Peace

I shook hands with the man
Who welcomed me to dinner.
What an aging kindly face that is
Steady and serene like the slopes of Mayon.
The thought passed like a bright messenger
As I stepped out to brave chill December winds.

I said Thank you and Good evening,
Uncertain if those could ever be enough.
He said goodbye once more, then added,
His face partly hidden by the door, "Peace be with you."
What old confusing words! What do I reply?
I couldn't lie, I couldn't give what I didn't have.

I felt like an utter cheat because I knew
His words were as honest as a desperate prayer.
They somehow had power to make it true:
Peace in some measure will come to me one day
But now, what could one give a happy man
Whose family's beauty, whole and young?

I could only blurt out Thank you, you too.
As I walked away, awed by that kindly aging face.
What tired words, repeated, and turning impotent.
Like a losing bet, thrown in at the last dissipating moment,
Desperately, into the widening gaps of parting,
While the heart whispers Come on, come on, may it be so!

Let me tell you about hate

Write about what you know
All the good books on writing say
So let me tell you about hate
That's when anger gets stuck in your throat
So malignant and massive you nearly choke on it
If you don't spit it out in a scream
Or channel it to your clenched fists ready for pounding
It's when you deign not to look at her
Almost afraid you'd soon be guilty of murder
It's to refuse even to hear an apology
That's just salty tears falling on hot wounds
Only incisive hurt answers hurt, acid insult insult
Touch is definitely out of the question
Your skin would creep upon contact
--And then there's the danger of mellowing
You need to sustain hate by letting it lie
And accumulate like stubborn weed or fungi
Their colors deepening and hardening like scabs
Hate's also saying Throw yourself out the window
For all I care. Go on right ahead. Go on.
Half-daring and half-scared but meaning it nonetheless.
You feel as though all the earnest bitterness
In the world inhabits your shaking body then
And your feverish head would burst any minute
And all you see is a white blurry light
And vague shrinking figures you want to seize and smash

A romantic fragment

Barbauld is that rare moderate radical
Mockingly provoking the Muses to stoop down
And look upon the mousy energies of women on washing-day.
Wollstonecraft: articulate and passionate rational lover
Social critic and manly defender of woman,
Great grandmother of monstrous change.
Blake--a true artist for times of innocence and age,
Visionary of the white Lamb and the dark Tyger
Of children and God and his Church and their henchmen.
Wordsworth, you still Bard of the Lake District,
Happy with your daffodils, lucky with your Dorothy,
True lover of nature and your memories, you sentimental fool!
Coleridge--that the dreamy, drugged conservative idealist,
Magic priest of savage Asia and mesmerizing ancient seamen,
Prisoner of the nightmares of love, religion, and pain.

On my way to the train or heartbreak express

Clutching a train ticket close to my chest
I  raced to beat the surge of seconds.
I almost invaded a glowing halo
Surrounding a boy scowling
And a girl standing trembling before him.
I didn't get a glimpse of her face,
But I knew, as if from memory, that her eyes
Were glistening and ready to speak.
Go away, whispered the boy loudly,
Or I'll push you, he added, savagely
In that familiar alien tongue that still pricks.
They seemed small to me, those two, alone,
Impervious to the rush and joys of the world.
Yet I wondered how youth can bear
Such anger, a typhoon enormous and fierce.
I thought the boy grew monstrous,
His face revealed the gravity of every word.
Have I forgotten I'm not the only one
Who can harbor such rancor for another?
Then the girl, quietly, and on the verge of shrinking,
Responded, I already said sorry, please,
Heartfelt, hurt, hoping, and hopelessly.
What hateful act could she have committed,
What unforgivable harm inflicted,
What piercing words swung to stab,
To provoke that height of anger?
The shriveling way she apologized,
You'd think she'd offended God almighty,
That the world would end there and then,
That the earth would crack open its jaws
And devour her into eternal damnation.
I asked my tired tried heart if it's still capable
Of that kind of sorrow for withheld forgiveness.
It still throbs but has learned to love silence.
In a couple of heartbeats I was gone,
In the pursuit of lost time and a life elsewhere.
Ga weg! Ga weg! rang in my ears as I pressed on.
It's done, I thought, a body was pushed away.
The halo was broken, the circle was complete.
My wildly pulsating heart swelled and murmured.
Then I wondered why my train seemed impossibly far away.

For one, please

I’m alone, this woman, blessed with wide wild eyes,

A shy resigned mouth, and endless unruly hair,

Tells me softly--intimately? Perhaps pleadingly?

