The Workshop

The Birth of a Straight Man (v 2)



When I was younger, maybe nine or ten,
everyone teased me, called me gay.
I didn't even understand
what sex meant, playing with my penis
as if it were just another finger.
I knew only that I
was insulted, that I
had to get mad,

so that my favorite past time switched from kissing boys,
girls, even the dirty unknowns
that lay black-out drunk on the streets,
to biting the arms of all the boys that mocked,
pulling the hair of all the girls that laughed.

Until my peers stopped the abuse.
I remember they almost became my friends,
although I could never forget
the hell they dug for me
and the scars I left them.
Every night, to both celebrate
and atone,
I would give myself a wedgie
with the cord that closed and opened
my room's Venetian blinds,
would stroke my extra digit on the cloth
while staring straight in the eye my reflection
on the window.

Through that act, I found God in his most popular form,
Love. The Sallman Head, the Image of Edessa:
nothing compares to that little red-haired girl,
Botticelli's vision,
lying all naked on the old chaise longue
by the fireplace -- to the virgin that roasted
like a Christmas pig
as the rising sun cast its burning rays
on my shut eyes and smiling face.
And the masculine word tore through me
like a priest's knife,
NO, like a madman's razor,

so that when my grandmother died of a stroke that day,
I could not kiss her as she lay
all bald, all dark, all swollen,
only recall those last five words of hers:
"My bedroom smells of bacon".

What have I sacrificed
to receive this rainbow? At thirteen,
from a boy whose heart in my presence
always went like mad
came my first kiss, given wet with eros,
received dry with philautia. I pushed him away,
NO, punched him to the ground -- with forty kisses more,
crying out, "Surely now I should run out the closet!
Surely now I should run out the closet!"
And here, God's true image,
Justice, shot out of the sky
like a particolored bolt of lightning
onto my foreskin, so that I knew
my pierced eyes already were fate,
my peers' lies already looked straight.
 
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Freedom! The following series of three is titled the Venus Triptych, consisting of three poems, all previously posted: The Birth of a Straight Man, After Ozy and Millie, and my entry for this month's MISC, Relic.

THE BIRTH OF A STRAIGHT MAN

When I was younger, maybe nine or ten,
everyone teased me, called me gay.
I didn't even understand
what sex meant, playing with my penis
as if it were just another finger.
I knew only that I
was insulted, that I
had to get mad,

so that my favorite past time switched from kissing boys,
girls, even the dirty unknowns
that lay black-out drunk on the streets,
to biting the arms of all the boys that mocked,
pulling the hair of all the girls that laughed.

That is, until my peers stopped the abuse.
I remember they almost became my friends,
although I could never forget
the hell they dug for me
and the scars I left them.
Every night, to both celebrate
and atone,
I would give myself a wedgie
with the cord that closed and opened
my room's Venetian blinds,
would stroke my extra digit on the cloth
while staring straight in the eye my reflection
on the window.

Through that act, I found God in his most popular form,
Love. The Sallman Head, the Image of Edessa:
nothing compares to that little red-haired girl,
Botticelli's vision,
lying all naked on the old chaise longue
by the fireplace – to the virgin that roasted
like a Christmas pig
as the rising sun cast its burning rays
on my shut eyes and smiling face.
And the masculine word tore through me
like a priest's knife,
NO, like a madman's razor,

so that when my grandmother died of a stroke that day,
I could not kiss her as she lay
all bald, all dark, all swollen,
only recall those last five words of hers:
"My bedroom smells of bacon".

What have I sacrificed
to receive this rainbow? At thirteen,
from a boy whose heart in my presence
always went like mad
came my first kiss, given wet with eros,
received dry with philautia. I pushed him away,
NO, punched him to the ground – with forty kisses more,
crying out, "Surely now I should run out the closet!
Surely now I should run out the closet!"
And here, God's true image,
Justice, shot out of the sky
like a particolored bolt of lightning
onto my foreskin, so that I knew
my pierced eyes already were fate,
my peers' lies already looked straight.

AFTER OZY AND MILLIE

"Well, I've always believed in an old dragon axiom: that which does not kill me makes me stranger."

Jesus Christ! These times are just mad – well, I suppose all times are mad, to those with eyes who live in them. Or maybe I'm the mad one – everyone around me seems to be happy. Or at least content. Or at least complacent.

Jesus Christ! Should I tell, should I tell? or should I make like Sylvia Plath again, encase my troubles in poetry? More importantly, how long has it been, since I last encased my troubles in poetry?

Or maybe I should just encase my head in carbon monoxide. Ha! no, too indulgent.

Slit my wrists in a Roman bath? Too grandiose.

Burn myself alive? But what would I protest, and who would listen?

Jump off a building? A simple death, and if the building's tall enough, for a second I'd feel like flying. Before the terror kicks in, the gasp for breath –

Drowning? Again, that gasp for breath –

A pistol to the head? Maybe set up like in "The Deer Hunter", or in that Lermontov book. Whichever way, it's definitely the simplest death, though somehow it still feels too grandiose.

Though now I wonder: would God hate me if I killed myself? That's what everyone says about hell. "God still loves you as you hang, but his anger will fry you to a crisp for all eternity." That's the very definition of hate, stupid.

– oh, don't worry, dear reader, I don't actually want to kill myself. I desire a more symbolic death, like that time I broke all contact with the lot of you. Or that other time I broke all contact with the lot of you. Or the time I went to Russia, and for a moment contemplated just staying, just hiding out in one of the monasteries, living off the kvass, the leftover hosts – at last, witnessing winter.

