FOUR POEMS
Charcuterie
We preserved the meat of
the argument, salted
it in brine, sunned for a
moment at the start
of summer, before taking
to the shade of dirty
kitchen where it hang on
a hook of clean portent.
But not before pressing
pepper and cloves,
hammering the spikes in
with apocrypha of logic.
The casing came from
sheep gut, strength of silence
to be punctured in the
future with sharp forks.
Especially when the
discourse was about politics.
Ground lamb it was,
gentler than any other, gentrified
past vast fields of
forage. Was it benevolent,
this dictatorship, or
simply pragmatic autocracy
that wished and willed
citizens well within their walls
and windows, so they
could contribute beyond sex
when power outage quieted
earlier children and TV sets?
Or was it destiny, on a
per random destination basis?
Whenever religion was the
source of dispute,
carabaos of thick hides
were slaughtered, but
not the mothers that gave
milk for sweet pastillas
smothered in sugar and
wrapped in decorative
cut-outs of colored
plastic. That was how hierarchy
of worship, if at all,
could be rationalized, said
sages, not humanists who
dispelled notions of saints
and angels. Big bang for
the beast of burden!
And when the discourse
turned towards love
in all its
inextinguishable apparitions, we sought
out racehorses, whether
favoring grass or dirt or
synthetic turf, for the
wind to blow manes more wildly.
Sand and clay were
maintained with a lot of water, kept
fresh and level, as even
with dispirited marriages.
Grilled, fried, baked,
the sausages were sliced
like fallacies of kings,
gods, and fabled genders.
* * *
That Time
How many times have you
been to the Louvre?
Twice, at least. Can’t
recall if I did it thrice.
But maybe. Possibly.
And how was it the first
time?
It was terrific. I was
with my week-old bride, in December.
The glass pyramid wasn’t
there yet.
But it snowed as we
exited. It snowed.
And the repeat visit?
I was alone. Or rather,
with a video cameraman.
That meant I was
practically alone.
I.M. Pei’s structure was
already there.
I can’t recall the
season. But it didn’t snow.
No, it didn’t snow in
Paris that month.
That time. It didn’t.
Maybe somewhere in China
it did.
At that time. If it had
been winter.
But not in Paris. Where
it may have been summer.
* * *
Yes You Can
You can say anything.
Poetry is expectation.
Poetry is a bowl of rice
grains
you a) check for chaff;
b) boil to extremes;
c) allow to simmer before
withdrawing the pandan
leaf
that you then toss as
documentation, into
a trashcan w/out folding
like origami.
When asked, you can say
anything.
Poetry is this or that...
Insights, images, sentiments,
a recall of what has yet
to happen, a wish, a dream,
hope of love to spring or
not to be discontinued,
a winter of solace, a
summer of wild greens,
all the seasons with
random kinds of moons
and seascapes… You can
say anything. If and when
poetry, anything can be
uttered, muttered:
lyric or prophecy.
And also as poets we
stammer
through otherwise
intelligent conversation
with lawyers and doctors,
policemen
and legislators. Even
cavemen
grunt with more resolve
they so hurt the ear,
just like swinging a club
of grace notes.
* * *
Disguise
Came as a lost language.
Shabby, but demanding
recognition.
No name tag
on any table, sorry,
said the headwaiter.
Stood by the bar.
Security was called in
well before midnight,
Went along peaceably
until undue violence
by the penthouse lift
forced the unwanted
revelation.
Oh, the debutante’s dad
you are, after all.
Regrets.
All hotels appease
whoever picks up the
bill.
Understood that
since learning the first
invectives.
It's all right, so the
babel
sounded, all around.
Except for, except for —
rising now to full
decibel,
as ears cocked much like
the chandeliers —
Well, the vermouth
lacked similitude.
By then the daughter
came with words
as radiant as the gown
of a happy goddess.
Caused consternation
and more embarrassment
all around, all over
the carpet.
But then again, then
again,
such is the commerce
at parties
where masks are torn
as roughly, as roughly
as sly verbs of identity.
Only the celebrant’s
mother
managed to zip it, in the
name
of harmony.
So that the disco lights
resumed spinning
clockwise, not counter,
since the disguise
was last spoken,
like a family’s shadow,
below, well below
the equator.
*****
Alfred A. Yuson,
nicknamed “Krip,” has authored 26 books thus far, including novels, poetry
collections, short fiction, essays, children’s stories, biographies, and travel
and corporate coffee-table books, apart from having edited various titles,
including several literary anthologies. His numerous distinctions include the
Balagtas Award from the Writers Union of the Philippines, the Stalwart of Art
and Culture award from the City of Manila, a Rockefeller Foundation grant for
residency at the Bellagio Study and Conference Center in Italy, and the
SEAWrite (SouthEast Asian Writers) Award from Thai royalty for lifetime
achievement. He has also been elevated to the Hall of Fame of the Carlos
Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, the Philippines’ most prestigious
literary distinction. His poetry and prose have been translated into Italian,
French, Spanish, Dutch, Danish, Norwegian. Chinese, Japanese, Korean and
Bahasa. He is a founding member of the Philippine Literary Arts Council (PLAC),
Creative Writing Foundation, Inc. (CWF), and Manila Critics Circle, and served
as Chairman of UMPIL (Writers Union of the Philippines). He taught fiction and
poetry at Ateneo de Manila University, where he held the Henry Lee Irwin
Professorial Chair. He contributes a weekly literature and culture column to a
national broadsheet, The Philippine Star, and a monthly lifestyle column
to Illustrado, a magazine published by a Filipino group in Dubai.
No comments:
Post a Comment