A poem for you

Photo by WV Mozer

Time for rowing 
and fishing.
A bear alone
but not quite 
in the distance.
The sense
of quiet.
Though nothing
truly is.

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

body of reason

She does not know Hegel. That beautiful woman
at the screen I speak to, the screen a window
if only possible to get through. What else

does she not know. She does not preoccupy
herself with is-ness of things, abstractions
and smiles at me, my follies. Talks instead

of government politics and the series on TV.
Her work on people, the current music,
the produce market that is newly opened,

transplanting the herbs in the garden, the rain
this monsoon, and sending the dogs for groom.
These things now without me.

Where I am now, the leaves turn. Tonight
it rained on the way home. The phrase remains
no matter what it means.

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

a matter of time

And does he tell you he will return?
In what words, scattered like rain or
Clumped together like flowers in bouquet,
Predictable as the swinging of a boy
Just small enough for the set, too old
The year after this next. In what words

Does he tell you he will return?

I move through water filled with pansies
And daylight that spills into the night,
People without colour in a language
Familiar yet strange; how do I tell her

I will return?

She waves her hand, says name no month.
There is a garden beside her, constant 
Sunshine above, occasional rains, 
Eternal stars. The dogs lay close to her.
I dream.
Watching the night here remain light.

Disenchantment

Is perhaps what happens
time and again until 

believing and loving
becomes hard work.

It must begin sooner 
than later in others

more frequently and less
to some, possibly why

it cannot be helped: being
lonely whether one knows it

or not; there are always
alternative companions:

a book, a dog, a date
and sometimes, shadows.

I meant no harm

I meant no harm when I talked about the window pane
gentle to dust resting themselves a carpet on its lid
half open to sun, half closed by curtain sheer enough
letting in a pool of light on the floor where the dog
who meant no harm, settled patiently for breeze
and perhaps a bird chirp from outside the window pane.

nearly midnight

It seems to you there is a consistent hunger
In you somewhere you can neither point nor name.
Everything else appears alright.
Action movie on the cable, some mutated turtles

The kind you could have loved lifetimes ago
Now you place on mute and sleep through.
Its only redeeming quality, a young woman
Too beautiful only the young can believe

To be real. You would have preferred bio pics, 
Political conspiracies, the end of the world 
As is known, at least; these are familiar.
Closer to what you have come to believe.

And what do you believe? At eight, you had 
Your last faith in Santa Claus; at fourteen,
Fools' love. You wonder how some can go on
Dreaming of romance. Or world peace.

You remember someone saying to look at
Inevitable failure in the eye, exchanging
Blows with it anyway. A hopeless kind of talk,
Pessimism you do not subscribe to but

Remember anyway. The hero suffers in the movie.
You feel yourself pointing out refugees dying
In the next channel. And at the street, 
the stray dog scrawny and sick with open woods.

The three candles you lighted at the church
Of Saint Teresa saying god alone suffices.
You still believe. And you feel it--although
What it is, you no longer know. 

All news by the day growing more and more
Disturbing. Stranger than any tall story
About mutants or aliens. These kinds of movies.
This world. Growing more complicated to resolve.

The TV goes on without sound.
Your dog shifts at your feet. 
It, too, cannot sleep. Ever shameless
In trusting you, waiting for you again.

early walk with dog

                                                for W


We still see the stars in the morning
because we get up before daybreak.
Sometimes we mistake it for night. 
My dog, what does he think
when he sits as I get our tie,
open the door and begin our walk 
no longer as long it used to be. 
We both are getting old.
He, more longanimous than I.

Metaphors of walking frighten me.
A long singular walk
at times with company
staying as long as they could.
In the end...

I realise this morning
how terribly frightened I am.
In spite of faith and knowledge
things have a way of turning
alright. Of course, 

the stars are there in the sky 
daybreak or night.

this morning

Is it the certainty 
of loss that keeps us
going? That certain
kind of lack

kind of incompleteness
completes us. 

For what is "fullness"
and "perfection" 
in utter satisfaction?
But unsatisfactory.

Our lives are completed
by a sense of incomplete.
Perfection 
because imperfect. 

Else, a life dormant.
A life inert. 

So continuously we sing
memories of wounds.
Old old scars 
never heals. 

Or we pause on moments
perfect like this:
early morning sun 
through curtains to 
the floor, dog beside, 
detection book on lap, 
earl grey tea like new 
beginning, local bread 
and feta, some birds. 
A love letter
written to be given
sometime in the future.

Which will be 
not very long from now. 
As I anticipate 
the news anytime, 
sending me to another
place away
from here. 

The Grecian Urn

Finally, I turned off the TV 
getting up after sleeping through a rerun
an old series from more than a decade ago.
Two detectives--a man and a woman--in
futile search of truth. In the long run
of course it no longer mattered.
What once preoccupied the young.

Student activists who raised fists
against superstructures, convinced
to change the world by sheer willpower
and their term papers. Romantics,
the only kind who could not not believe in

love. W, who was asleep on the rug 
close to the couch, woke up and followed me
to the room. The day was over. 
I opened two windows to let in the night.
On the bedside table, close to the light
the still-unmarked end of term essays
remaining certain of tomorrow.

length of a year

the logic is to measure as many things
                  to live the finite life, it's end
                      at the very end certainly known
                            even as certainly unseen.

the body feels it for us, receiving the Quiet. cell
                  by cell as if room by room, coming in
                       door after door in this poor temple 
                            of soul. the young do not hear

yet the Quiet's footsteps echoing in the wind.
                   but come years of footfall after footfall
                        one finally recognises the visitor 
                             has been in all along. the logic is

to measure as many things to forewarn life
                   the finiteness of every moment that needs
                       be lived. sense the silhouette passing
                             minute after minute quantifiable

ultimately by calendar. but how long the length of 
                   a passing year for uncertain waiting?
                       the letter gave no promises, only half
                            affirmative gesture, the word "about"

encompassing. so one continues to move the motor
                    of day-to-day, no certain number
                        except what wind presses on
                            one's cheek, what dogs in gentle

wisdom knows, the way they keep close. in the way
                    one's mind attempts to see an entire
                        year more, the whole turn around sun
                            from now, but sees only part of it.
                            