But not a social death. I find that rather redundant, now – again, these times. Not a spiritual death, either, otherwise I wouldn't even consider killing myself. Something quieter, more honest –

Here, I'll tell. I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. Yes, it sounds cliche, but you mustn't take things so figuratively – not everything I say is poetry.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. She was beautiful, with red hair, green eyes, and a body made of marble. Now that last one, that was figurative.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And her mind was beautiful, too. She always knew what to say – rather, how to say it.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And her heart. She was the first (and last) person I ever truly talked to – and the only voice I actually loved hearing. (Don't you see? When I'm loud like this, I'm not saying anything – I'm just coaxing you to speak louder. Not that you ever notice, you Narcissus)

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. Maybe a memory, although that's a question I don't want to consider anymore, it's caused me such heartache.

It's causing me heartache now. It's always like this, you know: every year, like spring cleaning, I pass my fingers over my naked body, remember all the old wounds, examine all the new ones. Then this – the perpetual scab. Like an eight-day old operation, changing through error from Jew to Lucy. Yes, God hates fags.

He also hates incestuous couples, whatever you call them. Returning to the wound: I pick it, as I pick all my scabs. But unlike with the others, which I eventually let grow into scars, it receives special treatment. After picking, I scratch – after scratching, I poke – after poking, I plunge. And lastly, like a vampire, I lap. My blood tastes sweet.

(I believe you've tasted it before? in my words, my poetry – in fact, even in my acts, for everything I do, I do for love of you)

Of You – of her. Yes, that's the heartache: she rejected me. Rejected me by not existing, that shadow, that damn dream. That Daddy. But the wound is different – I know how not to conflate. The wound is this: that I conflate her with God. No, that I love her above God.

Here's the thing about suicide: once you witness an exit, you desire it more than the field outside. You desire it more than happiness. You desire it more than passing your hand over Witchgrass, than watching your Geraniums grow white with snow. Such that in the end, you truly can't ever be happy.​

I'm just glad I don't care about happiness. I don't think I'll be happy in the cold, however much I say I love it. I don't think I'll be happy in the church, however much I know it's right. And I don't think I'll be happy with her – but still, I'll be with her.

When I kill myself, it won't be for my sake, but for hers.

RELIC

And here's the brush
with which my orange-haired wife combed the hair
of my daughter – did we have
a daughter? I loved Lily's Sarah so much
I remember her as mine.

Sarah's hair was orange,
too, or at least it grew
into River's color, when she found
how her mother – sorry, how my wife,
so long the years have drawn – caught the eyes
of many fighting men. I'm sure you've judged
alike, remembering the wall
which River's radiant face graces
like an icon. They say a woman
whose hair is orange looks
like heaven, while a man
with the same is a troll –

see, Sarah's father, too, had orange hair,
but all natural. He died
long before Sarah'd grown, having left
for his profession war – and if he'd lived,
Lily would not have come to me

with her black hair ways and white lead face
that looks so much like mother but for eyes
that shine like sun. No, Lily only cares for me
as if I were her child – she was the one
who ordered me encase the brush's head
in lead, the bristles in fine bronze:
convert it to a relic, prize of loss. Yes, River died
some years ago – her last act was to comb
the hair of her Amish doll, her daughter,
with that brush. Why had she
refused to lay with me while we were young,
one, fertile? Did she think
her ragged self were child enough? Did she fear
to birth an orange-haired troll so much? Or did she see
herself a saint, and I
merely an adorer –

Shall we move on? Yes, even from this window, you may view
the sea-light which had drawn you to my home. No, it casts
only a shadow now: its Fresnel lens
became too weary to maintain. I remember
River saw that tower as a sun –
 
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Another Write-of-Fall piece:

It is no lamb but lambs that draw the cat
whose fearful symmetry strikes awful dread
even in our Lord's eyes -- as if your course,
aloof and distant from the flock, should grant
security. It is no lamb -- the tiger
spots then stalks then pounces at those alone
and by his sounds of feasting draws the flock
toward his fellow hunters. Times have changed:
as lions wait for death and falcons gyre,
tigers gather in flocks and lambs divide.
When shall God's fear revive the slouching pride?
When shall new verse thus well-considered mend
a nation's mind -- and ill-considered, lead
to overthrow of slaughter, haste, and greed?
 
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ALL the Write-of-Fall pieces, with date and prompt.

September 22 --- You are fast food.

inslumnational, underground


black marks
better than red? you'll see
only when you're plucked
from mother's arms, pawned
to freedom -- shucked
from lists of men into the drive,
squeezed through tubes
so tight you're chopped -- frozen, fried,
then frozen, fried again -- last
salted, bloodied, chewed. freedom? lies.
this is war -- in their eyes, we're all just bastards
fattening up the flag.

September 23 -- You are a god.

Poetic Justice


How many works have you written
that ended in fire? You think catastrophe

is free of my past -- and yes,
there is only after the fact.

But first drafts
are unbecoming of a laureate,

and only a fool
looks at the edge of a knife

and sees sides. Steel
glitters in light, ink

spits out only darkness --
perhaps your reason

is too fragile. Then yes,
the edges of the page

are sharp enough,
and it is time to publish.

September 24 -- Inspired by Leonard Cohen's "A Thousand Kisses Deep" (A note: unfortunately, the site doesn't preserve white space, so what should be catch-and-response becomes incomprehensible doggerel. Damn!)

