Ernesto P. Santiago, Philippines

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    Ernesto P. Santiago, Philippines 

    Ernesto P. Santiago says, “He is too small for his ego. He is enough for himself.” He thinks, “Poetry is a global temperature that will always surprise us.” His poetic thought has been widely published and anthologized, in print form as well as online. He is the author of two poetry books The Walking Man, 2007 and The Poet Who Asked The Birds How To Fly, 2009. He lives in Athens, Greece, where he continues to explore the poetic myth of his senses, and has recently become interested in the study of haiku and its related forms.

    Tongue And Word

    You know the journey of word
    from the breath of tongue so keen
    is like mastering the sword
    in the dance of the wandering wind.

    Every tongue is a word
    and every word is a tongue,
    use both with such accord
    to bless the old and young.

    Fear and excitement hold
    our tongue and word exactly
    one and the same as told
    by the feel of the eyes that see.

    If the tongue is a good father
    who arouses the land in noble deeds,
    then the word is a good mother
    who welcomely fills in his seeds.

    We are the tongue and word —
    should be a grace in prayers,
    in prints or in letters, where martyrs often honored
    by a salute of silence that matters.

    Tongue and word reveal the heart
    like a song of lips in flames,
    creating the perfect rhythm and art
    for the country that never crosses out our names.

    Being Human Is Not A Miss Or Hit Thing

    On my rugged lips your fevered faith
    keen to the licking of my curiosity,
    when with silence abound
    our words become our hands

    clinging to the limitlessness
    of divine touch. Keep your eyes
    towards heaven, wish for rain
    to lift our redundant prayers

    to God. While I acquaint myself
    with your firmness my thirst you satisfy
    with sap of gladness that my tongue
    keeps seeking out the last. Dip into

    my dawn, and then understand
    the first light, the journey of a child
    from womb a poet loves to honor
    with music like cry and sigh verses. Your

    so warm body makes me feel where being
    human is not a miss or hit thing, but an objective;
    and I realize I am poet too, not endangered
    species. Ah, loving you, I see my purpose!

    Bashful Mimosa

    To live life, no one is born with a contract.
    And just like you, I also came out from
    the rose womb of a woman plucked from God’s own act.

    Although I am not of such a royal ham,
    still I’m entitled— to play snowball thing
    and mate myself with winter night in fairydom,

    to smell the aroma of colorful spring,
    to sway my tongue with the leaves of autumn,
    or maybe, to see what crazy summer will bring.

    Of course, I want to live my own myth and bloom
    like bards who write and write, rewrite and rewrite,
    but who’s this fatuous finely creating my tomb?

    Will I have a day without a fear in might?
    is exactly how I start to lean on
    solitude, for these tears are now dimming the sight

    of my life, which I so thought a concoction
    of best breath and sweat of your flesh and bone.
    May the Lord of distribution feel my vision,

    for I desire not to be the free-verse clone
    of a man laced in immorality,
    nor be the legal inheritor of the throne

    of fool, ‘cause I know and sense the “I” in me
    is a tiny mimosa, though bashful
    yet it has a great curio for the world to see.

    I can fill the air you breathe with song so cool,
    just touch me not and let me wear my smile.

    My Life, My Body

    Not so pleased
    With my DNA,
    So I call God, the Mightiest,
    To inherit the dark
    Side of my poetry.

    Intently reciting Our Father,
    Repetitively I feel the shivers
    Of my name cultured by lust
    Of men, unbeknownst to contentment
    As my silence craves for me.

    Ah, in my thirst
    All angels
    Are beautiful—
    I pick the one not hesitant
    To lead my soul

    To her wet tundra
    That can remould the seeds
    Of love that photographs
    The memories
    Of my blood nearer to peace.

    Untitled Love

    Don’t let the busybodies see you cry,
    and even if I come to say goodbye.
    No matter what daily gossip gives you,
    this untitled love born within my heart
    ever steadfast to labors of virtue.

    Come, oh dawn of my life, sit by my side
    and I will tell you where my words reside.
    You a cuddler of laughter, hear me sigh;
    as you trust my lips, as you trust your mind,
    often I like soul as high as the sky.

    Claim me hard to a joy of heaven’s yell,
    and let the twinkles of your brown eyes tell,
    so what if I love you like dew to grass.
    There’s no more time for inessential lie;
    real death, it’s kind of lush, like poetry . . .
    of wine and roses, only I refuse to die!

     

     

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