POEMS for ARTS 1

1) Poetry

by Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived

in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth

had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,

drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
 2) Poet's Obligation

by Pablo Neruda

To whoever is not listening to the sea

this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or harsh prison cell;
to him I come, and, without speaking or looking,
I arrive and open the door of his prison,
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a great fragment of thunder sets in motion
the rumble of the planet and the foam,
the raucous rivers of the ocean flood,
the star vibrates swiftly in its corona,
and the sea is beating, dying and continuing.

So, drawn on by my destiny,

I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
the sea's lamenting in my awareness,
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those in prison may be,
wherever they suffer the autumn's castigation,
I may be there with an errant wave,
I may move, passing through windows,
and hearing me, eyes will glance upward
saying 'How can I reach the sea?'
And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,
the starry echoes of the wave,
a breaking up of foam and quicksand,
a rustling of salt withdrawing,
the grey cry of the sea-birds on the coast.

So, through me, freedom and the sea

will make their answer to the shuttered heart.

3) Ars Poetica

by Archibald MacLeish

A poem should be palpable and mute   

As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone

Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless   

As the flight of birds.
                      
A poem should be motionless in time   
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases

Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,   

Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time   

As the moon climbs.             

A poem should be equal to:

Not true.

For all the history of grief

An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

A poem should not mean   

But be.

4) Word Plum

by Helen Chasin

The word plum is delicious

pout and push, luxury of

self-love, and [savoring murmur]

full in the mouth and falling

like fruit

taut skin
pierced, bitten, provoked into
juice, and tart flesh

question
and reply, lip and tongue
of pleasure.

5) "Broken English"
by Fatima Lim Wilson
~ for Manuel Fragante, dismissed from his government
post because of his "heavy Filipino accent"
The asuwang has a long, black tongue.
She pokes it through holes in the roof
Rooting for newborn babies. Maria Clara
Totters between the convent spires
Singing in Spanish the lullaby her father,
The friar, taught her. The village
Idiot running naked in the rain chants
The first, middle, and last names
Of all the American presidents backwards.
They are all my mothers. At night,
When the cold burrows in my bones,
They come with bowls of porridge
And unpolished pearls to lay
Upon my burning tongue. Who is my father,
They croon. I murmur in polysyllables:
"Magellan, Hirohito, Macarthur, Ferdinand."
It is when they crowd around me,
Rubbing my blue toes and the hollow
Behind my ears, that I do wonders.
Their eyes drop gems of pride.
Mesmerized, they fold their hands
Into sparrows as their son recites epics,
Proverbs, curses, cryptic cures:
Words dancing like the long, flaming
Tails of extinct birds. The rented room
Quivers. I wake, seismic with joy.
O winter of my speechlessness,
The barely there sun in my open mouth.
My tracks leading nowhere celebrate
My silence. I write myself into the sullen snow,
Heavy booted, with glove imprisoned hands.

Crossing the Snow Bridge (OSU Press, 1995)

6) SONNET 73

William Shakespeare

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
   This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
   To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
7) CoÑotations

by Paolo Manalo
1. I’m like tripping right now I have suitcase fever.
2. Dude, man, pare, three people can be the same.
3. Except he’s not who he says he is, pare. He’s a sneeze with Chinese blood: Ha Ching!
4. Naman, it’s like our Tagalog accent, so they won’t think we’re all airs; so much weight it means nothing
naman.
5. Dude, man, pare, at the next stop we’ll make buwelta. So they can see we know how to look where we came
from.
6. It’s hirap kaya to find a connection. Who ba’s puwede to be our guide?
7. Dude, man, can you make this areglo naman?
8. Make it pabalot kaya in the mall. So they can’t guess what you’re thinking. That’s what I call a package deal.
9. Who says ’coz should be shot.
10. Only kolehiyalas make tusok the fishballs. Us guys, dude, pare, we make them tuhog.
11. Talaga, she said she’d sleep with you? Naman pare, when she says talaga, it means she’s lying.
12. Hey, wala namang like that-an. (from Jolography)

8) We Real Cool
by Gwendolyn Brooks

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

9) Psalm 23

A psalm of David

1 
The LORD is my shepherd, I lack nothing.
2 
    He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
3 
    he refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the right paths
    for his name’s sake.
4 
Even though I walk
    through the darkest valley,[a]
I will fear no evil,
    for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
    they comfort me.
5 
You prepare a table before me
    in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
    my cup overflows.
6 
Surely your goodness and love will follow me
    all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD
    forever.

10) The Matrix

by Arvin Abejo Mangohig

There is a legend that says God is dreaming our lives

for us. Think of it: at least six billion human dreams
spinning in His head right now; six billion asleep
in His dream of their life. Whosoever He forgets will fall

Down a hole in the ground, off the edge of the earth

in the same way a dream ends, abruptly, no true ending.
Wherever you are right now, reading this magazine,
in the bathroom staring at a dreamed mirror, in the car

Watching dreamed grey rain, He might forget to dream you.

But what God does not know is: I am awake. Something
in me awoke and I awoke too. I will walk out of the room
He has dreamed me into. I will walk out of His life for me

And I will find you. I will stop the nightmare of your life.
I will step into the life in which you lie sleeping too.
Are you awake? Are you ready? Good. Take my hand.
Together we will walk out of the real into our true lives.

11) The Discovery of Pop Music

by Juaniyo Arcellana

When Magellan first sailed the earth there was no

such thing as rock music. When Cuba was only a
figment in Columbus’ imagination, what would be
known as jazz was brewing in the belly of some
African.

When starts were first discovered through a

rudimentary telescope the Beatles were rotating
somewhat around seventh heaven. When alcohol
and cigarettes were first brought to the Philippines
the Juan de la Cruz band was not yet the Juan de la
Cruz band.

When “Sunshine of your Love” first played we all

wondered what happened to summertime in the city.
When Led Zeppelin was first launched during a world
war, heavy metal was still a term used in machineries
and similar industries.
When a young boy bought his first record the glass
counter looked spotless and shiny and reflected just
the right amount of light. When a young man bought
his first guitar the wood rang out for the strangest
names.

When the young girl encountered her first jukebox,

she had to stand on tip-toe to read the selections.
When the young woman was first serenaded by the
village drunks she hadn’t yet had her first period.

When the Japanese first constructed the cassette

recorder remnants of the atomic bomb were still
invisibly hanging in the air. When the delta blues
player first picked up a harmonica he remembered
how he would perform sex on his woman.

When the first guitar was first smashed onstage the

audience wasn’t aware it was witnessing pop music.
When left-handed musicians played their instruments
upside down pop music was truly born, Caesarian as
it was.

When the first rock joined was opened pop music was
already an old man. And when they started giving out
awards pop music was dead.

--from The Likhaan Book of Poetry and Fiction, 1996

12) Blackbird
Paul McCartney

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly Into the light of the dark black night
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly Into the light of the dark black night
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
13) The Winter Palace -- Philip Larkin
Most people know more as they get older:
I give all that the cold shoulder.

I spent my second quarter-century

Losing what I had learnt at university.

And refusing to take in what had happened since.

Now I know none of the names in the public prints,

And am starting to give offence by forgetting faces

And swearing I've never been in certain places.

It will be worth it, if in the end I manage

To blank out whatever it is that is doing the damage.
Then there will be nothing I know. My mind will fold into itself, like fields, like snow.