By the Sea by Bryan Paraiso
Fidel Rillo
mula sa “Mga Soneto ng Buhay”
1.
Kay dalas mong masugatan noong tayo’y naglalaro;
Tuwing aking sinasadyang magkatinik pati lubid.
Nilalanggas mo sa luha ang puso mong nagdurugo
Habang ako’y nagdiriwang sa musmos mong pagngangalit.
Ngayo’y laging hapdi’t kirot ang kusa nang lumalapit,
Mapait kong dinarama ang tahimik mong pagharap
Sa pasakit. Naglaho man sa mata mo ang mainit
Na ligalig, may pataw kang sa puso ko’y bumibigat.
Sa niluksong mga tinik ng tadhanang tinatanggap,
May agwat ng pagkabatid na di pantay kung itakda
Ang balakid. Habang ako’y humahakbang sa tagsalat,
Marami kang iigpawang alambre ng mga sumpa.
At sa dami ng dapat kong matutunan at magawa,
Ang una kong bubunutin ay ang tinik ng pagtuya.
2.
Ito’y lungsod na hindi mo mararating kailanman:
Tinitiyak kong may bulag na pulubing magtuturo
Sa putol na abenidang may muralyang nakatago;
At saanman ay may paskel na hayang manlilinlang.
Ito’y lungsod na ari ko’t sa tulad mo’y walang puwang:
May pribadong iskinita ng semilyang naliligo
Sa esterong matris; burak na nagbuntis ng unano;
Dispormado maging utong ng trapik layt at sasakyan.
Walang mapang sanggunian ang tulad mong naghahanap
Ng pintuan sa lungsod ko. Dito’y bulag bawat kanto
At tarheta’y hindi susi sa tirahang nakasaad.
Metaporang pagmamahal ang tangi mong hinahangad
Sa lungsod ko. Kondenadong metapora ang ari ko:
Naninigas sa hubad mong anyong bigo sa paglunsad.
from “Sonnets from Life”
1.
When we played you easily bruised,
As I wove barbs even into the skipping rope.
Tears washed your wounded heart
As I rejoiced in your childish hurt.
Now that all pain and anguish visit me,
I taste the bitter quiet with which you face
Your grief. Though from your eyes tears
May vanish, my heart is ever laden with guilt.
As we jumped the spines of fate we found
Life’s uneven rules and unfair twists.
As I traverse my fields of drought,
You still must leap over your own curse.
Though there is much that I still must learn
And do, it is the barbs I must first undo.
2.
This is a city you’ll never reach:
Here you’ll find a blind beggar who’ll point you
To the dead-end street concealing a fortress,
And everywhere the signs will be intended to deceive.
This is a city I own, and for your kind it reserves no place:
It hides a private alley for the seed drifting
In its canal womb; its slime begets a gnome
Nursed by the misshapen nipples of traffic lights and traffic.
There are no maps to show you the doors
To my city. Here each corner is blind,
No name card will lead you to the written address.
If it is only love’s metaphor you seek
In my city, there is only the cursed metaphor I hold
Turgid before your naked, aborted shape.
(translation by Marne L. Kilates)
Jose F. Lacaba
"Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte"
It seems the French have Sunday afternoons
Static, and under certain moods I find it
Enviable, to recline on the grass away from
Urban banter, pipe in mouth, or to sit
Silent in the shade, with umbrella in the sun,
Gazing at placid boats afloat without
The hurry of a destination. A trombone
Plays, but like lovers walking makes no shout,
Its music floats almost unnoticed, except
By a girl skipping alone, among people
Strolling nobly: she makes no trouble, left
To herself. No one, I am sure, will ogle
Though the ladies are supple for all to see.
A dog will not even bother to bark at a monkey.
(ca. 1965)
"The Birth of Venus" Uncensored
A postcard in an envelope is rather
Unusual, but if the postcard is
The Birth of Venus, it's understandable.
A friend, touring Florence, had seen her,
A naked newborn babe striding the foam
While a corporeal wind blows roses
All around her. Ecstatic, he sent me
Wistful envy. It is true she beguiles,
She enchants like a witch, not even from
A reproduction can the fact be hid.
I smile at the ruse of the envelope:
We live, alas, in a land that cannot stand
Sorcery of any sort, always ready
With the thick red cloak and exorcisms
To counteract the charm and break the spell.
We choose the future husband at the anvil
As our muse, and we would see the goddess
Banned, for she will give us love, and that
Is an embarrassing thing, so old-fashioned.
(ca. 1965)
Victor Peñaranda
The Stillness at Vodoča
Halfway through autumn
When the weather started
To stir beneath the skin
I wished for gypsy summer.
Nothing rare or festive happened.
The leaves in the woods
Were stunned to brightness by the cold,
Flocks of birds picked the vineyards.
The temperature continued to drop.
Folks distilled rakija with passion,
Chain-smoked to embarrass their lungs.
Trees turned humble and bare.
I brought the potted plants inside,
Placed them evenly on windowsill
So they will always catch sunlight,
Absorb the warmth of breath.
One morning the snow started to fall
Continuously with immaculate resolve,
Transforming the landscape before my eyes
Casting a spell so earth can rest and sleep.
So I traveled with angels to the south,
To partake in a solemn mass
For those who have chosen to die
With precious clarity in the heart.
The chapel was in monastery grounds,
At the very site where Byzantium finally sealed
Its civilized claim to this Balkan territory
By defeating an army of the same God.
Five thousand prisoners were taken,
All blinded, except for one in every hundred
Who was spared an eye so he could guide
The brutally vanquished back home.
No signs indicate where the battle was waged;
No monuments were erected so those who wander
Into sacred fields will have no pulse to remember.
The snow hawk guards this stillness without boundaries,
Gazes at dark secrets of the seed, life-giving death
Celebrated in the rituals of the seasons;
This invisible flowering, naked as light at dawn,
This powerful communion only I will ever know.
Vodoča, Macedonia
December 2007
