Poetry::: When Is a Poem Already a Poem

When Is a Poem Already a Poem
Simeon Dumdum Jr.

I wasn’t listening when you asked that question
I was looking out the window, at the boat
That was just then leaving the port of Dumaguete.
One more day and already I imagined
Myself on that boat, slumped in a chair,
Holding a book like a cup of coffee,
Hoping that during the passage across
The strait I could read without spilling
A word. But then I remembered I still
Had to send someone to buy me a ticket,
And there was your question, and how for the boat
And gone out in the poem of the sea, now
That I wished someone could see the mountains, but not us
Already we had become the Cuernos de Negros

Poetry::: When Is a Poem Already a Poem

When Is a Poem Already a Poem

Simeon Dumdum Jr.

I wasn’t listening when you asked that question

I was looking out the window, at the boat

That was just then leaving the port of Dumaguete.

One more day and already I imagined

Myself on that boat, slumped in a chair,

Holding a book like a cup of coffee,

Hoping that during the passage across

The strait I could read without spilling

A word. But then I remembered I still

Had to send someone to buy me a ticket,

And there was your question, and how for the boat

And gone out in the poem of the sea, now

That I wished someone could see the mountains, but not us

Already we had become the Cuernos de Negros

Poetry::: When Is a Poem Already a Poem

When Is a Poem Already a Poem

Simeon Dumdum Jr.

I wasn’t listening when you asked that question

I was looking out the window, at the boat

That was just then leaving the port of Dumaguete.

One more day and already I imagined

Myself on that boat, slumped in a chair,

Holding a book like a cup of coffee,

Hoping that during the passage across

The strait I could read without spilling

A word. But then I remembered I still

Had to send someone to buy me a ticket,

And there was your question, and how for the boat

And gone out in the poem of the sea, now

That I wished someone could see the mountains, but not us

Already we had become the Cuernos de Negros

Quoting:::James Baldwin

I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.
—James Baldwin, Notes of a Native Son