Tag Archives: Ian Salvaña

Waning days

Shame we have seen the world’s beauty, mountains, forests, seas only to be buried inside its earth. We lose command of everything that matters, life when we can still see it, when it is graspable, allows to be touched. We … Continue reading

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On the way to Switzerland

I am writing this in the dark as the sleeping bus zooms into the streets of Salzburg. Twice now I glimpsed this city, both cold nights approaching the winter. And twice the dark conceals it, street lights never really sharpening … Continue reading

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Forgetting

I eat the earth Knowing it was you Who removed roads Carrying my feet to eternity. How do you want To be missed, my dear, Each year a different Form of heartache? A moss-laden km marker, Asphalt cracks, Falling debris … Continue reading

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Untitled

   For S. You who so longed to see words breaking bones, unfleshed in the bold move to finally un-blank piles of papers, raw, smooth, like the creases of your smile, of your head on top of brows the other enduring … Continue reading

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Absurdity

Absurdity is an apple emigrating from the glaciers of a refrigerator: its body its own hard knuckles the first hour it is borne from cold. The next time around, its skin fidgets, loses water beads, softens like a swollen sun, … Continue reading

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Note on Ortiz’s Woven Stone as a Gift to Percy

Percy, The same day chases the night all throughout time’s passing. While you breathe, feel the sky’s breathing in its occasional rain. Go for the downpour. In the city. In the barrio. Towards the mountains and the vast deep seas. … Continue reading

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Amihan

The city only heals if it rains. Calm, still, quiet: an afterthought. Lights will illuminate the battered skins of roads, pedestrian stripes losing their mundaneness, praying for the last sole to press on their body. The vehicles are the first … Continue reading

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The placenta of evening stars

After Jim Morrison Children are born navigators. The have crossed torrid wetlands, Slept in tombs full of water, Made love with the dark Before they open eyes and see The mutiny of mundane days, Waiting for the dying Of their … Continue reading

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Dispatch from Athens

Towards the distance that will whisk me to Budapest, thirty kilos of baggage do not weigh heavier on my back more than fear. Going back to the airport from the city center, I gulp the Aegean inside the aloof noise … Continue reading

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The soul according to Pablo Neruda

“Always, always you recede through the evenings towards where the night goes erasing statues” – trans. by W. S. Merwin, from Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair What piece of sun would I witness upon this foreign plains … Continue reading

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Allow me one last time

Allow me to write one more poem. This, words I can’t find meanings for, is my own pilgrimage to forgetting. The moonless night means no tide is yet to bother our silences, eyes closed although in our minds, we look … Continue reading

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Infinitives

To inhabit the sea, its unknown underworlds, its constant life To make tides taller than skyscrapers, in cities tongues can’t name To make kilometer markers float in waters near, far, unreachable To touch, to trail behind, to kiss an entire … Continue reading

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Tumaliktik after a long time

Zagajewski told me before that he no longer learns from philosophy, poetry and curiosity, and he has forgotten to write long lines of metaphors and onomatopoeias.                         * I forgive him because his time to dive into the waters of the … Continue reading

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the wind, the listener

Write what I know. Always the arguing disposition of the mind uncertain, crowded with thoughts only known to the heart, possibly unknowable to the world, unkempt in history, losing vivid images grasping to be pictured out. The walls are bleak … Continue reading

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a habit of words

every night he sleeps for two hours, two hours shy from his first class, another two hours before he finishes his 60th book in the week: gone with the wind by margaret mitchell. as to how the plot unfolds, a … Continue reading

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When you finally go home,

remember, I am still writing an elegy about skins. Don’t yet forget that our bodies first met, all the frictions of sweat suffocating the humid air, before words came out as babbles. This is not to say we sin when … Continue reading

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They uttered in echoes

An ode to the unforeseen: night crawling in the bamboo floors, sleeping with the snores of the Badjao, quiet, still quiet, like Amihan’s winds, never whimpering with the cold feet of the kids as they dream of a clean ocean, … Continue reading

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Baler

Inside an almost-empty bus treading the terrains of Sierra Madre, he feels cramped up, knowing breathing noiselessly is never a tender thing. He asks himself a thing or two how roads up here are mercilessly less of an untended needle … Continue reading

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To the flowers of Heidelberg

You remain tall, petal colors astonishingly bright, in the quiet creeks of a White city. It isn’t Tondo that looks at you with great sin, and you do not seek anymore the life of the slum besides black, brown, black. … Continue reading

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Elio

for N Call me by your name or by your deep thoughts on Heraclitus or simply by the mystery that speaks from that David’s star hanging on your neck, call me whatever you want, for I am yours, for I … Continue reading

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Sang mga gikan lawod

(To those who came from the sea) 1. it is always a question in history: the truth to places, to the waters, to the land inhabited by the lumad— in carolina lake, the tubod has stopped spitting water, the taste … Continue reading

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When the Heart Flies from Its Place

After Eric Gamalinda & Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta The line of the poem always begins here: its first words its home. But: longing, and still amid age, wandering, finding meaning in the shaping landscape of water where there is no fixed geography. … Continue reading

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Musing on a painting of Vincent van Gogh

Its worn-out skin is a study in want:       the soles             freckled by sweat,                         the leather                                     hardened by time become masterful             in rearing to their own restfulness They       have been there                         quietly waiting,                                     but no one touches them they thirst for … Continue reading

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To fly a kite

we wait a little more before 3 o’clock arrives: the slow peeking of the eyelids, the imitated noise of heavy men snoring, the weight of our arms clinging to each other when we act of sleeping. Ate Esme has no … Continue reading

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Notes from the desert

for Ten Ilajas It’s the dunes that talk to me, how they loosen up in each other’s embrace, garrisoned by the inevitable touch of sunlight. I look at the body of Al-Dahna blanketing the vast deserts of Arabia, unbruised, seems … Continue reading

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