The Soldier and the Merchant's Wife

1
It was the sea ---
It was the sea ---
that opened up
for me, that swallowed
the ship what stole
my virtue from my home.
O sister, --- O brother,
We two, We one How i Bleed
tonight, Cybele
Red wounds my womb ---
Homunculus! my Ceyx, if He'd lived,
Your Son
should i bear now
a Lion, a Hive of Honey ---
Hungry ---
Hungry ---

2
or should i regret
the opening of gates
and gifts
O young, and streets
my full of love,
my wretched and seas
seductress ---

September 25 -- Write a poem inspired by death that does not contain the letter "e" (This was a bit of a throwaway: the first piece is desperate, while the second is basically me converting dukalien's words on the prompt into a senryu)

tourist's complaint


what is, what was -- what youth -- what
caught arrows in his guard, what split
arms, spilt blood -- gods, to bring back Troilus
in a cart? what shit timing
for that wanton bastard king
to hold unfaithful girls
as barns hold cows -- and in
my first vacation day in months!

senryu


This damn prompt:
blowing up a balloon
so much it kills you

September 26 -- Ekphrasis on a photography by Sally Mann (I'll not link to the picture, I'm quite tired)

Outgrown


Here's me at '32 -- notice
the sky's so white, it seems to bleed
neatly into the finished image

of me. What made me such a worthy
doll to be carried, prize to be
collected then, that I have lost?

How many folks no longer come
to take my picture now, even though
I still glow like my mother was

a god? My guess: they only cared
when I was bound to that old shadow,
that grummy California Okie

whose dustbowl world I left behind
when that potential for desire
smoldering then in my gray eyes

became a fire -- as if contrast,
clair-obscur, has that same all-
consuming power to inspire....

September 27 -- About overcoming an alien experience, with at least one extended metaphor.

Exceptional Beasts


These are the tired themes:
my love, my sex, my dreams.

O life, you are a lion's den,
all love is for the children:
there is no sex among the grown,
and all your dreams are wicked.

Meat -- torn from the bone,
no fillets, only enjoyed
raw, red. Water -- how you fear it!
as if your pride can be sustained
by a dry well in this sweltering plain.

O love, you are an eclipse,
with God the sun and sex the moon
and life in your shadow a dream.

How I long for egress, however rare
these seven minutes in heaven are --
hell could not possible be
how plants eat, how men see!

You demand too much of me,
demand I take off my thinking cap,
demand I pull out my taroc pack.
Can't you be content
with my rose-tinted lens?

O sex, you are a flute duet,
and dreams, they are the flautists.

I am bathing naked in a stream,
my long hair (for my hair is long,
the air about my neck is how I hide it)
flowing freely with the fishes' eggs.

You are stunned -- I cannot believe
it is the song that my dreams play
whose notes you see dance across the air
and land like drops of dew upon your hair.
It is lust, red and black -- let us mingle

in the water like hot blood
prefers to mingle in the dark,
with black stone, on the arc
that resurrects the night.

Let embers turn to flame
and fire turn to ash!
Let the audience suffer
an unresolved chord
until the Liebestod...

O dreams, you are a television screen.

From this distance that is sleep, I watch
another farce: Hippomenes winning Atalanta
with golden apples gifted by a goddess.
I cry out: do not forget! do not forget!

But the pyres remain unlit,
and the show goes on as written.
In Cybele's temple, they elope,
and in Cybele's temple, Ovid sings
another song of metamorphosis.

That is their egress. My egress is this:
from boyhood love to manhood life I move.
Trapped in a lion's den, God protected me
until I learned these crafted hands could hold

a pen. Lost in an eclipse, love guided me
until I learned the mind and heart were one.
Tamed by river songs, lust heated me
until the season drew me into sun.
And dreams: was not my childhood Song of Life

fulfilled? Yes, that show is done,
and the summer of my poetry begins.

September 28 -- A prose poem about images that won't go away (I only followed the prose poem bit while writing ---- and ironically ended up following the prompt, I now realize)

The Lie


It is said a tiger's stripes bleed through the skin, unlike a leopard's. Bared of cream, your pitted skin remains -- as if you've lost all shame. Each pit once meant each spark of love, but now only disdain. How could I love a woman who is so true to herself? How could a lion love a tiger, his mortal enemy?

September 29 -- Inspired by a word field (again, too tired to post it -- and I ended up only tangential following inspiration, anyway)

sonnet


It is no lamb but lambs that draw the cat
whose fearful symmetry strikes awful dread
even in our Lord's eyes -- as if your course,
aloof and distant from the flock, should grant
security. It is no lamb -- the tiger
spots then stalks then pounces at those alone
and by his sounds of feasting draws the flock
toward his fellow hunters. Times have changed:
as lions wait for death and falcons gyre,
tigers gather in flocks and lambs divide.
When shall God's fear revive the slouching pride?
When shall new verse thus well-considered mend
a nation's mind -- and ill-considered, lead
to overthrow of slaughter, haste, and greed?

September 30 -- An appreciation poem (basically, an easygoing ode -- though i lightly followed the ode form, this is in no way easygoing)

Ode to a Barrel


How loud, how loud! Distant cracks
disturb the early drunkard's rest, and crowds
spill out, heads hot with love. How the New Year
foreshadows the folly of children!

the widow thinks, watching
longitudes away. She swats
temptation oozing out of the mug
beside her -- regrets? It is mercy

that lulled her children to sleep,
not wrath. The age of the purest drink
arrives -- soon, the Master Brewer
shall roast the malt, drown the land,
and how much louder a bomb that should be!

October 1 (the final prompt) -- Play (ps the piece is inspired by Adventure Time -- the same, somewhat, with Exceptional Beasts)

The Backwards Egg


I am
an anthill
made woman.

I chase
on a thousand legs
a thousand sons.

I repeat
pigs pigs pigs pigs pigs
until the lock opens.

I leave
pearls like they were drops of dew
from some lost age.

I am
a cutting board,
always healing,

always
your flute song,
your

love's light.
Who am I?
 
