Tuesday, April 07, 2009

A Small Elegy

My friends have left. Far away, my darling is asleep.

Outside, it's as dark as pitch.

I'm saying words to myself, words that are white

in the lamplight and when I'm half-asleep I begin

to think about my mother. Autumnal recollection.

Really, under the cover of winter, it's as if I know

everything--even what my mother is doing now.

She's at home, in the kitchen. She has a small child's stove

toward which the wooden rocking horse can trot,

she has a small child's stove, the sort nobody uses today, but

she basks in its heat. Mother. My diminutive mom.

She sits quietly, hands folded, and thinks about my father,

who died years ago.

And then she is skinning fruit for me. I am in

the room. Sitting right next to her. You've got to see us,

God, you bully, who took so much. How

dark it is outside! What was I going to say?

Oh, yes, now I remember. Because

of all those hours I slept soundly, through calm

nights, because of all those loved ones who are deep

in dreams--Now, when everything's running short,

I can't stand being here by myself. The lamplight's too strong.

I am sowing grain on the headland.

I will not live long.

-- Jiri Orten

Rest in Peace, Je Bautista +++

Renga # 7

Thing is, what's on fire

is the fire


I wish I was born a Pole.

Or a Filipina. Oh wait -

Filipinas are not born, they are

maid. Victims who come in small packages.

Oooh! What slippery things!

gelo, yol, the curator