Writing the Literature of Exile by Exiles

This writing of the literature of exile

by exiles begins tonight



in this coronation ball by the seaside,

the sand and surf the witnesses



of this opulence only rootlessness

can bring. I take pen and paper



and much grief to understand

the rhythm of this sad laughter



we contribute to make more dense

the festive air of provincial joy,



a memory of the Ilocos, the environs,

and all the thrones and islands



that dream of dollar and destitution

the green money to wipe out all



the traces of the wiping of sweat

in the noonday sun in the fields



the dream of destitution

to make us forget the look of porridge



on earthen pots, the menu a gruel

of much water on rice swollen like



murky waters in the season of storms

in the season of hunger



in the weeks of want

that come after a poor harvest.



It is a cruel covenant, this crowning

of the almost royal queens,



five of them, the color of their skin

that of the dark earth in the homeland.



The politico's speech comes condescending,

in clear staccato of a mind that calculates



gains and needs and motives and profits.

I watch from the corner table



with the one round of an applause

on bowls of mushroom soup



on the white and red linen

starched to make the proceedings



crisp or the morsels sliding

unnoticed by the promenading princess



past my aisle to take a quick look

of bejeweled crowns on the stage



of the cutouts in blazing gold and orange

announcing a hodge-podge of majesties



their highnesses and their royalties,

big and small, blue and not-so.



This is an empire, I tell myself.

Medieval and rotten and mossy.



Corrupt and criminal and colonial.

Triumphalist and terrorist of truth.



Or its stains, vestiges, relics.

Or a whole mind stunted like



a whole village gone idiotic, crazed.

To wear a scepter, or is it?



to help the poor and the dying

of the country that drove you away



to help the victims of victories

of the elect of the old country



in this cycle of quicksilver fame

and fortune for a moment



of dream and regret too soon

when the whole brouhaha of the banal



wears off the morning after.

I take everything, take them all,



jot them in the mind,

the details and denoument



the victors and the vanquished

in this royal masquerade



of masks and masked men,

masked women, masked children,



their games required to create

a palimpsest of patriotism



and self-hatred for wearing

the smile that has to be worn



the crown that has lost its luster

the vestment of glitter and bad blood



and putrid like the legendary palace

by the river where all this began in memory



where all this continues to corrupt us all

where all this makes us justify our rootlessness



where all this hides the homelessness

of our hearts. So tonite, I begin to write



about the literature of exile

by exiles. Redemption is farthest



in the poetry that parades how far

have we arrived from the land that awaits



the pageatry of princesses and their consorts

getting a cheap rite of passage.





Aurelio S. Agcaoili

Honolulu, HI

Jan. 16, 2005



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