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These imaginings
September 6, 2008
Giving Birth
At night’s end, as I think
Of our brief encounter
And what it has given me,
A poem comes rushing out
Of me, swift as an overdue
Infant, equally belligerent,
Wielding its metaphor like
A flaming sword poised over
My little agitated heart.
It is so like the child
I will never conceive, but
Will nurture, feed, and rear
For how long, before leaving
Me old, gray, and hollowed:
A husk of my old self.
Under starlight, as I think
Of children we’ll never beget,
The wife I will never become,
The poems tear themselves
Out of my mind’s womb,
Prescient, crying like mad,
Landing wetly on the blank
Sheets of paper: immortals,
At least, until I say otherwise.
It makes me wonder if all
Our union—imagined or
Wished, will ever produce are
Poems, borne out of pleasure,
Or that excruciating desire
That turns me inside out.
manila, 2003, edited phnom penh, 2008
copyright Michael P. De Guzman
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i like it!!!!
bow…:-)
I enjoyed last night..obvious ba?
sana kayo den ni vic…
Posted by mai at September 6, 2008, 9:51 am