First Annual Festival of Women's Poetry *********************November 2008*********************

« Ina A. Carino »

Welcome Guest. Please Login or Register.
May 20, 2013, 10:30am

[Home] [New Topics] [Help] [Search] [Login]

First Annual Festival of Women's Poetry *********************November 2008********************* :: *International section :: Women poets from around the World :: Filipina poets :: Ina A. Carino

Author

Topic: Ina A. Carino (Read 678 times)

thepoetslizard
Full Member

member is offline

Joined: Jul 2008
Gender: Female

Posts: 104
Karma: 0

Ina A. Carino
« Thread Started on Oct 10, 2008, 3:54pm »

Ina [Josephine Anne] A. Carino is currently a sophomore at the University of Chicago, where she also plays the violin in the University Symphony Orchestra. She fondly remembers eating balut at the corner sari-sari store in their old home in Baguio City, and Andok's lechon manok from a suki up the road.

[image]

"HOUSE SERIES"

House

There are rooms for desks and for beds
For couches and for cooking and for coats.
We can hang our clothes up with hangers.
We can sit at the table in the evening.
We can hang our smiling pictures on the wall.
The rooms are not so bad, they aren't dark
With the lamplight. There are big windows
In every room, so when the sun is up
The walls breathe. The doorways are high
And the rooms are spacious: stretching space
For your stretching, stretching heart.

Where I Sleep

Here in my room the hardwood floor
Is scratched where the rolling chair
Grates back and forth over the varnish
Of the years now scattered in flat crunchy patches.
They are everywhere, the flakes
Of dark brown varnish, under the bed
Near the doorframes, under the gas radiator,
By the trash can. And they are mixed in
With everything else: like fallen hair,
Eyelashes, brushed skin, fingernails,
Toenails, dust motes, dreams.

Washroom

I like it when the shower is hot enough
So that mist collects and I can't see
My hands in front of me. It lulls me,
Standing up, and I close my eyes
As water taps down my back. In winter
The pipes rattle in time with the windows
As the wind hits the panes. When it's cold like this
The metal pipes only warm for a few minutes.
When I step out I can still feel the oily hair,
The unwashed patches of soap, the same
Thinness in the air from when I first stepped in.

Dark Corners

Sometimes I look at the dark corners
And feel my nape being touched, almost
Like a dream. Dark corners seep in
From the streets. We leave spare house keys
In the keyhole, hanging over the knob.
Once they disappeared for a whole day,
But returned to their place at night.
Nobody took them. Or, nobody said.
There are other dark corners, in our heads.
There you can hear the question asked--
What does it mean? What does it mean?

Fishbowl

Dorothy is dead. We found her orange body
Floating near the scalloped rim of clear glass.
When my sister was asleep we replaced the fish
With a blue one and called her Dorothy, too.
She didn't mind the difference. But Dorothy is dead again.
The neighbor's dog barked and she jumped
Out of the bowl. When we got home
There were marks from the color of its scales,
From where her slick body thrashed and skittered
Across the floor. On the counter, the bowl
Was still, clean and full of water.

Kitchen

The fridge was there when we came,
And so were many other things.
There were cabinets where we house
Things like canned meat, tea tins, German
Cocoa powder, sea salt, spatulas and pots
Under white misted windows while we bake.
Even if the refrigerator hums
Through the night without complaint,
Full of food and full of light,
Sometimes I don't remember
That the fridge even exists.

- first published in Hanging Loose journal

*

"The Gatekeeper"

What I allow in
or out depends entirely
on the weight of the object--
whether it rides lightly
in the crook of my arm,
or drapes itself on my weak shoulder--
whether its stable heaviness
fits squarely in the confines
of my cupped hands.

Let it not be gaudy
or perfunctory in color;
after time, neon turns mundane,
and fuchsia is an eyesore
unless embodied in
the deep velvet plush
of soft flowers.

Instead, let its voice have
the timbre, the satisfying click
of a closing door, the silent
rumpling of morning sheets,
the barely audible ring of cold air
coming in through the open window.

What only I could crave:
something to mimic
the curve of my scapula,
the grain of my wood.

Web source:
Our Own Voice, April 2005
http://www.ourownvoice.com/poems/poems2005b-carino.shtml

[image]

« Last Edit: Nov 3, 2008, 5:12pm by thepoetslizard »

Link to Post - Back to Top IP:

Logged

Click Here To Make This Board Ad-Free