Vintage from cactus land [poetry]

Title

Creator

Patalinjug, Ricardo I.

Language

English

Year

1965

Rights

In Copyright - Educational Use Permitted

Fulltext

by RICARDO I. P Al AH»JUG This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man's hand Under the twinkle cf a fading star. --T. S. EI.IOT I. THE SOLITARY MAN The day has ended. Dry lawns Strewn with dry leaves yawn The hours away in silence. The Winds groan and disseminate The pungent odor of decay The waning moon whimpers While the shrivelled bare Branches of dying trees moan Their dying complaints. With weary footsteps and with Dusty boots and with aching Bones, the master drags himself Home: to the home that is Always waiting; to the same Cell filled with the same Disgusting hollowness. To the Same wife that is always asking Silly questions. The dog wags its tail tiredly The master taps its head lightly Heaves a sigh and closes his eyes Then settles down on a rocking chair (Like a fallen scarecrow) And waits for supper. The radio Echoes in muffled screams The stale news of the day While in the drawer the revolver Waits for the trembling hand To press its cold trigger. II. THE CONFUSED MAN O what shall I do? What Am I going to do? If the Couch of a psychiatrist And the theories of Freud And Jung will not do, where O where shall I go? III. THE ROBOTS The rhythm of hurrying feet In dusty pavements (Salubrious but graceless) Is like the beating of A desperate heart Hurrying for the last hour. Green light: like automatons Abruptly they stop. Red light: they flow like a waterfall Frantically conscious of Time For the Great Clock chimes The hour of dusk. O the battered composure of the soul O the great fissure of the great wall Why should I care? O why should I care? I'll go to the meadows Only to see the scarecrows While in the city the robots Come and go talking about Vietnam And the dementia of Sukarno. IV. INVITATION Let us hum Gounod's Ave Maria Let someone toll the bell In the belfry tall But don't ask me For whom the bell tolls For John Donne had given the answer In rhythm macabre: It tolls for thee. Write your epitaph And I will write mine too Hurry up please its almost time Wash your hands And I will wash mine too Hurry up please its almost time The coffin is finished Though the paint is still wet But the hole has been dug And the mourners are ready. Bow down your head And I will bow down mine too One. Mea culpa Two: Mea culpa Three: Mea maxima culpa. Page Thirty THE CAROLINIAN Aug.-Sept.. 1965

Media