Poetry&Stuffby
MARNE KILATES
MARNE
S
KRIPTS
from
Antinostalgia & the Tokhang
Rhapsodies
from
Antinostalgia & the Tokhang
Rhapsodies
From Mga Biyahe, Mga Estasyon
From Journeys, Junctions
(a collection of travel poems)
from
Antinostalgia & the Tokhang
Rhapsodies
Poems 2022
Poems 2022
Poems 2022
Poems 2022
From Mga Biyahe, Mga Estasyon
From Journeys, Junctions
(a collection of travel poems)
From Mga Biyahe, Mga Estasyon
From Journeys, Junctions
(a collection of travel poems)
From Mga Biyahe, Mga Estasyon
From Journeys, Junctions
(a collection of travel poems)
From Mga Biyahe, Mga Estasyon
From Journeys, Junctions
(a collection of travel poems)
From Mga Biyahe, Mga Estasyon
From Journeys, Junctions
(a collection of travel poems)
From Mga Biyahe, Mga Estasyon
From Journeys, Junctions
(a collection of travel poems)
From Mga Biyahe, Mga Estasyon
From Journeys, Junctions
(a collection of travel poems)
Congregation
For Alma Cruz Miclat, Edna Zapanta Manlapaz,
& the Maningning Miclat Foundation
Field of Faith, Calauan, Laguna
(Or: The Various Names of Peace)
Behind us, the city’s bounty of smoke
And dust, and we come to this sanctuary ready
To shed our burdens of worry and grime.
Foot of mountain beside us, cloud-hover
On hill crest: The Deity, the Spirit watches over
Us: What names we have for Benevolence
Do not matter in this green silence. We converse
In hushed voices. We address within and about
Us the Sylvan Ancient One, Father of the Stars
Unseen in this mild noon, Caretaker of the Glade,
Guardian of Our Original History, Babaylan
Of Our Sacred Wood, resident in the field of our
Multifarious faiths. Our newfound trust
In luxuriant leaf, deep root, spreading branches
Guides us through our own labyrinths:
Upright trunks of coconut casting their
Elongating shadows on the plush rug
Of carabao grass, slender beings whose crowns
Are bursts of perhaps-emerald—my own
Imagined pyrotechnics of steadfast growth
Abiding in bud, stem, frond, whorl, blossom;
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Infinite narrative of water burbling purling
In a spring pool caressing the spirit
Even before massaging the tired spine,
Its freshet sound rippling the shifting
Virescent motifs of light on the protean surface.
The black butterfly that joins us for breakfast
Is not black at all but the coruscation of all
Colors in the nether depths of light,
Not the absence but the totality of all hues,
Eureka of batik-makers, perhaps-angel:
Lingering on Alma’s wrist, wings ethereal,
Eternal, feasting on skin’s salt and warmth,
Before flitting to the hibiscus bush to vanish
Without a trace, but only to leave a faint
Flutter to fill some empty chamber of the heart—
And my own joyful scrambling for words
To fetch from cloud or mountain or inside the self
The breath with which to utter the various
Names of peace.
Marne Kilates
17 July 2017
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