My favorites from the Write-of-Fall pieces are "The Soldier and the Merchant's Wife", "Exceptional Beasts", "The Lie", and the still untitled sonnet (perhaps I'll title it "To the Reclusive Poet", echoing an earlier piece?). I tried to post The Soldier and the Merchant's Wife before, but got frustrated with the lack of white space --- thus the deletion. Also, the sonnet, and Exceptional Beasts, both of which I've spoilered. Here I'll post a third edit (the first draft is in the spoiler just above, the first edit in the post further above) of Exceptional Beasts --- later, perhaps, repost the sonnet, with bits polished.

Exceptional Beasts


These are the tired themes:
my love, my sex, my dreams.

O Life, you are a lion's den,
all love is for the children:
there is no sex among the grown,
and all my dreams are wicked.

Slabs of meat glued to the bone
and never fillets -- only enjoyed
raw, red. Water -- how I fear it!
as if my pride can be sustained
by a dry well on this sweltering plain.

O Love, you are an eclipse,
with God the sun and sex the moon
and life in your shadow a dream.

How I long for egress, however rare
these seven minutes in heaven are.
Hell could not possibly be
how plants eat, how men see!

You demand too much of me,
demand I take off my thinking cap,
demand I pull out my taroc pack.
Can't you be content
with my rose-tinted lens?

O Sex, you are a flute duet,
and my dreams are the flautists.

I am bathing naked in a stream,
my long hair (for my hair is long,
the air about my neck is how I hide it)
flowing freely with the fishes' eggs.

The huntress is stunned. I cannot believe
what stuns her is the song my dreams recall.
No, it is lust, red and black,
and the notes we watch dance in the vivid air
land like drops of dew upon her hair.

Now, my love, let us mingle
in this water like hot blood
prefers to mingle in the dark,
on black stone, on the arc

that resurrects the night. Let embers
turn to flame, fire
turn to ash! Let the audience
suffer an unresolved chord
until the Liebestod --

O Dreams, you are a television screen.

Barred by the distance that is sleep, I watch
the old conclusion: Hippomenes winning Atalanta
with golden apples gifted by a goddess.
I cry out: do not forget! do not forget!

But the pyres remain unlit
and the show goes on as written.
In Cybele's temple, they elope,
and in Cybele's temple, Ovid sings
another song of metamorphosis --

the curtain falls. Static
fills the signal. The lesson
sticks out: for us

exceptional beasts,
childhood must end cold.

Now let the summer of my youth begin.
 
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It is no lamb but lambs that draw the tiger,
say foolish ewe or schizophrenic ram --
the burning beast whose fearful symmetry
strikes awful dread even in pastors' eyes
spots then stalks then pounces on those alone
and by his sounds of feasting draws the flock
toward his fellow cats. Now caution reaps
murder like courage to speak, light to see,
how times have changed: as lions wait for death
and falcons gyre, tigers gather in packs
and wethers peel the poets from the flock,
guessing them better eucharist than eyes.
When shall God's fear revive the slouching pride,
true art return and mend a nation's mind?

1453


And if the father of my flesh and image knew
that even in his old Teiresian age
he should beget a son, would he have moved
to this vast city gold and purple made
for tattered coats on sticks? Where all the young
suffer, removed from liberty and pride
according to virtue's banner, having to climb
the golden shower tree or trumpet vine
for a love deprived of the blood-red warmth of wine
and mixed with a crazy salad -- a muse's dance
turned tasteless, touchless, by allegory.
Offer me no Cathleen ni Houlihan
nor lusty dancer of the Sheban court,
I'd rather die than live an immigrant!

1453

And if the father of my image knew
that even in his Teiresian age
he should produce a son, would he have moved
to this vast city gold and purple built
for tattered coats on sticks? Where all we youths
suffer, removed from liberty and pride
under virtue's banner, having to climb
the golden shower tree or trumpet vine
for a love deprived of the blood-red warmth of wine
and mixed with a crazy salad: a muse's dance
turned touchless, tasteless, by allegory.
Offer me no Cathleen ni Houlihan
nor lusty dancer of the Sheban court,
I'd rather die than live an immigrant!
 
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Reactions: PoetLore
The Poor Craftsman


The poor craftsman is a fool, working
canvas into dreary coast,
dusty sky, broken heart, and other
kitschy scenes, thinking

all those same expressions could
claim a place with madhouse charts,
Joycean smarts, royal farts, and yet
in her Icarian pride forgets

that only schizophrenic tastes
get granted trophies for their work,
that every stroke of HCE
was mental-past throo riverrun,

that each regaling wind became
a fame of burning shit -- that is to say,
unworked like hers, not all creative hearts
are worth a critic's thought, a market's glance.
 
Because one of the pieces here requires white space , I've chosen to present the whole as an image, rather than as text. Presenting three pieces repackaged, and one (short) piece newly composed: Widowsongs.

UPDATE:....aaand the pic won't work. Lovely.
 
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Tower of Babel


We aren't even from the top: we are the serfs,
the villeins, the ones you didn't have to pay
to get good work. Babalon stole her architects
from Egypt, her engineers from Greece, her doctors
and priests from Israel: that is why our tongues
are barred by Shibboleths. And yet we have
the same hands, the same organs, the same dimensions,
and as you teach such villainy, we too wonder
who this tower is for: men choke
reaching peaks, the gods refuse
to return to us, and tourists?
the top takes everyone. But now
you attack us, squander our medicines
as if we had the same flawless skin,
and we can't be sure
if you are stirred by the thunder
or if you join the wheel of abuse. Either way,
our tongue is ending, and soon enough
these bricks should melt: we men
should have learned by now, from our father,
from the Jew, from the flood, how fortune
favors the listener.
 
