Isang kuwadro ng papel mula sa aking kapatid

Ni Miguel Paolo Celestial

Isang kuwadro ng papel mula sa aking kapatid,
na ginagamit ng mga sekretarya sa opisina
bilang bilin at paalala: ito ang kanyang ginamit
upang muling magpaalam at mag-iwan ng mungkahi,
halik, isang piraso ng kaniyang sarili na sanay
na niyang ipamahagi sa nangangailangan:
pahina man ng kaalaman, puting tuwalyang
pamunas ng pawis, o panyong pamahid ng dumi
at luhang di nagtatagal sa pisngi.
Hinding hindi bilang puting watawat,
kundi bungisngis ng kapuspalad.

Mayroong mga salitang di makasusulat ng tula

Ni Miguel Paolo Celestial

Mayroong mga salitang di makasusulat ng tula,
parang mga ulap na di makagagawa ng ulan.
Kay haba nitong mga araw na may abo sa lalamunan,
na naliligaw sa bangketa tulad ng kuting na inulila.


There are words that cannot pick themselves up into poems,
like clouds too weak to gather enough gray for rain.
These days have been endless, choked with ash in the gullet;
wandering the street, lost like an abandoned kitten.

Tuwing Umuulan at Kapiling Ka

Ni Miguel Paolo Celestial


Humahampas ang bagyo, di tayo magkarinigan.
Ilang pintig ang inagaw ng kulog. Sinasalat ko sa dilim
ang iyong pulso. Di mo pinapansin, haplos ng anino.

Walang makita sa kalsada, nakatirik ang trapik.
Kumikinang ang bintana sa dumadaloy na ulan.
Nalulunod ang busina. Marungis ang larawan sa salamin.

Pagharap ko muli sa silid, walang nasisilayan sa biglang
liwanag ng kidlat. Makapal pa ang putik sa baha
kaysa sa alaalang bumabalik lamang tuwing sakuna.

Walang Mukha

Ni Miguel Paolo Celestial


Itong umagang galing sa panaginip
na may marahang init at simoy
na bumubulong ng mga pangalang
matagal nang nalimot at naitiklop
sa mga dahong ngayong bumabalik,
kasama ng usok ng ihawan,
kumaluskos kasabay ng tsismis
ng pulutong sa sidewalk.
Banayad ang liwanag na bumibilad
sa mga paslit at nagpapakinang
sa sabon-panlabang isa-isang
nabubuo at pumuputok ang bula,
saglit na bahaghari ng alaala.

Hinubad niya ang lahat ng kanyang damit

ni Miguel Paolo Celestial


Hinubad niya ang lahat ng kanyang damit — ng matandang lalaking
nakasalubong ko sa locker room ng gym — nagbuntong-hininga
sa harap ng timbangan, may uban sa likod bukod sa bumbunan.
Napabulong ng mura o maaaring taimtim na dasal para sa kanyang sarili
o sa mga anak at apong sa sandaling iyon gusto niya munang kalimutan
makabalik lamang sa kanyang lumipas at ngayo'y inaasam na pagkabinata.

Leavetaking

By Günter Grass


I dreamed that I must take leave
of all the things that surrounded me
and cast their shadows: all those possessive
pronouns. And of the inventory, list
of diverse things found. Take leave
of the wearying odours,
smells, to keep me awake, of sweetness,
of bitterness, of sourness per se
and the peppercorn's fiery sharpness.
Take leave of time's ticktock, of Monday's annoyance,
Wednesday's shabby gains, of Sunday
and its treacheries, as soon as boredom sits down.
Take leave of all deadlines: of what in the future
is to be done.

I dreamed of every idea, whether stillborn
or live, of the sense that looks
for the sense behind sense,
and of the long-distance runner hope as well
I must take leave. Take leave of the compound interest,
of saved-up fury, the proceeds of stored dreams,
of all that's written on paper, recalled as analogy
when horse and rider became a memorial. Take leave
of all the images men have made for themselves.
Take leave of the song, rhymed bellyaching, and of
voices that interweave, that six-part jubilation,
the fervour of instruments,
of God and Bach.

I dreamed that I must take leave
of bare branchwork,
of the words bud, blossom and fruit,
of the seasons that, sick of their moods,
insist on departure.
Early mist, late summer. Winter coat. Call out: April April!
say again autumn crocus and may tree,
drought frost thaw.
Run away from tracks in the snow. Perhaps
when I go the cherries will be ripe. Perhaps
the cuckoo will act mad and call. Once more
let peas jump green from their pods. Or the
dandelion clock: only now do I grasp what it wants.

I dreamed that of table, door and bed
I must take leave and put a strain on
table, door and bed, open them wide, test them in going.
My last schoolday: I spell out the names
of my friends and recite their telephone numbers: debts
are to be settled: last of all I write to my enemies
briefly: let bygones be bygones — or:
It wasn't worth quarelling over.
Suddenly I have time.
My eyes as though they'd been trained
in leavetaking, search horizons all around, the hills
behind the hills, the city
on either bank of the river,
as though what goes without saying
must be remembered preserved saved: given up, true, but still
palpable, wide-awake.

