{"id":16352,"date":"2020-08-01T00:00:29","date_gmt":"2020-08-01T05:00:29","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/?p=16352"},"modified":"2020-07-31T23:53:51","modified_gmt":"2020-08-01T04:53:51","slug":"my-beloved-ysabel","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/archives\/16352","title":{"rendered":"My Beloved Ysabel"},"content":{"rendered":"

A poem by Marlon Hacla, translated from the Filipino by Kristine Ong Muslim<\/em><\/p>\n

When you left, researchers began to dream up theories<\/span><\/p>\n

about how you and I came to be: a few watchful midday waves <\/span><\/p>\n

and scenes exacting redemption from the sea. A series of creation myths<\/span><\/p>\n

weighed down by tragedy and some calculated doubts. But I do not<\/span><\/p>\n

also know. I could have collected a broken television set,<\/span><\/p>\n

some rice grains, a stranger\u2019s nude pictures, and I can just as easily<\/span><\/p>\n

set up a new version of history. I am now repairing<\/span><\/p>\n

the hinges of your door. The windows take turns letting in<\/span><\/p>\n

the shade, the curtain tampers with the paleness of light, someone gives<\/span><\/p>\n

away his name for the old wall against where I pushed you, where<\/span><\/p>\n

I stroked your collarbone so I can feign interest in your figure,<\/span><\/p>\n

so I can, for a short time, pore over your skin before I fill you<\/span><\/p>\n

with my interpretation, before I depress you with ideas that contradict<\/span><\/p>\n

what I want to smooth out among the parts moistened by the night.<\/span><\/p>\n

Meanwhile, rain pours another set of questions.<\/span><\/p>\n

Guttural whispers were passed from one leaf to another,<\/span><\/p>\n

the garden blossomed with impressions, and there was a likely opening<\/span><\/p>\n

of a thousand once-lidded eyes to peek at whether or not it is time<\/span><\/p>\n

to wake. The nipa thatches are weeping. I am burning<\/span><\/p>\n

receipts and confiscating mirrors. Let me<\/span><\/p>\n

use your notebook because of this muddled-up situation<\/span><\/p>\n

ongoing while the world covets a shape to call its own, while there are screams<\/span><\/p>\n

from faraway objects, while the surface of the sea banters<\/span><\/p>\n

with the hush of its groundswell, which is maybe its special way<\/span><\/p>\n

of carrying out its vow that although it knows wanting <\/span><\/p>\n

of the turbulence of the forces, it needs to spin, it needs<\/span><\/p>\n

to pursue its own wonders to advance<\/span><\/p>\n

its own beauty, for the sake of those who drown themselves<\/span><\/p>\n

in its soul. My beloved Ysabel, I am putting the final touches<\/span><\/p>\n

on new cracks of dawn while you are still not here. I am chronicling<\/span><\/p>\n

the damages I have inflicted while you are still refusing to talk.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am picking camias blossoms and have just finished<\/span><\/p>\n

a repartee with Lara and Violeta. I have just been to a chair factory<\/span><\/p>\n

since we were robbed again while my back was turned. Still here<\/span><\/p>\n

are your sentient rocks, the flutes, though among the stolen items was the severed head<\/span><\/p>\n

of Saint Diomedes, unfortunately. I inserted a rubato<\/span><\/p>\n

in the shrill wind to bring this afternoon to an end. I am mortified<\/span><\/p>\n

by the unabashed blueness of sky, but it is truly the one thing that livens up<\/span><\/p>\n

my statements, even if I am perpetually shushed up, even if I keep losing a part<\/span><\/p>\n

of my soul. Unclothed, I am now hearing voices<\/span><\/p>\n

and I feel better, it feels like the thrill of unearthing new<\/span><\/p>\n

treasures, like I am making a big step forward in the discovery of your<\/span><\/p>\n

fears, one solid foundation after another is added to my proficiency<\/span><\/p>\n

in conveying my ideas. I want to show off to you how I can now be mocked<\/span><\/p>\n

using only a few simple sentences and a short<\/span><\/p>\n

tabulation, I will translate it into discourses on suffering.<\/span><\/p>\n

Handpicked units of infidelities. Floral blanket to cloak<\/span><\/p>\n

two bodies twitching slowly, moving precisely<\/span><\/p>\n

toward the innocence of sleek flesh, back to the silvery stares<\/span><\/p>\n

that track the dark\u2019s explosion of secrets, briefly hesitating at the first sign<\/span><\/p>\n

of panic because just like a new opening in the bark of a tree,<\/span><\/p>\n

it will sing sonatinas until it finds the one it is destined to kiss.<\/span><\/p>\n