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Song of the Great Mother


Impotent bull, you force me off my seat
with hidden savagery -- as if your words
could steal desire.
It is the fool who least desires to work
for something seen oblique -- life after death?
It is a peak: the mountain, white with fog
and snow. An Attis' heart was made to sting,
born of the blade that bloomed between his legs
and turned man into girl. What of belief?
It is the fool who thinks the heart is chief
and not of equal need. Remove the flesh
and who should hear me speak? Remove the mind
and how should speech be heard? As if you'd trust
a voice of madness calling from within --
and so the birds, the shaking of the goats,
the shuddering of leaves....

....yet have I said too little, asked too much?
And now the wood beneath me creaks
but not with age. Beside me stand
two lions, both on edge -- two golden thieves.

Mother of the Wild


"Impotent sheep, you force me off my seat
with hidden savagery -- as if your words
could steal desire.
It is the fool who least desires to work
for something seen oblique -- life after death?
It is a peak: the mountain, white with fog
and snow. An Attis' heart was made to sting,
born of the blade that bloomed between his legs
and turned man into girl. What of belief?
It is the fool who thinks the heart is chief
and not of equal need. Remove the flesh
and who should hear me speak? Remove the mind
and how should speech be heard? As if you'd trust
a voice of madness calling from within --
and so the birds, the shaking of the goats,
................................the shuddering of leaves."

The wood beneath the mother creaks
but not by weight. Beside her stand
two lions, both on edge -- two thieves.
 
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Babal

for Kim

1 - Mother Earth
-- Babalon stole her architects
from Egypt, her engineers from Greece, her doctors
and priests from Israel: that is why our tongues
are tied with Şibboleths. Truly, meat

is the sweetest sin, and Plato,
Plotinus, Valentinus, lied to us. They promised us
angels for wives, mortal gods for husbands, yet all we got
were grave old men, anxious Jocastas.

2 - Grave Old Men
-- my mother
and my father plagued me
as they raised me. Or rather blessed,
the fact that the knowledge of old age

could coexist with the understanding of childhood
confused me, in my youth. Yet have I grown
enough to soothe my student's calluses
with balm, to shave this hircine curse

into a Spanish beard? Galleons sail
on pacific currents concretized
across Katipunan avenue
to and fro two colonies, my country and your Mexico.

3 - Mexico
-- what a Şibboleth! Our old school's shattered stones
are now the home to snake-like trumpet vines, just as your English
is no longer the same as mine, and your Bible grows
overshorn, incomplete. Truly, meat

is the sweetest sin, so when Lucifer
confused his craving for love, he was cast down
to diabetic hell, his eye blinded,
his leg severed, yet by the doctor's hand

his consoling treats tied shut. Ozy and Millie
were far from old when they raised me,
Dana their "God-hated" maker no man
but child: Plato did speak truth

when he said woman is a child. And yet,
accursed flesh, am I a woman who here stands,
as she with the ruddy hair is man
and you with the mortal light is genderless?

4 - Hermaphrodite
-- what a devilish love! It was no storm
but flesh-dissolving bile that broke
the Thoor of Babel, spread
like pâté men across the earth.

"...Katipunan avenue" - A tale of two universities in Quezon City, with the state-sponsored University of the Philippines to the west, and the Jesuit-sponsored Ateneo de Manila University to the east. The road itself is a haven to capitalists, with expensive malls, expensive restaurants, and expensive dormitories lining each side.
"...Ozy and Millie" - Ozy and Millie - About the comic One of my favorite comic strips. Its creator is Dana Claire Simpson, and she is a transgender female. It was through that work that I learned what transgender means, though not directly, as I remember it never dealt with the issue -- I just did my research, once I got engrossed.[/hr]

Soulmate

for Kim


1 - Mother Earth

-- Babalon stole her architects
from Egypt, her engineers from Greece, her doctors
and priests from Israel: that is why our tongues
are tied with Şibboleths. Truly, meat

is the sweetest sin, and Plato,
Plotinus, Valentinus, lied to us. They promised us
angels for wives, mortal gods for husbands, yet all we got
were grave old men, anxious Jocastas.

2 - Grave Old Men

-- my mother
and my father plagued me
as they raised me. Or rather blessed,
the fact that the knowledge of old age

could coexist with the understanding of childhood
confused me, in my youth. Yet have I grown
enough to soothe my student's calluses
with balm, to shave this hircine curse

into a Spanish beard? Galleons sail
on pacific currents concretized
across Katipunan avenue
to and fro two colonies, my country and your Mexico.

3 - Mexico

-- what a Şibboleth! Our old school's shattered stones
are now the home to snake-like trumpet vines, just as your English
is no longer the same as mine, and your Bible grows
overshorn, incomplete. Truly, meat

is the sweetest sin, so that when Lucifer
confused his craving for a love, he was cast down
to diabetic hell, his eye blinded,
his leg severed, yet by the Jewish doctor's hand

his consoling treats tied shut. Ozy and Millie
were far from old when they raised me,
Dana their "God-hated" maker no man
but child: Plato did speak truth

when he said woman is a child. And yet,
accursed flesh, am I a woman who here stands,
as she with the ruddy hair is man
and you with the mortal light is genderless?

4 - Hermaphrodite

-- what a devilish love! It was no storm
but flesh-dissolving bile that broke
the Thoor of Babel, spread
like pâté men across the earth.

"Katipunan Avenue" - A tale of two universities in Quezon City, with the state-sponsored University of the Philippines to the west, and the Jesuit-sponsored Ateneo de Manila University to the east. The road itself is a haven to capitalists, with expensive malls, expensive restaurants, and expensive dormitories lining each side.

