Post by thepoetslizard on Oct 10, 2008 15:59:26 GMT 2
Ella Wagemakers (Sanchez)
Born in Manila, Ella moved to The Netherlands in 1988 and became a Dutch citizen in 1993. She currently teaches English full-time at the Dutch Police Academy. She is the author of Sorrows of the Chameleon , XLibris 2007, ISBN 978-1-4257-4955-2
Ella blogs at ellawagemakers.blogspot.com/
POEMS FOR THOSE WHO COME TO MY DOOR ASKING FOR DONATIONS
ALZHEIMER’S DISEASE
(for Alzheimer Nederland)
How tediously
the puzzle
falls apart.
Piece by piece,
corner by corner,
whole rows
evaporate and are lost.
The ceiling
becomes the wall,
the fountain
returns to its youth.
Keys lock doors,
colours dissolve
in the darkroom
from which they came.
Thoughts unravel,
skeins of cobwebs
with no beginnings
and no ends.
And names
are the hardest
of all.
CANCER
(For the Kon. Wilhelmina Fonds voor de Nederlandse Kankerbestrijding, or the Queen Wilhelmina
Fund for the Fight Against Cancer in The Netherlands)
A slow death
creeps up my veins,
invades my bones,
steals into the sanctum
of my body.
There is a name
which men have given
this malady
but the namelessness
of its pain
is infinite and full,
unknowable and certain,
and as the black dust
takes root
and branches
into an infernal tree
clouds of sorrow
gather above me
as thick
as a nest of magots.
First published in “Another Morning”,
a compilation of poetry for cancer victims
by Lanie Shanzyra P. Rebancos,
published by Lulu.com, 2006
*
HEART DISEASE
(For the Nederlandse Hartstichting,
or the Dutch Heart Foundation)
To play hangman
without a tree;
to breathe in a vacuum
until the walls
shrink to the size
of a molecule;
to feel life pounding
frantically at the gates …
How many last breaths
before the last?
How many beats
per minute?
How long before I
can no longer keep pace
with the seasons?
Soon I may get
an extra shot at youth,
a plastic pump
with a built-in drum,
an uneven marriage
with a spouse
only a few days young.
*
MODERN ART
(Reykjavik, 2004)
in an Iceland museum I am
eating cottage cheese
writing haiku strings
they are showing a film
where people pretend to die
hit by bullets of sound
outside it is Monday
the ferries have emptied
six cars make up traffic
inside, walls of cast iron
a hall the color of vulcanic ash
clear bluish windows
after tea I unfold
the labyrinth of streets
straight lines and squares
on a chessboard of numbers
we move from K6 to G3
as the giant stern flies
now to a room of artefacts
playing cards, beermats, lighters
we leave our fingerprints
passing as still life among the
glass cases and paintings
murmuring in gray
First published at
www.coffeepressjournal.com/currentissue/06-sep%20oct.pdf =
The Coffee Press Journal, Issue September/October 2006
*
"Moods of a March Evening"
I
Listening to a song
that was a favourite
before I wrote my poems –
how different it is now!
Running through a field,
aura scattered carelessly,
wet grass between my toes,
I watch the sun turn west
right there behind the hills,
its spheres lingering behind
on a tray of cake and wine,
on a statue of a mother and child,
in the bass of a bullfrog –
the dying sounds of sunset.
II
Here, amid this rubble,
this unsorted pile of bills,
memoranda, greeting cards,
here is where I will write,
on this table, heavy and firm.
This is the cave, the wall,
where I will leave a handprint,
mine, in ochre,
burnt red at the edges.
In the flickering shadows
of the dying fire
you will feel me breathing,
moving, fingerpainting.
Near my hand you will see
bison, wild boar, mammoth,
the caveman’s verses,
the shaman’s prayers,
odes to the bow, the spear,
the sabre-toothed tiger.
On the rough surfaces
of the impenetrable rock,
on this wide plasma screen,
I will not colour by numbers.
III
This March evening
even the snow is in bloom;
wild white petals drift down,
coating all in weightlessness,
evening sticks out its tongue
to catch the wings of flakes,
a chameleon in a coat
of sandalwood smoke.
*
"On The Road"
Utrecht is pouting
this tedious morning.
I drive on its lower lip
puckered with traffic.
Further north, curving,
the A1 is an eyebrow
leading to the eye,
Amsterdam and its ring,
with its old harbour,
nose clogged with fumes.
The Heuvelrug
humps its back.
I ride its measured waves
valley in, hill out,
past the eyelashes
of speed cameras,
the spine of the A27
stretching further south,
its tip curving into Breda,
medieval city of kings.
Leaving Rotterdam later,
I snake into the A29,
the knots of two highways
and twelve hours of work
loosening behind me,
as I cruise and review
the hours, the distances,
eager for sunrise,
another day giftwrapped
in asphalt ribbons.
