As we got to know one another, she would sometimes tell me, “Each poem you write is like one of your children. Each one has a spirit and the potential to flourish.”
Needless to say, I married her.
Labor
Once in a while I’ll feel as if I’ve been struck by new inspiration, that I can finally go forward with my work as a poet. This has yet to stick, however.
paper
I see you now
as if for the very first time
floating before my gaze
white—changeable as the clouds
full of reflection
clear—deep as a canyon pond
perhaps you’re a spring
gushed from furthest mystery
a taste—artesian
I see you now
suddenly as if never before
welling up on my eyes
sparkling clarity
bubbling hope
I have spent a lot of time in poetry focused writer’s groups. These are mostly populated by people who for some inexplicable reason love the writing of Whitman, Ginsberg, and the like. When I get my turn to share my work and hear critiques, these folks generally have only one thing to say, which is something along the lines of, “Just say what you feel, man! Just write what you feel! It’s all about what you feel, man!!” Well, alright, at the moment, this what I feel, man!
nose hairs
they stand in line
stiff and stark
rank and file
on the march
merciless soldiers
raised from hell
heft their siege
in endless swell
rifles raised
with bayonettes
they stab their way
with no regrets
shooting always
toward the brain
with deadly force
unfailing aim
for each one pulled
from out the race
a dozen rise
to fill their place
marching always
on the brain
marching till i
go insane
I started this in November of 2007, and though I spent a full year singing the first four stanzas and two choruses to myself—at all hours—the rest just didn’t come to mind until over a year later.
Walang Masabi
I felt you breathing in my thoughts
a breath as subtle as the whisper of spring.
And though I couldn’t begin to guess your name,
I sensed you were out there, somewhere.
For years I struggled with a sense of you.
I searched the eyes of every face for a clue,
but no-one looked at me the way I knew
would leave me lost for what to say.
chorus 1:
walang masabi
nothing than words can say
walang masabi
take my breath away
walang masabi
more than words can share
walang masabi
something’s in the air
something’s in the air
something’s in the air
oh in the air
walang masabi
In time I courted solitude,
prepared to walk the long remainder of life
without the comfort of companionship,
and yet I felt strangely at ease.
Then like the rising of a tropical sun
you rose illuminating all of my dreams,
a gift beyond the spectrum of my hopes
that left me lost for what to say.
chorus 2:
walang masabi
more than words can share
walang masabi
something’s in the air
walang masabi
nothing words can say
walang masabi
take my breath away
take my breath away
take my breath away
oh away
walang masabi
I saw the blank unwritten years
stretching white into a life alone,
meditating in the silence of
a still and unusual peace.
But now I’ll journey through the days ahead
with promise written onto every page,
a sense of joy I never knew before
you left me lost for what to say.
chorus 3:
walang masabi
more than words can say
walang masabi
take my breath away
walang masabi
nothing words can share
walang masabi
something’s in the air
something’s in the air
something’s in the air
oh in the air
walang masabi
Now let us join and fix our eyes
upon the blue horizon of our life
and venture all undaunted through the years
believing in our path together.
For you, mahal ko, are my utmost heart,
a mystery beyond imagination.
I never felt my spirit pulse before
you left me lost for what to say.
chorus 4:
walang masabi
nothing words can share
walang masabi
something’s in the air
walang masabi
more than words can say
walang masabi
take my breath away
take my breath away
take my breath away
oh away
walang masabi
Walang masabi is a Tagalog (Filipino) expression that means something along the lines of “beyond words” or “nothing”, in the sense that it’s nothing words can express. Mahal ko is Tagalog for “My Love”.
This was written for my wife, then my fiance. I sing it a capella, though not very well. If I ever manage a decent recording, I’ll Youtube it and post a link here. The refrains are repeated all four times because the wording changes slightly each time around.
The idea for this poem came to me a few months back, at which point I hurriedly tapped out the opening four lines—then nothing. So today after four or so months of periodically checking in on it, I’ve finally managed to sit down and finish the original idea.
an inkling hope
Publication History:
Clamor — Fall 2009
Originally, this was going to be part I of “Transmogrification”, but the energy and time investment involved in adhering to the strict prosodic scheme of the stanzas proved to be too much. So I saved the first fragmented stanzas to be finished later and restarted “Transmogrification” with a simpler scheme. As a synthetic ode, the prosody and length of this poem would have to have been mirrored exactly in an antithetical part II, which I knew would require more of an effort than I was ready to commit to at the time.
And yet, what I had already managed seemed worth saving and building upon.
Visions
Earthen eyes gaze out on crescent dunes,
there to ponder remnants
of cities melted ages past in doom,
cultures from another time
ground to rolling fields of sand,
no monument nor trace left moaning on the wind.
Sagebrush eyes peer off through scented timbers
and sense within the green
an elven nation thriving, ever timid,
past the reach of human menace,
fortressed in their deep concealment,
a realm of sylvan magic lush with rare fulfillment
Lapis eyes take in a waste of waves
and fancy far beneath them
a shimmered halflight rippling from the wake
down on castles carved from myth,
peopled by a watery race
who dream in coral homes and thrive without a trace.
