Skip to main content

Matapos Itaboy ng Tag-init at Kalungkutan mula sa Lungsod

Mikael De Lara Co

Malamig dito sa kabundukan.
Dumating ako nang mag-isa,
naghahanap ng katahimikan,
ngunit ano ang inabot
kundi ang mga kuliglig na humuhuni
ng sarili-sarili nilang mga pagdurusa
sa ilalim ng makapal na damo?
Tinatawag ng mga kuwago
ang mga kaluluwa
ng nagsilagas na dahon.
Pinagpapasahan ng mga puno
ang tinig ng mga nagsasaya
sa pusod ng gubat, iniaabot
sa nakapinid kong bintana.
Paano kong malilimot
ang daan pauwi?
Ibinubulong ng mga bulaklak
ang huling linya ng tulang ito.
Mapangutya ang titig ng buwan.
Walang sapilitang paglimot.

After the Summer and Sadness Drove Me from the City

It is cold up here in the mountain.
I came alone,
looking for quiet,
instead what do I find
but each cricket singing
a verse of suffering
under the thick grass?
Owls summon
the countless souls
of fallen leaves.
The trees pass around
the sound of merriment
within the forest’s navel, until
it reaches my closed window.
How do I forget
the way home?
The flowers whisper
these last few lines.
The moon stares mockingly.
No compelling forgetfulness.

translated by Rafael San Diego

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Phrases for Public Speakers at Sea

by M. B. Powell We ought, first of all, to note her oceanic eyes flecked with sea wrack. And we should pause to consider the wavy wilderness of her damp hair. I will not dwell on her cheeks ruddy under my thumbstrokes. I will not attempt to explain the shapely abalone shells of her ears. I wish to call your attention to the cunning animal of her mouth, muscular. I wish to say something about the mollusky dark language of her kisses. I am obliged to mention her sudden breasts, breaching, rhythmic. And I am perfectly astounded at her finger charting my lips round her nipple. Here, in this connection, let us notice her nipple against the roof of my mouth. Here, in passing, let us observe ...

Caffeine

Because you do not know me, Francezca, you have every reason to be afraid— afraid because, while you are sleeping, I can be the moon, peeping in from out your window like some lonely lunar voyeur, or some rusty blade or kitchen knife when you feel like ending your life with a quick slash or laceration; because, when you wake up, I can be the toothbrush dangling silently in your bathroom, or the forlorn cotton bud preparing to rid your ears of dust and excessive earwax. This is no time to relax, Francezca— I can be anywhere anytime, anyone and anything you cannot even begin to imagine: the whipped cream on your waffle, the mothballs in your closet, the card tag of your tea bag, the jaundiced shade of moonlight, the moon-cake you hate, the steady staccato of rain, the flush’s fecal fouette, the hair inside your nose, your lip, your mole, black hair and brown irises, white teeth and red gums, your scalp, your skin, even your toenails. What is scary, Francezca, is the fact that you don’t e...

The Moonflowers

It's as if the dark, which had before just been context, gave to vulnerability a permission, almost: fleshy saucers of spilled cream, so many parchment fists, unfisting; and now, in pieces, the delicate mask of an indifference offered radically up against what, each time, seems as unthinkable, as unexpected, as when, in the long dream of retraction, that sea that is finally not a sea, but what else to call it, begins again its shifting, and though to every push of the will forward there's something noble—which is to say, something lonely, also—it's too late. Carl Phillips Speak Low Farrar, Straus and Giroux