Balak:::Tambal

ni Jona Branzuela Bering
Inusnos ang duga
sa panahon sa samad
aron hingpit na kining
maayo. Hinul-hinola ang
bunol sa kaguol hangtod
magkaanap na kinig kahanaw—
sama nga magkaanap ug
kahilis ang imong ngan
dinhi sa handurawan.
Sakto gyod diay si
Mama—ang tambal mao
ra gyod diay ang gaway
sa orasan.

Poetry:::tribute to cesar vallejo

I was searching for the published and unpublished poems of Robert Bly when I encountered Cesar's name. He is the literature that Bly hadn't found in America rather, in Europe.

I want to have a copy of his works yet I only found four poems out from his three published collections, and i can't even pinpoint where these poems belonged to.


Cesar Vallejo (March 16, 1892 - April 15, 1938) published only three books of poetry but is nonetheless considered one of the great poetic innovators of the 20th century. Always a step ahead of the literary currents, each of his books was distinct from the others and in its own sense revolutionary.

Black Stone on Top of a White Stone

I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm,
On a day I already remember.
I shall die in Paris-- it does not bother me--
Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn.

It shall be a Thursday, because today, Thursday
As I put down these lines, I have set my shoulders
To the evil. Never like today have I turned,
And headed my whole journey to the ways where I am alone.

César Vallejo is dead. They struck him,
All of them, though he did nothing to them,
They hit him hard with a stick and hard also
With the end of a rope. Witnesses are: the Thursdays,
The shoulder bones, the loneliness, the rain, and the roads...

To My Brother Miguel In Memoriam

Brother, today I sit on the brick bench of the house,
where you make a bottomless emptiness.
I remember we used to play at this hour, and mama
caressed us: "But, sons..."

Now I go hide
as before, from all evening
lectures, and I trust you not to give me away.
Through the parlor, the vestibule, the corridors.
Later, you hide, and I do not give you away.
I remember we made ourselves cry,
brother, from so much laughing.

Miguel, you went into hiding
one night in August, toward dawn,
but, instead of chuckling, you were sad.
And the twin heart of those dead evenings
grew annoyed at not finding you. And now
a shadow falls on my soul.

Listen, brother, don't be late
coming out. All right? Mama might worry.


Paris, October 1936

From all of this I am the only one who leaves.
From this bench I go away, from my pants,
from my great situation, from my actions,
from my number split side to side,
from all of this I am the only one who leaves.

From the Champs Elysées or as the strange
alley of the Moon makes a turn,
my death goes away, my cradle leaves,
and, surrounded by people, alone, cut loose,
my human resemblance turns around
and dispatches its shadows one by one.

And I move away from everything, since everything
remains to create my alibi:
my shoe, its eyelet, as well as its mud
and even the bend in the elbow
of my own buttoned shirt.

Black Messengers. (Translation of Los heraldos negros)

There are in life such hard blows . . . I don't know! Blows seemingly from God's wrath; as if before them the undertow of all our sufferings is embedded in our souls . . . I don't know! There are few; but are . . . opening dark furrows in the fiercest of faces and the strongest of loins, They are perhaps the colts of barbaric Attilas or the dark heralds Death sends us. They are the deep falls of the Christ of the soul, of some adorable one that Destiny Blasphemes. Those bloody blows are the crepitation of some bread getting burned on us by the oven's door And the man . . . poor . . . poor! He turns his eyes around, like when patting calls us upon our shoulder; he turns his crazed maddened eyes, and all of life's experiences become stagnant, like a puddle of guilt, in a daze. There are such hard blows in life. I don't know

Balak:::Ang Pag-inusara (OFW)

ni Jona Branzuela Bering

Ang salin sa kabugnawsa sayong kabuntagon

ninghapuhap sa bahin
sa kama nga wa
nasagyaran sa imong
bukobuko.

nahipatik usab sa balaybalakasoy.blogspot.com ug unmuteness.blogspot.com

Poetry:::Tribute to Margaret Atwood

Since I'm reading her Dancing Girls and Other Stories. Her poignant subtleties made her works remarkable, which molded her as one of the finest American writers of our time. After The Dancing... maybe, I will make time to read her three novels I got; but for the meantime, her poems are here.


Siren Song

This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:

the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see the beached skulls

the song nobody knows
because anyone who has heard it
is dead, and the others can't remember.

Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?

I don'y enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical

with these two faethery maniacs,
I don't enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.

I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song

is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique

at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.

This Is A Photograph Of Me

It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;

then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion

but if you look long enough,
eventually
you will be able to see me.)

Is/Not

Love is not a profession
genteel or otherwise

sex is not dentistry
the slick filling of aches and cavities

you are not my doctor
you are not my cure,

nobody has that
power, you are merely a fellow/traveller

Give up this medical concern,
buttoned, attentive,

permit yourself anger
and permit me mine

which needs neither
your approval nor your suprise

which does not need to be made legal
which is not against a disease

but agaist you,
which does not need to be understood

or washed or cauterized,
which needs instead

to be said and said.
Permit me the present tense.

You Fit Into Me

You fit into me
like a hook into an eye
A fish hook
An open eye

You Take My Hand

You take my hand and
I'm suddenly in a bad movie,
it goes on and on and
why am I fascinated

We waltz in slow motion
through an air stale with aphrodisms
we meet behind the endless ptted palms
you climb through the wrong windows

Other people are leaving
but I always stay till the end
I paid my money, I
want to see what happens.

In chance bathtubs I have to
peel you off me
in the form of smoke and melted
celluloid
Have to face it I'm
finally an addict,
the smell of popcorn and worn plush
lingers for weeks