Hanging by the bridge, we lost the caricature that we thought is everything to have in our time. Then times are smooth and we dedicate poetries to people; the times are turbulent and then we throw away our verses. In the fringe of companionless, stormy nights and repeating anxieties, poetry, wonder, creation can rise like bullets emerge from a truculent strafing. To be back on track, we must walk a step. Poetry is travel. When one weeps in the corner over the known contiguity of rats, there is no chance for poetry.

Summer in La Union and little boats and the hard bites of real reality
Summer in La Union and little boats and the hard bites of real reality
Advertisements