April's Featured Poets are three people whose poems testify to the global popularity of the “ Hay(na)ku ” poetic form. Their poems are presented below to celebrate the forthcoming release of THE HAY(NA)KU ANTHOLOGY co-edited by Mark Young and Jean Vengua (Meritage Press, 2005-06).

From Jill Jones of Australia

just before the curfew

noise
over head
this city cries

lateral
the road
lies down crushed

boom
boom ba-boom
the valley heaves

birds
hide in
the window shadows

come
let me
love you now

*****

From Ernesto Priego of Mexico

::..I THOUGHT I..::
Für Eileen

I
thought I
wanted to write

Something
in three
very simple lines.

I
thought I:
subject becomes object,

Phrases
become sentences,
poetry becomes destiny.

I
thought I
could do it

Without
much pain
or unusual effort

Took
me hours
I tried wine

I
thought I
was somewhere else

A
dog on
my warmed lap

Had
more wine,
closed my throat.

I
couldn't write
what I wanted

I
thought I:
poetry is received:

It
is never
given away free.


*****

From Chad Parenteau of the United States

"Bye to Summer"

Back
to school,
spoiled, rich bitch,

your
concert tickets
bought by mom

and
car on
loan till one.

Now,
go find
a real job,

one
that doesn't
continue after hours,

drinking
with the
lifetime mall chefs,

who
sit there,
biding their time,

selecting
new brides
from summer help.

***************************

REBECCA MABANGLO-MAYOR

“Babaylan Speaks” is pleased to present Rebecca Mabanglo-Mayor with one of her poems below, “Mail-Order Bride.” Rebecca received her MA degree in English with honors from Western Washington University in 2003 for her thesis “Notes from the Margins,” a mixed work of memoir and fiction. Her poetry and short fiction have appeared in two issues of the Katipunan Literary Magazine , and she has served as a freelance writer and editor for several journals. Currently she is working on her first book of memoir pieces, tentatively titled 16 Months of Summer , and her blog Binding Wor(l)ds Together can be found at http://wordbinder.blogspot.com/.

Mail-Order Bride

When you come to meet my family in the barrio, you
already have the envelopes and papers in your pocket.
You let us sit you at the head of the table beneath
the wood carving of the Last Supper and serve you an
evening meal. We listen to you marvel at the taste of
spicy chicken soup laced with tamarind. We do not tell
you that the chicken is our last meat, that the
portion you take is more than enough to feed my three
youngest sisters. Instead, we wait for you to agree;
then we will know the family will eat chicken or maybe
even pork for many months to come.

I do not eat that night while I sit next to you. I
spoon my soup onto my little brother's plate, a last
farewell to our only boy. I hope you will let me send
money to him once we have left. For school, I will
tell you, my smile as soft as morning mist, perhaps a
little for new clothes. I try not to wonder how often
I will have to beg this way.

You sit on the porch late into the night, sipping
Black Label and sharing cigarettes with my father. My
mother sits in the kitchen trying not to listen to you
struggle through our language. My father is patient
and he speaks your language slowly, deliberately,
haltingly, so you will never suspect he knows more
than you thought he should.

I lay safe within folds of mosquito netting when you
give my father the papers and a thin envelope. He does
not keep the papers, instead glances at them to be
sure they look in order. The envelope looks so tiny in
his hand and he is unsure, uncertain that this is the
right thing to do. He looks into your hazy blue eyes
and rubs a hand through his thin, grey hair. Then he
folds the envelope in half and slips it into his back
pocket. There is not much more I can do for my family.
I am too small, too smart, too old for these barrio
boys. We both know it is better to find a life
elsewhere.

In the morning we walk to the church together and I
hold your dry white hand as we say our vows. You press
cool, rough lips to mine and it is done. There is no
question what you want from me, yet you will have to
wait until you take me to your country. There is only
time to kiss my mother and squeeze my father's hand
before we must leave to board our plane. We sisters
try not to cry and my mother begs us to stay, but it
is just for show. There is nothing for you here except
banana plantations and open pit mines.

I take one last look at the white washed church then
begin to fold myself up. My knees to my mouth, my
polio back turned sideways, my too large eyes wrapped
in swaths of my black hair. You fold my crooked arms
haphazardly to fit into a small envelope you have
brought, then slip me into your jacket next to you
passport and wallet. With a satisfied smile, you pat
your pocket, your newest acquisition safe against your
heart.


************************************

MERITAGE PRESS FEATURED AT POETS HOUSE FOR NATIONAL POETRY MONTH!

The following Meritage Press-published books are being featured at Poets House, 72 Spring Street, 2nd Floor, New York City, for the celebration of April as National Poetry Month:

PINOY POETICS , edited by Nick Carbo

WAYS by Barry Schwabsky and Hong Seung-Hye

MUSEUM OF ABSENCES by Luis H. Francia

************************************

GLYNDA TEJADA VELASCO

“Babaylan Speaks” is pleased to present Glynda Tejada Velasco and her poem below, “Reno Queen” from her collection Unsent Letters: Selected Poems . Glynda is the co-founder of Filipino American Student Organization established in 1994 at California State University, Chico. She was featured at Tongues of Fire Second Annual Poetry event for queer women of color at Sacramento State. She hosted Soul Food, an open mic and international food fair, sponsored by the Ethnic Studies Program of Solano Community College. She was a contributor for various literary magazines including Thrust Magazine, Watershed, Her Own Voice , and Environmental Terrorists . Her first collection of poetry is titled Unsent Letters: Selected Poems . She currently lives in her hometown of twenty years, Vallejo, CA. She can be reached at glyndatv@yahoo.com.

If you want a copy of Unsent Letters , Please send a check of $15 (which covers the price of the book and postage and shipping) to Glynda Velasco, 166 O'Brien Circle, Vallejo, CA 94589, USA

“Reno Queen”

Gramma Pabling,
I remember the silver dollars
You gave us when we were kids
Your love was to gamble
To hop on a charter bus
The Senior Special
For older women like you
Seeking a small thrill, a small fortune
Your destination “The Biggest Little City in the
World”

Your trips were regular.
You save some of your earnings
For the bank and the rest you spent as you will

I can imagine you smoking your brown cigarette
backwards
(I remember asking, “Why do you put the ashes in your
mouth?” You replied,
“Ees my medeesin.”)
Holding the cards in your hand, ignoring the waitress
when she asked for your order
Your concentration put everything on hold, in
suspense, an offered drink fell on deaf ears.

From your East Bay apartment you went to the Senior
Center
To play Bingo.

I see you now, Gramma.
Your steps are shorter, aided with a cane.
You stopped dying your hair black.
You recovered from your stroke.
“Gramma, see, you need to stop smoking.”
“Oh, I'm like these. I deed not smoke enap.”

I see you now. No trips to
Reno. No walks to
Bingo.

I see you now, Gramma.
I'm no longer the granddaughter to whom you give
oversized silver coins
You no longer sew me little-girl dresses
But I remember then
And I remember your stories
How grandpa hated the Japanese soldiers
And how you fought to keep your children safe during
WWII

You were the the lady behind the man, my grandfather,
the mayor of Castillejos.
His love for his townmates left his own family
penniless, but you managed even after his death.

Gramma, you are the last of the legacy. The first and
only grandparent to see the stateside.
I only wished to ask you questions sooner before age
robbed the memory.

You remain. I give greetings of respect. “Mano,
Inang.” I press your hand against my forehead.
“Gleenda, Gleenda!” you repeat my name. You face
lights up. So happy to recall. Yes, grandma, I
remember you as you remember me. And that's all what
matters.