THE JASON CASE
In this way they upset the crowd and the city officials who heard them.
The officials released Jason and the others on bail. (Acts of the Apostles 17:8-9)
Let us situate it here
for as they say, context is of essence, hence
The Facts:
Jason here, a poet and Filipino on diaspora,
now a PR man in California
has Muslim visitors from Quiapo, Maranao and Jolo
artists on a travel grant and art expo
complete with the Imam look,
paintings of the Sarimanok, Talisayin, Rignos
and other birds,
and the usual beard.
Your friendly
American neighborhood turns nasty,
forgetting Mr. Manners completely
storms his place looking for terror-happies.
Not finding any (since they had left
for the university Islam Art Show already),
they manhandle him to the cops,
then to the prosecutor who,
just as scared as they were probably,
found probable cause—for terrorism,
evil crime against humanity.
Now before a judge, after the neighbors
ranted about threats of attack
and DVD piracy,
Jason herein accused
who turned out to be
a failed lawyer who guessed
his way through the MCQ
when the Bar was held in Cebu,
stubbornly enough, with himself
as counsel cries foul and racism saying:
“Hospitality does not equate
to harboring terrorists and you
and—YOU HAVE NO WARRANT,
you white monkeys!”
To this, the prosecutor replied:
“They are private persons, and they
DON’T NEED A WARRANT absolutely
and they had permission
to enter your dwelling,
and besides, it was arrest by citizens
you Bar flunking brown pussy!”
Jason countered: “I did not give any
permission hence you trespassed
my dwelling certainly,
and gravely coerced me.
And it was not en flagrante delicto,
your evidence is mojo
just conjectures, mere mumbo-jumbo.
And you (looking at a neighbor-accuser),
I’m fucking your wife because
you are fucking mine too!”
A riot ensues, tumultuous affray.
As they say context is of essence, hence
The Issue:
Whether or not receiving guests with the Imam look, paintings
of the Sarimanok, Talisayin, Rignos and other birds and the usual beard
in the US of A is—terrorism or harboring them, to say the least.
“THIS IS A DREAM
and you have dreamt of this before,”
says my dark skull, my eyes groping
for reason in the theater of my mind.
“This is the view when you fly. All just a part
of a dissertation of a man who developed
the method for human vertical landing,”
says the Professor Omniscient of my dark skull.
And my eyes could see clouds, treetops
and a man dropping like lightning from the sky.
To me, the most strangely familiar scene.
“This is the grounds of your elementary school
when they installed these giant metal balls
that go rolling to places: Under the floor,
above the pavement, across the basketball court.
Each roll and turn, part of a mechanism
of this giant lock of a school.
Now this smart backpack kid
runs about the place: From the hallways,
basketball court, quadrangle.
All the while expertly eluding the metal balls
and their—lasers, until he reaches the gate.
He catapults himself above its pointed crown,
landing on that street of San Jose. He would walk
until he reaches a highschool boardinghouse
where he sees a boy consoling a girlfriend
right outside of a familiar restroom.
A teacher was there too after rushing
to academize the counseling.
My mind’s eye, convinced
that this has happened before,
recalls not when.
“This is the grounds of your elementary school
when they used to tend crocodiles,”
says my dark skull. Convinced
that this was a dream,
I made a schoolboy jump
at the swampy playground
only to find the water turn red with panic.
“Don’t worry, this is a dream
and you have dreamt of this before.
The boy must have made a mistake here
for safely, he walked aground
in that other dream.”
© Jose Jason L. Chancoco
WRONG ISLAND
When you look for Ravel’s
Chansons madécasses
you will find them
on youtube
with a Gauguin painting
of Tahiti or the Marquesas
not Madagascar
Are Gilligan’s Island
Harper’s Island
Fantasy Island
the only islands we know
any more?
And Tinian
from where the bombs
reached Hiroshima
and Nagasaki
Is culture
indeterminate?
Are we playing
indifferent
island switcheroo?
Do we only care
if someone
gets voted off
the island?
Is this the voice
of Orientalism?
Or are we all
islands that
ought to communicate?
