*My humble tribute to Poet and National Artist for Literature Cirilo F. Bautista
nothing comes easy
nothing by way of gain
or loss, neither in this life
nor the next, or that belligerent
other; all comes with a price
silence, to some, weeping
to others; what a scary thought
to be held at gunpoint by Life
of all things;
so, this is what it’s like
to lose a Poet, to lose the heart of you
who is not you, yet retains so much of you
of us, all of us; our Trojan fears
he knew each one when, by his lonesome
he wrestled with his gods; what survived
of his lines he carved on the petrifying garrisons
of our indifference; the infinitesimal brook
that is the people’s memory shook
in mirrored shock of what he could achieve;
we recognized him, caught sight of his visions
with each regretful smile, every sliver of sweat poised
to hurt the eyes; he flexed his muscles
with rhyme and paradox, and bled verbs
for what they were worth in song and psalm
balm for our dearth; he took torment
and gave us reason to revel in it
all the plaint and tortures we ourselves
heaped upon ourselves and convinced us
to laugh at our grievances as kids
laugh at playthings;
to rue the day we lost a Poet
is to expect the hour of our disappearance;
for we, among other things, are his living cadence
the smattering of ale on his shirt, the lush
baritone in stanzas that had kept him awake;
if dusk is to blame for the rising of the waves,
then with Cirilo’s passing all bets are off–
we are poems made flesh
