(you have to turn the volume up, though, the stupid cam-phone's, well, stupid.)
Marie's Despedida Renga, 01/12/09
The sound of footsteps started last night
and I covered my ears, afraid of the possible.
The footsteps are loud, like echoes of bombs.
The blanket I hold is my only shelter.
Above, the moon hangs pendulous, a glowing question,
but this poem isn't about the moon--
it is about your long journey to it,
and your flight, the bright wings of the possible,
the few feathers that
will always hear songs, always soft
as the pillow of privilege, or a cartilage
tried beyond toleration
by a heavy earring someone you once loved
gave you. Tender flesh between two
fingers, the first bars of a lullaby
when night first bursts. These things come
to comfort you, to stay with you,
to soften the bed, and cool the pillow.
Rest and dreams shuffle toward you.
Nothing more needs to be said. Sit with me just now
with the flickering leavings which are always
natural: flashes of fingers and candle-glint
on beer bottles. Those tremendous distances
we don't even need to negotiate, of course,
loud dings on the internet, dull postcards.
It seems like another ordinary Monday.
But this is not only about footsteps, fading,
and of course, parting; this is about resonance.
If only tomorrow could be as good.
- Pancho Alvarez, Martin Villanueva, Rafael San Diego, Sasha Martinez, Mikael de Lara Co, Javier Bengzon, Den Alibudbud, Joel Toledo, Alfred A. Yuson, Lawrence Bernabe, Pancho Villanueva, Marie La Viña, Margie de Leon, Dustin Celestino, Peachy Paderna, Keith Cortez
In other news, this brought tears to my eyes, especially the terrific musical score. Really, it's Whitney-fucking-Houston, and if you're not affected, you're not human, you're not humaaaan! Not humaaaaaaaan!
Oh, and this is probably illegal-- posting other people's works without permission-- but we're a poor, monsoon-ravaged, third-world archipelago, so really, we look at piracy as (as Dodong Nemenzo would say) the revenge of the third world, and we're posting this poem of the day anyway. Or, two poems, since it's past seven pm, and I haven't had ice cream today.
I believe there is a song that is stranger than wind, that sips the scald from the telling, toss, toss. In the room I move in, a wrecked boy listened to each sky's erasing, for it was shrill winter, for it was blast and blur. For it was farther from the native birds and the gray heath heather and the uncaressable thighs of the one who shook in violet. Those who fly farthest must always burn the nest. But the mind in its implaceable spectrum dims to brown. Must you die on your back like a cheap engine, rust and wrack? In the crevicing days, there are no words for prizing, between the lidless moon and the silver hands of the fountain. But if it is space you must fail in, teach it din.
Dear noon, what goes up and up and never others? What says it's a wind-strung fractal, never whole? This must be some specious season, quick and numbered, pulling the this-world to quivered, hectic ends. Sepals could count it. Pistils, pearly queens. Little god-head stamens, tense, erected. All this intends. But sky's blue blushes never meant o swoon, o love-- o hopeless dizzy heart-song west of mending.
It was wiser, it kept the mute number-- void or grieve. Or where we go, arc-ache of ending, we stay to leave.
Where the fuck is everyone?
UPDATE: What the fuck. Just noticed-- nakahiga 'yung renga video! Don't know how to fix it. You'll just have to tilt your heads, people.