From the ms. "California and Elsewhere -- Travel Poems"
TRAVEL BROCHURE
dedicated to the victims of the Costa Concordia
cruise accident on Jan 13, 2012
Who will guarantee
that I find a sunset like that
guilding water flats on the beach
with yellow haloes all around?
And me riding on a tall camel?
And who will vouch that I face
weeping cherry blossoms
right there with me alone
maybe only one decorative Japanese
woman in a kimono?
Who promises me that the hale man
will put his arm around my shoulders
with bougainvillea blossoms
wafting behind us?
A picture is worth a thousand words
a picture is worth a thousand lies
promises made not to be fulfilled
dreams to be exploited and yet
as always when I travel
I will be in for a surprise or two
may they be pleasant
Travel Magazine January/February 2012
love story (pared down)
in memory of Vivant Denon’s “Point de lendemain”
things to consider
the time and place
a past and a future
(or not)
a day or a night
and the weather
some patch of sky
maybe a cloud
some furniture
some chance event
the more unlikely
wins out
WORDS LIKE WEEDS
when I come back to the ring
of darkness that fall will bring
there will still be the weeds
wispy and gray but faithful
like words
with the downcast eyes
of despondent animals
birds without hope that sing
their voices wafting along
in the darkening breeze
In the Winter Garden
„faire vrai et laisser dire“
“make it true and let people talk”
(from Edouard Manet’s visiting card)
His cigar thick as a pencil
he hasn’t lit it holding it
between three fingers
he leans down stooped
A foreshortened body
over the railing of the bench
as if explaining to her:
See here, it’s very simple
or she telling him a sad event
he thoughtfully vaguely consoling
--Though we see her
first and prominent
we look to him to explain
her curious stillness--
She pressed against the left
side of the bench
a tight-fitting buttoned
grey blue dress vaguely metallic
her face expresses slight
reticence or surprise
straight dreamy eyes
trained into the distance
off-canvas as if thinking
about his words
about what to say
Subtropical greens in the back
press in on them on the sides
imposing an earthy smell
lush forgiving feel of nature
an obliging suspension
of proprieties
--It’s a still moment
we can imagine
what might happen
and it may not be
justified—
Manet Painting at the Staatliche Museen Berlin
© Ute Margaret Saine
IO SONO IL MARE
Questa notte mi ha seguito
come una spia straniera
ho messo una distanza di difesa
cavalli di frisia
aumentando il passo
subito dopo una città
Tutti stranieri
d'una terra straniera,
case straniere che non leggo mai dentro
gli aspiranti morti e gli amanti
su un marciapiedi
sono noci schiacciate
anime d'inferno straniere
su un bus di purgatorio
che si tengono in me
sulla sabbia
sui dejavu
sul panno di stelle
e comunque da qualche parte
(ma io son già stato qui?)
Questa notte mi hanno inseguito
come un cane di questa terra
cosa stringono intorno?
Perdonatemi, io non voglio capire.
Io sono il mare
con il mio solito mestiere
per naviganti e guardiani
Io son il mare,
non sono altro che il mare.
Un compagno
di quell'occhio
pallido su di me
Io sono il mare
una malinconia di Rachmaninov
che si raffredda
sulla destra
dai finestrini sporchi
un respiro
senza rumori forti
© Antonio Blunda
I AM THE SEA
This night has followed me
like a stranger
a foreign spy
I put up a defensive distance
Frisian horses
walking suddenly faster
after crossing the city
All strangers
of a strange land,
strange houses whose insides I cannot read
the prospective dead and the lovers
on a sidewalk
like crushed walnuts
strange souls from hell
on a bus from purgatory
that got a hold inside me
on the sands
on the déjà vus
on the tent of the stars
and in every place anyway
(but have I ever been here?)
This night they were following me
like a dog of this earth
what do they clench to themselves?
Forgive me, I do not want to understand.
I am the sea
with my usual job
for sailors and guardians
I am the sea,
I am nothing but the sea.
