4/3/2011

8

I’m enjoying the stillness: that great word that reminds us that sound too is a form of motion. But the shadows do move. A crow calls.

8 Comments


  1. Parable of Sound

    Never made new, only
    made over– And so at the end

    of the tale, the seeker finds
    himself in the basement, in the vault

    of an ice fort, somewhere in a remote
    valley– In the stillness of a room,

    a fire burns: old furniture, parts
    of other buildings. Dust motes

    make hundreds of shadows but only one
    vibrates to the sound of his waking

    heart. When he finds his voice, the eaves
    drop their long-chiseled burdens. The world

    is etched with a flurry of wings, the call
    of crows; moaning, laughing, weeping.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    04 03 2011


    1. The story of my life, Luisa. I can’t drop “the long-chiseled burdens”, though. They seem to define the poet’s angst.



  3. LONG SHADOWS

    Where blends the cane leaves with mist and rain/ Blends the shadow and the movement/ Each defining courage from fear, fear from pain.—Bivouac, 1990 From “A Theory of Echoes.”

    (For Beau at 44)

    I call it my hammock hour: time for stillness
    to descend with sundown, shadows grown long
    among the cane leaves, and I hum your lullaby.

    “You were a break of laughter firmly cut
    on father’s chin before your birth, your life
    was a smile in the mischief of cigars.
    You have been born before in a shock of memory
    when all mother could remember were nights
    father was the agile dancer dancing dense
    the deep dark duty that you were. O my son.”

    I enjoy the stillness that makes sounds crisp
    even as I talk to the shadows on my porch walls:
    “When did you come home? I must have dozed off.
    Have I ever thanked you for naming your firstborn
    after my father, and your second after me? Is it true?
    Mother said not after me, really. After you. No matter.
    I named you after me. And they shall have longer shadows.”

    But the sounds and the shadows move as movements move
    and disappear with the night. I, too, turn down my hammock.

    —Albert B. Casuga
    Mississauga, Ont., 04-03-11


    1. “your life
      was a smile in the mischief of cigars.”
      Love that!


      1. Glad you like that line. It is also a favourite mantra. The poem marks the 44th birthday anniversary of my only son.

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