the wall is thin

At the conference this morning, an independent researcher
reads her paper about nostalgia and peoples in transit.
She says "doors" to answer in an ambiguous way a question
from the audience; she describes as doors the door 
of airplanes that, like magic, one comes through to places;
also the screen of phones like doors.
My friend J- is having a depression and is remembering
all the people who used to read poetry with him; they are 
all either dead or have gone away. He repeatedly says

come over the house for dinner, but that last time his wife
casually says "I have no friends", repeating it as she leans 
on the doorframe. It troubles me to this day.
What can a person say to someone well past his fifties
with two children not yet even of school age? There are
children in the news feeds, children from far away, dying.
The graduate student who, during consultation, repeatedly

say how she did her work she did her work she did 
her best, her work
was truly only navel gazing 
at her own miseries. Sometimes it angers me

but only because I have been to countries of bone dry misery.
Where people do not have rooms for pathologized miseries, 
caught as they were in systemic and vicious precarity.
It troubles me to this day, how I cannot say
stop it

because I have no right to; because I, too, am flawed with
my own miseries, trifling in the larger scheme of things.
What can I say that will be of interest to you?
When I come home and open the door and see you, beautiful 
calves, legs stretched comfortably while your feet rest 
on the table after a long day at work, your attention now 
on a book, your long braided hair, what is there to say?

I hope there will be no need of words. I will 
fall on the space beside you, a door, a sigh,
so at last there will be no need of words.

be careful of adventures

Be careful of adventures. The point is 
not always the going but the be-coming 
something else, familiar and not. 
The change, something that will happen, 
that has happened, within. We will not

be ever the same again, as the river
is crossed, as the day has ended.
As we have entered the wilderness
of love or of loneliness--the being
that was once our old selves suddenly

turning to be so much younger, so much 
a believer than we have finally become
here on the other side. 

The snowflakes that wait by the road

Dear Friend,

Are the leaves falling where you are? The view of the mountains where I am are beautiful in a quiet and almost sad way whenever it is autumn. Mountains in autumn remind me of both hope and bruise, and that space in between them without a name. Also of Native Americans and the colored people, black, brown, yellow. The weight of history is heavy and long, and though we may want to refuse it, the times remember for us. The length of its memory, the memory of an elephant. Have you ever placed your open palm on a grown elephant? Gentler than the dog's, the dog who loves you and sleeps by your side as though there is nothing else in the world to ask for.

The tree right across my window is black and bare. It is sleeping now that winter has begun. Since my arrival, I have noticed two stray cats called by their names at night by a woman's voice. The cats are not hers. I have seen her on an occasion feeding them in a corner. Sometimes the cats are by porch steps when I arrive; they look at me and I try to put a name to what I feel. I am wary. Though I can count by years the length of stay, moving is always inevitable and necessary. Someone, many years ago, engaged against it: she said there are things that cannot be changed. I let her have her way, though I did not agree and still don't; although admitting, I must say a part of me wants to believe it.

I think about the birds, and the squirrels, and the stray animals at times these days, their lives no more lesser or greater than the lives of those in the Third and war-torn worlds, in conditions where gentleness remains to exist.

On the last days of this semester, students tell of long and heavy histories of themselves; art, again, as always, a catharsis, although...you must have sensed by now I remain grappling: to old to believe and un-believe. Hope. Is Always An Expensive Thing. We buy in exchange of spirit.

There is plenty of sadness and pessimism to share. And yet there remains joy in things so little, like the snowflakes who lives ever so momentarily only to fall and wait by the wayside, to lose itself and rise again.


Signed, P

jade

Carve out a hollow into your existence

You will find there is no difference 
between you and the American woman
who touched the Maneki-neko,
unashamed to ask for luck and fortune.

    outside the lonely shell of you car

You will overhear two colored women
tell each other organic food is luxury,
will read an unadorned student's poem
say thirty dollars a month for food.

