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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.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013



We shall not cease from exploration/And the end of all our exploring/Will be to arrive where we started/And know the place for the first time.---T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets, Little Gidding

Sunrise on a highway ridge baffles us.
This could be sundown elsewhere
by the bay in Poro Point, a merging
of origins, east or west, a cycle of living
and dying on the reef, a coming and going
on the harbour of fishing boats and war
machines, a pot of stirred calm and tempest
really, where remembering and forgetting
are sides of the same coin---memories
made, buried, raised, extinguished or
lived again in a string of moments, a nest
of surprises that defines the journey
of a man as symbol of a moving object,
wandering back and forth (willy-nilly)
from nothing to something, something
to nothing, being-non-being, body-mind
soul---all in one simple brownbag
of wonder and questions: Why is there
something when there could be nothing?

Quite like that silly white-tailed squirrel
wandering, wondering where it last buried
a nut or a memory of one, as its quaint
prompter of an imitation of life:
a movement here, a movement there,
all really meaning a stillness of finding
where the end is also his beginning,
a circle at last where a hole defines his
next-of-kin. He arrives home only to ask:
Am I here? Is there anybody home?


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