jornales

for a moment of joy or moments no one pays for, i give myself a ‘jornal’. this makes me rich. try it.

post-perspectives on (that night)

The first poem (versified haibun) to which I wrote a sequel posted earlier below this: also published at otata, January 2018, of which the editor said, “a masterwork, a splendid piece”. Verses in parenthesis read as haiku…

post-perspectives on (that night)

Alegria Imperial

1.

been told where midnight birthed the Child, a goat bleated and a lamb stared away

to count adorers, i was told, beyond three said to be kings,

in fact, a throng—could they have been cloned?

no heralds really and only the soundless rise and fall

of wondering eyes moved

 

on the one hand

stars (might have) abandoned

the stable for hillocks

 

2.

but said of the gifts laid down on hay, gold singeing the silence for one,

incense and myrrh rising as acrid mist—all unfit for dancing around the manger—

no eye winced, not the mother’s veiled though lit like a crescent moon

or the father’s side-glance, bent and weighed down, it had seemed,

braced by a cane possibly de-limbed from a comet-burst,

so i caught from word that came around

silenced (no trace)

boom of horns

3.

deeper into that night, the telling somehow tangles—a wild moon, i was told,

that the star outshone, hence, grown bereft flailed, and in shreds

fell on shepherds the heralds missed, as the camels drunk on light crossed over

from a universe of desert breasts coming to, centuries since,

a seething patchwork of wheeled-what nots, and men—the narrator opined—

pining to be kings scissor-ed streets, where spires of gothic cathedrals taunt the skies,

finding in a huddle of felled pines,

and plastic star-garlands,

their own stable-born

 

morning ruckus

(balled-up) winds hang

on sand-rimmed clouds

 

4.

but said of the adoration:

a stream of footfalls—human-forms spiffed up

in business suits and woolen coats,

the unclean eaten by greed, the twisted of bone,

the mummied-up with melting flesh,

the widow but her husband’s ghost,

though not a whiff of malodorous wounds—

inundated the aisle to the crèche as brass handles

of candelabras shed their sheen, and soon, on a parade of hands

a litany of rants rumbled like bamboo clappers,

breaths rising as

petulant wing shapes (or shapeless)

fog the rose windows

 

5.

one story teller, un-glued, swears he did catch

the plaster of Paris baby’s lids flutter, as lambs peered

at the adorers, and the child’s mother blowing praises into her infant’s

folded ears, while the father leaned back, perhaps deciphering a dream, while

late-coming adorers crept in, rustling

with agonies reprised over and over in a rhythmic ejaculation

of supplication for mercies, so the story

rambles on

 

corner knot (finger-frayed)

the pain of denial

leaves a wound

 

6.

this renegade tells

how he, too, waded

his way in, palms damp

from doubt, teary from wafts of incense,

lisping as he counted nights lost on fingers,

confounded by shifting

animal sounds,

and the

leaps and

swirls of

limbs

where

on a cross (hung from a concrete sky)

the midnight Star

https://otatablog.files.wordpress.com/2018/01/otata-feb-2018.pdf

 

December 2, 2018 Posted by | poetry, reflection, versified haibun | , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

reconfiguring: if that night comes again

Just published at otata #36, December 2018 (p. 55), like a sequel to the same theme I wrote this month also last year…(verses in parenthesis can be read as one poem, as well). I hope you like it

reconfiguring
if that night comes again

(will it be…)

on desert stillness
lamb eyes on a Child’s cheeks
a Star’s piercing shafts

(likely the same)

a gentled flock coating the ground
the shepherds’ mottled hands cupped for night dew
the mother’s breath a mist
(sense of truth)

a donkey braying from the myrrh-scented hay
gold glinting between sleep and dreams
the swaying wisps of frankincense

(or will it be…)
on sky cracks far off
hurtling open vowels spewing hurts
an ire-driven snapping king
(dripping vitriol)
fear-coated tongue brandishing
word-swords but where’s the manger
in baffling infinity?

 

in buff dunes burrows
and lopsided mountain hips
(perhaps)
swept in bursts of rancour
roaring off smeuse-d hedge-walls
(maybe)
buried with wounds
cankered from hollow praises
(probably)

 

still I was told
(that night will come again)
flailing wing tips
a wind-brushed sky flung open
humming in cotton-soft air
(a smile)
the sphere balanced as it rolls
on the Child’s upraised hand
darkness shorn of weight

draped with piercing shafts
(the Star’s)

December 1, 2018 Posted by | poetry, reflection | , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment