![\"\"](\"http:\/\/morningporch.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2011\/11\/Clive-Hicks-Jenkins-St-Kevin-Blackbird-banner4.jpg\")
<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
In my last post<\/a> I introduced you to Dave Bonta<\/a><\/strong>, a poet and literary magazine editor from the eastern edge of western Pennsylvania, and his must-read blog Via Negativa<\/a><\/strong>, which posts poems, photos, essays, etc.\u00a0 I also mentioned that there is microblog companion site called The Morning Porch<\/a>. \u00a0Here Dave posts short (140 character) descriptions and poems; these in turn have been used as prompts by\u00a0master poet Luisa A. Igloria<\/strong> who writes a poem every day mostly in response to Dave\u2019s observations at The Morning Porch <\/strong>but sometimes (as you’ll see below) in response to other prompts.\u00a0If you thought you misread the above statement, let me repeat: \u00a0\u00a0Luisa A. Igloria has written a poem every day for almost two years now<\/strong>.<\/span><\/p>\n It all began on November 20, 2010, when Dave posted this observation on The Morning Porch<\/strong>: \u201cDawn. In absolute silence, a pileated woodpecker hitches its way up a locust trunk, silhouette pivoting like a pawl on an invisible ratchet.\u201d And Luisa turned it into a poem:<\/p>\n Stay<\/strong><\/p>\n Dawn: in absolute silence,<\/p>\n a pileated woodpecker<\/p>\n hitches its way up<\/p>\n a locust trunk, silhouette<\/p>\n pivoting like a pawl<\/p>\n on an invisible ratchet\u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n consider this early<\/p>\n summons, this parking<\/p>\n ticket\u2014momentary stay<\/p>\n before the hubbub<\/p>\n and transmission<\/p>\n of gears.<\/p>\n Luisa A. Igloria<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n I asked Luisa<\/strong> to share some of her favorite posted poems, to which she replied, \u201cI’m hard pressed to identify a poem ‘favorite’\u2014 like being asked to choose which of your children you love the most!\u201d<\/p>\n About the poem-a-day routine, Luisa<\/strong> says \u201cwhat I’ve come to do in this daily poem ‘discipline’ is actually a lot of playing. One of the most important lessons I learn from doing this may sound over-simple but I find oftentimes it’s the hardest thing to do: letting go.\u201d<\/p>\n I am so happy to share \u00a0some of Luisa’s<\/strong> poems with you.\u00a0 I hope they inspire you as she has been inspired to write prose poems, ghazals, and abecedarians, \u00a0reverse abecedarians, and many other poems.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Hallucinatorio<\/strong><\/p>\n (after Roberto Bola\u00f1o\u2019s \u201cA Stroll Through Literature\u201d)<\/em><\/p>\n 1. I dream of blood that wells from a cut, uncoils its wavelengths of sequestered light,<\/p>\n turns more solid than the furniture in my house.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n 2. In my dream it is Lent, just like it is right now. Guardia civil<\/em> are herding babaylanes<\/em><\/p>\n into yellow Humvees. Their bandannas, knotted under the chin, catch the glow of sunset.<\/p>\n The vehicles rev up and head toward the hills. When the dust settles, the townsfolk find<\/p>\n they cannot erase the ancient writing that has formed beneath tire tracks. It becomes<\/p>\n their new epic poem. They will read it every year. Movie producers will come to film it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n 3. In my dream it is still Lent. Which can mean any of a number of things: penitents<\/p>\n stripped to the waist, their heads wrapped in sack-cloth, their brows circled with crude<\/p>\n vines or barbed wire. Their backs: red labyrinths, ladders gorged with flame.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n 4. In another dream all the lilies have open vestments. The children come to gather<\/p>\n pollen in their cups. Every eyelid will be streaked with gold, every finger outlined with<\/p>\n knowing.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n 5. I dream that in the ruined chapel, above carpets of moss, a cherub ziplines toward me<\/p>\n from the belfry. When was the last time you washed your face?<\/em> I ask my soul. It likes to<\/p>\n play in the mud, where it is cool. It hangs its head to one side; it doesn\u2019t like to brush its<\/p>\n hair.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n 6. Donde? Aqui, aqui.