                         through the steady pace of your feet

You will see the question is never too far, 
it is always here, no matter
the whitewashed porch and the flowers 
blooming quiet as if in peace.

                                       this blooming day of falling leaves

You will touch what is intangible, this
palpable need to fill in the hollowed out.
Not unlike how you felt as a child pouring sea
from cupped hands into the hole in the sand.

More nights ahead

We can put together a hundred or more possibilities,
letting two characters meet, in spite the number
of ways, streets, corners, bars, restaurants, cities.
Did you not once say you will have a hard drink
at the bar at the edge of your sleep? Even though cold,
I have returned to the uncertainty of outdoors now, 
stopping at diners where tired men and tired waitresses
call each other by name. The home fries both nostalgic
and sorry. Something always pulls me back. 

Sometimes I look up and watch flocks of birds, mostly
when flocks of young people pass by. Do they
know how we can devote our entire lives
to a cause truly lost?
How the foolish idealism of our once immortal
sense drove us to where we are now. Here...

And is it wrong to think women like you will always be
less lonely? I have come to deny myself. But 
how it bangs its fists on my door wanting
to be let out, telling me 
I am human, human, human. 
So I try to keep away from the door,
away from the bar at the edge of your sleep.

woman with the sun behind her

How could your photos be so
beautiful your life
an entire summer

There must be no worries
they do not exist
they touch you not

There you are at play with
dog at the shore
one sunset

Your laughter and your memory
of it as well as my envy
will last very very long

no water but space

What separates us now is space.
Like air   like blank   like nothingness
Not a void   I think  for it too must have
Some vague directions pointing which way
One must go 

Home for now is a transitionary word
Much like the lengthened stay at airports
I have nearly forgotten how it feels like
The not quite entirely have moved in

What sense is it
The mind always knowing this is not the place
Even though it is where the body is
And will be   for years

I try not to think of her warmth 
Realise it has always been this way--a distance
Metaphorical or otherwise

Here  it is the tail end of summer
At 8 PM the sky remains light
I have not yet looked up the skies at night
Knowing there are no stars

So far away from her

Dear friend with a spindle,

How do you do? I woke up sweating in an hour-less dark 
from last night's sleep from a dream I cannot tell about.
Better to say it was a dream of elephants, pink flamingoes
than others; it was humid in spite of the opened windows

Outlines of plane trees visible in the bright but waning
moon; the few days ago spent at a cove aptly named 
"Hidden" (in English, of course) by well-meaning locals. 
My tan darker now. My weeks here more less than more,

No matter I try not to count. Still, a few days before 
I had finally sent the latest collection of poems 
delayed at least half a year because-- 
A translation work and the editing of an anthology sat 

Beside me nights at the cove where I listened to the sound
of tide coming in and daybreak arriving; and watched locals
searching for seaweed and clams and other shells to eat.
A thirty-one year old woman with seven children 

Gave me a local story (the usual, all hearsay and no ending)
with an oil massage. I had slept in dreamless peace. 
The next day she sold fish from her neighbour's catch
and unripe mangoes from her neighbour's yard. 

It has been awhile since I've had a woman; this is such 
a sexist thing to say and I do not say it to anyone.
Like a sin meant for confession. To which I account
the restlessness. Do women also feel the same way? 

There was a poetry book launch and a literary gathering,
all fairly recently; another one tomorrow by a writer
in a local tongue I have come to love in spite of things--
such as not fully understanding it. The book am reading now

Is Atwood, a collection of her stories on inner lives (or 
tumult?) of women and their placid surfaces; their words
ballet dancers on tiptoes onstage. I find no words 
right enough for women. Again, must be a thing to say.

I am tired and my defences from my own self are down.
(You must be reading between the lines now.) 
I still continue to walk the dogs days and nights, though
I have ceased to run. One might say that in a way, 

I am sad (although it is hard to certainly say). Determine 
a more apt word when a month is now named on the calendar.
There is a net in my mind for catching sadness 
before it arrives, no matter it is visible from the shore.