A companion
of that pale
eye that is on me.
a Rachmaninov melancholy
cooling down
to the right side of dirty windows
a breath
without a strong noise
(Translation Ute Margaret Saine)
Troubadour of Hope
the vapor-laden clouds
glide in the horizon of discontent
as billion of stars wink
at the pale, waning moon
the somber night gnaws
my tormented soul
as my mind swims
in the labyrinths of hope
forevermore i will sip
the sparkling dewdrops
in every blade of swaying grass
as the whispering morning wind
licks my heaving, revolting breast.
yes, strength of spirit i need
in my loins i must rekindle
the fire of undying faith
the flames must be blazing
in every day and night
to be a troubadour of hope
to weave lyrics of joy
to hum with the whirling wind
melodies of awakening songs
for the oppressed-downtrodden
faceless-nameless class
in my exploited, barren land
yes, resolute i must be
to continue weaving
fiery, liberating lines.
my mind now sways back and forth
in the rugged terrain of ideologues
but crystal-clear purpose
shall keep me going
swimming, struggling
against the rampaging river
of injustices and despair
and my untrammeled, selfish ego
will i drench and cleanse
in the torrents of blood
of the devoured victims
of the ruling class
yes, let’s all be troubadours of hope
in this forsaken, wretched land!
© Rogelio L. Ordonez
Riding The Lightning
Would’ve applauded your evidence
Your slouch from vitality
Knocked out recollections
Are complete backwaters
To and fro to retreats.
Promptly it’s your swerve to be scummed, contracted.
Here chuckles the imperilous threat,
Electrodes steeling legs, the touch-or-go of moments.
That disintegrating lunatic Edison .
(from the Electric Chair poems)
“Cruel And Unusual Punishment”
A turning in this transformer cell
Has no detached mould
When inkling and intuiting
The unapparent.
Your discomposed are leftovers
Of the indigenous scenery. The haunted
Mimic electric sparks
Storming your circle,
Precursing, short-lived, decisive.
(from the Electric Chair poems)
Shutter-Shudder
Does the outpaced boundary smile upon you
With a stomach-churning howl? An eye
Testifies a shackle of truth
With a preferred, more plain-speaking pixel.
Epileptic fleshy transfigurations
In the boosted chamber.
A Halloween incubus,
Lethally undone in your mains-wired seat.
Susannah York
Mischief in a Baby Doll nightie.
Cogently under surfaces –
The accessory good-looker
Overawes the close-up lens.
Barbie Blonde –
Your Alice McNaught was a blaze.
Clarissa Dickson-Wright
An unsparing operation in St John’s Wood
That tempered occurrences of cook, parlour maid, chauffer.
You were cradled, flagged with 13 names
By the mussed up savage in the house.
Gin, bubbly, an excess of 2 million bank notes,
Reserved yachts, unshared planes.
There the law huffed an adrenalin roll.
But let’s not mull on the hangovers,
Shaking awake to spew,
Turtle-turning cars into foxholes.
You’ve the slaughterer’s nose,
Caviar, a peasant-blood trigger finger,
Vehemence that gobs on boiling jam.
Glenda Jackson
In-knots interpretations
Of thorny females,
Gusty obstreperous studies
- Yours can be a boil-off in cold blood.
Rough-and-ready practices
Outdone by a caustic stomach churn,
Twisty lip, curt-blitzed recitations
Stalked by that bulldozing stare.
Changing position (pronounce, gesture)
All carrying weight
When upstaged by Miss Piggy.
© Christopher Barnes, UK
Si Sendong at Ako
ni Glenn Ford B. Tolentino
Hindi pa rin tayo masanay tumitig sa mga biktima
Ng dahas na dinadanas natin ulit-ulit taon-taon.
Kahit gasgas na’t de-kahong parirala
Ang mga wasak na bahay.
Ang mga salantang kahoy.
Ang mga binahang bukirin.
“Binagyo”, ― Rio Alma
At bakit kailangan pa ang Himala?
Naganap na.
Ang himala’y nagkatawang tao,
Nag-anyong dahas-sakuna’t-delubyo―:
At siya mismo ang lunas sa katawan ng tao,
Sa sakuna’t delubyo sa loob at labas ng guniguni’t
Agam-agam ng nanlilimahid nating lipunan.