Soft gray eyes look up to view a sky
where nimbus clouds conceal
a wonder floating just beyond the sight,
palaces of pastel color,
built by beings half transparent,
forever held adrift on atmospheric currents.
Hazel eyes reflect on fields of light
and find within the silence
a universe replete with distant lives
strewn across the starry swell,
spun throughout the depths of space
on worlds of every axis bound to planes of grace.
Imagination dares to dream a world
alive with magic hues,
emergent shades of mystery at work,
bearing gifts of subtle wisdom
manifest from hidden sources
welled from deep beneath the realm of conscious forces.
Someone emailed me a Zen poem, and I found myself tapping out this small response.
evaporation
in an ocean of stars
a ballet sun pirouettes
alone in a glimmering sea
of waltzing partners
in an ocean of light
waves wash the empty shores
of a trillion winkling eyes
an island of contemplation
mass gave light to motion
birth gave life to mind
thought gave dream to atoms
form gave way to karma
by the river of no return
a solitary observer
breathes in the emptiness
steam rising to nowhere
I guess my “holiday” poems tend not to be so festive. It was a phrase from Joyce’s Ulysses that somehow got me going: “Must be his [Smith O’Brien’s] deathday. For many happy returns.” (pg. 93).
Thought this a curious twist on the phrase. And found myself jotting down a note in my composition book… which expanded into a quatrain… which expanded three more stanzas. At which point I looked at it and thought to myself, “Why am I writing something like this this early Thanksgiving morning?”
Why indeed! But with a little reflection, it came to me.
It’s the forth anniversary of a father’s death—suicide—which I can’t help but feel some responsibility for. Our most tragic mistakes shape us, hopefully into better beings. But they also scar us. And sometimes others.
I’ve been told again and again that I shouldn’t accept responsibility for this suicide. But… leaving circumstances untold here …It’s difficult not to. I hope his shade some semblance of peace there at the edge of Styx.
So, this realization in mind, I found myself focusing the last three stanzas more tightly.
happy deathday
A small set of haiku inspired by late autumn in Ukiah, specifically the turning of a few tall birch trees growing in the front yard.
birch
My second synthetic ode. Parts I and II represent antithetical aspects of a child’s development, first the creative wonder and exploration all children seem to enjoy, then the addictive violence and desensitization of modern video games. Part III presents the synthesis of these two, the soldier on the field of battle, ready to kill without hesitation or remorse.
Imagine, as you read, one voice—say a soft-spoken female voice—reading part I and a second voice—say a harsher male voice—reading part II. Then, as you read part III, imagine the two voices reading in unison.
Transmogrification
I
Hazel eyes absorb a world of wonder,
cities floating through the sky
half concealed among the clouds,
mermaids dancing in the sea
half revealed among the foam,
and camouflaged away from human sight
elven nations thriving all around the world.
Nimble hands explore
paper wood and plastic,
creating new inventions week by day.
Supersonic aircraft zoom through hallway canyons
and out across imaginary bays;
coffee table cities rise among the couches
busy with the sounds of industry; and
stellar ships and space ports emerge from bedroom closets—
precursors of a future yet to be.
II
Stormy eyes absorb a realm of slaughter,
cities rotting with the dead
overrun by demon hordes,
Gothic townships ever dim
overwhelmed by zombie mobs,
and everywhere, apocalyptic doom
drowns imagination with visions of the slain.
Frantic hands control
pixels bent on trauma,
with implements of every kind of war
wielded to the hymns of personal damnation,
gentleness made mad for battle-scores,
shooting hacking slaying, all discrimination
lost amid a growing thirst for more. And
steadily the will to think and learn is narrowed
to morbid rivulets of combat lore.
III
Steel gray eyes survey
silent flesh and burning bone,
columns pluming black against the darkness,
cities rubbled with dismay,
broken homes where broken mothers moan,
brick and mortar scattered through a halflight
fraught with holy terrors lurking deep in shadow
and sensor-tripped explosives stashed along the roadways.
Steady hands take aim,
crossing foes between the rigid hairs
of righteousness and training,
a firm belief that killing in the hallowed name is fair
ingrained through years of subtle inculcation.
Calloused fingers stroke the edge of death,
forever tense, prepared to deal
the fatal strike that leaves the twitching dead
left glaring up one final supplication.
I found myself thinking about the story of Adam and Eve. It has always seemed odd to me that god would place his newborn creations in a garden of ideals, and then stick a tree in the middle that grows fruit you’re not supposed to eat. Then, on top of that, toss in a snake that gets off on lying to people and convincing them to do what they’re not supposed to do. Never mind that Eve didn’t know anything about lying, so imagine her confusion when god tells her one thing while the snake tells her another.
This is like putting a small child in a room with a great big bar of chocolate, telling him he’s not supposed to eat the chocolate, then leaving a recording behind that repeats over and over, “You can eat the chocolate. It’s okay to eat the chocolate. Go ahead and eat the bar of chocolate.” Well, what do you think is going to happen?
Naw man, if you take the story at face value, then the whole thing was a setup from the start, like a really bad practical joke. So thus this experimental poem.
revelation
Sometimes I just feel like experimenting.
