Homenaje al Orlina

OUR LADY OF THE PHILIPPINES

Trappist Abbey

When the moon climbs the cloudless sky and stillness pours into valleys pooling waters of silence, I rise from sleep to dress, shuffling off loose dreams like a sack.

Stepping outside, I inhale brisk air like snuff—suddenly, I am wakeful, a clock about to spring. I toss out bags of sand to rise more quickly.

In the early chill the mountains stand as guardian shadows and night gleams like dragonfly wings.

I am eager for the work of God beckoning at the end of a solitary path just beyond a row of trees bristling at wind snapping like a flag.

Bits of gravel bite at my soles as turning the corner, I lift up my heart at the sight of light spilling gently from the entrance to the church.  

 

Stepping inside, I am greeted by the bright echo of kneelers knocking the stone floor, and softly rustling pages of stapled paper hymnals.

Gradually, ethereal plainchant rises like a river, gathers itself, solidly transforming into one long sonorous brilliant golden bell.

 

 

Virgen Maria (2007), detail by Ramon Orlina

 

HERMITS OF BETHLEHEM

Chester, New Jersey

Beyond the threshold is silence.

Stillness suffuses like light.

The world outside is spinning.

Summer flames at its height.

Solitude is a boon companion.

Self-knowledge climbs like a sloth.

The bed is spare, a thin beard.

The rocking chair is a moth.

Dig in a cave in darkness.

Toss out handfuls of soil.

Bake bread in your heart, an oven.

Bring steaming thirst to a boil.

Listen for the least word of power.

Pierce yourself with a sword.

Afternoon deepens day shadows.

The sun is a violent lord.

Dusk emanates blood-red rays.

All trials in an instant will pass.

Gaze upon woods colored jade.

Dream dreams of emerald grass. 

 

 

Into Green Pastures (2020) by Ramon Orlina

Icarus

 

Icarus 

 

Proud Icarus soared too close to the sun. 

Heat melted the wax, his feathers shed. 

Wings disintegrating, he fell from the sky. 

Smashing in the sea, he landed, dead.

 

 

The Fall of Icarus (2005) by Sebastian Seiffert

The Day Laborer

 

THE DAY LABORER

Fraying at the brim,

A hat with holes

Darkens his face,

Folded and lined.

Beneath long sleeves,

Torn and shabby,

A dirty cotton layer

Shields his arms,

Dusky branches, wizened.

Swinging a pickaxe,

He hacks the ground,

Digging out dirt and rocks

To pay the debts

Of an elephant,

Animal he resembles

As it clambers out of water,

Dripping, shiny, wrinkled.

Filmy, perspiring,

Resting on the long handle

End of his standing tool,

He is almost motionless,

Inert gob of smoldering

Lava in deep time,

Blackened, steaming.

He sighs, heaving for

Ages and ages to come.

Untying his kerchief,

He mops his brow,

Tilts his head upward,

Blinks, fluttering eyelids, 

Tremulous insects…

Sees nothing

But the sun.

 

Coffee Farm Worker (1934) by Candido Portinari

Solitude is a healer...

Solitude is a healer…

Solitude is a healer of memories.

Gently, he rubs liniment on bruises inflicted

By verbal assaults, sharp words.

Cooling menthol soothes and spreads.

 

 

The Wounded Healer (2014) by Marija Gauci

Five Rain Poems

 

THE ISLAND

Bobbing atop the prow of our slender boat,

I spy the shadow of a dark green island,

Ill-defined smudge in the misty rain, the sky

Opaque and filmy, snakeskin freshly shed.

Slicing forward, our front beak is whipped

By waves both sides, spray flying about, rude little explosions.

Drenched fireman, shirt glued to my skin, wet bird,

Shivering, I lick my lips, tasting salt.

My flip-flops float in a shallow pool at the bottom.

One of my companions bails out water. Serene,

He must be an angel because he smiles at sharks.

