Asia Literary Review - Asian literature

War of the Heliconias

She was the parrot beak,

green limning yellow

at curl of tip.

Red base to sheath

that curved downward,

pointing at damp earth.

He was the lobster claw,

seeking sky with cluster of spirals

in tiers, oblong heart

with similar yellow

for arc of tip

Resplendence

of the everyday parade

of tropical garden —

as audacious as espionage.

Knowing

He knew his plants, his stars,

their names.

Figures of memory

escaped him — light years

bridging distance,

degrees of scintillation,

ecliptics

in avoidance of meteors.

Or: variants and hybrids.

But he knew what they ought to be called,

their identities beyond cluster or grove.

Sometimes, never mind the Latin.

What was essential was visible to the tongue

when pointing out a particular, not just there

but that one, that blue-pea vine with flowers

that were closer to violet and shades of indigo,

and were edible you could adorn salad with

them, blue-pea vine flowers — a conversation

piece they make.

‘Ternate,’ you say. ‘That’s what

we call them in the ﬁeld, locally, though they must

have come from the Moluccas and not Cavite.’

When you check it out in a cyclopedia,

the English countryside blooms with a fresh tag.

It was important, to himself he claimed,

to know the names of things.

To call a philtrum such,

when you scratched below your nosetip,

a lawrence when you saw one shimmering

ahead on that dry asphalt road in summer.

When you’re asked what that road is

you have to know its name, too.

And what to call that sort

of sinuous stretch where lawrences often occur.

I don’t know, a lawrentian? Well, perhaps it won’t

matter much when it’s that sort of sorting

that even requires a neologism. Let the Japanese

sort out their tofu and their fugu. We know mahi-mahi

is yellow-ﬁn tuna. And we don’t have it in Esperanto.

Making acquaintance of a restaurant, it depends

on the region, in the shadow of which volcano,

whether the shellfish served

are called this or that,

the coconut part grated or drained,

before that kind or this kind of chili or cayenne is minced or julienned.

It helps to know all their names.

The Bodies You Paid For

were all supple and electric,

didn’t matter how much

they cost, you were lost

in the translation

of exchange rates

save for that of fluids

like eels you danced

across many rivers

of negotiations

among damp hovels

and crystal aquariums

where the sirens rose,

all fish amid the thighs

all stories about typhoons

and lost brothers, fathers,

no food for mothers

no love but this one

short time maybe with seconds

but no kiss in the mouths

of their provenance, they

could get knocked up, lose

many weeks of trade, barter

those for a baby, yours,

so pump only, no lips

to catch their breaths

till your deaths so sorry

often so sorry more than sad

for no dead calm of postlude,

just water rushing like bad

music down and out the pipes

of their quick comfort

washing you all away, your

strangeness, and you listen

for echoes while smoking

on a suddenly distant bed,

now she’s wiping off what

you paid for in that dim toilet

and the walls and mirrors

warn you of demographics,

how you’ve just raised

the level of table grace,

cascade of commerce, in a

flushed hour of little knowing

World Poetry Circuit (The Public’s View)

The Public Learns of the Event Via Graffiti.
The Public Resolves to Attend the Poetry Festival Upon Reading That Tickets Are Cheaper Than for Rock Concerts.
The Public Troops to the Venue, Armed With Ennui and Mineral Water.
The Public Jumps the Queue Formed by the Poets’ Relatives.
The Public Is Surprised to See Well-Dressed Organisers and Volunteer Ushers and Usherettes.
The Public Picks Up Countless Flyers While Checking Out Related Exhibits.
The Public Appreciates the Human Quality of the Poets’ Photo Portraits.
The Public Mill Around the Lobby, Watch Exciting but Incomprehensible Video, and Wish They Had Brought Their Grandchildren.
The Public Look at All the Books Piled Up on Tables, and Wonder If They Should Be the First to Break Apparent Tradition and Actually Make a Purchase.
The Public Is Guided to the Main Hall for the Grand Poetry Reading.
The Public Take Their Seats; Half of Them Start to Wish They Had Stayed Home for the Football Match on TV.
The Public Listen to the First Poem; Half of the Half Forget About the Football Game Since the First Reader is a Mini-Skirted Girl From Venezuela Who Must Have Once Been a Beauty Pageant Contestant.
The Public Applaud Politely, Then Look Down at the Program in Their Hands, Even in the Dark.
The Public Begins to Understand That Poets Come From All Over the World, Even From Mongolia, Sarajevo and Trinidad-Tobago.
The Public Realises That Not All Poems Sound Like Trees by Joyce Kilmer.
The Public Is Grateful for the Announced Presence of the Culture Minister, Albeit He Is Embarrassingly Late.
The Public Is Amused by the Poet From Guam Who Does What Sounds and Looks Like a Rap Number, Shouting and Jumping All Over the Stage.
Finally the Public Hears a Love Poem.
Finally the Women Among the Public Fight Back Tears While Clutching at Their Husbands’ Cold Hands.
Finally the Public Think They Hear Something That Sounds Like Shakespeare, From the Poet From Sierra Leone.
The Public Appreciates the 15-Minute Intermission, So They Can Race to the Bar for Vodka and/or Jenever, and Try to Gather Their Wits About Them.
The Public Go Back to Their Seats.
The Public Fall in Love With Their Own Homegrown Poet With the Ponytail, and Clap and Cheer Wildly as He Finishes With A Flourish in the Vernacular.
The Husbands Among the Public Whisper to Their Wives: They Will Buy A Few Poetry Books on Their Way Out, So Their Grandchildren Can Learn to Rhyme or When Not to Rhyme.
The Public Give/s the Poets, Organisers and Volunteers a Warm Final Ovation, and Head for the Nearest Starbucks to Recall and Discuss That First Poem by the Girl From Venezuela.

This poem was commissioned by Poetry International Rotterdam to go with Yuson’s original World Poetry Circuit, which was read at the 2003 festival by the author.