UNIVERSITY OF SANTO TOMAS PUBLISHING HOUSE

xi

Breaking the Structure, Handling the Body

PoetryissuchaKafka-esque,ever-morphingcreature,alwaysbuzz-ingaroundhereandthereunderthecanopyofitsever-fluctuatingstruc-ture,someelusivethingrefusingtobepinneddown.Inmorewaysthanone—andtoreferenceabookbyJorieGraham—theunifiedfieldisandwillalwaysbejustadreaminpoetry.Isaythistostartofftheintroduc-tiontothisbook,AllanPastrana’sfirstcollectionofpoems,becausePas-trana’spoetryremindsusof the innatewanderlustof thepoetic form,andstartlesassuch. Thesearenotnecessarilypoemsofaccess;theuntrainedreadermayfindhimself/herselfwrestlingwithPastrana’sdiction,technicalconceits(enjambments, italics, indentions),andsyntax:possiblegridlocksthatwouldfurtherdelaythearrivalatthepoems’intentionsandinsights.Yetwhile these may be perceived as cruel negotiations on the part of thereader,theyarenot intendedtobedeliberatelypunitive(difficult?)onthe writer’s. The problem only arises when the one holding this bookrelishesinimpatience,treatingseemingviolationsinlanguageashumpsblockingthepathtowardthatthingcalledmeaning. Lestweforget,poetryislanguage—andmayevenbesoviceversa,ifyoubothertoreadontotheendofthisintro.GeminoAbadoncesaid“thepoemiswroughtfromit(language)”.Meaningis,atitsbest,relative.Poetsaspireingeneralforthehumanturn,thatglimpseofsomefleetingtruth.Wedonotwritepoetrytotellthetruth,buttoaspireforthepos-sible.Inaword,verisimilitude.Iamnotsayingherethatpoemsintendtolieandtouselanguageasitsconvenientalibi.Onlythatoftenourtoler-anceoflanguageisbluntedbyoursharpneedfortheprofound,ourzealforquickepiphanies. ButI’mspeakingtoomuchaboutreaderconcerns.Languageisofconstantprimacyinpoetry,ofcourse.Itisitsvessel,itsbeginningplace,itswomb.Anditevolves,graduatesfromthecommonplace,gushesforthinebbsandflowsinitscravingfornaming.

xii

Body Hauliscradledbythisschema.Whilethere’saseemingintel-lectualandacademicstraininthepoemsherethatbreaksawayfromac-cessibility,itisnotthewriter’sconcern.Pastranaisnotposingorpostur-inginhisexperimentations,norishedeliberatelyexcluding.InsteadheindulgesCrafting—theendlesspossibilitiesofthelyric,andthemusicitemanates.Thepoemsherearethereforenotpoemsofperformance,butoftheparadoxofsilenceandsoundonthepage. Ihadearlierstatedthatthesepoemsstartle,andthisismainlybe-causeofPastrana’smostlysyncopatedapproachtodictionandsyntax.Itwouldbeconvenient,ofcourse,tocreditthistohisbackgroundasaMu-sicmajor.Butmostofthepoemsheredomimicmusic—notsong—anddelight in the lilts, crescendos, and diminuendos of the instrumental,thevoice-devoid.Hefindssoundmostimmediate,mosttactile,andhescramblestohavelanguagecapturethisurgency. Still, the seeming humps down this language road do disappearand open up to familiar terrains and vistas when one really sits downontheindividualpoemsinBody Haul.Thisisbecause,whilethepoemsplayaroundatwillwiththemyriadlanguagesofspaceandsound,thepoetconsidersthisasrequiredtransactionsthatwillpayoffandunravel(eventually, to the keen reader) very personal and quasi-confessionalconcerns.Itwon’tbeeasy;theserevelationsaredeftlycamouflagedbypervadingsyntacticalbreaksincadenceandsyncopations.Butthecon-cerns are surely discoverable, waiting for the willing to walk with thepoetdownthatroad’send. Pastrana’sis,andultimately,acollectionrootedinthepoet’saspira-tionstomanagedesire, tounderplaydirectness.It justmaybe labeledLanguagePoetrybysome,butthepoethimselfdoesnotbelieveinsuchboxes.Insteadheinsistsonthesmallmelodies,themanymercies lan-guageultimatelyaffordtothewillinglistener/reader.Hedoesthiscon-versely (non-traditionally?)— from the abstract to the physical. Themusicfirst,beforethesong. This, finally, is Body Haul’s body electric: to carry our mortality(“ourmostfrailgestures,”ase.e.cummingsputit)bywillinglysurren-dering and heaving it into this one box: this structure, this cage, thisBody—the poet and the language both wide-eyed and keen on theirgloriouspossibilitiesandgiventransience.

Joel M. Toledo

3

Inner Life

Here you were bornand raised, and raisedwell. Not beyond

their means. Not a war-torncountry either, here.Dank perimeter that was

your weather, leitmotif.Sure, you’d feel its coldcoming like a not-so-distant

future, the wind of it,the deep drone of it.The animal

that didn’t make it to the shedwas an incident.Interruption.

But that was hardlya puzzle: only a shortdistance and you were out there, right

in the middle of things,important, just being necessaryand all by yourself.

4

Few more days before rain.The gloaming’s not-yet-greenwould find a way to survive

the accidents. The leaves were deadunderfoot. Beneath, history wasthrobbing, been breaking out

of, awhile. That backyardhad never been so beautiful.Too much of an opening

in the wilderness but quitea luck, and you knew it,aerial wire to aerial wire.

Someone, from the farthestend of the house, calledyour name and you didn’t

answer. You were all of four.These limits. Otherwise you were therealready, sudden and not moving away.

Nothing like this revenge.

22

Allegory of the Red Blossom

Let’s say a fishing village—a certain degree of remoteness, the kind of place where stories that don’t match any we heard of come from. And if it beats, the per-second rootedness that quietly folds in between parts, we believe it resists to be found. As when a stranger aboard a dinghy shows on his open palm a red blossom, which is neither fire nor blood; none of the color’s prime, merely its wakefulness. He carries it a long way, then drops it, picks up. What the wind waits for is the squint, that uncertainty—the roof that shelters the stare, then gone. Un-grip and it’s beyond reach, bobbing up and down the water. But he remembers the boat is the same offshore, otherwise, that it is something he could readily make sense of. And if he could afford a simile he’d choose ‘sail as throb’ and nobody laughs—because the flower is nowhere in sight nor the man, because this isn’t a tale about love.

35

Signs

Again, one of the usual stops we make.This antique shop is a cold and darkwarehouse of the heart—reckonings, slowlike death. Notice that china’s edge,chipped but true to its imperfections.You say it has to be hand-painted andI imagine the delicate strokes, bluestirrings where an artisan’s steady handhad mustered love, at once tender and muscular.Always, we believe that a story has kepteach detailed treasure here, what is to berepeatedly glazed over beneath the carbidelamp, while that old phonograph plays Faustlike a bad translation of our years together.

So we keep on rummaging through piles andheaps, among shelves. This is a panic ofmemory, the wild arrest when desirereads like a code: I want to acquire everything.Study that wooden image, the one resemblinga caryatid, the bad carmine paint peeling off.The quaint detail of its face reminds youof someone you might have met anywhere.Signs will fail us, the way anything hereresumes with little breath-space. This coldheaven’s everything we would have wanted itto be—fallible, random, alive.