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Best Poems Written by Arch Ilagan

Below are the all-time best Arch Ilagan poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Sound of Nothing

The sound of harps played by virgin hands,
the falling of sparrows from innocence,

the orchestra of a thousand silhouettes,
the rhapsody of dying (and death),

the high-pitched songs of malice and contempt,
the chorus of crickets about to rest,

the breath of a newborn about to see
that living on two feet
is a parody, 

the humming of a lotus to a harp-playing lass-
it is the sound of nothing, it is the sound of impasse.

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Beijing, China

synchronicity
one at motion, one at peace
subversivism

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Mental Block

I.

control plus a,
delete - 
ink on the keyboard.

II.

nothing to write;
i press
too harddddd.

III.

a cursor
betwen a window and space -
mental block.

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I Do Not Speak French

pour it like the sun is dead.
but not
before shaking it well.

wait,
wat is je naam?
my father is half-Dutch.
stay with me, Martinique 
(that name tag is lovely)
I have not been happy.

little umbrellas tickle
my imagination -
Gibraltar or Ithaca
or Room 143 beside yours.

is this safe, Martinique?
fifteen proof is my ceiling
but I do not care.

look,
your skin ring matches mine.
sorry -

Ik ben blij,
but I do not speak French.

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1989

summer sun,
caramel on the concrete - 
I go back in time.

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The Chemist

you will long for this, Chemist,
i am sure.

inhale.
thicker than your skin,
whiter than the pupil of your eyes.
gush into your arteries,
it's pinholes, and pins,
and pin ticks, and stings.
from your foot, 
(I was familiar with),
to your thighs,
above your ribs,
inside the chambers of your heart.
hold it!
barricade your spine,
this is not your usual migraine.

you will long for this, Chemist.
this is love.
this is nitrogen.

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I Am Black

i am black,
and the shadows of my hair 
become needles that sting the soil
during midday.

i suffer the torture of the heavens,
of Helios and the legends of the air.
they dwell above my being,
and they cast umbras on mine.

i roam on the desert of apathy,
not mine, but from the silence
of those whose lips are 
stitched by my very own hair.

i am black,
i live in the half-world of your faces during sunshine.

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Mud Bath (Fibonacci No. 2)

Feet
stick
on soil
just like knives
screaming homicide
to a burdened inspector man;
the earth is murdering my ankles, and I like it.

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Pot

eight thirty,

i spin and find my center,
you talk about the weather,
he smiles, and i remember.

you stand and make me sweat.
he wants to make a bet
i laugh and then forget.

i then proceed to swim at sea;
he butterflies and follows me
you praise your god unsilently.

he grabs my leg,
or thigh,
or wrist.
you, Devil you, don't make a fist.
two more fellows on my list.


eight thirty-five.

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Figures (Fibonacci No. 1)

rain
falls
much like
similes
only when I am
reduced into synecdoches.