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Arch Ilagan Poem
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.
Copyright © Arch Ilagan | Year Posted 2009
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Arch Ilagan Poem
synchronicity
one at motion, one at peace
subversivism
Copyright © Arch Ilagan | Year Posted 2009
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Arch Ilagan Poem
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.
Copyright © Arch Ilagan | Year Posted 2009
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Arch Ilagan Poem
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.
Copyright © Arch Ilagan | Year Posted 2009
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Arch Ilagan Poem
summer sun,
caramel on the concrete -
I go back in time.
Copyright © Arch Ilagan | Year Posted 2009
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Arch Ilagan Poem
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.
Copyright © Arch Ilagan | Year Posted 2009
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Arch Ilagan Poem
rain
falls
much like
similes
only when I am
reduced into synecdoches.
Copyright © Arch Ilagan | Year Posted 2009
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Arch Ilagan Poem
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.
Copyright © Arch Ilagan | Year Posted 2009
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Arch Ilagan Poem
it starts,
a trail of nothing
but tar.
to my left,
it infects
tab,
shift,
control.
to my right,
disintegrate.
spreading its malice
home,
delete,
pause.
blocking my hindsight
and stopping me
from doing nothing
backspace,
return,
escape.
it ends.
Copyright © Arch Ilagan | Year Posted 2009
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Arch Ilagan Poem
Feet
stick
on soil
just like knives
screaming homicide
to a burdened inspector man;
the earth is murdering my ankles, and I like it.
Copyright © Arch Ilagan | Year Posted 2009
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