Only for a day – Salon Hecate / Noordhoek Art Gallery
From Bloodred Dragonflies (Deep South, Makhanda 2022)
The Path of the Wind
for Margie
I have seen days when the wind
weighs so heavy on trees, they bend
close to breaking. A limb
with the greenest leaves
or weakened by age would have to give in.
The trunk may have to learn a new angle
sunward. Less apparent is the path
the wind must make. It has to unravel,
splitting itself into countless strands
to navigate between each leaf, each branch.
-o-
After the First Monsoon Rain
Doors along the narrow line of houses
emptied out with children,
banana leaves bend to drop
the last beads of rain down their palms.
He is among them, this boy
with the breath of summer.
The scent of earth roused by rain
fills his lungs.
He runs in zigzags to his friends,
making sure to hit every puddle
with every leap. The louder
the splash, the better.
-o-
Introduction – This poem was inspired by the paintings by Celeste Lecaroz of women in clothes dating back to Spanish rule. Sungka is a game played on a boat-shaped board that has seven holes on either side, each filled with seven shells (seeds or stones may also do), and two big holes on each end which serve as respective “homes” for each player. It is a game of speed and mathematical calculation.
Quiet Light
You can almost hear them bridging breaths
between whispers, stifling joy on the verge
of laughter to keep in time with quiet light.
Though they are framed in the regions
of almost-forgetting, there is a muted
throbbing in what they touch: a trinket box,
the tips of flowers and leaves, a letter suffused
with light and secrets, hand-polished shells
nestled in the hollows of a paused game of sungka.
You can almost touch the embroidery
on their clothes, kindred spirits
taking their time in passing.
-o-
Citizens Military Training
Hand-me-down boots
deep jungle green
a size too big, reeking of memories
of someone else’s feet.
Another Saturday morning wasted
pretending to stand at attention
while being spat on
by kitchen-ranked officers.
Suddenly felt something squirm
under my left foot, something under
the thick black sock I had
doubled over to make the boot fit.
This thing resisted the weight
of my toes, pierced through
my sock as if with needles,
made me jump out of line and curse.
Punishment: four hours in full sun.
At long last the stroke of noon,
the relief of loosening laces,
shaking free the boot.
Just then tumbled out, exoskeleton
popped open, a muffled hissing,
a sizzle, a twitch which grew still:
my tormentor, an American cockroach.
-o-
Galing Ingglatera
Nagbabasa ako ng aklat
galing Ingglatera
nang tila may lumagutok
sa bintana. Salagubang.
Bahagyang nakalantad
ang kulay tsokolateng pakpak,
nangungunyapit sa pari-parisukat
ng iskrin. Paglapit ko
Marahan niyang ikinubli
ang mga pakpak, parang lihim.
Kumibut-kibot ang kanyang
katawan, hingal marahil
Matapos ang malayong paglalakbay.
Himala ng baha-bahagdang karupukan
ng laman. Ilang parisukat
ang kanyang inakyat
Bago huminto at tila
tumitig sa akin at sa hawak
kong aklat galing Ingglatera.
Sandaling pagkatagal-tagal
Pakiramdam ko’y lumulutang
ang sahig, ang bintana,
ang buong silid sa loob
ng kanyang sinaunang titig.
Pagkibot niya’y nanlamig
ang aking kamay.
Humakbang ako palabas
ng silid at dagling pinatay
Ang ilaw at ipininid
ang kulay lupang pinto.
Naupo ako sa ibang panig
ng bahay, sa sala yata
O sa kusina. Pilit
nagbasa muli
habang alam kong
walang tinag
Siyang nag-aabang
sa aking pagbalik.
-o-
Salagubang
I was reading a book
from England
when something rattled
on the window. Salagubang.
Its chocolate-coloured wings
partly showing, it clung
to the tiny squares
of the screen. The moment
I came close, it slowly hid
its wings, like a secret.
Its body quivered,
as if panting
after a long journey.
Miracle of terraced fragility,
it climbed up
a few squares
before it ceased
and seemed to stare
at me and the book
in my hand.
The floor, the window,
the whole room, everything
was floating
in this ancient stare.
-o-
From Waking Up to the Pattern Left by a Snail Overnight (Gaudy Boy, New York 2023)
My Mother Had a Concrete Garden
Pots she gathered of different shapes
and state, some cracked, some battered,
all unwanted. And past the concrete
roads, far from where the government
stabbed the names of politicians in poles,
she found soil that could hold
young shoots begging
to be nurtured. And this she did
in silence, people thought she was mute.
But she hummed in the absence
of an audience, in the hope a single leaf
would push out of handfuls of soil.
I was too impatient and missed
when light green unexpectedly
made her gasp.
-o-
Containing Light
“I want a simple coffin.”
—Desmond Tutu
1
Science and commerce keep trying to find ways
to contain light, measure its immensity, trace
its trajectories and many lives. To capture it
as if it were a beast, harness its mysteries
like any other commodity.
They would do well to ask trees.
2
What is a simple wooden coffin but the body
of a tree reduced to panels of measured dimensions?
Skinned and stripped, it bears little resemblance
to what it was when life pulsed through its core,
running from limb to limb, all the way
to the slenderest roots and most ragged ends
of leaves.
It is easy to forget how trees,
with murmuring fingers,
gather light and water to the deep darkness
of their cores. Silently they perform
what in another realm
would be called magic.
-o-
Ant Garden
Pincers measure shards of leaves
licked and laid in layers, a living bed
of cut emeralds. Here they gather seeds
of epiphytes that may one day unfurl
their scents like invisible banners.
Ant antennae of different species gather,
waving in communion, forgetting all enmity.
With murmurs, they coax slender roots
to wrap around the host tree,
nurture young sprouts to rise sunward.
With limbs thin as needles, they resist
the drag of wind and rain. As one,
they weave leaf by leaf a symphony
of whispers high up in the trees,
a garden of secret hymns.
-o-
From How to Make a Salagubang Helicopter (San Anselmo Press, Manila 2019)
From Afterword by the Author
section 3
Have you ever looked at ants marching in line? Watched as they appear to take forever to cover distances the length of your arm? How the path they follow bends more than it stays straight. Soon you might feel a little lost, unable to keep track of a single ant, or remember where they’ve been and where they’re headed. They seem to be going back and forth all the time. Each ant begins to appear very much like another.
But if you try your best to look at just one ant, as close as possible, maybe even isolate it from the others, you might begin to notice how it turns its head and pauses as if in wonder. How its antennae wave about or remain still for a moment, trying to trace a familiar scent. You might even be able to see its fine hairs on skin that looks almost metallic. In a similar way, you might see more things when you look deeper at a photograph. You begin to imagine lives and moments before that very instant. You could predict trajectories far different from that one moment framed by the click of a shutter.
-o-
Naartjie
Skin
winter sunset
with cloud.
Globe
fits
a child’s hand
Thumbs
uncork
summer.
-o-
Light and Rain
The mountain, a shape suddenly darker
than the skies that mask the time of day.
It would be so much easier to surrender
the mind to the limits of the body,
let frustration rub
against the nearest stranger.
But then a giggle from a little girl
pricks my ears. I turn to her.
“Mama, look at the lights!” She is tugging
at a woman who has fallen close to sleep.
An orange globe rests in the girl’s
left hand as she points with her right.
The woman shifts out of slumber.
“The lights are clinging to the windows!
They look like my naartjie!” Laughing,
the girl digs her thumbs into the fruit,
releases in such a small and crowded space
more than just a scent.
-o-
