Via Negativa

I am poor and I owe
an incalculable debt
to the world— I have taken
more than my share of what
it has given, and still 
it does not begrudge another
chance to secure my so-called
fortune. I owe a debt to my
friends, who puzzle, together
with me, the ledger figures
in our shared accounting of 
this life. On one side, I am
still short of a complete
reckoning, a clearing of 
the slate. On the other, 
the hourglass sheds its
crystals at a faster rate.
It has a narrow waist 
that reminds me of a certain 
ache that falls somewhere 
between needing more and 
wanting less, that at some 
point it will start its motion 
all over again, not out 
of meanness or spite
but because that is its 
nature. And I am rich with
a surplus, always, of feeling.
There is so much, I often
don’t know what to do with it;
and other times, it saves me
from thinking I am completely 
bereft, empty as a pauper’s purse.

~ after "The Funeral of Shelley," Louis Edouard Fournier; 1889


Soft tissue, mostly.
Hair, skin, nails, muscles, 
organs. All the water of the body
turns to vapor. Some parts of teeth 
survive the heat, though gums liquefy 
as pulp. Bone fragments can also survive; 
and the jaw, the skull. In Fournier's 
picture, Mary Shelley kneels in the sand, 
hands crossed over her breast. Byron, 
Trelawney and Hunt argue over the charred 
bit of muscle that surprisingly survives 
the fire— but Mary gets to keep what was 
believed to be her poet-husband's calcified 
heart, after he drowned and was cremated 
on a beach in Viareggio. She wrapped it in 
a bit of silk or linen and some pages of 
his poetry. It lay in her drawer until 
its discovery after her death.

I don't remember what I was doing the year I turned 14.
Besides school, I mean. I was not yet in high school, but
I know my parents were talking about transferring me out
of the Catholic school I'd attended since kindergarten.
My father in particular wanted me to go to the University
of the Philippines high school in our city, because he 
himself was a U.P. (Law School) graduate, and because
he claimed he was willing to risk my becoming an atheist
as long as it meant I could get a good education, one
that would teach me how to use my mind. 

We were a family of avid readers, but changing schools
did make a difference— I felt more challenged, among my 
new cohort who were not only smart but also (I thought)
seemed so much more worldly and cool in comparison to
my awkward self. Super introverted, I didn't talk much 
unless called on. But even then, I knew I was good 
with words. I knew that I wanted to write, though I
wasn't quite sure what that meant, back then. 

Before I transferred high schools, a previous
teacher had given our class an oral test on metaphor;
I failed it, I think not because of a complete lack
of understanding, but because the premises were not
correct. That teacher had us take turns looking at 
a simple watercolor (mountains, trees) on her desk,
and asked us to think of metaphors (remember, no "like" 
or "as"). Everyone else seemed to have no lack of things
to say, which also meant they were totally spin-doctoring
the assignment. When it was my turn, I looked at the flat 
watercolor which had no nuance or detail. I said, It's just 
a mountain and some trees. 

Despite that seemingly inauspicious experience, my path 
has led to where I am today— and I feel so very grateful 
and lucky that I'm able to do what I love best— write 
and teach writing and literature, talk poetry and writing 
with students and colleagues and a community of writing 
friends both where I am and through virtual connection— 
many of these thanks to Via Negativa and Dave Bonta, 
for the space he's shared here where I've kept a daily 
writing practice (writing and posting at least) a poem 
a day for the last 14 years.  

This daily practice has allowed me to put at least 4 books
and chapbooks together. More importantly, it's given me 
so many kinds of insight about myself and my writing; it's
the high point of every day, and it's here where I get 
excited about trying new things or mulling over 
returning questions.

Here's to the next 14 - and more.

How does God look 
       into the hearts of humans—

Is that kind of seeing like a scope 
       whose end has a tiny 

camera the doctor guided up
       your nose, past the twin 

clappers of the larynx 
       that vibrate when air passes

through them with breath, then down 
       into the esophagus? I watched

on the monitor its progress through
       that smooth, pink tunnel, but even 

an instrument for enhanced seeing has 
       its limits. A friend described his 

cardiac catheterization: a thin tube threaded 
       through a blood vessel in the arm or groin, 

for replacement of a heart valve without 
       need for surgery. What is a prod 

without a goad, an eye in front of a mirror,
       a lure without the dream of a body

weaving through depths of water? 
       It's difficult to unsee what has been

seen and cherished, difficult not to want 
       to make sure the beloved is safely following

out of the depths. Why make our hearts this breakable, 
       only to prove that only one of us can win?

When we arrived, there was only one chair in the upper room, 
and a square of sunlight.

Isn't it endearing, that prelude before the camera picks up 
the details? You can see how slow time is even as it lapses.

The hairline fissure in the corner is patched with plaster.

It is a known fact that even houses shift and breathe.

November again, and here  ground is stitched with 
the shadows of leaves.

For weeks now, after trash pickup, we've found our bins
on the other side of the street. A neighbor wants to start 
a petition to address this.

We have a twelve-year-old bottle of wine that still sits 
unopened on the rack. 

Nothing was promised to us though we made promises. 

Perhaps the tiny diamond that loosened from 
its prongs winks somewhere under the floorboards.
 
Last week the skies glowed a deep magenta shot through
with green— like blown glass tempered with gold salts and
metal oxides.

We clear out boxes, odds and ends of the years 
crammed into a space for transients: everything

we couldn't then bear to part with or throw
away, taking up space in each corner. Without

a garage, even leftover paint cans from touchups
of exterior siding are here; the binders I put

together for my last appointment review, our
daughter's first pair of shoes. A one-burner

camping stove, Christmas lights, rechargeable
batteries for the weed-whacker. Light from the east-

facing window only touches the headboard through
gaps in the blinds. Below the south-facing window,

the heater keeps up its whooshing strain. Are we
clearing things out for some new delight? Rumi says

we should be grateful for whoever comes, because 
each has been sent as a guide from beyond.