From Play to Poem

Talk about crossing genres, so to speak. On the way home from work today, I pleasantly stumbled upon this poem by Darwin Chiong while browsing through the latest issue of the Philippines Free Press. Having no talent at all for writing and analyzing poems, I have the greatest admiration for those who can.

For those who know me and the subject of Chiong's poem below, they (should) understand the reason for this post. My reaction after reading the poem? Cooooool.

If you're reading this, Darwin, hope you don't mind. And thanks. Ü


THOUGHTS AFTER WATCHING FIRST SNOW OF NOVEMBER AT CCP
AFTER BIENVENIDO N. SANTOS

by Darwin Chiong

I imagined sinuous bodies of streets swarmed with snow
Slowly sinking into a life, into slopes of memory, the cold
Crevices. Spaces where fireplace cannot warm
The freezing hands. In my mind the snow was whirling
And whirling around an old house in a shaken snow globe.

Fil Acayan looked out the window filled with snow
And wondered what else it could bring: an afterthought
Of autumn, naked branches, the dancers gliding
In the air like a snowflake when his fingers unfurl,
An open palm in the cold, white ghosts of trees.

He saw how their fingers parted the air. The dancers
Limned sway of bamboo leaves on their hips, slope
Of mountains on their shoulders, flap of bird wings
On their skirts. Each flick of their finger, a step
Into warm memories away from that cold country.

A whiteness spilled on the streets. But before that a sound
Of longing spooled on his tape. Then a growing hole of loneliness
Unravels within. How quickly snow turned to water on his palm,
Slipping through spaces between his fingers. When he walked,
I heard the cadence of footsteps, longing to find another way home.

(Published on page 36 in the October 13, 2007 issue of the Philippines Free Press).