"Ozy and Millie" - Ozy and Millie - About the comic One of my favorite comic strips. Its creator is Dana Claire Simpson, and she is a transgender female. It was through that work that I learned what transgender means, though not directly, as I remember it never dealt with the issue -- I just did my research, once I got engrossed.[/hr]
[/hr]
 
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The Eighth of November (a play on the British folk-classic "the Fifth of November"; written November 8 Philippine time, ie a day before the US election results even came out)

Remember, remember,
the eighth of November,
when rulings and ballots were bought;
I know of no reason
why these dumb decisions
should ever be forgot!
Duterte and the Donald,
what demagogues they were:
they got approval ratings far
above what P---- earned.
Duterte, kissing assets,
the Donald, his daughters' assets --
God's providence, where've you gone?
(To where the Church still is, my son)
A hoe and a rake
for my survival's sake!
If you won't give me both,
what to do...
Lady Lazarus,
I'll become -- "Ach du!"
then I'll hide beneath the floorboards
or at least my head in steel,
I don't have the cash for bunkers,
and I don't want to feel
inferno! inferno! make the sirens sound!
inferno! inferno! for God, one last round!
Hip, Hip, Hooray!
 
Untitled

Torture to ride an fx with a fool,
to hear him mix up bourgeois lies with truth --
to hear him speak
with firm conviction
how Marcos was the life, the way, the truth.

Fuck that! If he was truly messianic,
then why did his turn not transcend the tragic?
Perhaps it's you who's far too young to see
that even "children"
such as me
could fight for right as long as we can see.

How many brutal wars and lords have we
suffered as one whole nation, since his turn?
How many lords
(or demagogues)
'til you and your mind's gyre be made to turn
or else you be thrown off your leather seat
to walk from UP gym to Bristol Street?


Untitled (a response to a poem posted in the Poetry for Fun section in another forum --- I'm not sure if I could post her poem, or her reply, so just join the site if you wanna see)

Did I say that? There must have been
some rascal wind obscured my speech,
blown by the spirits that we mock,
fair tinker-bell, foul fellow-good.
I said that you should dress the job,
not dress for it: don no black veil
but white, the color of hottest heat.
Like David with the ark regained,
do not forget to bare your feet
and cover the stones in mossy green,
the frames in foreign gossamer,
the seats in stars of Bethlehem,
as you dance beneath the chapel vaults
and weave through treelike colonnades.

Gather the lilacs, heather and rose,
then deck the willows that droop, that head
the liturgy of the live and dead
whose forms, though meek, have souls that rejoice
in unified and glorious voice.
Then, surely, grow! but like a tree
who grows in strength, in wisdom too,
yet never loses precious youth,
unlike the aged enemy.
At last, return to me --
For fires are bright and chairs are soft
and books are light and teas are warm,
yet there's no greater comfort than a love
out where the forest ends but God's above.
 
Holocaust once meant
a burnt-offering, a fire
around which we dance.
 
Time for the gears to set in motion once again! This is a workshop, after all, not a gallery, and what sort of workshop would this be if works-of-progress were never considered as, you know, works-of-progress, here? Hopefully, this will be a quick one, though, since I'm impatient, and this week is set to be my second busiest yet. Presenting, not the piece, but the process of my latest piece (in semi-complete steps, a la Morning Mood, or Song of the Mortal God, which I promise you was written originally with something more in mind ---- and though that, I think, was a beautiful piece, I hope this doesn't go that route), "Mountain-Woman Songs"! Inspired by the tales of Maria Cacao and Maria Makiling, by our entomological work on UP Los Banos, by Tropical Storm Sendong, by American colonialism, and by Abelard and Heloise -- hopefully it extends to Daragang Magayon and Maria Sinukuan, the 2016 election, a dear friend's reaction to said election, said dear friend's name, my seemingly unending search for a muse, more American colonialism, more Abelard and Heloise, Leonard Cohen's death, my currently unquenchable desire to join the Orthodoxy, humorism, and the what-I-consider-to-be-deconstructivist nature of opposites defining each other (as in, light not being itself without dark, God not being himself without not-God, progressivism not being itself without conservatism, acceptance not being itself without rejection, democracy not being itself without dictatorship....you get the picture).

Mountain-Woman Songs, part one

1 - ecological study in los banos

if i were not so coarse a man
that i should switch between
good Christian and vile Pagan
every change of company,
would you have appeared to me,

hot white lady of the mountain,
when i shut off my headlamp
scrambling down slopes invaded
by American mahogany? but there is
a second error of my nature

insurmountable: never can i be
as humble as your farmer. even you
couldn't guess at the strange speech
of the white man who established
a university so close to your hut,

at the intellectual's lingua franca
as vital to me as my sex.

2 - after the storm (send on, send on)

cacao lumber scattered
along the surface -- woman
naked springing out
of the muddy water -- white
elder love invades.

without music, the shadow
of her breast crosses
her navel, her boat
stirs her river
to the sea, her voice

rings out: come,
send me your poor,
your sick, your suffering
children and old men,
let me lighten your burden.

her mountain, shape
of heaven -- what a burden.
 
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No way is this the finished draft.

Among Mountains

1 - Daragang Magayon

Magayon grew up to be
a beautiful woman.

Men loved her. Men
fought for her. Ulap
fought Linog, Pagtuga
for her. He won. She
ran to him. An arrow

followed. Ulap
embraced her, drew
the same point through
his heart. Together,
they fell.

Pagtuga burned.
Linog shook the earth.
A mountain grew,
black as the night,
surrounded by white cloud.

2 - After the Storm (Send on, Sendong)

Cacao lumber scattered
along the surface -- woman
naked springing out
of muddy water -- white
elder love invades.

Without music, the shadow
of her breast crosses
her navel, her boat
stirs her river
to the sea, and her voice

rings out: come,
send me your poor,
your sick, your suffering
children and old men,
let me lighten your burden.

Her mountain, shape
of heaven -- what a burden.