They patrol these waters, grinning at travelers like us,

Fretful, riding wooden planks rattling to a rickety motor.

Beneath us dark green water rushes, shadowy leviathan.

One with the sea, the wind whips up a tempest,

Brows of storm clouds glower, gray veils of rain.

Swiftly landfall approaches, half-moon beach beckoning,

Welcome pie. Solidly, our bow hits the shore,

Bulldozer grinding into raspy grit…leaping off, 

I dig my toes into the sand, an ardent missionary.

 

 

 

 

 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.

 

 

TAG-ULAN

   

Earth dwells in a tent, suffused in light weakly estranged from darkness.

The lowering sky is a mordant mangkukulam, invisible. He eyeballs anxious passersby chary of tripping bolts of black magic.

Moisture wafting from the soil lingers indefinably like fine confection melting between the teeth.

The wind rises and falls. Stillness settles into a corner, waiting, a dog curling opposite the front door.

Expectancy is a recurring dream—pregnant storm clouds, the space between breaths, promise of a child, the moment before crossing over, hope that rises to heaven.

When the rain arrives, it bursts into flames.

The spectacle is electrifying: a flash flood, a sprinter bounding forward, a dog barking excitedly.

 

 

 

 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.

 

 

MONSOON RETREAT

 

We waken to a musical world—

Rainwater pigtails

Spiraling downward,

Bright choral after a storm;

Tiny gales, whistling ghosts;

Birds warbling a capella,

Spherical notes sliding down

Sides of a glass of ice water.

For Lilia Tantoco

 

Shopping

  

SHOPPING

 To my mother

 

The time to purchase fresh clothes is before winter begins.

We ride a limousine sitting as if on a sofa inside an air conditioned vault.

Our destination is a department store with imported goods from China.

Stepping outside the car, we are greeted by the sea salt breeze of Hong Kong harbor and steamy gusts from roasting chestnuts.

Inside the store waft the pungent aromas of strange brown herbs and dried fruits.

We inspect the rows of sweaters tossed into piles, shirts neatly pressed inside sealed plastic,

Hanging lines of sweetly scented leather belts, and immaculate underwear shining like the moon.

Surly Cantonese salesladies step forward to help you only if they are asked.

Tugging out a sweater from a pile, you say, “This one will fit you.”

Measuring it across my shoulders, “You like it?”

Yes, I like it, this roll of thick fragrant wool dyed with mountains and valleys.

Swinging it inside the crisp folds of a shiny red plastic bag, I carry it home.

Inside my bedroom, I hold it balled up to my nose.

Burrowing inside my blanket, I dream of a verdant garden path chilled by mountaintop winds.

  

 

Star Ferry, Hong Kong

These Are Also Living by Carlos Bulosan – Analysis and Commentary

 

THESE ARE ALSO LIVING BY CARLOS BULOSAN – ANALYSIS AND COMMENTARY

THESE ARE ALSO LIVING by Carlos Bulosan

 

After the dreary walk and the tinsel city

That thrusts its tongue hollowly into the night;

After the crowded streets and the tenement houses,

Where the lost and dying flash mocking eyes

With indelicate movements, waiting for death;

After the flight of water-soaked steps and dark halls,

The uneven door and the cold room above the stairs,

The anger in your face settles down—suddenly—

Your lips tremble as we look into the street below,

Where hungry men are passing into the night, moving

Close to the buildings for warmth and comfort.

These are also living men, thrown as we are thrown

Into the troubled room of earth, crying for bread.

Their continuous procession into the dark streets

Lifts a stabbing arrow of pity, striking your eyes,

Pushing a nervous wave through your rain-soaked body.

Why are you sobbing profusely? We too are hungry.

—Poetry (August 1938), page 259

The poem is best understood in the context of Bulosan’s experience of hardship, want, deprivation, and poverty.

The website celebrating his centennial—he was born in 1913—offers us a sufficiently concise account.

