10-08-2016, 05:56 PM
Rubber
April, 2016
The pathologist poured wax plaster
over the peaceful face of the woman
who drowned smiling in the Seine,
afterwards saying, “Her beauty was breathtaking
and showed few signs of distress
at the time of passing – so bewitching
that I knew beauty as such
must be preserved.”
If he’d lived now, he would have poured latex, instead.
Juan Luna, meanwhile, used oil
paint, splashing and pouring it onto the canvas
like light striking a piece of film
to create his masterpiece, the “Spoliarium”,
apparently a thinly veiled protest
against Spanish oppression.
Some of us now would use a camera,
arranging the composition on a stage
with a dozen living models, but most others,
knowing to achieve his same expressive effect,
would prefer acrylic.
Here in the Philippines, his magnum opus
hangs in the main gallery
of the National Museum, where the gigantic scene
of gladiators cloaked in chiaroscuro
pulling away their dead for the next entertainment
would be the first to greet visitors’ eyes.
I’ve only ever seen it in the pictures,
though this girl I like once told me
seeing it on a screen
was completely different
from observing it in person,
intimate, feeling one’s breath
bounce back from the canvas.
I nodded, then showed her the next week
my coffee table book on the Tretyakov.
Sometimes I wonder why I’ve seen
all the sights of other countries
but not my own. And then I remember:
her father owns a rubber plantation
down south, in Davao. Just west,
in Cotabato, rice farmers
a few weeks ago went to rally
against a governor who refused to give them food
in the middle of a famine, not knowing
the reserves were already being sold
in the markets of Manila. Their bodies
still lie on the streets, I imagine,
their brothers too afraid to pull them away.
Nothing ever changes.
I've been wanting to compile my NaPM stuff into a stufflet, most of the pieces jived so well. A bunch, I've already rejected --- a bunch, I've already accepted --- this, among a few others, I'm not sure of. The diction here is alternately new and old for me, it almost reads or even perhaps does read like broken prose, and ultimately the message feels somewhat juvenile. But I dunno --- 'swhy 'sposted. Oh, and the prompt was rubber.
April, 2016
The pathologist poured wax plaster
over the peaceful face of the woman
who drowned smiling in the Seine,
afterwards saying, “Her beauty was breathtaking
and showed few signs of distress
at the time of passing – so bewitching
that I knew beauty as such
must be preserved.”
If he’d lived now, he would have poured latex, instead.
Juan Luna, meanwhile, used oil
paint, splashing and pouring it onto the canvas
like light striking a piece of film
to create his masterpiece, the “Spoliarium”,
apparently a thinly veiled protest
against Spanish oppression.
Some of us now would use a camera,
arranging the composition on a stage
with a dozen living models, but most others,
knowing to achieve his same expressive effect,
would prefer acrylic.
Here in the Philippines, his magnum opus
hangs in the main gallery
of the National Museum, where the gigantic scene
of gladiators cloaked in chiaroscuro
pulling away their dead for the next entertainment
would be the first to greet visitors’ eyes.
I’ve only ever seen it in the pictures,
though this girl I like once told me
seeing it on a screen
was completely different
from observing it in person,
intimate, feeling one’s breath
bounce back from the canvas.
I nodded, then showed her the next week
my coffee table book on the Tretyakov.
Sometimes I wonder why I’ve seen
all the sights of other countries
but not my own. And then I remember:
her father owns a rubber plantation
down south, in Davao. Just west,
in Cotabato, rice farmers
a few weeks ago went to rally
against a governor who refused to give them food
in the middle of a famine, not knowing
the reserves were already being sold
in the markets of Manila. Their bodies
still lie on the streets, I imagine,
their brothers too afraid to pull them away.
Nothing ever changes.
I've been wanting to compile my NaPM stuff into a stufflet, most of the pieces jived so well. A bunch, I've already rejected --- a bunch, I've already accepted --- this, among a few others, I'm not sure of. The diction here is alternately new and old for me, it almost reads or even perhaps does read like broken prose, and ultimately the message feels somewhat juvenile. But I dunno --- 'swhy 'sposted. Oh, and the prompt was rubber.