My eldest dog has become more affectionate and I wonder
if it knows the leaving that is coming soon. Perhaps, 
this is only projection, as nearly everything else perceived.
At night, I memorise the humidity and the outlines made

By shadows and warmth. Her beautiful brown skin too,
the scent of it without perfume. I sense, as in any story,
there will be love making soon in the same wild abandon 
we used to do but--

And what about at the sacristy

Grandmother, when I was so much younger, brought me
To the sacristy. It was my birthday. A man was there.
He was wearing a gown, wearing a smile, and smelled
Of something else. I was supposed to ask for blessing
Only he was able to give, or so said Grandmother.
This was another lifetime ago, of course, although

I still do remember the door. And the wall. The shape
Of what was dark and deeply engraved on sides of pews.
Grandmother smelling of talc and old lipstick,
The old man with his voice thick as torso.
The noviciate I whispered with one night of songs
Who stepped back into the shadows in fear when told.

The bible has long been unread. The child on afternoons
Reading verses long gone. Still, these days I continue 
To refer what it is: poetry: the word turning flesh.
The old man who was called Father was a stranger.
Grandmother has stories I will never come to know.
I heard a bell outside the sacristy

And with the door I had come into behind me, the man
Turned his back towards a blind corner in the room
And disappeared. There is always another door.

a very long wait

I think it is not fear of death itself as much as
Fear of dying; death is a given, the psyche
Attuned to it since time beyond memory: all 

Archetypes of travel (companions, fellow solo
sojourners, boats, terminals, stop-overs...) 
Everyday, departures are what have come to be 

known like the pace of one's own breathing--
But who can tell of true arrivals?
Everyone has ideas, some more convincing

Than others; what may be more fearful is 
Living: that very long wait, so long 
We become desperate lovers of life itself.














  

on devotion

M has two children, two sons, both of them
with autism. Because they live in an island 
at least thrice removed from the capital
and once deluged (it took a night 

in a ferry for her to attend
a poetry reading where we first met)
there were no centres for the boys. 
She and her husband must have schooled 

themselves on love
and forgiving the universe, and devotion.
Also pride 
for their sons.

Then the two of them built a small school
in the island where afternoons the boys
play at the shore and wade waters.
M takes photos of them and tells proudly
of little, but large, accomplishments.

Like pointing a fruit the boy wants to eat.

She writes poems about the largeness of love.
Serenity
and gratitude.
I cannot admire her enough for bravery.

These days she and the husband trains
CrossFit in anticipation of what is known
but unsaid. The boys are becoming teens. 

what comes in the end

what comes in the end after beer.
we talk about multi-modality
how so many different things mean
different on their own and different
when happening simultaneously.
the mind always attempts to mean.
platforms can change. so are worlds.
even though they essentially remain
the same. what comes in the end
after beer. i take the slow walk home. 
feeling the lightness of the new
walking boots she gave me. dark blue 
the colour of deep sea. and quiet.
some forms of serenity. a thought
came over talk asking is this the way
it feels before dying? ha ha ha.
about half a year left before leaving.
we did not toast. he is leaving too.
scotland. i name two states, where
the wind blows i go. the cosmos.
she remains to wait. i am already
thinking of coming home to her.
where really home is. we did not
toast. i come home walking slow
the sky is november too clear.
beautiful women so beautiful it hurts
the way one feels the loss of many
things. time and other lives.
this one now being what is had. 
my dogs call out from feet away
sensing my return. some loves
are perfect that way no matter
how unperfect the receiver.
what comes in the end after
beer. a sweet kind of sadness.
the kind also known as gratitude.

My Father's Birthday

My father's birthday yesterday, I remember but chose not to
Say anything, choosing to remember why not. 
The backstory is long, kept away in a partially closed room

Not far from where most people stay to admire the garden
Among others. Stoicism is plenty, so is civility.
Keeping surface clear, spotless from hostility as a glass table. 

