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

Film:::The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Benjamin Button: It's a funny thing about comin' home. Looks the same, smells the same, feels the same. You'll realize what's changed is you.

Benjamin Button: Some nights, I'd have to sleep alone. I didn't mind, I would listen to the house breathin'. All those people sleepin'. I felt... safe.

Daisy: And in the spring, 2003, he looked at me. And I knew, that he knew, who I was. And then he closed his eyes, as if to go to sleep.

Mrs. Maple: Benjamin, we're meant to lose the people we love. How else would we know how important they are to us?

Benjamin Button: Along the way you bump into people who make a dent on your life. Some people get struck by lightning. Some are born to sit by a river. Some have an ear for music. Some are artists. Some swim the English Channel. Some know buttons. Some know Shakespeare. Some are mothers. And some people can dance

Benjamin Button: I was thinking how nothing lasts, and what a shame that is.
Daisy: Some things last.