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o, we dance with words, we sing with the light

o, we dance with words, we sing with the light
dauntless in the dark, unfazed by the storm,
every grassblade we touch tinkles with life.

no pebble nor sand weeps under our feet,
the wind, as our mind rages, doesn’t mourn;
o, we dance with words, we sing with the light.

before the blank gaze of a dying child
we heave hope into our undying Dream:
every grassblade we touch tinkles with life.

our words convey the rhythm of the Heart –
a pulse that guides our march to a new dawn,
o, we dance with words, we sing with the light.

like the Sun we respect no fear nor flight,
yes, blaspheming even the tyrant’s throne;
every grassblade we touch tinkles with life.

in man’s glorious quest to crush unfreedom
we offer all; even death, we call home.
o, we dance with words, we sing with the light
every grass blade we touch tinkles with life.

Because Deluge is not her name

(for the victims of Typhoon “Ondoy”)

she is the wave that brought the curdling mud
and roiled the heaving seas of our grief,
but Deluge she is not, Deluge is not her name;
look closely, look closely at her face
and trace the wellspring of our tears;

ruins of houses and wreck of walls,
trunks and branches, electric poles across the way,
clothes, toys, wall boards, GI sheets, refrigerators,
computers, cars scattered like so much rubbish:
no, Deluge she is not, Deluge is not her name.

without warning, she came groaning and gnashing,
crushed and devoured whatever was in her way,
and in every crook and corner sowed fear.
look closely, look closely at her face
and trace the wellspring of our tears;

listen to the weeping, look at the corpses;
Deluge she is not, Deluge is not her name.
call her the merest piece of plastic
or tin can we cast into the current in the drain;
Deluge she is not, Deluge is not her name.

call her shopping mall or subdivision
that took over the space meant to be her channel;
call her garbage, the filthy garbage regurgitated
by the native and foreign manufacturing plant;
Deluge she is not, Deluge is not her name.

call her forest being stripped, denuded
by loggers residing in the Senate and Congress;
call her mountain being turned upside down
by companies with the blessings of the law;
Deluge she is not, Deluge is not her name.

look closely, look closely at her face
and trace the wellspring of our tears.
she is the nation’s wealth stolen and pocketed
by crooked and insatiable politicians;
and so let us call her Greed,
and so let us call her Neglect,

because Deluge she is not, Deluge is not her name.

(translation by Marne L. Kilates)

No, Allos, Your Words are not Dry as the Grass is

Here, here the tomb of Bulosan is,
Here, here are his words, dry as the grass is.
-	Carlos Bulosan, “Epitaph”

Because dry grass easily blazes
	to a light kiss of fire,
and its ember quickly turns to ash,

No, Allos, your words are not dry
	as the grass is; they are the lullaby
of  the rivers and rice fields of Mangusmana
that cuddles  the joy of your innocence –
a memory that parries the assault of winter.

No, Allos, your words are not dry
	as the grass is; they are the laughter
of the hills and plains of America,
green splendor that caresses your back
when fatigue and sadness assail
the plantations of apple, peas, and asparagus.

No, Allos, your words are not dry
	as the grass is; they are the elegy
of our anguish and rage, a peal of poem
amidst hunger and terror, a cataract
of blood flowing through our hope and dream.

No, Allos, your words are not dry
	as the grass is; for

when did the poem and heart
of  the people’s poet ever run dry? when
did the desire and hope for the birthing
of a new world ever run dry? 

because cataclysm is not its name

deluge has brought this mass of mud
and let the sea of our grief surge
but cataclysm is not its name;
gaze at it, scrutinize its face
and trace the fount of our tears:

houses resembling broken ribs,
crumbled walls and tangled trees,
clothes and toys strewn far and wide,
stoves, tv sets, cars in mire buried deep;
cataclysm is not its name.

without warning, it came gushing,
everything it touched, it crushed; nothing
was spared, all over spreading torrents of fear.
gaze at it, scrutinize its face
and trace the fount of our tears.

listen to the lamentation, look at the corpses;
cataclysm is not its name.
let us call it tiny plastic wrap
or an empty can we threw at the ditch;
cataclysm is not its name.

let us call it malls and subdivisions eating
the land where rivers should freely flow,
let us call it wastes spewed out
by local and foreign industrial plants;
cataclysm is not its name.

let us call it forests denuded
by loggers in the congress, in the senate,
let us call it mountains blasted
by mining firms sanctified by laws;
cataclysm is not its name.

gaze at it, scrutinize its face
and trace the fount of our tears.
it is the public coffer plundered
by politicians crook and corrupt;

let us then call it insatiable greed,
let us then call it unpardonable neglect;
because cataclysm is not its name.

long live the peasants

lying on your threadbare banners
beneath the canopy of smog,
you hum your dreams of home, of land
against the cold fence of the DAR.

all the pains you endure
i endure like the crown of thorns
that pierced the Saviour’s soul;
and my heart weeps: rage, rage.

a, tonight, this rage will explode,
i shall witness the final set;
my heart will dance: long live ely!
long live eraserheads!

let the snow melt in your palm

(to petals)

pick a pinch of snow
enclose it in your palm
and let it melt –

there you’ll feel
the dancing waves of bundang
and bisik rivers;

the shrimps prancing high
as the ripples in diponglo laugh,

the bursting of onion sprouts
beneath the alip-ip in kalasingan field;

the buzzing of salagubang
before the night spreads.

caress the molten snow
against your cheeks
and let it whisper –

and there you’ll hear
the raging breaths of the bones
of our ancestors trapped
underneath the dam, calling at us:

“sons and daughters,
never forget, we’re waiting for your return.”

poetry

I will miss the blackboard
and the chalk,

the faces
and the eyes
and the hands
and the voices

of my students
who always talk
to each other

while I talk about poetry.

flash of flesh

something in your hair stings like rust.
the soot black night? or the scent yet unnamed? or,
is it the tickle of the naughty silky strands?

i don’t know. but on that rain-soaked night – armskin
against armskin, the flash of flesh – under your umbrella,
something in your hair stung me. and now:

i crave the gasp of hunger in your mouth
i crave the surge of longing in your breast
i crave the wave of assault in your hip

i crave the grip of death in your thighs.

a, my dear stranger: like your umbrella,
unfold me. bathe my creaking ribs
with the serenity of your inviolate oil.

garapata and latik

The man gobbled up a plate of latik-laden kalamay
While his dog nibbled on its paw a bunch of garapata –
Those blood-suckers that kept on thriving
Despite the tons and tons of anti-flea powder
and lotion he had poured on the dog’s fur.

The man and his dog, together they bit,
they chewed with a clack and a click
from their bleeding teeth. When the man sneered
and its gums the dog bared, a passing geek
as if bewitched, couldn’t tell which was the beast.

The man raked the floor with his tongue
for the crumbs of latik that fell from his mouth;
the dog scoured its back for another bunch
of grape-colored bugs. And they bit and chewed
with the clack and the click of garapata and latik.