My mother expected me to call. I am always never 
Too far from anything I chose. She must be upset now
Not replying to my message left like an after thought

Pretending forgetfulness. Of course, she knows and chose
Not to remember. My poor brave mother whose dreams 
Must have been as bright as she before bearing a child

So similar in many ways to the father who, too, must have been
As bright as any bright and dreaming young man before 
He succumbed to secret darknesses.

clay

What the clay tells is simple: what is broken from care-less remains broken. 
No amount of shaping, no fire can prepare it for fall. Such things as trust,
Maybe not love.
Or maybe that is why I am wrong. Small heart that I have with not enough 
Room to let in anyone that had, once, been let out. Closed the door.

what can be shared

What can be shared but what I can tell you and you, me
The burden words have to carry, a weight in universe
To ferry across the tide of nothing, myself to you and you to me
No matter the truth it battens: no such thing that matter
Truly can be shared. For what is love, but two lonelinesses
holding hands in the dark.












after J.Garcia

The Word

Jimmy once so aptly said it:
Brothers and Sisters of the Word.
We all agreed: the Word, sacred.

Sometimes, I say:
Writing is the Word
made Flesh.

But it has been a long, long while:
do I still believe? the Story

is just that: a story.
Even though sometimes

the child, afraid, calls 
out in the unknown dark.

watching in the dark

It is Friday and it is raining and I do not want to begin 
a line about the weather, but the drops are heavy
the TV repeats news from last night about the forty-four 
dead young men, soldiers 
no older than any son in M'danao.  Mothers weep 
fathers trying to close as many doors as possible
from the inside, no country.  No one
understands deaths of young ones

of children, of dogs.  The neighbour who
padlocked his house and never returned for his 
Lab in a kennel all of us could hear baying silently
patient even in dying, thirst and hunger none of us could help. 

taking a world on the shoulder

What we had was time and an excess of courage.
Immortals dreaming of endlessness
What to do with the beyond imaginable: True
Love and sunsets of halfway around the world.
Was it as clear as your toes underwater
Crystal sea on a blue tropical Sunday? What
To be.  How.
A little child squeals, the mother surprises with
Delights: look an ant on sand carrying a world on its shoulder
Look the endless tireless march to the beyond
All of them certain of tomorrow and afraid.
What happened between the dreaming and the coming
True?  Incremental losses
Of time and faith and courage: all necessary
All inevitable.
So that the mother looks at the child now and remembers
feeling the known unnameable.
     

the weight of nothing

what does one bear?

maybe no more or no less
than many others who, too
have their own stories.

i look at the dark night sky
the stars too far apart
from each other.

distances, of course,being 
arbitrary.  she is 

on the far side of the bed
on an island up north
continents away.

my mind's ear hears
an airplane.  also
a conjured memory

the audacity of its being.

encountering a deer

have you ever placed your hand on a breathing body of a deer on an otherwise perfect path, broken only by the sight of its beautiful body that should have been running away from you, but there instead, lying warm and heavily breathing its lasts?  it is a beautiful creature, the deer, a gentle untamed-ness reminiscent of cool breeze on a night when there are no stars and a version of your self holds the hand of someone dear--no, not a lover yet--while the both of you find your way in the fallen woods through the forbidden part of camp. a brook can be heard from somewhere and a new moon promising.  the deer has eyes like pools that when you closely look you can only closely look at yourself.  what drives men to cut their heads and adorn walls with their decapitated gentleness?  how the deer's antlers remind you of roses' thorns trying to protect itself, in good faith.  when the heartbeat under your palm slows down into a gradual stop, the woods would feel darker.  there would be no birds.  and sometimes no matter the brook, the new moon, the perfect path, the someone dear close to you, the world becomes a colder, less gentle place on your way back to camp.