Two Poems from the Philippines
Farol de Combate
This is how, while darkness
drew my profile with its little finger
I have learned to see past as Montale saw it,
The obscure thoughts of God descending
among a child's drum beats,
over you, over me, over the lemon trees.
– Ilya Kaminsky, “Praise”
I.
Mituwak na tuod ang uwan ug gianinaw ko
Ang kagabhion nga miasdang sa among lungsod.
Sa akong gipasilongan dinhi sa payag pahuwayan
Taliwa sa kabungturan, nakita kong gihiwa ang daang
Mangga sa dakong kilat nga mikanap sa kasadpan,
Gigukod sa nagdagan nga daugdog sa kasingkasing
Sa diwata sa kalikopan nga mibati’g kakulba-hinam
Sa panag-tagbo sa alisngaw sa huwaw ug sa bunok
Sa uwan, dala sa amihan karong ikasiyam nga buwan
Sa akong pagbalik sa akong naandan nga pinulongan.
II.
Mopauli ko sa akong banay, dala kining bungahoy
Gikan sa bukid nga akong gitamnan ug kalian-laing
Kahibulongang kahoy nga akong nahimamat dihang
Milangyaw sa ubang dapit sa gatuyok nga kalibotan:
Maalimyong peras, lunhaw ug lipaghong ang aping,
Masidlakong limon, dalag ug makapapas sa kauhaw
Sa ting-init. Tadlason ko ang karaang sementeryo
Diin ang akong kaliwat gapahuway sa kagabhion.
Dili nako sila pukawon sa ilang hingpit nga katulog,
Kay sama nila, lumalabay usab ako ning kalibutana.
III.
Didto sa kilid sa atabay nga gikubkob sa akong apohan,
Nahibaw kong gidan-agan na og usa ka farol de combate
Ang akong dalan padulong sa among pinuy-anan,
Nagtamod sa kinaunhang balaod sa panag-silingan:
Tabangan ang usa’g usa kutob sa mahimo sa inadlaw-
Adlawng buhat, kay kon mapawong ang suga sa gabii
Lagmit mapandol o madalin-as ang lumalabay, basin
Unyag mahulog sa atabay sa kadaghanan, mamatay.
Inig labay unya nako sa atabay, motimbag moinum,
Pasalamat sa silingang midaig sa farol sa kinabuhi.
Farol de Combate
I.
The rain falls lighter now and I gaze
At the dark descended onto our town.
From this mountain shelter I saw
The old mango tree struck down
By fierce lightning from the east,
Thunder rumbling in the heart
Of the guardian of the land, who thrills
To the meeting of the drought’s last sigh
With rush of rain brought by the northerlies
This ninth month of my return to my language.
II.
I will go home to my people, bringing fruits
From hills I had planted to marvelous trees
I had met in my travels in other lands
On this revolving earth: fragrant pears,
Their fresh flushed cheeks, bright lemons,
Yellow and thirst-quenching in hot season.
I will go across the town’s old cemetery
Where my ancestors sleep in edgeless night.
I will not wake them in their supreme repose,
I am transient like them, simply passing through.
III.
I trust that beside the well which had been dug
By my elders, a storm lamp had been placed,
Lighting up the path toward home, the lamp-
Lighter minding the first law of neighborliness:
To help one another as best as one can in daily
acts of living, for if the lamp were put out, unlit,
Someone passing by might stumble or slide,
Fall into the neighborhood well and die.
When I pass by the well I will draw water and drink,
Give thanks to my unseen neighbor for the light.
Translation from Balak sa Binisayà
By the author
Pollen
for Corazon Jamero-Logarta
This is the time when the spirit has no need of teeth,
and in the time it takes pollen to light,
the wild world tames us . . .
– Linda Hogan, “Gentling the Human”
In the space of a fortnight a nasty cough
took lodgings in my lungs, I curled fern-
like in bed, not to sleep, but to keep awake
to the motions of poetry throwing filaments
of light, the way a resident spider brings
bright symmetries to being from its almost-
invisible body. These slow motions the orange
jasmine in the front garden also musters
out of its two-and-a-half foot trunk, shivering
in the wake of the northerlies blown across
the steppes of Siberia to Southeast Asia, as if
it knows near blossoming time has come,
its clusters of white already in the arc of dream,
the gold flecks riding on that morning fragrance
of sun, or on the legs of a drunken worker bee.
It is possible to sense this now a chrysalis,
the gathering strength needing the full dark
softness from which to unfurl, bear new fire.
