Poetry
 Prev    Next

MICHAEL CAYLO-BARADI: Phillipines [Poetry]
Published on November 14, 2008Email To Friend    Print Version

Phillipines

 I am on a ferry boat, slicing sunny waters, crossing
a gulf of ghosts, those of galleons and vintas, from
centuries ago, sailing on obsession to give their flags
dimensions of acquisition to fly on, domesticating
Eden, exoticizing civility. At the bow, I see Mount
Malindang stretch, vast, immense: God as spectacle
of geography, more resplendent now than almost a
life-time ago, when I first saw this with conscious
eyes, my grandmother beside me. I must've been six
or seven then, years of year-round summers, centers
of nostalgia, for my future life as transplanted citizen,
in that desert of neons, beneath the anorexic Hollywood
sign, directing pornographies of gloss, glamour, and
dreamscapes. On that boat, I imagine my grandmother,
sitting beside me; we are both eating roasted peanuts.
She is animated with another passenger, immersing the
sea in their voices, sailing on happy words, oblivious
of pauses to dock on. I am here to retire, for good, in
the town that laid her to rest many years ago. I return,
still heavy with Los Angeles, including that recent
divorce, my parents now buried in California, and that
cool detachment with my children, not strained, but
a cautious hipness, convenient, unsentimental. The
boat slices salty-air, doubts about my nostalgic return,
especially memories of fast lanes, those accelerated
desperations, globalizing impossibilities of slowing down.

_______


Inside Subic Bay

I can still see the ships, in those palm trees.
They were like islands themselves, carrying
their own world, habits, constitutions, and histories,
like most of this country’s islands.

We did it all here, back then, in this humid place.
We were sweating of its sea of women, the language and mind
we could barely understand, especially its history that’s
thicker than their brotherhood in resistance against us.

The salty, slippery skins of those nights gave me a son,
mixed-blooded, just like this nation's blood. But I don’t intend to
find him, although I’ll be here for a while, maybe longer
than ever, until my last sun; because these islands

exploded in me a long time ago, into archipelagoes,
shrapnels that have melted in my blood, now exploding again,
deeper than what nostalgia craves, than what these
islands doesn’t want from me.

_____________________
 
Michael Caylo-Baradi's articles have appeared in numerous publications including The Los Angeles Daily News. 
 

 
Copyright © 2008 by Tertulia Magazine. All rights reserved. The articles, documents, and information on this web site are copyrighted materials of Tertulia Magazine and its writers and artists. 
 


Powered by Comdev News Publisher

Search News

 By Keywords
 By Publish Date

(dd-mm-yyyy)


Categories

 ALL
 Fiction
 Poetry
 Commentary
 Reviews
 Art
 Non-Fiction
 Old Archives
This category contains the PDFs of our non-internet format magazine. This includes all of our articles published between 2003 and early 2006.

Archives

November 2008
July 2008
April 2008
January 2008
October 2007
August 2007
June 2007
April 2007
December 2006
September 2006

Contact Tertulia Magazine:
comments@tertuliamagazine.com
(c) Tertulia Magazine, 2006 - 2008 HOME  |  Previous Issue  |  About Tertulia  |  Tertullian's Blog  |  Submissions | News