thepoetslizard
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Karma: 0 |  | Jennifer Patricia A. Carino
« Thread Started on Oct 10, 2008, 3:59pm » | |
Jennifer Patricia A. Carino is a poet, visual artist and musician who lives and works in Baguio City, Philippines. When she was 16, she was one of the youngest writers accepted as a participant in the prestigious annual Dumaguete National Writers Workshop. As a member of the Baguio Artists Guild her visual art has been featured in numerous shows and exhibits. She is also an active member of the Baguio Aquarelle Society and the Baguio Writers Group. Her writing has been featured in various print and online venues including the Sunday Inquirer. Recently, the music album "Reaching Destination" in which one of her original songs appears, received a Catholic Mass Media Award. Her work is also included in the anthology Growing Up Girl, ed. Michelle Sewell (GirlChild Press, 2007). She is currently rehearsing the part of Maria Montessori for the musical "Mammolina" (a Baguio production).
www.dissinea-writes.blogspot.com
![[image]](http://shayepoet.com/conference/filipinapoets/JennyCloseupPCarino.jpg "[image]")
"Doll"
The world of the heart
is a box that
I lost
and found.
The world is a circle
that I drew
between my legs.
I took it and molded
it in my pale hands; gave
it shape, sound and
shiver. Magnificently
it grew and pulsed --- rotated
before my eyes and made
me clay. A doll that
crumbled into the
earth that it was
made of. There
in the room filled
with the books
of past tenses
and the cracked shine
glitter
of mirror, I sat ---
waited and finally,
when I knew
for certain that no
one was coming to claim
me I built myself up
again; mixed a little water
with flour and patched
up the circles of my
inconsistency. Stood on
pebbles. They shone so bright
hot, I stumbled. Out into
the world. That world
is a box --- box that
I found and lost
And found again.
*
"I The Woman Who Feeds On Light"
I the woman
who feeds on light.
I the ring
you wear on your finger.
The salt in your sweat.
Commonly perceived
as wet
behind the ears.
Draped in black,
my smoke wafts over
and floats,
into the pores
of your skin.
Between the pages
of your anatomy.
I’m the last hour
before daybreak.
The wild bird
song. A death wish.
I am you.
You need me
to breathe.
I feed on your light
and life, and make
no apologies.
*
"Feline"
I’ve tried to domesticate
myself to the idea
of slinking around
in shadow.
She: a woman of the gold
glow and gentle hand.
I follow in dumb
admiration. The song
she sang pulled me through
the lattices and rafters.
Even in sleep
I hear her syllables
of warmth.
Pushing back the
covers I awoke
to the sound
of her breathing.
She who was then
on the other side
of the city.
Midnights
I would find her in
the sigh of my
sheets; beckoning me to
look, to see how I’ve
become feline
in my blue – gray
coat. Let me this once
walk around her.
I only wish to pad
softly into the dampest
places of her flesh.
*
"At Quezon National Park"
Traveling I made myself
Friend to the road.
The fields have ripened
In my absence
And they will probably burst
With color by next rainfall.
They were all a blur to
Me after hours of going
Ninety on highway
After lustrous highway
With friend at the wheel
And children sleepy
From the rolling motion
And vacant skies.
I picked my music carefully
To go with the scenery.
One note sustained
On the jazz sax of Coltrane
And I trembled. It perfectly
Matched the wind–whipped
Branches. There were stretches
Of solitude there,
Long and meaningful.
Those trees were once
Heredes to a distant
Tongue. On nights
Such as that
You could hear the mournful
Greetings they reserved for
The rain as if in disregard
Of the miles of asphalt
That break up the wildness
With its symmetry and
Structured benevolence.
Such were the prayers
That repeated themselves
In the hum of engine.
Blackness in these supernal
Heights. It was a return.
I longed to tell my companions
To stop and let me out
Of our boxed–in spaces.
I longed to step out into
The night and be surrounded
By the aging wood and stone.
To touch my lips to the wet
Leaves and the roughness
Of the road that brought us
To the culmination
Of my search
For other worlds
And homes apart
From the most lived–in
Of rooms.
![[image]](http://shayepoet.com/conference/authors/AmbahanonBambooslide1c.jpg "[image]")
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