I rather not have yet the leaving a form, a body, a face 
                    as number of remaining days, of date, hour
                        of plane departure because it is inevitable.
                            I rather at this moment let it remain

a spectre she and I would let in in time, but not yet, 
                    not yet. at the moment, let it stay
                        a welcomed guest at the front door.






                    

Corinthian verse

I have stopped defining love, because I can't.
I am resigned to some things impossible, because
Mere I am. Words are as large as universes
Capable of holding entireties I cannot even
Imagine, even though I try volunteering 
As writer, mere puppet of voices.

How can anyone be so certain of things?
Even this body may not be real, real only
Because I cannot see so many other
Things. My awareness, so limited. Dogs know
More than I ever would, the unseen, smells
Of worlds. They also know about love

Unconditional.
















after a line from Mary Oliver

conversation without bodies

What the vodka does is ease
boundaries we see called bodies.
The fields: height, colour, hair
style, demeanour etcetera

minds, by habit, label for survival.
Such identification necessary
caution for anyone in bodies

born, breathing, working, living
as we do; how naturally 
equipped we are to know

threats. Every person
a field to survey.
Which must be why hard

drinks are necessary for real
conversations, and darkness
for making love. For when

completely sober, bodies talk
in the language of gauging
petty things made important

such as "there is something wrong
the pipe under sink; the water
bill is erroneous; the doghouse

needs cover from the rain."

Friday Rain

...and I came home midnight 
after a long meeting and a few
rounds of drinks, in an attempt to
salvage the remains of Friday night.
The both of us laughed over rocks

in glasses, over cigarettes, a band
played in the background and we
watched the lead singer. Young
woman cooing in a husky voice,
wearing elbow length sleeves.

Nice voice, but a virgin. We laughed
swapping stories how we knew
early on it is something to rid of.
To become.
                   I arrived home,

dogs, lamp lights, shower. Three 
things: collage of photos she printed 
from our recent out-of-town trips together; 
a handmade bookmark between 
Szymborska by my bed; she, asleep...

Rain arrived at two in the morning,
seeping through my sleep. I awake
to let in the new dog at the front yard. 
It yelped and raced to shelter itself in.

new dog

Centollella is dead.  The poor poet reduced into shreds
the mutilated book under the couch.  I should have but did not
have heart to punish the guilty, the dog
who also tore limb of bag, face of slippers 
belly of the couch.  Such threat this canine

having survived a world unimaginable at the downtown parking lot
given to me by two German women, foster parents themselves
of local street dogs, breed I've never had before.

A different how in loving I am yet to know
this little dog who bites in play and affection
who eats her meals with the lived memory of starvation
who curls herself in sleep, little feral in fetal position.

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. 

a passing away before midnight

The first thing I did was to give her an instruction.  In a voice
collected, not unlike the last time I heard myself doing 
the same when an entire block was burning and she 
had refused to leave the room where we were, seated

hands on her lap, eyes there and not there saying the fire 
will burn itself away.  I heard myself say yes you are right

but let's anyway bring outside a few things like this see?

And so when it happened when the dog, after three hours 
nestling on my arms, gasped for air finally letting go itself
to become warm and limp on my lap, she broke crying 
and the first thing I did was keep still 

to keep myself, quietly closing a number of doors from 
feeling.  It was not yet time.  A bag, a phone call, 
an arrangement and a truck driven under the first of January stars

outside a few things like this see?

temperatures

1.  Monday morning; writing desk by window.  Gray white sky morning; clear breeze.  Sent instructions to secretary; most likely to stay home for a week (i hope not).

2.  Still woke up at 4 this morning, even if cannot run; how the body keeps its own clock; took med instead, talked to the dogs, made coffee, toast bread.

3.  News says what may be the coldest place in this tropical country made 6 degrees; it'll have to live with 9 degrees for the next few days; in this normally humid province, a mountain place along the transnational highway is having 16 degrees; word has reached the city already three elderly died from the cold; that farm animals are dying is old news.

4.  Was it a few days ago I saw a boy that must be no more than twelve pass the M* bridge, shirtless and barefoot, on the way to a junkshop by the obvious weight of his burden, rusty metal junk balanced on his head.

5.  Three things gnaw me since I moved about two years ago in this little island, supposedly to be close to sea:  poverty as clear as broad daylight, a resigned people to an apathetic government, a cruelty to dogs... Last week, I was asked to give a talk to young writers about the importance of poetry, a part of me is unconvinced.  This coming weekend (i hope i will be well by then) I will fly to N* invited to talk again about writing...do I really believe it can change the world to a better place?  Maybe.  But never in a writer's lifetime.

the day begins early

the day begins early, as it always does.  the body clock in time with the dogs' and dawn.  some times, it even wakes itself before anything, that while the eyes adjust in the just faintly light sky that peeks through the curtains, the wrist with its indiglo watch, like a blind automaton, brings itself close to the eyes.  check the hour.  still dark.  still not halfway through the beginnings of morning.  but the body stands itself from the bed, feet feeling for the room slippers, movement.  the house still asleep.  the dogs each open half an eye, half an ear.