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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.

Monday, August 15, 2011



How often do your thoughts/stray among the vines of morning/glory, curling toward me?--- From “Each Question is Always the Same Question” by Luisa A. Igloria, Via Negativa, 08-11-11

They do not stray, those tendrils on the lattice:
I know they have taught me how to crawl out
to even the wispiest of sunlight, slivers of warmth
on the sill where I look out waiting for your call— 

Halloo, is there anybody home? Where are you?
You espy on my flights of angst, startling sense
into some otherwise absurd tableau of prancing
dancers, a burden of memories I now cower from. 

Where were you when coming home was good?
When did you invite your demons to live with us?
Why do they snarl havoc when I coyly beg, plead,
for them to leave what once was our only haven? 

These questions are the same dreaded questions,
I dare not answer. I am old, and often my thoughts
stray among withered vines whose flaccid hold
on trellises stop them from curling back to seek 

leftover rays from a sunset we no longer tarry
to chatter about, their warmth and magic gone. 

---Albert B. Casuga

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