04-05-2018, 11:08 PM
Lola Coqueta
by Isabela Banzon -- her book is great, but I haven't bought a copy yet. The bookstore selling the thing's just too far a walk
No hay sabado sin sol
como no hay vieja sin amor.
Long ago, Cecilia,
the halls of Balanga
swelled like the moon outside
your window. Ay, sus,
the frog in the dry grass
of my throat kept pleading
to be freed and it was
hard not to turn away, just,
and ignore the hot
Saturday dust from your
Lolo's mahogany cane tapping to the croak
of my sweet kundiman.
Ay the things you must do
to ensure a wedding --
un poco pintura
y polvo, champaka
on the shy skin. It was
on such a night as this
under the gas-fed light
Don Manuel led me
to the courtyard of his
loneliness.
A stage
presentation, hija,
the impresario said.
Pero, ahora, for
what are those tears? If
Ramoncito could see
the distress in your eyes,
he would no longer wait
to wake the maya
in your song. You must show him
your life is in his hands
and you must be grateful
to be at his service --
for what is a woman,
haber, but nada without
the grip of a man on
her life -- por favor,
use your cocote
and do not waste on that
poor boy Fidel your
undying love.
Witchgrass
by Louise Gluck -- I told the prof I really, really loved Gluck, so here we go
Something
comes into the world unwelcome
calling disorder, disorder --
if you hate me so much
don't bother to give me
a name: do you need
one more slur
in your language, another
way to blame
one tribe for everything --
as we both know,
if you worship
one god, you only need
One enemy --
I'm not the enemy.
Only a ruse to ignore
what you see happening
right here in this bed,
a little paradigm
of failure. One of your precious flowers
dies here almost every day
and you can't rest until
you attack the cause, meaning
whatever is left, whatever
happens to be sturdier
than your personal passion --
It was not meant
to last forever in the real world.
But why admit that, when you can go on
doing what you always do,
mourning and laying blame,
always the two together.
I don't need your praise
to survive. I was here first,
before you were here, before
you ever planted a garden.
And I'll be here when only the sun and moon
are left, and the sea, and the wide field.
I will constitute the field.
And then it was less bleak because we said so
by Wendy Xu -- I don't enjoy this as much. Perhaps because it's new to me, probably because the others are so mature, so seductive
Today there has been so much talk of things exploding
into other things, so much that we all become curious, that we
all run outside into the hot streets
and hug. Romance is a grotto of eager stones
anticipating light, or a girl whose teeth
you can always see. With more sparkle and pop
is the only way to live. Your confetti tongue explodes
into acid jazz. Small typewriters
that other people keep in their eyes
click away at all our farewell parties. It is hard
to pack for the rest of your life. Someone is always
eating cold cucumber noodles. Someone will drop by later
to help dismantle some furniture. A lot can go wrong
if you sleep or think, but the trees go on waving
their broken little hands.
Hope is that thing with feathers (254)
by Emily Dickinson -- of course
"Hope" is the thing with feathers --
That perches in the soul --
And sings the tune without the words --
And never stops -- at all --
And sweetest -- in the Gale -- is heard --
And sore must be the storm --
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm --
I've heard it in the chillest land --
And on the strangest Sea --
Yet -- never -- in Extremity,
It asked a crumb -- of me.
by Isabela Banzon -- her book is great, but I haven't bought a copy yet. The bookstore selling the thing's just too far a walk
No hay sabado sin sol
como no hay vieja sin amor.
Long ago, Cecilia,
the halls of Balanga
swelled like the moon outside
your window. Ay, sus,
the frog in the dry grass
of my throat kept pleading
to be freed and it was
hard not to turn away, just,
and ignore the hot
Saturday dust from your
Lolo's mahogany cane tapping to the croak
of my sweet kundiman.
Ay the things you must do
to ensure a wedding --
un poco pintura
y polvo, champaka
on the shy skin. It was
on such a night as this
under the gas-fed light
Don Manuel led me
to the courtyard of his
loneliness.
A stage
presentation, hija,
the impresario said.
Pero, ahora, for
what are those tears? If
Ramoncito could see
the distress in your eyes,
he would no longer wait
to wake the maya
in your song. You must show him
your life is in his hands
and you must be grateful
to be at his service --
for what is a woman,
haber, but nada without
the grip of a man on
her life -- por favor,
use your cocote
and do not waste on that
poor boy Fidel your
undying love.
Witchgrass
by Louise Gluck -- I told the prof I really, really loved Gluck, so here we go
Something
comes into the world unwelcome
calling disorder, disorder --
if you hate me so much
don't bother to give me
a name: do you need
one more slur
in your language, another
way to blame
one tribe for everything --
as we both know,
if you worship
one god, you only need
One enemy --
I'm not the enemy.
Only a ruse to ignore
what you see happening
right here in this bed,
a little paradigm
of failure. One of your precious flowers
dies here almost every day
and you can't rest until
you attack the cause, meaning
whatever is left, whatever
happens to be sturdier
than your personal passion --
It was not meant
to last forever in the real world.
But why admit that, when you can go on
doing what you always do,
mourning and laying blame,
always the two together.
I don't need your praise
to survive. I was here first,
before you were here, before
you ever planted a garden.
And I'll be here when only the sun and moon
are left, and the sea, and the wide field.
I will constitute the field.
And then it was less bleak because we said so
by Wendy Xu -- I don't enjoy this as much. Perhaps because it's new to me, probably because the others are so mature, so seductive
Today there has been so much talk of things exploding
into other things, so much that we all become curious, that we
all run outside into the hot streets
and hug. Romance is a grotto of eager stones
anticipating light, or a girl whose teeth
you can always see. With more sparkle and pop
is the only way to live. Your confetti tongue explodes
into acid jazz. Small typewriters
that other people keep in their eyes
click away at all our farewell parties. It is hard
to pack for the rest of your life. Someone is always
eating cold cucumber noodles. Someone will drop by later
to help dismantle some furniture. A lot can go wrong
if you sleep or think, but the trees go on waving
their broken little hands.
Hope is that thing with feathers (254)
by Emily Dickinson -- of course
"Hope" is the thing with feathers --
That perches in the soul --
And sings the tune without the words --
And never stops -- at all --
And sweetest -- in the Gale -- is heard --
And sore must be the storm --
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm --
I've heard it in the chillest land --
And on the strangest Sea --
Yet -- never -- in Extremity,
It asked a crumb -- of me.