Tag Archives: poet

Poro Point (Poem)

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By Alejandro Hufana

The rocks still roots the water
Tauter than that the boy int he channel
That marks where men-of-war should enter
And avoid the shallows of the turtle
The lighthouse eye puts out. Today’s communion

Is in the pulpit of the machine
Now when all owes it religion
What adventure had the aborigine?
One make-up moment to be emperor
IN this haunted hamlet on the coast -Fishers foam-furrow the equator
TO homage at a trading post.

Now when divinity is frail
Between the radar poles and the wishing well.
To beat the mind to a bell
In bretheren’s bones with the sunken sail.

As if from rising bottom, sound of sand
Spills out cargo and conqueror
On seven sights of land
Far from either rock or bouy
Like a prayer’s amen, and ahoy!
The brief bed of he whirling whore,
The sunbath, the pinpointed star,
And the native full five-strings deep in his guitar
Sermons how to suffer.

Now back to feed the lamps their fuel
While the rock still roots the water
Tauter than that the bouy in the channel.

Reconciliation

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by Augusto C. Caranjal

We run away from God
Without stopping even to look back
He is behind us wherever we go
If we fall, He picks us up
Only to continue running our ways
Panting and thirsty, we still deny ourselves
The waters of absolution.

We reach to grasp the glories of this world
We pluck the grapes of wrath
We fight for possession of everything
That is of flesh and blood
In the midst of the fight
He is still behind us
Disdaining his consistency
Of never ending pursuit.

When will we stop running away from Him?
Haven’t we reached the goals
To self-possession
And complimenting ego?

The knights do not run away from God
They walk side by side with Christ
Absorbed in the pursuit of His Example
The Knights can offer nothing
But the gift of his sins to Christ
And the Knights wins thereby
The Love of Christ!

Letter to Pedro, U.S Citizen, Also Called Pete

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by Rene Estrella Amper

Pete, old friend,
there isn’t really much change
in our hometown since you left.

This morning I couldn’t find anymore
the grave of Simeona, the cat we buried
at the foot of Miguel’s mango tree,
when we were grade four,
after she was hit by a truck while crossing
the street. The bulldozer has messed it up
while making the feeder road into the mountains
to reach the hearts of the farmers.
The farmers come down every Sunday
to sell their agony and their sweat for
a few pesos, lose in the cockpit or get
drunk on the way home.

A steel bridge named after the congressman’s wife
now spans the gray river where Tasyo, the old
goat, had split the skin of our young lizards
to make us a man years ago.

The long blue hills where we
use to shoot birds with slingshot or spend
the summer afternoons we loved so much doing
nothing in the tall grass have been bought
by the mayor’s son. Now there’s barbed wire
fence about them, the birds have gone away.

The mayor owns a big sugar plantation, three
new cars, and a mansion with the gate overhung
with sampaguita. Inside the gate
are guys who carry a rifle and a pistol.

We still go to Konga’s store for rice,
and sardines and sugar and nails for the coffin.
Still only a handful go to Mass on Sundays.
In the church the men talk, sleep, the children play.
The priest is sad.
Last night the storm came and blew away
the cornflowers. The cornfield are full of cries.

Your cousin, Julia has just become a whore.
She liked good clothes, good food, big money.
That’s why she became a whore.
Now our hometown has seven whores.

Peter old friend,
every time we have good reason to get drunk
and be carried home in a wheelbarrow,
we always remember you. Oh we miss
both Pete and Pedro.

Remember us to your American wife,
your lucky bastard, Islaw, your cock-eyed
uncle, now calls himself Stanley
after he began wearing clothes you sent
him last Christmas.

P.S. Tasyo, the old goat,
sends your lizard his warmest congratulations.

The Tree

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The Tree
G. Burce Bunao

The tree was very beautiful to me
When I was a boy,
I climbed for fruit or out of a branch of the tree
Made me a toy –
A top, for instance, that spun around, carefree
And wound for joy
Until it toppled over and was dead.
No longer the boy,
I find the tree as beautiful though not
Just for a branch
Or a bunch of fruit by – more than that – for a bend
Or a fence the branch
In which I raise the beasts that fill the pot
In the many shapes
My simple commerce turns them to, like bread
Or fish or grapes,
To feed the brood, the little woman and me
There go the boys,
Go watch them strong of limb, spread up the tree,
They pluck their toys
Out of its branches, as out of my childhood tree
I shaped my toys.