<\/em><\/p>\n 7. In this dream, I knock on the door of room after room until I come to the one where<\/p>\n Prinsipe <\/em>Florante is lashed to a tree, bemoaning his fate. If I turn the right combination<\/p>\n of locks hidden in the leaves, we will understand each other perfectly, in monorhyming<\/p>\n quatrains filled with lyric and metaphor. And the lion will slink back into the darkness<\/p>\n from which it came.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n 8. In this dream I gently cover the woman\u2019s mouth with my hand, lead her into a<\/p>\n room which has temporarily been stripped of all reminders of her sons; I bathe her fevered<\/p>\n brow with water. If you lived her story, you too would be crazed. Later in the night, the<\/p>\n oil lamp that should have ignited the revolution the first time, will burn down the<\/p>\n governor\u2019s house.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n 9. In this dream it is many years since you have touched me. By this I mean the premises<\/p>\n have fallen silent. Sometimes it is not a dream.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n 10. The poet leaves: she is outcast from her hometown. Does she drink? Chew betel nut<\/p>\n leaf? Swear like a cargador<\/em> at the pier? Gamble away her children\u2019s inheritance? Smoke<\/p>\n cigars with the lit end in her mouth? Take lovers, including her maid? Wear only pants?<\/p>\n Burn her bra? You have no imagination if you think this is all it takes to be a poet.<\/p>\n Luisa A. Igloria <\/strong> Posted on\u00a0March 25, 2012; in response to\u00a0small stone (71)<\/a>, <\/strong><\/em>which appears on\u00a0Seon Joong’s (Thus)<\/a> <\/strong>blog.\u00a0\u00a0Also, Luisa’s\u00a0poem was in turn used as a “curated prompt” in the May issue of\u00a0The Lantern Review<\/a>.<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n <\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Night Willow<\/strong><\/p>\n (after Beth Adams)<\/em><\/p>\n The only ones I knew, those that fringed the man-made lake in my hometown,<\/p>\n interspersed with red bottlebrush trees.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I used to have a sepia print made by an artist friend who just passed away\u2014 The woodcut<\/p>\n showed rowboats on choppy water, the City Hall in the distance; and, distinct at the edges<\/p>\n of the frame, the long-fingered leaves of willows.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n In their shade, early mornings, an elderly Chinese man came to lead T\u2019ai Chi exercises:<\/p>\n single whip, warding off, cloud hands, wild horse spreading mane. Shoes made no sound<\/p>\n on the grass.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n This is my dream painting: shot through with yellow gleam of lamplights, shadows<\/p>\n hunched or hugging their knees like granary gods.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Moss lining the undersides of jagged stones\u2014 so even here, it might be possible to say<\/p>\n there is still kindness to be found.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Is this what you mean? I\u2019ve decided to stop knotting up my questions and lobbing them<\/p>\n like weapons into the trees.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The sky at night can be the color of ash, can be the color of burnished metal.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n If the nest is a purse, then it is so high up in the branches I could not possibly plunder it<\/p>\n or probe its depths.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Dear mystery: daily, night after night, I think you\u2019re testing me; I won\u2019t fight with you<\/p>\n anymore.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Branches sough, and shapes of leaves shift in the wind. One by one my daughters will fly<\/p>\n away.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Lit, candles burn down into bowls of liquid wax, even as their smoky fragrance lingers.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Tell me in your own time what you want to say.<\/p>\n Luisa A. Igloria <\/strong> Posted on\u00a0July 24, 2012; in response to Cassandra Pages: Night Willow<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Night Heron, Ascending<\/strong><\/p>\n Through the window by my desk, I see a poem light in the branches<\/p>\n of a tree. It roosts awhile, then leaves\u2014 Night heron, ascending.