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The Monsoon Suite

1.   Allegretto

 

Handmaiden of cement mornings,

Fishwife, meat-monger, widow, whore,

My town rises in a sea of slime and mist,

Smoke of motors, rain, water from washing.

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Nimble Venus, wiry peasant woman

In her market-day dress of apron and tapis,

She rides her tremulous scallop of sun,

Along her path sprout and unfold

The awnings, lean-tos and makeshifts.

​

She alights with briskness and grace.

At the beat of her hear hand, her retinue

Of serfs unload her opulent merchandise

From pickup trucks and jeeps.

​

Dark, sinewy deacons of her trade,

Devoted porters burnt by the wind

Of swidden or seashore, they set down vats,

Panniers, pallets, unpack baskets, crates,

Hang scales, steelyards, and hooks,

Set up low tables and spread out plastic sheets.

​

There she arrays her flicking quicksilver

Harvest of bay and gulf, gold-ore of roots,

Gemstones of fruits, bounty

From the Volcano’s slopes, blessings

From highland and valley in the north.

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Dancing, skipping, levitating, waving

Her wand, she conducts the quickening

Chorus cleaving the quivering hunks of pork,

Slicing through belly and gill of fish,

Filleting white flesh, carving marbled beef,

​

Pouring freshness over tubers and leaves,

Weighing, apportioning, or adding 

Into the bargain an extra sliver or piece,

Calling, cajoling, and accosting me

With the vile endearments of her trade:

​

Come, Suki, poke, touch, inspect!

And I pause to admire and handle her goods,

As the marketplace awakes,

And the morning rises to a pitch. 

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2.  Lento

 

Wings of all colors open

As the monsoon pours its largesse

On the stall-lined market street.

 

Umbrellas flap. Rustling

Of blanket cloth, tarpaulin sheets—

But not to take flight.

 

Everything freezes

As the sky pelts the awnings

And galvanized roofs.

 

Air is rank, vapors mix:

Cheap meals, ground coffee,

Rotting fruit, smoked fish.

 

Over the walks spill

The slime of many days:

Mud, soot, grime wash down

 

From wheel, hoof, feet.

Crumbs of dead skin peel

From wall, asphalt, concrete.

 

Then the sky stops—

A hiccup! And the dusk

descends—a sigh,

 

Unfurling more tarpaulin.

And the kerosene lamps awake.

And the cold reaches our feet.

3.  Precioso

 

Across the street

They roast those grubby bits

Of fat and meager meat.

 

Soy and vinegar drip

Over glowing charcoal.

 

The odor drifts

As they fan the embers.

 

Smoke wafts

Among walls of shadow

In the corner

 

Where they seem to cringe

In their smallness,

 

In the dim light

Of a kerosene sadness.

 

They are folding up.

It must be late.

 

 

Marne Kilates

(rev. May 17, 2002; Oct. 21, 2017;

Feb. 17, 2018)

​

Lydia Velasco: Filipina

LVFilipina.jpg
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