I dreamed that I must take leave
of you, you and you, of my insufficiency,
the residual self: what remained behind the comma
and for years ha rankled.
Take leave of the familiar strangeness we live with,
of the habits that politely justify themselves,
of the bonded and registered hatred between us. Nothing
was closer to me than your coldness. So much love recalled
with precise wrongness. In the end
everything had been seen to: safety pins galore.
Lastly, the leavetaking from your stories
that always look for the bulwark, the steamer
out of Stralsund, the city on fire,
laden with refugees;
take leave of my glassware that had shards in mind,
only shards at all times, shards
of itself. Not that:
no more headstands.

And no more pain, ever. Nothing
that expectation might run to meet. This end
is classroom stuff, stale. This leavetaking
was crammed for in courses. Just look how cheaply
secrets go naked! Betrayal pays out no cut-rate prices.
At last advantage cancels itself, evens out for us
the balance sheet,
reason triumphs for the last time,
levelling
all that has breath, all things that creep
or fly, all that had not yet
been thought and was to be perhaps,
at an end, on its way out.

But when I dreamed that I must
take leave at once of all creation
so that of no animal for which Noah once
built the ark there should be a redolence,
after the fish, the sheep and the hen
that all perished together with humankind,
I dreamed for myself one rat that gave birth to nine
and was blessed with a future.


From 'Selected Poems 1956-1993'
Translated by Michael Hamburger

Etching of a Line of Trees

By John Glenday


I carved out the careful absence of a hill and a hill grew.
I cut away the fabric of the trees
and the trees stood shivering in the darkness.

When I had burned off the last syllables of wind,
a fresh wind rose and lingered.
But because I could not bring myself

to remove you from that hill,
you are no longer there. How wonderful it is
that neither of us managed to survive

when it was love that surely pulled the burr
and love that gnawed its own shape from the burnished air
and love that shaped that absent wind against a tree.

Some shadow's hands moved with my hands
and everything I touched was turned to darkness
and everything I could not touch was light.


Extract from 'Grain'

Bago at pagkatapos

Ni Miguel Paolo Celestial

Para akong nilalagnat, di mapakali. Nangangati ang talampakan, kinakati. Meron akong sakit na walang lunas. Para akong latak na iniwan ng baha, malagkit at mamasa-masa. Nauuna sa aking hininga ang kabog ng aking dibdib, di sa kaba kundi sa itim at matapang na kape. Di nauubos ang askal sa kalye, galisin at nagdadala ng rabis. May epidemyang dala ang ganitong mga gabing gutom, di maaaring mabusog.

. . . . . . . . .

Ipinagtabi niya ang aking sepilyo sa kanyang sepilyo, malapit sa hugasan ng pinggan, sa ikalawa kong bisita sa kanyang condo. Ngayon, makalipas ng tatlong pagtatagpo - umagang may halik sa pisngi at balikat - ilang araw na itong tuyo sa kinalalagyan. Hindi ko alam kung nabasa ang kanyang pisngi nung gabing tinalikuran ko siya at di na binalikan, nung pilit niyang pigilan ang daloy ng mga salita at nagmamakaawa ang katahimikan ng kanyang silid. Ilang araw nang nadadampian ng ambon ang aking paggising. Ilang araw nang puyat ang liwanag, di makabangon, di marunong humingi ng tawad.

Buhangin / Sand

By Miguel Paolo Celestial


Walang pag-ibig ang pinakamatatamis nating halik.
Walang pagtataksilan ang ating mga haplos.
Dagat ang iyong hinagkan. Dumudulas ang mahihigpit kong yakap.
Matutuyo kang wasak, buhanging kumikinang ang alat.


There is no love in our sweetest kisses.
Nothing to be betrayed by our caresses.
You have touched the sea. My embraces recede.
Left as sand for the sun, salt will glitter on your skin.

Open Wardrobe

By Günter Grass

The shoes are at the bottom.
They are afraid of a beetle
on the way out,
of a penny on the way back,
of a beetle and a penny on which they might tread
till it impresses itself.
At the top is the home of the headgear.
Take heed, be wary, not headstrong.
Incredible feathers,
what was the bird called,
where did its eyes roll
when it knew that its wings were too gaudy?
The white balls asleep in the pockets
dream of moths.
Here a button is missing,
in this belt the snake grows weary.
Doleful silk,
asters becoming a dress.
Every Sunday filled with flesh
and the salt of creased linen.
Before the wardrobe falls silent, turns into wood,
a distant relation of pine trees —
who will wear the coat
one day when you're dead?
Who move his arm in the sleeve,
anticipate every movement?
Who will turn up the collar,
stop in front of the pictures
and be alone under the windy cloche?


From 'Selected Poems 1956-1993'
Translated by Michael Hamburger

Read about Günter Grass

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

By T.S. Eliot

S'io credessi che mia risposta fosse
a persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
questa fiamma staria senza più scosse.
Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo
non tornò vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.


Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


From 'Collected Poems: 1909-1962'

Read about T.S. Eliot

In Reply to Vice-Magistrate Chang

By Wang Wei

In these twilight years, I love tranquility
alone. Mind free of all ten thousand affairs,

self-regard free of all those grand schemes,
I return to my old forest, knowing empty.

Soon mountain moonlight plays my ch'in,
and pine winds loosen my robe. Explain this

inner pattern behind failure and success?
Fishing song carries into shoreline depths.


Translated by David Hinton
From 'The Selected Poems of Wang Wei'