Kung gayon, hindi na natin kailangang
Arukin ang hiwaga at mga buntala.
O, hulihin ang mailap na talinghaga.
Dahil kusang malalaglag na sa lupa ang araw, ang buwan, at ang pulang tala.
Tayo ang mahimala,
Ako ang maghihimala,
At ikaw na nga mismo
Ang Himala.
Kung may himala nga ang sagradong-tubig
Sa balon ng anghel-dela-gwardiya sa tarangkahan ng langit.
Bakit hinayaan niyang malunod ang daan-daan
O, libu-libong deboto ni Juan Baustismo sa Ilog Sibulan;
Maging ang mga panatiko-tagasunod ng Itim na Nazareno
Sa Cagayan de Oro, sa Iligan City, sa Misamis Oriental,
Sa Tanjay/Dumaguete Negros Oriental at iba pang panig
Ng Filipinas o ng globo na maingat-ipinapaikot-nilalaro―:
Ng Kamay at palad ng batang mestizo na si Santo Niño.
(Nakahihilo ang uniberso at purgatoryo, Ang gobyerno at impiyerno)
Kung milagroso ang tubig na dumadaloy sa danaw at groto,
Bakit kailangan niyang salantahin ang ipinunla naming binhi
At pag-ibig sa naghihingalong dibdib ng lupang―sakahan.
At bakit hindi maapula’t matupok
Ng mga Pulis-Bombero,
Ng mga sundalo at tirgas,
Ng inyong mga limos na awa
At luha
Ang nagliliyab na galit at panawagan―:
Ng mga organisadong lumpen at kantoboy,
Ng mga linyadong bakla at tomboy,
Ng mga relihiyoso-pilosopo-pulitiko,
Ng mga drayber/pasahero
Ng mga panday/obrero,
Ng mga OFW-MIGRANTE,
Ng mga guro/intelektuwal,
Ng mga artista't makata,
Ng mga estudyante,
Ng mga profesional,
Ng mga magsasaka,
Ng mga sakada,
Ng mga lumad,
Ng mga desaparecido,
Ng mga taong simbahan,
At iba't iba pang sektor at sekta
Sa Mendiola o sa buong Kapuluan o saan man panig ng daigdig.
Hey, Lets go... Lets Occupy Wall Street! Hoy, tara na. Now na lets Occupy Mendiola!
(Nakahihilo ang uniberso at purgatoryo, Ang gobyerno at impiyerno)
Bakit hindi mapatid ang luha, kahit umaapaw na ang dibdib ng diwata sa Kanlaoon?
At bakit hindi mapawi ng hanging amihan, ang dagim sa talukap ng bundok Apo?
●
At bakit, bakit hindi umuulan, kung uhaw-na-uhaw tayo sa paglaya?
Nahan na ang bukal, nasaan na ang Matang-tubig?
Hey, Lets go... Lets Occupy Wall Street! Hoy, tara na. Now na lets Occupy Mendiola!
(Nakahihilo ang uniberso at purgatoryo, Ang gobyerno at impiyerno)
~
Ngayong hapon, winiwisikan na ng dasal at agua-de-bendita ng mga Pari; sa malapad na ataul ng hagulgol at panaghoy ang mga nakahanay na bangkay ng tao, bangkay ng hayop, bangkay ng putol-putol na ulo't hita ng rebulto't santo, ang putol na kamay ni santa claus, ang naaagnas na belen, ang nagkalasug-lasog na mga bibliya, libro't polyeto, ang nakahandusay na mga puno at kahoy, ang mga basag na plato, baso't kubyertos, ang nagkahiwalay na tsinelas at mutyang kapares ng warat na sapatos, ang humihiyaw na anunsiyo ng trabaho-obituaryo sa diyaryo, ang mga naglipanang plastik at kundom, at ang uwa ng ihi't tae sa lampin/diaper o samut-saring basura na natabunan ng putik-burak at hapis dito sa komunidad ng habag at hiwaga.
Mama, mama dili namo makita si Santa Felomina!
European Blues 02:0
ni Glenn Ford B. Tolentino
Nilalansag ng taglagas ang gulugod ng kanbas.
