SOMEWHERE, THE OTHER LIVES

SOMEWHERE, THE OTHER LIVES


(For Luisa Igloria who Abhors “Othering”)

Is this dome of midnight stars also a strum
for a quiet waking into a space of loneliness?
Or are these spaces our own echo chambers
where ripples of our calls are heard by others?

Somewhere a wing roils the air that the other
breathes. Somewhere the tremulous murmur
of a prayer is answered. Somewhere an old
question is asked: Am I my brother’s keeper?


---Albert B. Casuga
Mississauga, November 16, 2014

GIVING BACK

GIVING BACK


(For Father Francisco R. Albano)

It is what he has absently forgotten,
that he still abides in a strange gyroscope
of happenstance of giving and taking,
of coming and going, visions and revisions.

If he had his druthers, he’d rather not be given:
too little time for too much to give back on.
A keen eye to see both sides of a magic coin?
Be a magistrate then, look for the right and just.

Or a poet who sees both sides of a wall. Or mirror.
When someone sent him a throne of words,
he built cathedrals of thought no one understood.
“It’s poetry, mon ami!” He said it’s worth a shrug.

Like cold tea. He struggles in his windy spaces
to finish the promise of the Word to be his word,
that he might give back the flame he borrowed,
and say, “I kept your Fire and gave it Fervour.”


---Albert B. Casuga

LEST WE FORGET: REMEMBRANCE DAY POEMS

JE ME SOUVIENS

November 11, 2014

LEST WE FORGET:

REMEMBRANCE DAY POEMS

 

 

WHAT THE WAVES SAID: A MEMENTO MORI

(For all War Widows and Lovers)

She must go back there, one way or the other,
it is a dive into her origin. Why not a caress?
She will need one to get to the other. Knowing
them all, the smell of the brine, of pungent
sweat on the backs of the lads who carried
her into the church then floating with mud:

They held her gingerly by her thighs, ruffles
wafting in the unseasonal wind, her panuelo
lashing their faces then glistening lustfully
as they stole forbidden glances at her clean
legs dangling, kicking furtively at their sides.
Drenching her, breaking waves urge her return.

She could still taste the rice coffee on his lips
when he kissed her mouth and vowed his troth.
He left for a war, and could not come home,
cut down at some shore wading toward a hail
of sand and pebble, dying for God and country,
yet could not crawl back to live by his promise.

She must go back there, to lie on that shore
at sundown, drench herself with his tardy touch,
as waves break frenziedly on her breasts and
caress her gently with the ebbing tide, when
she goes home. Laughing, the waves said so,
as she felt them turn warm around her bare calf.


---Albert B. Casuga

 

THE DANCE


For Guerrilla Comrades

The nape is a natural anchor; dancers
can tell how swiftly rhythmic footwork
become gyrations close enough to know
that she will not fall from his embrace.

This is how it should have always been:
he , being led by her wide steps caught
quickly off by a frenzy of thighs playing
the evening’s tease --- They are yours,

however you want them, if you can
catch them lithely tripping the light
fantastique--- she, a laughing Jezebel,
grown bold with giggles of an ingénue.

What they would give, if they could hold
on to that night they danced, absently
ignoring the high command’s summons
of storming Corregidor* at break of dawn.

He said it would be a brief encounter;
will be back before she digs her fingers
into some rough folds of a dancer’s nape,
and feels a strange tickle on her hands.

I shall keep my night lamp lit all day long,
you know which window to climb through.
But the nights never ended, the dance did.
She now idles by her window counting waves.


---Albert B. Casuga


*Corregidor -- Philippine warfront WWII. Readers may simply replace this with any place where guerrilla movements exist. The context is hospitable to all lost love.

 

 

 

 

CLIMBING BEYOND A PAUPER SPACE

CLIMBING BEYOND A PAUPER SPACE:
TWO POEMS ON COMPASSION

1. The Other

What if this place were made only for the other?
You are yourself, but you are also others’ other.
Were you conceived for yourself, or for a specie?
Someone must extend the process of evolution.
 
Your first act out of the womb was to let out a cry.
Was it not to alert the birthing other you’re here?
And you will bring joy to a union forged in dreams,
but you could always be the unwanted obligation.
 
What if you were the inevitable happenstance
come from the aches of groin and gravid reasons?
Are you an issue of love or lust? An afterthought?
When did you start to even aspire to be yourself?
 
