Sestina: Diffractions
I protested at the US Embassy, a cop’s truncheon landing flat
on my head. Scampering towards Rizal Park
I cooled off, mingling with hobos and chess aficionados. But later
dove to the mainstream, the pungent light
of a red sun vanishing. What’s in me, proud
descendant of the Malay race, can’t even show my real face?
When I was a kid in the sixties. I lost my face
in a mind blowing party in Project Three. I was a square, came out flat
with the psychedelic crowd. Tina Turner’s “Proud
Mary,” on top of the charts, was bursting from a stereo. President Park
Chung-hee of South Korea was almost assassinated by the North, the light
of a scythe moon bloody red. The cold war was hot item. Later
Kennedy’s “Bay of Pigs” attack turned out to be a dud. See you later
Alligator I sang laughingly at a john. Yet face to face
with myself saw a goat in the clan. With the light
of my Camel cigars limping, planed to Spain, rented a flat
in Barcelona. Drove the dead for a living. At Park
de la Ciudadella met Helen, a Filipino pediatrician. Courted her. Proud
was I when she said “yes.” But mother always phoned. So proud
was I no more when the child doctor mistook me for a mama’s boy. Later
the funeral parlor died. Jetted economy class home. Park
your past, my father, a colonel in the army said. Took his advice at face
value. In a cold December read poems. Frost warmed. Plath pathed. Like a flat
tire infused with air found hope. Wrote myself. Got Published. Felt light.
But a year later father was gunned down by the reds. At the wake, the candles’
light
diffracted in the ornate chapel. Death, be not proud
a speaker quoted Donne. The Bataan choir, in E –flat
major, sang “Blue Sky,” father’s favorite. Later
the coffin was lowered. Sobs crooned. Death has soul in it. His face
was like a drake in a Manansala masterpiece. Now, here at Green Park
Village I write. Sometimes it’s a tightrope act, sometimes a walk in the park.
What’s important is now I’m bathed in literature’s light.
I write more about the neglected, the written off. What a complete about-face
from my former carefree self. Proud
is my mother of eighty sparkling summers. Later
I might venture into the short story, got some novel ideas too. You shouldn’t be
flat
in your form and content, my two creative writing mentors, who park
a Datsun and a dachshund in our lot, bark. Later other worlds will be in my
words, and the light
once diffracted will steadfast under a blue sky, onto my father’s proud face.
Amadeo Mendoza's poems have been published in Philippines Free Press, Philippine Inquirer, Manila Bulletin, Likhaan; and his short stories have appeared in Philippines Graphic and The Manila Times. He is currently finishing his MA in Creative Writing at the University of Santo Tomas. The poem "Sestina: Diffractions" is dedicated to her late professor, the poet Ophelia A. Dimalanta.
I protested at the US Embassy, a cop’s truncheon landing flat
on my head. Scampering towards Rizal Park
I cooled off, mingling with hobos and chess aficionados. But later
dove to the mainstream, the pungent light
of a red sun vanishing. What’s in me, proud
descendant of the Malay race, can’t even show my real face?
When I was a kid in the sixties. I lost my face
in a mind blowing party in Project Three. I was a square, came out flat
with the psychedelic crowd. Tina Turner’s “Proud
Mary,” on top of the charts, was bursting from a stereo. President Park
Chung-hee of South Korea was almost assassinated by the North, the light
of a scythe moon bloody red. The cold war was hot item. Later
Kennedy’s “Bay of Pigs” attack turned out to be a dud. See you later
Alligator I sang laughingly at a john. Yet face to face
with myself saw a goat in the clan. With the light
of my Camel cigars limping, planed to Spain, rented a flat
in Barcelona. Drove the dead for a living. At Park
de la Ciudadella met Helen, a Filipino pediatrician. Courted her. Proud
was I when she said “yes.” But mother always phoned. So proud
was I no more when the child doctor mistook me for a mama’s boy. Later
the funeral parlor died. Jetted economy class home. Park
your past, my father, a colonel in the army said. Took his advice at face
value. In a cold December read poems. Frost warmed. Plath pathed. Like a flat
tire infused with air found hope. Wrote myself. Got Published. Felt light.
But a year later father was gunned down by the reds. At the wake, the candles’
light
diffracted in the ornate chapel. Death, be not proud
a speaker quoted Donne. The Bataan choir, in E –flat
major, sang “Blue Sky,” father’s favorite. Later
the coffin was lowered. Sobs crooned. Death has soul in it. His face
was like a drake in a Manansala masterpiece. Now, here at Green Park
Village I write. Sometimes it’s a tightrope act, sometimes a walk in the park.
What’s important is now I’m bathed in literature’s light.
I write more about the neglected, the written off. What a complete about-face
from my former carefree self. Proud
is my mother of eighty sparkling summers. Later
I might venture into the short story, got some novel ideas too. You shouldn’t be
flat
in your form and content, my two creative writing mentors, who park
a Datsun and a dachshund in our lot, bark. Later other worlds will be in my
words, and the light
once diffracted will steadfast under a blue sky, onto my father’s proud face.
Amadeo Mendoza's poems have been published in Philippines Free Press, Philippine Inquirer, Manila Bulletin, Likhaan; and his short stories have appeared in Philippines Graphic and The Manila Times. He is currently finishing his MA in Creative Writing at the University of Santo Tomas. The poem "Sestina: Diffractions" is dedicated to her late professor, the poet Ophelia A. Dimalanta.