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n My friend thinks it an omen for something good and rare. I regard the question<\/p>\n mark of its neck and back, its feathered cap streaked with pale saffron, ascending.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Last season\u2019s big storm flung a nest with young herons to the ground.<\/p>\n Perhaps this is one of them, out of the rhododendrons ascending.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n In The Conference of The Birds<\/em>, what fate befalls it as the flock undertakes<\/p>\n the journey? A blur past oak, ash, and willow; past reddened crags, ascending.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n From that height, boats are specks on the water, and we, even smaller.<\/p>\n Which dark craft at the river\u2019s mouth is Charon\u2019s, swiftly descending?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n In this summer light, some things look struck by gold: mythic, emblematic.<\/p>\n Portentous spirit, wings outlined with neon\u2014 tell me of ascending.<\/p>\n Luisa A. Igloria <\/strong> Posted on\u00a0July 1, 2012;\u00a0in response to an entry from the Morning Porch<\/a>. <\/em>This entry is part 7 of 47 in the series\u00a0Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2012<\/p>\n <\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Amarillo<\/strong><\/p>\n Overheard lunchtime conversation: Longing is a color, just as much as a state<\/em>.<\/p>\n And as I turn to the window, goldfinches pass through the trees like a yellow wind.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Along the boardwalk, shops sell puka shell bracelets, batik sarongs, T-shirts silkscreened<\/p>\n Virginia is for Lovers<\/em>. Skateboarders on the street, zipping by like day-glo wind.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n See the parasailers aloft in their tethered vests. Waves roll in and crash, then roll out<\/p>\n again. The beach is dotted with collapsible tents, ochre-striped flaps open to the wind.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n From someone\u2019s radio, the dance theme from Slumdog Millionaire<\/em>. I\u2019m seized by<\/p>\n a craving for lemon rice, mango chutney, some hint of chillies and saffron in the wind.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Some days are impermeable, asbestos. Other days spontaneously combust. The thing is,<\/p>\n there\u2019s no warning panel with lights flashing yellow, no siren blaring into the wind.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Amarillo<\/em>\u2018s another name for the blossom of the Caraiba, Tabebuia, or Araguaney:<\/p>\n long-throated flowers emerge after leaves have shed, rustling like gold foil in the wind.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Dear sunflower, you are too faithful, following that scorcher all day\u2014 Has he ever<\/p>\n bent to kiss your hot golden head? No? But rain\u2019s been kind; and the cool wind.<\/p>\n Luisa A. Igloria <\/strong>Posted on\u00a0July 15, 2012; in response to\u00a0an entry from the Morning Porch<\/a>. <\/em> (This entry is part 18 of 47 in the series\u00a0Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2012)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Ghazal of the 1 o\u2019clock caller looking for Pomona<\/strong><\/p>\n The shadow of a tiger swallowtail crosses my legs; I\u2019m in the sunroom, reading,<\/p>\n when the phone rings. It\u2019s 1 pm. There\u2019s a man on the other end asking for Pomona.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n His voice isn\u2019t urgent or pleading, just a little gravelly, and matter-of-fact.<\/p>\n I tell him there is no one here by that name. But he simply insists, Pomona<\/em>.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n For a minute I consider asking him if he knows that is the name of the goddess<\/p>\n of fruitful abundance; in tapestries she presides over a cornucopia: Pomona.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n But I hang up after saying Sorry, wrong number<\/em>, and think no more of it. Until<\/p>\n the very next day at 1 pm, the phone rings again and it\u2019s him, asking for Pomona.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n And it goes on for weeks after this. I\u2019m convinced even on days when I\u2019m not home,<\/p>\n the yellow phone in the sunroom rings at 1 pm: it\u2019s the caller looking for Pomona.