Ah Yen
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- Words: 792
- Pages: 6
First, A Poem Must Be Magical By Jose Garcia Villa First, a poem must be magical, Then musical as a seagull. It must be a brightness moving And hold secret a bird’s flowering It must be slender as a bell, And it must hold fire as well. It must have the wisdom of bows And it must kneel like a rose. It must be able to hear The luminance of dove and deer. It must be able to hide What it seeks, like a bride. And over all I would like to hover God, smiling from the poem’s cover.
And If the Heart Can Not Love By Jose Garcia Villa And if the heart can not love death can not cure it nor sleep no splendor of wound the heart had no sound Bloom has escaped it and birth the miraculous flower and music and speech leave it unbewitched God it can not spell nor sun nor lover the beautiful word and it has no sound no sound nor wound
When I Was No Bigger Than A Huge By Jose Garcia Villa When, I, was, no, bigger, than, a, huge,
Star, in, my, self, I, began, to, write, My, Theology, Of, rose, and, Tiger: till, I, burned, with, their Pure, and, Rage. Then, was, I, WrathFul, And, most, Gentle: most, Dark, and, yet, most, Lit: in, me, an, Eye, there, grew: springing, Vision, Its, Gold, and, Its, wars. Then, I, knew, the, Lord, was, not, my, Creator! --Not, He, the, Unbegotten—but, I, saw, The, Creator, Was, I—and, I, began, to, Die, and, I, began, to, Grow.
Landscape with Figures Carlos Bulosan
Homeward again under foreign stars, history was a strange gush of wind from memory that came to echo waterfalls of those years: home to find the place lost among galaxies of signs. The hills were gone. The river trail was forgotten. . . Trying to remember meadowlark and those who perished in the vanishing land
(bones in the earth where our parents died poor), the journey fell into heavy tides of flowing scorn that echoed and reechoed time there.
The sun was most unkind to the place: history: names of men: patterns of life: all that distant floodtide heaved and moved, breaking familiar names that immortal tongues clipped for the heart to cry, "Home is a foreign address, every step toward it is a step toward three hundred years of exile from the truth. . ." It was not homeward to the first known land, nor escape to white sea sprays blossoming on inland shore, nor love leaping the boundaries naked in the soul, but a vast heritage of war and destruction breaking too soon for the living and willing to die.
Life is a foreign language. Every man mispronounced it . . .
Untitled Jose Garcia Villa
God said, "I made a man Out of clayBut so bright he, he spun Himself to brightest Day
Till he was all shining gold And oh, He was handsome to behold! But in his hands held he a bow
Aimed at me who created Him. And I said, 'Wouldst murder me Who am thy Fountainhead!'
Then spoke he the man of gold: 'I will not Murder thee! I do but Measure thee. Hold
Thy peace.' And this I did.
But I was curious Of this so regal head. 'Give thy name!'- 'Sir! Genius.'"
ERMITA IN THE RAIN by Angela Manalang Gloria It is not the rain that wanly Sobs its tale across the bay, Not the sobs of lone acacias Trembling darkly in the gray, Not the groans of harried breakers Flinging tatters on the shore, But the phantom of your voice that Stays me dreaming at my door. SOLEDAD by Angela Manalang Gloria It was a sacrilege, the neighbors cried, The way she shattered every mullioned pane To let a firebrand in. They tried in vain To understand how one so carved from pride And glassed in dream could have so flung aside Her graven days, or why she dared profane The bread and wine of life for some insane Moment with him. The scandal never died. But no one guessed that loveliness would claim Her soul's cathedral burned by his desires Or that he left her aureoled in flame… And seeing nothing but her blackened spires, The town condemned this girl who loved too well and found her heaven in the depths of hell.
WORDS by Angela Manalang Gloria I never meant the words I said, So trouble not your honest head And never mean the words I write, But come and kiss me now goodnight. The words I said break with the thunder Of billows surging into spray: Unfathomed depths withhold the wonder Of all the words I never say.
And If the Heart Can Not Love By Jose Garcia Villa And if the heart can not love death can not cure it nor sleep no splendor of wound the heart had no sound Bloom has escaped it and birth the miraculous flower and music and speech leave it unbewitched God it can not spell nor sun nor lover the beautiful word and it has no sound no sound nor wound
When I Was No Bigger Than A Huge By Jose Garcia Villa When, I, was, no, bigger, than, a, huge,
Star, in, my, self, I, began, to, write, My, Theology, Of, rose, and, Tiger: till, I, burned, with, their Pure, and, Rage. Then, was, I, WrathFul, And, most, Gentle: most, Dark, and, yet, most, Lit: in, me, an, Eye, there, grew: springing, Vision, Its, Gold, and, Its, wars. Then, I, knew, the, Lord, was, not, my, Creator! --Not, He, the, Unbegotten—but, I, saw, The, Creator, Was, I—and, I, began, to, Die, and, I, began, to, Grow.
Landscape with Figures Carlos Bulosan
Homeward again under foreign stars, history was a strange gush of wind from memory that came to echo waterfalls of those years: home to find the place lost among galaxies of signs. The hills were gone. The river trail was forgotten. . . Trying to remember meadowlark and those who perished in the vanishing land
(bones in the earth where our parents died poor), the journey fell into heavy tides of flowing scorn that echoed and reechoed time there.
The sun was most unkind to the place: history: names of men: patterns of life: all that distant floodtide heaved and moved, breaking familiar names that immortal tongues clipped for the heart to cry, "Home is a foreign address, every step toward it is a step toward three hundred years of exile from the truth. . ." It was not homeward to the first known land, nor escape to white sea sprays blossoming on inland shore, nor love leaping the boundaries naked in the soul, but a vast heritage of war and destruction breaking too soon for the living and willing to die.
Life is a foreign language. Every man mispronounced it . . .
Untitled Jose Garcia Villa
God said, "I made a man Out of clayBut so bright he, he spun Himself to brightest Day
Till he was all shining gold And oh, He was handsome to behold! But in his hands held he a bow
Aimed at me who created Him. And I said, 'Wouldst murder me Who am thy Fountainhead!'
Then spoke he the man of gold: 'I will not Murder thee! I do but Measure thee. Hold
Thy peace.' And this I did.
But I was curious Of this so regal head. 'Give thy name!'- 'Sir! Genius.'"
ERMITA IN THE RAIN by Angela Manalang Gloria It is not the rain that wanly Sobs its tale across the bay, Not the sobs of lone acacias Trembling darkly in the gray, Not the groans of harried breakers Flinging tatters on the shore, But the phantom of your voice that Stays me dreaming at my door. SOLEDAD by Angela Manalang Gloria It was a sacrilege, the neighbors cried, The way she shattered every mullioned pane To let a firebrand in. They tried in vain To understand how one so carved from pride And glassed in dream could have so flung aside Her graven days, or why she dared profane The bread and wine of life for some insane Moment with him. The scandal never died. But no one guessed that loveliness would claim Her soul's cathedral burned by his desires Or that he left her aureoled in flame… And seeing nothing but her blackened spires, The town condemned this girl who loved too well and found her heaven in the depths of hell.
WORDS by Angela Manalang Gloria I never meant the words I said, So trouble not your honest head And never mean the words I write, But come and kiss me now goodnight. The words I said break with the thunder Of billows surging into spray: Unfathomed depths withhold the wonder Of all the words I never say.