I want to reply, positively sensing an akin soul,

Me too and I see the sadness on your forehead

And in the deepening lines on your glowing face:

They trace absences and impatient impotent waiting

For impossible miracles of human proximity.

And I hate it too: the silly seriousness of attempting

To desperately convince yourself of self-sufficiency,

While you walk towards the busy gray of home-school-work,

Aware of the futility and necessity of self-deception.

But the lost-looking woman adds, by way of hesitation:

One table please, for me only, is this possible, please?

Certainly, I say, this one here’s free, please take a seat.

She does, seeming happy, as I eagerly offer her the menu,

Taking care to spare a smile and to look her straight in the eye.

Yet I remove myself, embarrassed, to wait for a sign to approach,

For she’s now totally absorbed, intensely studying each page,

As though she’s diving into the eyes of a new-found lover,

Searching, expecting, promising, oblivious, and gloriously alone.

(This poem's inspired by a simple scene I witnessed in a restaurant. A guy walked in and the first thing he said to the waitress who received him was "I'm alone." I thought then, what a strange and sad thing to say.)

This is how you lose her

First, let's begin with the basics: never ever wash the dishes

--remember king of one's own castle? Take that to heart.

That by itself might prove sufficient, but just to be sure:

don't clean up after yourself, never spare a compliment

or any kind word, don't fix the bed when you get up or

set the table or cook--that's what women are for right?

Be bored when she's dragging you into stores.

Never do anything with her but sit in front of the TV

and make sure you're the one holding the remote.

Absorb yourself with work: nothing is more important.

Keep yourself busy with your toys: nothing is more important.

She may never comprehend but she will come to understand.

Don't ask her about her folks or her idiot siblings.

Don't like her friends, you have plenty of your own after all.

Harden your heart and be prudent in doling out sympathy:

She has to know and understand that you do things your own way

And she can take it or leave it, your way or the highway.

Most importantly, lie boldly and remorselessly about problems

and money and yourself and other women and girls.

You deserve your own life and ignorance will spare her.

This is necessary to maintain peace in your house and in

the life that stretches from your goodness to her.
Practice makes perfect so start out with little white lies

until you grow into the expertise of a politico or preacher man.

Now when it comes to love, devour her, all of her.

Eat her like you do your slab of meat, consume her like beer.

Take your fill, her pleasure is yours, and she’ll thank you for it.

Never look into her eyes while you’re at it, she’ll see you,

and your softness, that’s certain, and you wouldn't want that.

Do all of these things with deliberation, tact, and skill.

It will take her a while to get it and get used to how things must be.

She will eventually, and if she persists in loving you, use anger:

Hammer the table with your fists and let her face distort

and her body shrink in acute understanding and fear.

At first and for a time, she’ll be patient and bear it all in silence.

But never fail in repeating all these things each God-given day

and trust me, I know, I swear, she’ll finally leave you alone.

Yesterday's news

Faces we are or food for your hungry TV
and bleeps on other bright buzzing screens
We're pricked by some disaster or other
and we bleed and shed tears and skin
Brown, black, and of all the other fading hues.
We are still open mouths and speaking eyes
Punctured, nude, exhausted, and dripping
For all to ogle at: Ye mighty despair!
We are proof that the heart within you beats
We are the salve for a rudely roused conscience
We are testaments to the atheist's gods
Through our deaths and the remnants of our lives
You will have your most exquisite release
You too will shed skin, blood, and tears
We are as real as we are far away
We are the other moving blockbuster
We are as enduring as a scandal
We are with you as long as today lasts
We might be you someday, but don't worry,
Tomorrow, surely, you will have moved on
Tomorrow, surely, we live, leave, and will happen again
Tomorrow, surely, we are still yesterday's news.

You keep Them at bay

Older now, you can deprive sleep of your company.
You stare only for a minute into the persistent darkness,
As you gently blow away the smoke clawing at your face,
Rising boldly from the black pool of your coffee.
Then machine-like, you begin all your loved ones' day
By gingerly putting all the stubborn things in their place:
Blankets over bodies, pans on the warm stove,
Soft bread in the toaster, a shining fruit in a bag,
Unrelenting dust in the bin, undying trash stowed away.
Once your bodies are gone, replenished with dairy
And toast and fruit and lugging handy jugs and bags,
You clean up the remains, piously, not missing a crumb,
And feel the bed's down and fold the still glowing blankets
You cannot help but cherish even if only for a minute,
As your heart is infected by a thousand other pressing thoughts
Of what to be soughtboughtreadwrittencookedbrought,
The mighty flighty feeling that even if this be a losing game

You've half-won today and kept Them all at bay.

(I dedicate this poem to all parents who try.)