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I\u2019ve tried to tell him to stop calling, that no other woman lives here but me. I<\/p>\n write poems. I grade papers. I don\u2019t make enough money. My name is not Pomona.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The teakettle whistles on the stove in alarm. I butter my toast and spoon<\/p>\n some apricot jam, wondering if they\u2019re friends or lovers, this man and Pomona.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I\u2019ll stop sometimes when I\u2019m out in the city: that dark-haired woman running<\/p>\n in the rain, into the arms of a man at the stop\u2014 is that him, is that Pomona?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I water orchids in the sunroom, straighten books on shelves; dust photographs<\/p>\n of my daughters when they were younger. Do any of them resemble Pomona?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n She married Vertumnus (the goddess, I mean; not this mystery girl): he tricked her,<\/p>\n disguised as an old woman. I wonder what she\u2019d look like in drag, this Pomona?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Call the police,<\/em> my friends say; call missing persons.<\/em> But I\u2019m hesitant. Did she<\/p>\n want to be found, did she want to disappear? Ah this man, this caller. And Pomona.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n ~ with thanks to Tammy Ho Lai-ming for the germ of the story<\/em><\/p>\n Luisa A. Igloria <\/strong> Posted on\u00a0May 18, 2012; in response to\u00a0an entry from the\u00a0Morning Porch<\/a>.<\/em> (This entry is part 36 of 54 in the series\u00a0Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2012)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Road Trip, ca. 1980<\/strong><\/p>\n Zigzagging up the mountain road, wonder why<\/p>\n you see only sparse cover of pine\u2014 dry<\/p>\n xylem of plants that knew more succulence<\/p>\n when waterfalls cleft rocks and veiled our<\/p>\n vision briefly as buses veered close in their<\/p>\n upward climb. Difficult to fall asleep on<\/p>\n the six to seven hour trip, the driver\u2019s<\/p>\n stash of Betamax tapes playing musicals or<\/p>\n Ronnie Poe and Joseph Estrada action films.<\/p>\n Quiet chatter and endless snacking,<\/p>\n punctuated by the occasional query<\/p>\n on how far away the rest stop is.<\/p>\n Next town\u2019s not it, so another hour<\/p>\n maybe, before they let us file out,<\/p>\n list toward the bathrooms. Had I<\/p>\n known, thirty years ago, that meant<\/p>\n just a slab of concrete on chilled ground,<\/p>\n I might have been better prepared to squat,<\/p>\n half on tiptoes while on my haunches, pee<\/p>\n guttering in a channel from a row of women<\/p>\n fixing their eyes on the horizon. Au naturel.<\/p>\n Evening quickly masks the scene. There\u2019s a pump<\/p>\n damp\u00a0with running water where we wash. The driver<\/p>\n cuts up meat and drinks a cup of coffee. We eat.<\/p>\n Before getting back on the bus, someone sneezes:<\/p>\n a fifteen minute wait, as superstition dictates.<\/p>\n Luisa A. Igloria <\/strong> Posted on\u00a0January 19, 2012; in response to\u00a0an entry from the Morning Porch<\/a>.<\/em> (This entry is part 29 of 73 in the series\u00a0Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2011-12)<\/p>\n Luisa A. Igloria<\/a><\/strong> is the\u00a0author\u00a0of The Saints of Streets<\/em> <\/strong>(forthcoming from the University of Santo Tomas Press, 2013), Juan Luna’s Revolver <\/em><\/strong> (University of Notre Dame Press<\/a><\/strong>, 2009 Ernest Sandeen Prize),\u00a0Trill & Mordent<\/em><\/strong> (WordTech Editions<\/a><\/strong>, 2005), and eight other books. Luisa has degrees from the University of the Philippines, Ateneo de Manila University, and the University of Illinois at Chicago, where she was a Fulbright Fellow from 1992-1995. She teaches on the faculty of Old Dominion University, where she currently directs the MFA Creative Writing Program<\/a> . Since November 20, 2010, she has been writing (at least) a poem a day\u00a0\u00a0at Dave Bonta’s\u00a0Via Negativa<\/em> site.<\/p>\n For a look at more of her poems as well as an interview with Luisa, you may want to read Marly Youman’s<\/strong> blog The Palace at 2:00 a.m.