Jaime Jesus Borlagdan
Duwang Rawitdawit para sa Nobela
1
Sa banggi, sa irarom kan mga limpoy
na pagkaaga mga kahoy, may burak
na minabuskad sa senyal kan patakdag na mga bituon.
Iinum kaini an luha kan nakabantay
sa bintanang daing pirot buda hungok,
minabatad sa mundo kan solamenteng patente,
minaayon sa yakig kan harayong haya
kan gadja, sarong sayaw na labaw
ki pagbalinghaw sa lawas na piot
muyang bikladon, hubaon...
2
Kun bungog ka sa tanog kan pagrarom
kan diklom sa luwas kan bintana
hilingon mo an senyal kan sakong kamot
mantang pig-aagda takang rumani
digdi sa bukas na bintana.Ituturo ko saimo
an rayo na nasagkod na kan banggi
sa pagpasyar kaini sa mga paultanan
kan mga kahoy.
An nagtitimak sa awot na dumog ki tunog
nagsisirip sa kada bintana...
Mayo 14, 2007, Karangahan
Edward Hopper, Night Shadows
Two Poems for a Novel
1
Night. Under the shade
that in the morning are trees, there is a flower
that blooms at the sign of stars falling.
It drinks the tears of the one watching
from the downcast, sleepless window,
exposing to the world its one votive lamp,
obeying the far baying
of dogs, in a dance that struggles
against the narrow dress of flesh
aching to shed if off, tear it apart...
2
If you’re deaf to the dark
rising like a river outside the window
watch for my hand signaling you
to approach this open one. I will show you
how far the night has gone
as it wanders towards the borders of the trees.
someone is walking on the grass wet with dew,
eavesdropping on each window...
(translation by MLK)
Dali, Sleep
Gerry N. Peralta
Dali’s Sleep
He winks in his dream
The nose proud even in sleep
And though absent
I see a mustachio
Waxed and curled to the tip
Like eyes on a peacock feather
I wouldn’t be surprised if he slept
With the other eye wide open
For he saw the innermost dreams
Of Narcissus waking from water
Of a man cradled in crucifixion
Of time melting into stupor
Or the eye itself encrusted with jewels
Or sticking out of a walking stick
Or glaring at the projected light of film
I guess his ego never slept
I imagine it as an eyeball
Caroming and careening
In the vast spaces of his works
I hear it as thunder
That is in fact laughter
Masquerading as a snore
But what are these thin sticks
That prop his face, his sleep?
These miniature creatures
Whose eyes one couldn’t even stare
Are they how he saw himself?