“He was the son of a farmer and spent most of his upbringing in the countryside with his family. Like many families in the Philippines, Carlos’s family struggled to survive during times of economic hardship. Many families were impoverished and many more would suffer because of the conditions in the Philippines created by US colonization. Rural farming families like Carlos’ family experienced severe economic disparity due to the growing concentration of wealth and power in the hands of the economic and political elite. Determined to help support his family and further his education, Carlos decided to come to America with the dream to fulfill these goals.

“Traveling by ship, Carlos arrived in Seattle on July 22, 1930 at the age of seventeen. With only three years of education from the Philippines, Carlos spoke little English and had barely any money left. Desperate to survive, he soon began working various low-paying jobs: servicing in hotels, harvesting in the fields, and even embarking to the Alaskan canneries. During his hardships in finding employment, Carlos experienced much economic difficulty and racial brutality that significantly damaged his health and eventually changed his perception of America.

“From several years of racist attacks, starvation, and sickness, Carlos underwent surgery for tuberculosis in Los Angeles. His health condition with tuberculosis forced him to undergo three operations where he lost most of the right side of his ribs and the function of one lung. Yet, he recovered and stayed in the hospital for about two years where he spent much of his time reading and writing.

“The discrimination and unhealthy working conditions Carlos had experienced in many of his workplaces encouraged him to participate in union organizing with other Filipinos and various workers. Carlos become a self-educated and prolific writer determined to voice the struggles he had undergone as a Filipino coming to America and the struggles he had witnessed of other people. Like many of his fellow Filipinos in his time, Carlos never had the opportunity to return to the Philippines. After years of hardship and flight, he passed away in Seattle suffering from an advanced stage of bronchopneumonia.”

https://bulosan.org/

—“Carlos Bulosan Exhibit,” Carlos Bulosan Centennial

All Bulosan’s works are marked by his experience of lifelong penury and his heartfelt response to his condition, which he understood took place in the context of colonialism, social injustice, and discrimination.

Notably, Bulosan was commissioned by The Saturday Evening Post to pen the essay accompanying the third of Norman Rockwell’s “Four Freedoms” paintings. “Freedom from Want” was published on March 6, 1943. The Post knew that he would speak according to his deep personal experience.

“…It is a great honor to walk on the American earth.

“If you want to know what we are, look at the men reading books, searching in the dark pages of history for the lost word, the key to the mystery of living peace. We are factory hands, field hands, mill hands, searching, building, and molding structures. We are doctors, scientists, chemists, discovering and eliminating disease, hunger, and antagonism. We are soldiers, Navy men, citizens, guarding the imperishable dream of our fathers to live in freedom. We are the living dream of dead men. We are the living spirit of free men.

“Everywhere we are on the march, passing through darkness into a sphere of economic peace.”

https://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2017/12/carlos-bulosans-freedom-want/

—“Carlos Bulosan’s ‘Freedom from Want,’” The Saturday Evening Post, December 21, 2017

The essay is classic Carlos Bulosan.

“These Also Are Living” is a finely lyrical portrait of destitution. Bulosan’s pointed selection of images and metaphors, his keen diction require little elaboration, if at all. The dying waste away, grimly disconsolate, cold tenement rooms are dark, damp, despondent, while hungry men cry out for bread—it is a scathing social indictment, implicit.

Enigmatically, the poem caps the skillfully constructed scene. “Why are you sobbing profusely? We too are hungry,” reads the closing line. The close is mystifying, in the last analysis, inscrutable.

The speaker (whom we presume is Bulosan himself) joins his wretched companion in misery yet refuses to weep. Maybe his tears have entirely dried up…his heart is hardened…or possibly he is inured, irredeemably, to his chronically desperate straits. We don’t know…we won’t. The mystery itself generates pathos.

Who are “these” in the title of the poem? Plausibly, it refers to everyone in the poem, including and especially the speaker who delivers the closing line. “I, too, like you who weep, belong to the living. I am hungry. But I do not shed tears.”

Carlos Bulosan