Dare you grow then to even ask: What do I want?
What do I need? Selfish angst? No. Must-ask ones.
 

2. Compassion

One cannot give what one does not have, operatio
sequitur esse. Find and feed your hunger to know
what you are here for. Are you a brother’s keeper?
Or does a lover keep you? Either way, a hunger.
 
If you were for the other, you must be provident;
but fill your tills first before giving a ruddy cent.
Is your neighbour the village thief? Love him.
Clothe the naked, as you would with a fig leaf.
 
Before long, you would have guessed how little
you are without the other, and learn to whistle
in the dark, and wait, and build, and gather
behind walls, until, one on top of the other,
 
you begin to climb beyond your pauper space
to occupy a lost garden, a haven, as your place.
 

---ALBERT B. CASUGA
Revised November 5, 2014, Mississauga

 

POEMS FORBIDDING SORROW AND TERROR

 

POEMS FORBIDDING SORROW AND TERROR

 

(In honour of Argyles Cpl. Nathan Cirillo, who died standing on guard)

 

(For his son, Marcus, at 5)

  

THE GUNS OF OTTAWA*

 

Hardly has the crackle of grim gunfire

subsided around the mute emblem
of courage,  faith,  and the pyrrhic fall
of the young soldier (kilt, rifle, and all,
bloodied by blind jihadist mayhem),
where he stood guard to honour his land’s
heroes who have laid their precious lives---
when these fearless  accidental patriots
rushed unerringly to the sight of blood,
pumped his ebbing heart as one of them
chanted: “Hang on, we love you; trust us,
we love you, your country loves you, God
loves you!” But Cpl. Nathan Cirillo died.
The assassin sneered: “In bullets we trust.”
 

A HERO IS BURIED HERE

 

A year from now, his little Marcus, askance

At five, will know that they buried his father
One rainy autumn day in this field of heroes.
He will scarcely remember that magistrates
Of a grateful land stuttered quiet gratitude
While they looked at this wee lad march tall
Alongside his father’s bier, flag in one hand,
His mother’s clasped in the other, little palms
Still steady, still lusting to clutch kite strings
Flown toward the grey skies bidding goodbye
To his friend and hero, Nathan Cirrilo, Dad
On most days, Sir Brave Argyle Soldier today,
When teary-eyed grand magistrates told him
They will always have this abiding gratitude
And faith that he, too, one day, will be a hero
Who would make the last supreme sacrifice
Of laying down his life like a patriot’s son,
For his Canada, his home and native land.
Sir Argyle Marcus, son of Argyle Cpl. Cirillo.
 

---ALBERT B. CASUGA

Mississauga, Ontario, Canada, Oct. 28, 2014

 

 

 

 

*Revised from Oct. 26 version.

DYING TO LIVE: A PROSE POEM

 

DYING TO LIVE: A PROSE POEM

If this were a glimpse at dying and how the mind, fragile as it is, could pull one back to life, I would work at it, break free from cages that have held me captive, look at the burning sun long and hard until I am wedded to its brilliance and finally unified. This is the vessel that I offer you to have and to hold, but I must fill it with the salving grace that will mold my injured spirit back to what I carefully surrendered for you to mend and nurture when it had foundered, lost at some hostile sea, a boat shorn of sail, unanchored.  Like Pygmalion, I will chisel every jagged chip, remold every broken edge, to remake this cup and will unfold before your eyes like an earthen jar spun out of my hand, pared clean at its brim, to collect a wellspring of fluid nectar to last us a lifetime of all that is sweet and kind.

 

---Albert B. Casuga

Mississauga, October 27, 2014

COUNTERPOINTS: TWO SWIMMING LESSONS

 

COUNTERPOINTS: TWO SWIMMING LESSONS

 

1. IN HER TIME: A SWIMMING LESSON

(For Marie Clementine)

 

Will you grow older than these lessons,

Mon chère? Will you gather pictures
Like dada-abuelo peppers and papers
His dusty study with his world’s magic?

Papa will no doubt pin this on his wall,

I wager all my left-over memories,
Mama, too, will: it is this lesson of love
and daring we will always remember.

 “Go, chère, find your stride and swim,

Kick and swim, paddle and swim, Go!
No dreads, brave girl, this is your show:
Swing your arms, our happy mermaid!”