<\/a> <\/strong>Also, in the aforementioned article (“Curated Prompt: Luisa A. Igloria–‘Poetry as Speculum'”) in The Lantern\u00a0Review<\/a>, <\/em>Luisa<\/strong> talks about writing poetry as being archeological in nature, and she gives examples of how she has been able to mine experiences and history for her work.<\/p>\n When she isn\u2019t writing, reading, or teaching, Luisa<\/strong> cooks with her family, hand-binds books, listens to tango music, and keeps her radar tuned for cool lizard sightings.<\/p>\n Do you think you’d be interested in using Dave’s morning musings as a prompt for your writing?<\/strong> Well, you can. \u00a0As Dave explains, “I welcome this, and my copyleft license explicitly permits such remixing. I would encourage anyone who leaves such a poetic comment to subscribe by email to any subsequent updates, so if, for example, a linked verse sequence kicks off, you\u2019ll know about it in time to take part.”<\/p>\n What is Dave’s\u00a0Copyleft statement<\/strong>? <\/em>All content by Dave Bonta<\/strong> at The Morning Porch<\/strong> is licenced for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike U.S. 3.0 license.<\/p>\n BTW, the illustration at the top of this post is\u00a0the header to Dave’s site The Morning Porch<\/strong>. \u00a0It’s from a detail of “Paper Garden” by Clive Hicks-Jenkins<\/strong>.<\/p>\n I am also taken with a quote Dave uses at the top of his site; it’s by\u00a0Paul\u00a0\u00c9luard<\/strong>: “There is another world, but it is in this one.”<\/strong><\/p>\n Thanks so much to Luisa A. Igloria<\/strong> for sharing these poems and to Dave Bonta<\/strong> who inspires us.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n In my last post I introduced you to Dave Bonta, a poet and literary magazine editor from the eastern edge of western Pennsylvania, and his must-read blog Via Negativa, which posts poems, photos, essays, etc.\u00a0 I also mentioned that there is microblog companion site called The Morning Porch. \u00a0Here Dave posts short (140 character) descriptions […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[18,1300,12,1338,1332,1341,1334,7,16,1303,1340,1336,1339,1335,1337,1333,32],"class_list":{"0":"post-4102","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-guest-posts","7":"tag-anthology","8":"tag-dave-bonta","9":"tag-ellen-wade-beals","10":"tag-juan-lunas-revolver","11":"tag-luisa-a-igloria","12":"tag-marly-youmans","13":"tag-old-dominion-university","14":"tag-solace","15":"tag-solace-in-so-many-words","16":"tag-the-morning-porch","17":"tag-the-palace-at-200-am","18":"tag-the-saints-of-streets","19":"tag-trill-mordent","20":"tag-university-of-notre-dame","21":"tag-university-of-san-tomas-press","22":"tag-via-negativa","23":"tag-weighed-words","24":"entry"},"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/solaceinabook.com\/site\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4102","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/solaceinabook.com\/site\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/solaceinabook.com\/site\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/solaceinabook.com\/site\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/solaceinabook.com\/site\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4102"}],"version-history":[{"count":69,"href":"https:\/\/solaceinabook.com\/site\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4102\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4177,"href":"https:\/\/solaceinabook.com\/site\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4102\/revisions\/4177"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/solaceinabook.com\/site\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4102"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/solaceinabook.com\/site\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4102"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/solaceinabook.com\/site\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4102"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n<\/em><\/p>\n
\n<\/em><\/p>\n
\n<\/em><\/p>\n![\"Juan](\"http:\/\/luisaigloria.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/07\/Juan-Lunas-Revolver.jpg\" "\\"Juan")
<\/a><\/a><\/strong><\/a>![\"Trill](\"http:\/\/luisaigloria.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/07\/Trill-And-Mordent1.jpg\" "\\"Trill")
<\/a><\/p>\n
\n<\/span><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"