A travesty, they say,
a tapestry, we contend,
as we worm verses
into languaged
silk.
Or silt,
they say, these coccoons
are empty anyway--
Cotton, they add,
cotton
is the cloth of the people.
Silk is as good as silt to
them,
butterflies a luxury
because inedible,
except in extreme cases
because hunger
gives them
strange appetites.
Poetry is as silk is
just as novels are, for that matter,
as pretty flowers
on a table.
When empty, the flowers fade
into other meanings:
"Poet,
can verses in your language
feed me?"
Can your verses
coccoon
my fear? Can it
shut off
the howling
of my children,
their hungry mouths
wide as mothwings,
the wick
of my lamp gone dry?
"Poet,
can verses in my language
feed me?"
Can they build
a coccoon
large enough
to weave
my anger?
Or
will your verses
remain
food for the few
who love tapestries
who love silk
who love butterflies
and flowers
on their tables?
For Edwin Thumboo and All of Us Who Suffer Through English in Asia
Alfrredo Navarro Salanga
