Fireflies (not Christmas lights), from the Scientific American
Victor Peñaranda
Learning in Darkness
Last night we spent hours learning
To watch fireflies glow in deep shadows
Of what we imagined to be space,
Full of what our eyes could not see.
The sound of river below
Kept rushing, teaching us to listen
To life’s unceasing motion,
The echo of perpetual flow
Constantly touching the skin of leaf,
Throbbing at the liquid meridians
Of our body laced into this valley.
Then a storm surprised our curious minds;
We could only hear the rain falling,
A cool breeze soothing the raw gravity
Of our journey across the Cordillera range.
Every now and then a vein
Of lightning seized the sky before us:
Quick silhouette of mountains brooding,
A force of stark magnificence
Swelling from sources unfathomed;
That seamless surge of sacred energy
Made indelible by restless creation.
We learned to speak in low voices,
To be gentle in thought, to be aware
Of lamps flickering from distant homes.
The terraced rice fields rippled through us.
We heard the spellbinding whisper of wilderness,
Felt birds dreaming among towering ferns,
Till our breath became breath of mossy trees,
The perfume of wounded flowers drifting.
The unseen kept unfolding our being.
We woke up blinded by morning light,
Brimming with the silence of thanksgiving.
(Banawe, Ifugao
8 May 2008)
Giorgio de Chirico, Enigma of the HourMarne L. Kilates
Enigma of the Hour
(after the de Chirico painting)
Three figures at five minutes
Before three o’clock, a white circle
Of Roman numbered hours
Above an arcade of brown shadows,
And beyond, a sky of verdigris
That doesn’t say night or day.
Which three o’clock is it?
Golgotha’s or the hour of suicides?
To the left of the minute hand,
Framed by the square hallway window,
The farthest figure cuts a diminutive
Silhouette hunched over the parapet
Above the arches. Is it there for a breath
Of fresh air, or is it going to leap?
Below, under the second arch
From the right, a darker, faceless
Apparition emerges from the chiaroscuro
Of the wall behind. It seems to hesitate,
But perhaps only to watch its steps
In the twilight, before descending
Into an almost empty courtyard
Where the third figure, white
And standing so still as if wrapped
In a shroud, seems to be waiting.
His back towards us, we cannot see
His arms, and his shadow
In the diagonal light is cut by the frame.
What looks like the flounces
Of an Arab kaffiyeh are unruffled
At his nape. There is no wind.
But why is he loath to look
At the dry fountain beside him?
Is he pointing a gun or just shivering
In the chill? What cosmic triangulations
Do these figures compose, what dire
Premonitions converge with them?
We will never know, because
Giorgio de Chirico never said, “Symbols!”
And I knew far less the first time I saw
Enigma of the Hour. The frame was
Narrower, an upright rectangle.
I don’t remember which figure
Was cropped away. It was used
As cover for a 1970s Penguin edition
Of Franz Kafka’s The Castle.
(August 26, 2008)
The poem "Enigma of the Hour" may also be accessed at my website, Nameabledays.Jimdo.Com (click to go) in the New Poems section.