There can only be joy with your striving,
Not after the wind, but for gentle grace,

The courage you must find while weaving
Through ripples, eddying smile on your face.
 

2. IN OLDER TIMES: A SWIMMING LESSON

(For Father)

How much of those happy times

would you bring back, like the waves
ebb but must always rush back?

It is the sea that returns you intact

into my now empty days, windy days,
your laughter always a raw memory.

You threw me into those restless

waves, cried out a challenge: Swim!
Kick hard, swing your arms! Swim!

And I never stopped, not for hurts,

not for lost dreams, nor for losses.
You warned me never ever to cry.

---ALBERT B. CASUGA

Mississauga, October 26, 2014

 

THE GUNS OF OTTAWA

 

THE GUNS OF OTTAWA

 

(In honour of Cpl. Nathan Cirillo, who died standing on guard)

 

Hardly has the crackle of gunfire subsided around the emblem

Of courage, love, faith, and the pyrrhic fall of the young soldier
(Kilt and all, bloodied by jihad mayhem), where he stood guard
To honour his land’s patriots who have laid their precious lives---
When these sudden heroes rushed unerringly to the sight of blood,
Pumped his ebbing heart as one of them chanted: “Hang on, we
Love you; trust us, we love you, your country loves you, God
Loves you”, but he died. The assassin chants: “In bullets we trust.”
 

---Albert B. Casuga

Mississauga, Ontario, Canada, Oct. 26, 2014

SUMMING UP: TWO POEMS ON A THEME

SUMMING UP: TWO POEMS ON A THEME

I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it/Since what is kept must be adulterated?—T.S. Eliot, Gerontion

 

1. LEFT UNSAID

Nothing could be taken back, nothing offered.
The passion I thought I had is an old saw--
it would not, could not cut through the years
that have turned into whorled cores in a tree
cut down in the harvest of logs, in a clearing
that will not grow again. Will not be here again.
Dry timber in a forest fire. Ashes in my mouth,
like loves left unsaid. Nothing to take back nor give.

2. A WAITING GAME

Looking for a good time to stop,
is to stop looking, like slumping

on a fallen trunk or a trail rock
jagged and jutting out of the bluff.
Morning walks get longer along
empty spaces before familiar curbs
signal a turn to what we wait for:
the final bend. We are back home.

“HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME.
Now Albert is coming back,
make yourself a bit smart.”* Eliot,
of course, said it for me earlier.
How long ago was that, when I
read those Wasteland lines? How
long have I waited to use them?
Is this a good time yet? I waited.

Because we have seen the clues,
because we have seen them all
already, I know it is time to stop
waiting, sum up the bill, and go.
What was I given to bear the pain
of knowing that I did not know?
Or build a home I could not live in?
What tools must I now return?

In summing up, I will discount this,
in the game of haggling for a place
back in the Garden. Our stay here
was overpaid. We waited too long
for that room with a better view,
that terrace with a canopy of roses,
and blue birds trilling on the sill.
O, for a touch of that distant sky!

Next time around, if there is one,
I will be smart. I will settle only for
a room where I could see the sky
and the sea conspire to eat the sun.
Nothing could be taken back, nothing
offered. The passion I thought I had
is an old saw—Ashes in my mouth.
Burnt dry timber, loves left unsaid.

---ALBERT B. CASUGA

Mississauga, October 6, 2014

* T. S. Eliot, The Wasteland, II. A Chess Game, T. S. Eliot, The Complete Poems and Plays, 1909-1950)

 

 

WHERE LOVE IS

 

 

TODAY'S POEM: "You must find that place within yourself where nothing is impossible," Deepak Chopra prescribes a way to bliss. Where is that place? With Fear and Trembling all over the Earth, can the MInd rest easy? If the Mind is afraid, can the heart be far behind? If LOVE is that place, where might we find it? That would be our Paradise Regained.


WHERE LOVE IS


(For all Lovers)

...Beyond longing, beyond desire, we will all/ wake up to where we are not. Where love is.---A Lambent Thing Beyond


We will get there, but will wonder:
Why are we here at all where nothing
Closes, where doors are entrances
Into endless corridors of laughter
Echoing through chambers of songs
That recall gentle lullabies, rhythm
Of caresses, warmth of her embrace,
The tug of home at last? We are here,
Where love is, a place we lost when
We could no longer remember where
We started so we could come home.
We left only to know we will return.

---Albert B. Casuga