Now, I rub my lips with the glow from a mound<\/span><\/p>\n

of lit candles. I smash plums against the wall. An old woman burns<\/span><\/p>\n

next door the dry leaves I have swept into a heap in my backyard,<\/span><\/p>\n

clouds capture other clouds, widows rehearse<\/span><\/p>\n

their dance between the stars. While you still haven\u2019t sent me<\/span><\/p>\n

a letter, I watch how the view sings about its long-gone thrills,<\/span><\/p>\n

watch the contented sighs of the shoreline, cut up<\/span><\/p>\n

pictures about the end of the world. I have not ceased from sharpening<\/span><\/p>\n

my tongue. I still go about matching sounds with images<\/span><\/p>\n

in an attempt to make sense of my own<\/span><\/p>\n

fate. One corner in your wardrobe closet serves as the joint where leaves<\/span><\/p>\n

of my remembrances spring out. I gave new names<\/span><\/p>\n

to the things you have left behind: Maria for the comb, Felicidad<\/span><\/p>\n

for your five handkerchiefs, Clemente for your yellowing<\/span><\/p>\n

diary, Herminia for your discarded chemise.<\/span><\/p>\n

One of those things I truly take pleasure in, like the slow, gentle strumming<\/span><\/p>\n

of guitar strings, like a woman\u2019s body sinking<\/span><\/p>\n

in a lake. Like a pair of hide to rouse<\/span><\/p>\n

the celestial systems of interrogating the ghosts<\/span><\/p>\n

of our waning strengths. Like how you used to call me Mighty<\/span><\/p>\n

Warrior in a distant past, when death was still unheard of and we still take<\/span><\/p>\n

instructions from the stars. Three dances of merriment are performed<\/span><\/p>\n

by banana trees. Today is Auntie Maring\u2019s funeral<\/span><\/p>\n

so tomorrow, we will look for doves, we will prepare<\/span><\/p>\n

stories about hauntings, roses that have stalks longer than ten<\/span><\/p>\n

inches, and ten cases of beer for the suddenness<\/span><\/p>\n

of the late night. This world has furthered its bedlam.<\/span><\/p>\n

A ruby pulses inside a pocket and then stops, pulses<\/span><\/p>\n

again for a few seconds, and remains still for a long<\/span><\/p>\n

time until it is touched once again with the wonder that there is<\/span><\/p>\n

such a thing that can wound dreams, but on the one hand, <\/span><\/p>\n

it is a wound as well if you closely inspect all aspects of the nature<\/span><\/p>\n

of the reflected light it carries: rays of bliss, devotion<\/span><\/p>\n

that remains unstructured, bloodied bird chirping at a mirror. Thin<\/span><\/p>\n

and pallid wings folded over and over and flapped again<\/span><\/p>\n

for a hundred times to create a deafening drone as<\/span><\/p>\n

harbinger of the changing shape of our history.<\/span><\/p>\n

I already miss being among sacred things, may you allow<\/span><\/p>\n

me to pack up my things in search of you. I folded in the luggage<\/span><\/p>\n

the entire altar, I saved up strings of ylang-ylang<\/span><\/p>\n

and readied with plans for keeping them <\/span><\/p>\n

fresh, I only need a stray breeze and some drops<\/span><\/p>\n

of rain and I can already make visible the areas that hide your<\/span><\/p>\n

traces. The moment I sense, no matter how slightly, your light<\/span><\/p>\n

being near, I will propel fireworks with a hundred<\/span><\/p>\n

different colors to the sky, and may you reply with a never-ending chorus<\/span><\/p>\n

and I will run to you willingly, as you willed.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/h6>\n
MARLON HACLA & KRISTINE ONG MUSLIM<\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A poem by Marlon Hacla, translated from the Filipino by Kristine Ong Muslim When you left, researchers began to dream up theories about how you and I came to be: a few watchful midday waves and scenes exacting redemption from the sea. A series of creation myths weighed down by tragedy and some calculated doubts. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2211,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[1],"tags":[36],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-4fK","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16352"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2211"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=16352"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16352\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16381,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16352\/revisions\/16381"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=16352"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=16352"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=16352"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}