3 - Evening Walk Around Los Banos

If I were not this coarse a man,
always switching between
good Christian and vile Pagan
every change of company,
would you have appeared to me,

hot white lady of the mountain,
when I shut off my headlamp
and scrambled down slopes invaded
by American mahogany? But there is
a second error of my nature

insurmountable: never can I be
as humble as your farmer. Even you
couldn't guess at the strange speech
of the pale white man who pitched
his tent so close to your hut,

at the intellectual's lingua franca
as vital to me as my sex.

4 - Sinukuan

Surrender now, for God is with us:
his rod and his staff shall comfort us.
The black feathered boa that constricts
your throat with ticklish grip, that thins
heaven's air -- the glassy knife

that slides across the skin, that severs
your precious precious sex -- the lying Jew
and honest Christian purified
by a little cracker, cup of wine --
God shall turn them all to swine!

just as he shaved surrender's head
with summer rain and snow-like ash,
transformed her figs
fat on the twigs
into slabs of spotted white,

then entered her cave
with a torch.
 
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Another experiment. Hopefully in two weeks all of this isn't proven to be a waste of time, especially considering how terrible these past few weeks have been.

Another Stranger Song

Did Leonard Cohen weep, when he heard
what happened here -- what happened there --

the man's so Zen
I don't think he went to heaven.
I don't think he needed God
when he cried out Hallelujah
on nine/eleven --
he cried out of posterity.

It's the Chelsea Hotel
he missed, when the bell
tolled for him, when he sank
deep into Abraham's bosom --

--

After Radnoti's Postcards

How could you
walking dead on red slaver dew
still smell blue
when that cold infernal breath
you call a taut string death
snaps at Jew
and laughs?
Neck and neck,
some greater horror waits for me,
I'm sure. Shot in the head, at least you
had a Fanni and her fanny too
to comfort you -- while I,
I'm far too young.

--

After Duino 6

He grasped and let go, chose and achieved, but you,
you grasped and gave, held on and stole
some minute portion of the glory for yourself,
not caring about the other. Distant, all you did
was fear, or weep, or wave with cleverness --
all we did. But hearing again God's call
and wrestling with his angel, now I see: there are the men
who do the deeds, and then there are the men
who tell them. Like you, I shan't sing fact
when the heroes are revealed, when these ravening rivers
of righteous men and clowns are drowned in gas:
distant, I will paint the picture
of another Samson toppling
the pillars of Satan's tomb
and tell the truth
for the dead rising.

--

Woodstock in Taguig

Tell me when it's time to march --
I will not march.
Show me what you're fighting for --
I will not march.
Give me your thoughts, give me your feelings --
I understand, and will not march.
Fill me with hope, teach me with love --
all the more, I will not march.
Threaten me with steel and flame --
I will not march.

Witness: on the road to Yasgur's farm,
Capitol Hill, Malacanang,
a black thing lies --
for what is stardust,
billion-year-old carbon,
but some ugly lump of coal?

White heat! White, lying heat --
 
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Up Mountains


1. Daragang Magayon: Prologue

Magayon grew up to be
a beautiful woman.

Men loved her. Men
fought for her. Ulap
fought Linog, Pagtuga
for her. He won. She
ran to him. An arrow

followed. Ulap
embraced her, drew
the same point through
his heart. Together,
they fell.

Pagtuga burned.
Linog shook the earth.
A mountain grew,
black as the night,
obscured by white cloud.

2. Maria Cacao: After Typhoon Sendong

Cacao lumber scattered
along the surface -- woman
naked springing out
of muddy water -- white
elder love invades.

Without music, the shadow
of her breast crosses
her navel, her boat
stirs her river
to the sea, and her voice

rings out: come,
send me your poor,
your sick, your suffering
children and old men,
let me lighten your burden.

Her mountain, shape
of heaven -- what a burden.

3. Maria Makiling: Ecological Study in Los Banos

If I were not this coarse a man,
always switching between
good Christian and vile Pagan
with every change of company,
would you have appeared to me,

hot white lady of the mountain,
when I shut off my headlamp
and scrambled down slopes invaded
by American mahogany? But there is
a second error of my nature

insurmountable: I can never be
as humble as your farmer. Even you
couldn't guess at the strange speech
of the pale white man who pitched
his tent so close to your hut,

at the intellectual's lingua franca
as vital to me as my sex.

4. Maria Sinukuan: The White Man's Burden

Surrender now, for God is with us:
his bird, the eagle, is our light.
The black feathered boa that constricts
your throat with ticklish grip, that thins
heaven's air -- the glassy knife

that slides across the skin, that severs
your precious sex -- the lying Jew
and honest Christian purified
by a little cracker, cup of wine --
God shall turn them all to swine!

just as he shaved surrender's head
with summer rain and snow-like ash,
transformed her figs fat on the twigs
into slabs of spotted white,
then entered her dark cave

not with a torch
but with a snuffing breeze.

