March 3, 2011

HALAW KAY MA. LORENA BARROS 
(Mula sa They Dwell In Yellow Quiet) 

Dilaw ang kulay ng katahimikan
sa tahanan ng mga pobre.
Ang kanilang gasera 
ay gawa sa basyong bote, 
pinasakan ng basahan 
at nakapuwesto ngayon
kung saan katamtaman 
ang timpla 
ng liwanag at dilim.

Dilaw na katahimikan 
ang dala ng gabi 
sa tahanan ng mga pobre.
Walang maririnig
ni katiting na ingit 
mula sa mga bata
kahit pa madiin ang suntok
ng dilim sa sulok
kung saan sila 
madalas nakaumpok -- 
maliban na lamang
sa harap ng dulang 
at pare-pareho silang nagtatalo
kung para kanino
ang kakapiranggot na ulam. 
'Pag ganito, kumikinang 
ang mga matang luhaan
sa liwanag 
na dilaw ang kulay, bagay 
kung kaya di naglulubay
sa pagsaway ang matatanda 
hanggang magpanumbalik
ang bawat isa 
sa kani-kanilang 
tahimik na pagnguya. 

Magaan kung humakbang
ang mga paang tumatawid
sa patse-patseng sahig
sa tahanan ng mga pobre. 
Walang impit
na galit, o dabog
na maririnig
kahit matagal nang hukot 
ang mga balikat
at halos pumutok 
ang ugat 
sa mukha at palad 
kapwa ng bata 
at medyo may-edad. Sa gabi, 
isinasara nang maigi
ang bintana
sa tahanan ng mga pobre.
Gayunman, di nila kailangan
ang bakal na rehas
upang tiyaking hanggang 
doon lamang sa labas
ang mas lalo pang pobre.





THEY DWELL IN YELLOW QUIET

They dwell in yellow quiet
these houses of the very poor
the homemade gas lamps are
expertly placed – just so
they do not flicker much
though still the shadows cast
are insecure.

The night brings yellow silence to
the houses of the very poor
the many children do not cry, though
it is hellish dark, in the corners
where they are –
except when gathered
round the wooden table
they fight over their shares,
bright tears and eyes in the yellow light.
But the justice of the elders is
God’s own, and silence
reigns over the chewing.

And yet in the quiet houses of the very poor
they drag no heavy feet
over the patchwork floors,
There is no rebellion in 
their placid movements       
Although the shoulders stoop
and veins stand out on
wrinkled hands and faces old
or not
At night the windows are shut tight
in the houses of the very poor
the next best way to iron grills
To keep the poorer out

                                                                   - Ma. Lorena Barros                                                                                
                                                                      The Weekly Nation
                                                                      October 2, 1967. p. 28










POEM TO HAN-SHAN

The place where I must spend my days
Has no cold mountain, no crowded peaks
Or wild vines stirring in the windless air.

Here purpled smog plays on the ashes
Of a thousand futile fires;
Beneath the ashes huddled sleepers stir
And I must watch, lest they awake and
Smother.  But I too am under ashes
And cannot breathe, yet may not die.


                                                           -   Lorena Barros
                                                               1968










March 2, 2011






A SKULL AMONG THE FLOWERS

Dear Miss Barros,

We have read your poem and regret that we cannot use it.  
Thank you for your interest in our magazine.

                                   Sincerely yours,
                                
                                  The STM Editors
                                   by: Gloria G. Goloy

P.S.
indeed you are much too serious
for one so young.  Why write of
skulls and excreta and such things
when your world is so beautiful
           at your age.  Still, thanks for
           sending this to us.


A SKULL AMONG THE FLOWERS


A skull among the flowers...,
who had a desk at city hall all to myself
and now a plot of grass grown earth---
I lived in quiet outskirts of the flesh
walked homewards each God’s evening down
not-so-narrow streets, ever homewards.
I did not know---I shunned---the alley-tunnels
of the       , throbbing estero veins where
dead embryos simplified in silence.  I passed them
quickly by, riding homewards,
and shut off all with a white handkerchief.
Railed on to the route-years I watched
each day go through its paces faithfully,
dull wordless days, and watched
each evening’s moon fulfill the calendar’s predictions.
my nights were brief excursions to family resorts
respectable X’s on a well-known map;
Whatever exotic’s I was aware of, and desired,
waited on some supreme promotion.
Hurrying homewards I dreaded most the city’s
intersections, dark-glassed my eyes against all
but the traffic lights.  I saw
not beggar’s hands but dirty nails,
not warmth and softness but enslaving legs.


Grown middle-aged I laughed to see skin cling to skin
in some dark corner of the crowded park
and went home cursing them and pitying.
I did not know my impotence.
Dreaming alone, lulled by the hum of
air-conned suburbia, I’d wake up
mouth gagging with remembered ashes and excreta;
but I thought of death as little as I thought of life
and never understood...I, now
a skull among November’s sudden flowers.