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ALBERT B. CASUGA, a Philippine-born writer, lives in Mississauga, Ontario, Canada, where he continues to write poetry, fiction, and criticism after his retirement from teaching and serving as an elected member of his region's school board. He was nominated to the Mississauga Arts Council Literary Awards in 2007. A graduate of the Royal and Pontifical University of St. Thomas (now University of Santo Tomas, Manila. Literature and English, magna cum laude), he taught English and Literature (Criticism, Theory, and Creative Writing) at the Philippines' De La Salle University and San Beda College. He has authored books of poetry, short stories, literary theory and criticism. He has won awards for his works in Canada, the U.S.A., and the Philippines. His latest work, A Theory of Echoes and Other Poems was published February 2009 by the University of Santo Tomas Publishing House. His fiction and poetry were published by online literary journals Asia Writes and Coastal Poems recently. He was a Fellow at the 1972 Silliman University Writers Workshop, Philippines. As a journalist, he worked with the United Press International and wrote an art column for the defunct Philippines Herald.

Friday, April 22, 2011




Host to all living
things, Earth’s Spring welcomes all,
even alien weeds.


Tardy blossoming
for roses, lilacs, myrtle,
becomes tardy spring.


Purpling greening lawns,
creeping myrtle provides grass
an excuse to grow.


Ah, spring, though late,
is spring sprung and spread:
balm to icy blahs.

—Albert B. Casuga

Prompt:  Even the invaders’ spring is late: barberry, lilac, multiflora rose just now leafing out, the hated myrtle purpling what used to be a lawn.---Dave Bonta, Morning Porch, 04-21-11


Outside, / the wind has no regard for our little nostalgias. ---Luisa A. Igloria

My endlessly tattling nieta asks:
“Who is that old woman on the wall, abuelo?
Why does she follow me wherever I go?”

I have always meant to dust it off,
this picture on the wall: a patrician pose,
an arching neck, a hint of a shy smile.

“No one you know. But sing me another song,
that one about a new song unto the world.
How does that go again? Sing a new song.”

“Her eyes are sad, and they always follow me.
Why does she do that, abuelo? Is she lonely?
And she has a funny-looking dress. Tra-la, lala.”

But that was another time. Another world.
At sundown I look into those eyes, and I go there,
beside her, and sing old songs. O, the old songs!

The late spring wind ruffles the gossamer curtains
brushing against the jangling chime bells: outside,
the wind has no regard for our little nostalgias.

—Albert B. Casuga

Collaborative Poem Prompt:  This poem is a response to Luisa A. Igloria's Via Negativa post.

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