At The Wake
they gathered at the kitchen table
between rosaries and nightly novenas
drinking steaming cups of barako
in the lilith sing song tone
of Tagalog peppered with English
they are talking
about digging up the bones
of ancestors and relations
mestizos with forgotten spanish names
a sister who died at childbirth in the war
an uncle killed by a jealous lover
sons lost from blood drenched feuds
and the lucky ones who got to grow old
have grandchildren sit on their laps
smoked their pipes and dreamt of heaven
we flower the fields with our dead
scattered in churchyard cemeteries
laid them in resin shiny coffins
or stark simple pine
dressed in their finest
tailored barong and saya
one in her wedding Brussels lace
and a babe in his christening gown
We will gather them up
like dandelions by the roadside
collect them
like shiny pebbles on the shore
to rest in one marble mausoleum
someday
when they dig up the dirt
and uncover my remains
my bones will sing to them
each rib a note in harmony
clavicle and tibia
hum dissonant chords 1.
tucked behind the sternum
they will find
a symphony
**
*barako - strong roasted coffee
*mestizos - of mixed filipino and spanish blood
*barong - traditional filipino men’s dress shirt
* saya - traditional filipino women’s dresses
2.
The Bowery, January 1977
Eyes smeared from last night’s mascara
draped in thrift store leather jacket and black timber boots
wearing my favorite Ramones t-shirt lifted from their concert at CBGB
on Broome Street I passed a parade of queers and junkies
holding court over a steaming subway grate
blue blood royalties of despair with needle tracks
worn like coat of arms
At the All Night Liquor
Pham greets me with his usual Bonjour ma petite fille!
slaps a pack of Marlboros on the counter
once the cook at the French Ambassador’s home in Hanoi
he quotes Rimbaud, teaches me french curse words
merde! c’est quoi ce bordel!
at the end of the month
an overstuffed bag of instant ramen waits for me
he knows when the welfare checks all gone
I’m greeted by Zeus on Bleeker Street
in my favorite Greek Diner
silver beard and a voice like thunder
hands me steaming coffee in a white styrofoam cup
black, no sugar --the blessed brew
cupped with both hands in mocking supplication
to our resident Jesus
on the corner still heralding the end of days
You can be saved!
I blow him a kiss and mouth an Amen
make the sign of the cross
we all know the Gods have vacated
for a Central Park view
On her usual corner
the Duchess of Prince Street hawking her daily trade
her aristocratic chiseled nose broken once too many
bruised high cheekbones covered by greasy dollar foundation
shivering in her rabbit coat
her lips cradling an unlit cigarette
She haggles with her early morning john
Fifty bucks for a half and half
She winks at me
hops in the passenger seat
they speed off somewhere towards Pearl Street
we share the unspoken language
of the daughters of Eve, of Adam’s rib
banished from Canaan, carrying the sin of knowing
A school bus drives by
windows dark and empty of children
faraway province of childhood
where fairy tales have happy endings
and one and one always made two
we sang songs to chase
the monsters from our beds
here
at the old iron Manhattan Bridge
where you can view
the city from afar
glorious
without limits
glints of reflected light
from an opened window
mistaken as a sign
that hope
still resides
here.
Grace Ilagan Angel is a Painter, Photographer and Poet with the heart of an immigrant, soul of a gypsy, eyes of a woman of color and a voice amplified with Filipino and Indian roots. A landscape painter that focuses on the melancholy terrain of far away or vacant spaces. A photographer who eyes the vibrant and chaotic patterns of urban life and nature. An animal lover who volunteers with the Friends of Ferals Marin County. Her favorite ice cream flavor is Ube/Macapuno and she cooks a mean chicken curry. She lives in the wilds of Marin County in the San Francisco Bay area with her husband, two daughters and two cats.
they gathered at the kitchen table
between rosaries and nightly novenas
drinking steaming cups of barako
in the lilith sing song tone
of Tagalog peppered with English
they are talking
about digging up the bones
of ancestors and relations
mestizos with forgotten spanish names
a sister who died at childbirth in the war
an uncle killed by a jealous lover
sons lost from blood drenched feuds
and the lucky ones who got to grow old
have grandchildren sit on their laps
smoked their pipes and dreamt of heaven
we flower the fields with our dead
scattered in churchyard cemeteries
laid them in resin shiny coffins
or stark simple pine
dressed in their finest
tailored barong and saya
one in her wedding Brussels lace
and a babe in his christening gown
We will gather them up
like dandelions by the roadside
collect them
like shiny pebbles on the shore
to rest in one marble mausoleum
someday
when they dig up the dirt
and uncover my remains
my bones will sing to them
each rib a note in harmony
clavicle and tibia
hum dissonant chords 1.
tucked behind the sternum
they will find
a symphony
**
*barako - strong roasted coffee
*mestizos - of mixed filipino and spanish blood
*barong - traditional filipino men’s dress shirt
* saya - traditional filipino women’s dresses
2.
The Bowery, January 1977
Eyes smeared from last night’s mascara
draped in thrift store leather jacket and black timber boots
wearing my favorite Ramones t-shirt lifted from their concert at CBGB
on Broome Street I passed a parade of queers and junkies
holding court over a steaming subway grate
blue blood royalties of despair with needle tracks
worn like coat of arms
At the All Night Liquor
Pham greets me with his usual Bonjour ma petite fille!
slaps a pack of Marlboros on the counter
once the cook at the French Ambassador’s home in Hanoi
he quotes Rimbaud, teaches me french curse words
merde! c’est quoi ce bordel!
at the end of the month
an overstuffed bag of instant ramen waits for me
he knows when the welfare checks all gone
I’m greeted by Zeus on Bleeker Street
in my favorite Greek Diner
silver beard and a voice like thunder
hands me steaming coffee in a white styrofoam cup
black, no sugar --the blessed brew
cupped with both hands in mocking supplication
to our resident Jesus
on the corner still heralding the end of days
You can be saved!
I blow him a kiss and mouth an Amen
make the sign of the cross
we all know the Gods have vacated
for a Central Park view
On her usual corner
the Duchess of Prince Street hawking her daily trade
her aristocratic chiseled nose broken once too many
bruised high cheekbones covered by greasy dollar foundation
shivering in her rabbit coat
her lips cradling an unlit cigarette
She haggles with her early morning john
Fifty bucks for a half and half
She winks at me
hops in the passenger seat
they speed off somewhere towards Pearl Street
we share the unspoken language
of the daughters of Eve, of Adam’s rib
banished from Canaan, carrying the sin of knowing
A school bus drives by
windows dark and empty of children
faraway province of childhood
where fairy tales have happy endings
and one and one always made two
we sang songs to chase
the monsters from our beds
here
at the old iron Manhattan Bridge
where you can view
the city from afar
glorious
without limits
glints of reflected light
from an opened window
mistaken as a sign
that hope
still resides
here.
Grace Ilagan Angel is a Painter, Photographer and Poet with the heart of an immigrant, soul of a gypsy, eyes of a woman of color and a voice amplified with Filipino and Indian roots. A landscape painter that focuses on the melancholy terrain of far away or vacant spaces. A photographer who eyes the vibrant and chaotic patterns of urban life and nature. An animal lover who volunteers with the Friends of Ferals Marin County. Her favorite ice cream flavor is Ube/Macapuno and she cooks a mean chicken curry. She lives in the wilds of Marin County in the San Francisco Bay area with her husband, two daughters and two cats.