Gaya ng gabi,
Ng mga gabing walang-hanggang panaginip.
Magigising ka sa init ng liwanag at panawagan—
Marahil Templo ito ng diyamante’t simboryo.
Mamaya lang, maaring angkinin ka na
Ng Art aficionado/kolektor,
Ng Komersiyanteng Duktor,
Ng Negosyanteng Abugago/Huwes,
Ng Heneral na may duguang estrelya,
Ng Korporeal na Mafia/Politicos,
Ng mga turistang Presidente o Kunsulado,
Ng Cardinal Cat and Ratzinger,
Ng Santo Papa,
Ng Prinsipeng may pulang laso,
Ng Prinsesang amoy kandila,
Ng Reina at Hari,
Ng mistress ng Hari. . .
O, ng isang sisne na may selestiyal na nunal sa labi.
Sa loob ng simoy champagne na bulwagan;
Hindi ka makahulagpos. Taas kilay-noo kang handang
harapin ang kanilang mga halakhak, palakpak at lagda.
Nilalansag ng taglagas ang gulugod ng kanbas.
Muli, ibubulong mo sa Santo Oleo;
“Ikaw na po ang bahala. Ikaw, ikaw na nagkukubli ng aking lihim.”
Maaaring ipukol nila sa iyo ang pinakamatamis na ubas,
o di naman kaya’y ang pinakamaalat na wika at parikala.
Sa pagitan ng agam-agam at gunam-gunam,
Nabiyak ang antigong Portmanteau—:
Nabunyag ang mga buto't himaymay ng naaagnas na mapa,
Umaalingasaw ang masangsang na papeles—Tratado de Paris.
Nilalansag ng taglagas ang gulugod ng kanbas.
Los Mineros de Nostos
ni Glenn Ford B. Tolentino
Umaalis tayong ni walang paalam
sa ating mga anak, asawa, kaanak o kaibigan.
Hindi nila wari na tayo’y lilisan.
Gayong batid ng kanilang pandama
ang sakít-pasakit ng paghihintay.
Nagsaklob ng belong itim
ang unang araw at gabi.
luhang nangalagpak ang mga lupa’t bato sa ating libingan.
Mga dasal ng pagsamo
ang bawat hakbang
ng minutero sa relo,
Kay bagal ng oras—
Walang makahulagpos na panalangin sa dagim ng panganorin.
Hindi tayo marinig ng mga aparato’t selestiyal sa puntod ng langit.
Sa 'di kawasa’y,
isang mekanikal na orasyon
ang inialay ng ating mga kalahi:
(Umaawit ang mga anghel)
Puro, Chile, es tu cielo azulado
Puras brisas te cruzan también.
Y tu campo de flores bordado
Es la copia feliz del Edén.
Majestuosa es la blanca montaña
Que te dio por baluarte el Señor
Que te dio por baluarte el Señor,
Y ese mar que tranquilo te baña
Te promete un futuro esplendor
Y ese mar que tranquilo te baña
Te promete un futuro esplendor.
Coro
Dulce Patria, recibe los votos
Con que Chile en tus aras juró:
Que o la tumba será de los libres
O el asilo contra la opresión
Que o la tumba será de los libres
O el asilo contra la opresión
Que o la tumba será de los libres
O el asilo contra la opresión
O el asilo contra la opresión
O el asilo contra la opresión.
Mga muslak tayong muling iniluwal mula sa sinapupunan ni Esperanza.
100 word story | Space and Time
We’re at a friend’s wake, more than a decade since the exhilaration at sixteen of wrapping my arm around her shoulder, our hand-holding hidden beneath the spines of upturned textbooks, the reluctant fuzz of my upper lip tickling her nape. Like a wormhole this death has created a tear in space and time bringing us here to this pew where she struggles and fails to stay awake. I feel my heart expand when her head drops into my shoulder and I hold her as I think about mending the tear in space-time, of taking her hand and going back to the moment when I first held it.
© carl javier
Carl Javier teaches at UP, works for the UP Press, and writes when he can. He has four books.
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