[Image source: http://www.dw.de/]
the poet’s bones will not warm your bed
vials of spirit, sleeping tea
the poet’s bones will not fill your belly
bitter almonds, devil’s bread
the poet’s bones have sprouted roots
spines and fleshy pomes
the poet’s bones are the color of bones
glimmering minerals in the marrow
[Hokusai, The Great Wave at Kanagawa, c. 1830]
[some edits below]
First, the sea took the shore. She surged and sucked up the sand and gravel, all the soil and clay. She plucked twisted trees from the earth as if they were turnips. Herons nesting in the reeds, wild deer and hunter, she took them too, washed them down her gullet and belched.
Then she took the roads, pulled them like taffy, tossed trucks and houses like game pieces, dice. She took whole temples into her arms. And then she took back her rivers, swollen beyond their banks until the levees disappeared. She took the farmers’ neat squares of grain, and because she was not satisfied, she took the granaries too.
The fishermen bowed. They gave her rice. Incense was lit.Vessels of the clearest water placed at every altar. She mocked these little vessels, this little water, and she took the barges and boats. With a backhand, she slapped the barges and boats, swatted away the captains and fishermen, into the underbellies of bridges.
And she looked at the brown soup of concrete chunks, stone blocks, crushed automobiles, bloated livestock, monks, worshipers, field hands, grandmothers, and she was pleased. So she said to the fleeing caravan, run if you like, but recognize. From the sea you came, and to the sea your tiny bodies shall return.
* * *
I asked the students in workshop last night to write a genesis or a creation story, after reading Miguel Piñero’s “The Book of Genesis According to St. Miguelito.” I noticed that one student seemed to be having a bit of trouble with the prompt. So I thought I’d try it myself. We watched NHK’s live tsunami footage in horror last night, and this reminded me of the cruel God of Piñero’s poem.
[poem was here]
[poem was here]
[poem was here]
Where did your mother live?
In gardens of bittermelon, singkamas at talong.
In Sunday hymnals, novenas and penance.
In Santo Niño and Papa Dios.
Where did your mother live?
In crisp pencil skirts and prim kitten heels.
In brain drain, suburbs, secretarial pool.
In English only, in citizenship.
What is the sound of your voice?
Listen — insect wings flapping, pink seashell spirals.
Conjure — sugary birds, a ladder to the firmament.
Inhale — peppery rosebuds, fractures of pine.
Witness — this working body, iris and tendril.
Subvert — wrought iron manacles, handwoven knots.
What is the song of your home?
When embers pop with the things we burn.
When the sky forgets where the birds have gone.
When the sand receives and ceases to give.
When all we see is the exit wound.
After Sita Bhaumik, “1492″
KSW’s Sensory Feast 02/04/2011
Where did your mother live?
In columns of turmeric, pillars of cumin.
In gold-flecked spirits, shimmering petals.
In knobs of galanga, medicine song.
In gold-laden chieftains, gold-filigreed rings.
In machete-cut cane, in sugar-strewn hallways.
In river-farmed sediment, gold-dusted chalices.
In hand-inked curlicues, papers with titles.
In gold-leafed crania, gold-leafed incisors.
In hand-dried chilis, baskets of treebark.
In gold-hungry mapping, galleon moorings.
In narra wood threshholds, in coconut oils.
In gold-wrought crucifix, frankincense, myrrh.
The earth is your mother,
she holds you.
The sky is your father,
he protects you.
Sleep,
sleep.
Rainbow is your sister,
she loves you.
The winds are your brothers,
they sing to you.
Sleep,
sleep.
We are together always
We are together always
There never was a time
when this
was not so.
What is the song of your home?
Achiote flowers, boisterous, feral.
Dahil sa iyo, deep rum perfume.And your kitchen?
Kettle hum and whistle. Staccato of knives.
And your body?
Fruit and mineral, interior of souls.
Carve and sediment, push and pull of tides.What is the sound of your voice?
A poem etched into the curve of a shell,
Pulse of river, percolate, pummel.
Hidden bones become the eagle,
Resurrected from layers of stone and clay.
A poem etched into coral and pumice,
Swirling black skirts, and saffron veil.
