Tunnel #5 ( * )
I change shapes just to hide in this place
But I’m still, I’m still an animal.
Like Badang and the Singapore Stone of long ago
I begin to fill up this hole spotted selflessly
on this avenue with something, something.
Boys and girls play together seeking
their form hiding in dark alleys,
four by four they come running, running
to see the eyes of somebody, of the myth
of madness burning up history that slips their vision.
What is this hole that tunnels above the roofs
of our brain? Animal love that mothers of the world
nourish, nurture, nurse... so we can feel
the future to not make us think so folded, folded!
For one, let’s not confuse the hole
to be the perfect circle or that ’70s radio blasting
Girls just wanna have fun in the open city, city.
Let us think of it as fever dream coming
alive in the doorway, or as rain on the doorstep.
But there’s neither a hole nor more holes
to see now, like some days wanting, wanting
God’s love to caress the words
we can’t afford to say. A shape, a modern
shape speaking to me in the face. Sometimes
I’d like to say it’s this shape that speaks
the language of love, the strange interlude
in a movie that keeps repeating, repeating
on the shore that shifts the character
of our inner flowering shapes.
Sometimes I’d just like to watch how the sun
change the shape of tomorrow
as if grace, as if mystery in the appearance
of Badang, the legendary strongman of sampan
memories. And I would simply like to ask
how mother and father and brother and sister
offer some flowers to the rest of religion,
how they pray for my job not to grasshop
like the sight of litmus changeling, changeling.
Maybe I just miss them so much,
with each the shape of ( * ).
Intro to end (makananu tana?)
You see this humdrum town
Bacolor or Apalit or Macabebe*
seeking colors & flood tide arias
on the impulse of a rainy Saturday afternoon
before the machinery of undergarment civility
because a harness will only be made for one
far away from the closet
ripraps & minuets
ageing windows sigh in the air
I have no plans & resolutions—
when in this charming confirmation
your handsome decision lounges
on the very idea I suppose was your idea
of the blue histories of weather report
in a coma,
Rogelio de la Rosa (makananu tana?),
his name typed up slowly, fur is flying—
lightness!—but you got everything now
round your mythic little fingers
life at the alterations shop
oh what a terrible mess I’ve made
of this ending,
ending of a poem.
*All three towns of the province Pampanga in Central Luzon in the Philippines.
Lawdenmarc Decamora is a Filipino poet and critic whose poetry saw print in 16 countries mostly from the US, Europe, and into the heart of Asia. He holds an MFA in creative writing and is presently completing his MA in literary and cultural studies. His poems and a few critical essays were widely published in the Philippines. He has received nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. His literary work has appeared in or is forthcoming from The Seattle Review, Drunken Boat (now Anomaly), Cordite Poetry Review, SAND Journal, Columbia Journal (honorable mention), Kartika Review, The Ilanot Review, AAWW’s “The Margins,” aaduna, Mithila Review, Longleaf Review, Vilnius Review, Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine, Kitaab, Poésie Bleu Souterrain, among others. He teaches literature and humanities at the Royal and Pontifical University of Santo Tomas (UST)—the oldest existing Catholic university in Asia.