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

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.