is a spear of broken grass, dryly curling like famine.

The wind droops, feverish. Tufts of old bread strewn about are picked at by hopping birds wielding knives.

High above, the sun wears a scorching beard, hair crackling, his puffy face, angry red.

Scornfully, the sky holds itself aloof, cerulean—the color of cruelty—unsullied by the gathering promise of rain.

Darkness rushes in at low tide of daylight. Black hordes silently clatter weapons.

Moonlight rises long and slender as a cold fish, flint head glinting in silvery water.

Momentary, this desert: a puff of dust exploded by a gusty fist.

...the sky holds itself aloof, cerulean...

VIGAN

Let us go to the dry land where hundreds of years ago, tobacco leaves broad as parasols hung from the dark rafters of wooden sheds riddled by sunlit rapiers.

Let us visit the town, your hand in mine, touring the passage of time, nodding inwardly toward our own thoughts as if they were pedestrians, as the sun gradually sheathes his sword and dusk heavily casts a shadowy blanket.

Let us enter the house of old stone and weathered wood, greeted at the doorstep by sharp complaints of aching hinges and grousing floorboards, as in the fronting street tiny whirlwinds of dust and gravel and bits of leaves explode like fluttering insect wings.

Let us ascend the gleaming stairs, shuffle off our shoes, one after the other, lean forward above a window overlooking a wide boulevard lined with cobblestones hot as bread and, shutting our eyes to slowly turning fans of radiant heat, inhale sumptuously, our nostrils stung by cooked air like ground pepper.

Let us make our way to the window of the house in the town in the dry land where hundreds of years disappearing, hardy fields flourished like shining children of the day watered by the tireless sun.

Una Mestiza (1887) by Juan Luna

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