Lifewatch

(For Monico Atienza)

by Edel Garcellano
Contributed to Bulatlat

I

A day before Christmas

& he lies comatose

at Mary Chiles.

Is it a way of forgetting

how long he has waged

war against the empire,

or the body now refuses

what the mind perseveres?

He doesn’t even know

he’s taking a long nap -

Something probably

he has dreamed of

after all those exhausting years.

His friends keep vigil.

That’s all they can do.

If only the gates of the universe

will open & disgorge

angels to tell them

the real score.

But his circle is used to waiting:

A revolution is a handiwork

of patience.

It will go on without Nick.

But it’s impossible to imagine

the future without him.

II

He is not your kind of poet.

His language smells

of the elemental earth,

wind & fire

& harvest of fruit trees

by men & women huddled

at the edge of the land

talking of the coming of the rain.

He knows the city

like the palm of his hands

but he wouldn’t text

of the dark alleys

& the secret meetings

of angry hearts

who defy the state holocaust…

He doesn’t have to write his poems,

really.

He lives them anyway.

He is not your kind of poet.

III

Too light is the crown

on the heads

of young bucks

who croon about their secret pains;

too cheap is the applause

of state lackeys that grates their ears;

& too brittle

are the plaques that adorn their walls.

Poetry takes a long, long time.

Like life itself.

A neat lesson for those

who claim the title

so quickly, so easily.

IV

He has an eye for beauty,

of course

but he would quip about it

in a low voice

as if such were a difficult struggle…

He would laugh,

as though to rub an aching bone

of impossible desires.

Does he know the limits

of his passion?

But his persistence

to change the order of things

envelopes all.

V

The prognosis is grim:

The damage is extensive;

he’ll be a vegetable

if he survives.

She assures that a fund drive

would be initiated by comrades & friends…

Yes, it’s flailing at the moon.

If God is history

there must be something about it

that escapes our mortal reasoning.

VI

The rememberers

who turn tears into guns

& words into a hand

over our hearts

dare not utter

a word of comfort nor pain:

Silence is all

before so much grief.

VII

How does one weigh a life?

“As heavy as a mountain,

as light as a feather?”

The state will not honor him.

The imperialists & fascists

will shrug their shoulders.

The academe will sigh in relief.

His friends will huddle in a corner

thinking among themselves

how brief is life

when nights are long

& sleep does not come.

VIII

He stirs from his deep sleep,

as though the waves

that carry him floating on the river Lethe

inside his head

have tickled his ears.

But he’s not listening.

The Gods are merciful.

IX

(Nexus)

He explains,

as though before a jury,

why he couldn’t make it

to Mary Chiles:

“It is not,” he avers,”so much

the fear of setting foot

at the hospital

where he would smell the strange

eucalyptus fragrance

of death

as the terror that he couldn’t handle

seeing him

at his most vulnerable:”

O Schodenfreude!

He missed his father’s

death throes by a few hours.

But probably it was by some crazy design:

He sees him still very much alive

in his mind.

The illusion must persist.

Posted by Bulatlat

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