Drunk Leaning into the Poem
There is so much potential here. A steady rain
spoiling the backdrop, a spinning cliché.
Nothing seems more perfect than the hours spent
deciphering the cruel forms, the sturdy structures.
Nothing feels more poetic. Nick Joaquin, gone.
Franz tripping on his way to the Writing Center.
NVM going postmodern. The dead rise up and reclaim
their spaces in the tradition.
Where are we, then, ensconced in the quiet evening,
safe from the rain? The critics lurk round the bend,
toasting the departure(d). And literature grows complex
like the gnarled branches of some local tree.
I dare say, what has the heart to say in all this?
Some higher power must charge the words,
lead the blind to occasional vision. I see you: I hear
the straining voices of the dead, the rain growing older
moment by moment, sprawled miserably now,
hugging the streets like some bum or national artist.
Get up, drink up. There is no end to this weather,
no end to this talk.
"Kapit sa matigas" sabi ng konduktor
"Gandahan ang pag-upo baka ma-discover.
"kapag hawig ni zorayda, etsapwera"
(sumalangit nawa ang kanyang kaluluwa)
"kapag me wan-kata kahit mukhang yo-kaba, mag maskara"
"mga ale't mama" sambit niya habang kapit sa estampita "ilabas ang barya"
Ang hatol ng istiker sa salamin ng driver:
God knows Hudas not pay.
Thomas Stearns Eliot, kuwabatake