Daragang Magayon: the Lady of Mayon Volcano, an active volcano in the Bicol Peninsula, notable for its nigh-perfect cone. Her myth is here recounted.
Maria Cacao: The Lady of Mount Lantoy, a mountain in Cebu Island.
After Typhoon Sendong: a recent and, considering the fairly benign role of these deities, rather peculiar legend concerning Maria Cacao is here recounted. After the devastation of said typhoon, the people of Cagayan de Oro noticed a strange lady sailing her boat down the muddy, log-ridden river, and inviting folks, particularly the sick, the weary, the very young, and the very old, to board her boat. The wise among the people, however, warned against accepting her invitation, saying that she was to bring them reprieve eternal -- she was Maria Cacao, collecting souls for the otherworld.
Maria Makiling: the Lady of Mount Makiling, a dormant volcano in Southern Luzon. One of her legends is this: that a humble farmer became the object of her affections, such that he lived a blessed, protected life; and yet, on the arrival of war, entered into marriage with a fellow mortal for fear of his life, as marriage meant exemption from conscription; and, visiting Makiling one last time before the ceremony, received a wedding gift, after which the fairy disappeared.
"by American mahogany? But there is": certain species of [South] American mahogany are considered to be invasive, here in the Philippines.
"the pale white man who pitched his tent": a campus of the state university was established on the slopes of Mount Makiling. At first, it was just the college of agriculture, with its first dean being Edwin Copeland, an American botanist. Classes were first held in tents.
Maria Sinukuan: the Lady of Mount Arayat, an extinct volcano in Central Luzon. The name seems to come from the word "suko", meaning "surrender".
"just as he shaved surrender's head": another Mount Arayat myth involves Sinukuan, this time a male god of the mountain, whose chief rival is Namalyari, the god of Mount Pinatubo. In this piece, however, the legends of Sinukuan and Maria Sinukuan are conflated, especially considering the 1991 eruption of Mount Pinatubo, whose ash cloud was extensive enough to cover, if not Mount Arayat itself, then the fields surrounding it.
"transformed her figs fat on the twigs": it is said that Maria Sinukuan once grew a vast, bountiful garden on the slopes of her now barren mountain, from which she picked fruits to give to the locals of a nearby town. The locals, however, grew greedy, eventually trespassing into her garden and stealing much of her fruit. Angered, she turned all of the fruit they stole into stone, dissolved her garden, and, ultimately, disappeared from mortal eyes.
"and entered her dark cave": among these four fairies, only Maria Makiling does not live in a cave, instead residing in a hut.

Up Mountains

1 - Daragang Magayon: Prologue

Magayon grew up to be
a beautiful woman.

Men loved her. Men
fought for her. Ulap
fought Linog, Pagtuga
for her. He won. She
ran to him. An arrow

followed. Ulap
embraced her, drew
the same point through
his heart. Together,
they fell.

Pagtuga burned.
Linog shook the earth.
A mountain grew,
black as the night,
obscured by white cloud.

2 - Maria Cacao: After Typhoon Sendong

Cacao lumber scattered
along the surface -- woman
naked springing out
of muddy water -- white
elder love invades.

Without music, the shadow
of her breast crosses
her navel, her boat
stirs her river
to the sea, and her voice

rings out: come,
send me your poor,
your sick, your suffering
children and old men,
let me lighten your burden.

Her mountain, shape
of heaven -- what a burden.

3 - Maria Makiling: Ecological Study in Los Banos

If I were not this coarse a man,
always switching between
good Christian and vile Pagan
every change of company,
would you have appeared to me,

hot white lady of the mountain,
when I shut off my headlamp
and scrambled down slopes invaded
by American mahogany? But there is
a second error of my nature

insurmountable: never can I be
as humble as your farmer. Even you
couldn't guess at the strange speech
of the pale white man who pitched
his tent so close to your hut,

at the intellectual's lingua franca
as vital to me as my sex.

4 - Maria Sinukuan: The White Man's Burden

Surrender now, for God is with us:
his bird, the eagle, is our light.
The black feathered boa that constricts
your throat with ticklish grip, that thins
heaven's air -- the glassy knife

that slides across the skin, that severs
your precious precious sex -- the lying Jew
and honest Christian purified
by a little cracker, cup of wine --
God shall turn them all to swine!

just as he shaved surrender's head
with summer rain and snow-like ash,
transformed her figs fat on the twigs
into slabs of spotted white,
then entered her homely cave

not with a torch
but with a snuffing breeze.
 
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GRANDEST NIGHT OF THE SEASON!
In which the ESTEEMED sequel to the ESTEEMED play by the ESTEEMED playwright
is performed, FOR THE FIRST TIME, upon a frozen lake
with the blessing of the playwright HIMSELF, and even with a VISITATION:
upon FINNEGAN'S FAIR, on WEDNESDAY Evening, 30th NOVEMBER, 1863,

OFELIA ON ICE
whereon OFELIA is wakened by the troubles in her country, and rises from out of the water,
and walks upon it, and rouses the Danes against the cruel Norwegians, and leads
the GRANDEST SERIES-OF-BATTLES ever to be performed on-stage,
moreso ON ICE.

WITNESS then the celebrated players of the KING'S MEN
alongside the celebrated dancers of the ROYAL BALLET
and the celebrated acrobats of FANQUO'S CIRCUS ROYAL
dazzle with WORD, SONG, and DANCE,
such that only those with HEARTS OF STONE or HEARTS OF ICE
should FAIL to be appeased.

And INTRODUCING
the SPECTACULAR Sage of Siam, ZANTHUS, and his MAGNIFICENT fire-works,
who should light up the district AS IF IT WERE HIGH NOON
with such a show of BRILLIANCE as have never been matched
by contemporaries in EUROPE, ASIA, AMERICA, &c.,
conjuring such visions as PARTICOLORED HORSES,
Leaps, Hoops, Garters, Hogsheads, even
the FISH OF SOMERSET,

all to challenge the world.
For particulars see Bills of the day.
PEARSON INTERNATIONAL, PRINTERS AND BOOKSELLERS, YORKSHIRE STREET, NEW YORK.
 
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A Round for Dublin


For when ancient cities were small
and most modern cities, not cities at all,
you were the smallest -- a model

by which our country should grow
out of this putrid mess of snow
that is Pinatubo's discharge. Know

that you are well-loved, even
by those who would rather see
all those damn Nationalists hanged on a tree,

at least with ni Houlihan having proved
not only that she could win on the road
but also produce U2.
 
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