Poetry
Aida. F. Santos
BEYOND THE BUSH
(for G.)
1
Beyond the bush
memories fly
across the furrowed forehead
of an ex-exile.
It is almost spring
at the limestone shore
of Cape Town.
'...and I saw through
the bush, village lights
in the night
laughter escaping
from well-lit homes
and I wondered
why they were up, the night
is full of danger
but something stirred, I
touched the joy
inside me, something burned...'
'...I hadn't seen children
for a long time, and women, too
once there was a child
and I cradled her in my arms
suddenly, I realized
what life is all about.'
Beyond the bush, my friend
and comrade, life is much more
complex
than firing a gun
or paratrooping to bomb
the enemy's headquarters.
Your life is held at bay
frozen by a command:
'time for negotiations.
the armed struggle is suspended.'
And I wonder,
how does a soldier re-shape
life beyond the bush?
3
Beyond the bush
the options are linear
and traditional: find a woman,
get her pregnant
marry her, and in your case,
take care of a sick father
look after a younger brother
attend clandestine meetings
feel unfrozen in the midst
of a cycle of pained
hopelessness, beyond the bush.
4
Comrade, the revolution goes on
steadfast in its aim,
and liberation must go on
in our daily lives.
But I still ask:
have you taken time
to catch a lost childhood,
to feel other people
as people, not only as comrades
in arms, have you mended
your tattered soul beyond the bush?
5
'I don't own myself
the revolution owns me
as it did.'
I ask, can the revolution
own a man
who does not own himself?
- Aida F. Santos, 1992
VAW
in a meeting:
I sit in a corner
puffing my deadly winston
chest breathing unevenly
vaw, all caps
a synonym for memories
cull data from battered women
case histories of incest
train counselors
train the police
train the lawyer
train the men
train all of us
to listen
to the cries of the bodies
pounded, leg torn apart
children's moans
caught between the pillows
while fathers, brothers
uncle, kin respected
hover, unseen knives
between their legs
my sisters speak of violence
against women
'such and such said....'
'in a book I read....'
'this woman told me....'
'oh, what a terrible story....'
'the conference gave out papers....'
''I've spoken to one survivor....'
'we've got to put up a support
group....'
'we support each other....'
i sit, a shadow in a corner
puffing my deadly winstons
overwhelmed by theories
I, a living memory
mother of another
i go home, silent.
- Aida F. Santos, 1992
BUREAU OF IMMIGRATION, MANILA
Sitting here on the cheap
vinyl-covered hard chairs
is like being in hell
"The officer is out,
but will be back soon..."
says the assistant,
a standard line
mockery of time.
Men are napping
on squeaking swivel chairs
foam desperately poking through
the beaten arms-rest.
Sleazy characters
move in and out:
A bureaucrat sits his shoes on a table
suffocating with business cards
imprisoned under a heavy glass;
a lawyer in a beige linen suit
armpits profusely perspiring
chubby hands adorned
by two obscenely-big diamonds
voice booms of tales
of drunken nights in sleazy bars
where he said he had his women;
a travel agent in a greyish barong
is smiling to himself
as he devours the haggard-looking secretary;
another man in a blue shirt
speaks in hushed tones about AIDS
and Filipino nurses in Saudi
prostituted
as they pore greedily through
the semi-pornographic tabloid;
an errand boy
with a big scar across his cheek
tries to undress me with his looks
and I stare back, going through
his coagulated brain and bulging front
quickly, he drops his eyes as quickly as he flicks
cigarette ash on the shabby carpeted floor,
The secretary pounds feverishly
on an old, tired manual typewriter
moved by the songs on Jesus from the karaoke in the lobby, Christmas spirit
and everybody's feeling christian.
Paper bills are thrust into
her hands, smiles are exchanged
between a slit-eyed man
and the secretary who bows
a little bit, mildly embarrassed
but pushes the bills into her drawers.
Part time, and we sit still.
Bosses come out of their cubicles.
Bureaucracy croaking at its seams
and the posters on the walls scream:
"No bribes allowed."
Robots of poverty, lords of power
greed oozes like pus
women smile through the sexist jokes
powerlessness painfully plastered on painted faces
The ceiling has one gaping hole
like a hole in the brain
of his monstrous institution.
Christmas is here, said another
but I can't feel the spirit,
making a peso sign.
This is corruption supreme
grafted in each little corner.
Bribes breathe, bastards bribe
my stomach feels sick.
We ask for coffee, sure, sure
and greasy cup with lukewarm instant appears
and we wait, for that signature
that perhaps will not come today
- Aida F. Santos, 1991
note on love
if we must say goodbye
it should be like a kiss
gentle and warm
passionate but not pained
we are both women
we know the contours
of our grief
in loving and leaving
we must harvest joys
like blooms in may
lining the alleyways
in places quite unlikely
along the path
littered with rubbish
a bougainvillea shoots up
pink flowers
daring the smog
of this city's mornings
- Aida F. Santos, 1992
Aida. F Santos is an award winning Filipino feminist poet and women's rights activist, theorist and trainor.
The poems by Aida F. Santos are re-produced with permission of the author, from the anthology 'Woman to Woman', for inquiries please write to Pintados, 19 Detroit St., Cubao, Quezon City, Philippines.
Kathleen Maltzahn
My friend Penny writes from Johannesburg, one week before the election
1
My friend writes
that her friend
Joe
has been killed
Shot in the
throat in his
house
one week before the elections
she says she wishes
she could wrap
everybody up
in
cotton wool
in
tissue paper I add
in
layers and layers of tissue paper
and put them somewhere safe
and calm
and still
until the hurricanes have passed away
have ripped through
are quiet,
she says,
and they can look
she says
with regret
but not with fear
at the damage they have left
she says I get so scared
kathleen
I get so scared
and Joe who was an
actor and a
dreamer
and wanted to ake a lot of money
so he could buy a house for his mother
and his sisters
and his brother
and as he put it she says
get them away from starvation,
lies dead in the center of her letter
one week before the election
and I can only reply
in a letter
that I no longer believe in God
or the revolution
but that I think of her
daily
and will not forget Joe
who lies dead
in the center of her letter
one week beforethe elections
2
And heaven in a tissue box I think
with layer upon layer
of soft, soft cloth
with you tucked inside
and you old time comrades,
floating above the gorge
and believing in a safe landing
but it doesn't work like that you say
3
My friend's letters
come in slashes
her figures heaving back
into the page
leaning into the margins
straining away from the next
word
Her friend Joe was killed
last week
one week before the elections
- Kathleen Maltzahn, 1994
My Mother Tends the Earth
In England during the food rationing of the
40s, people were given "allotments"
small plots of land often in hightly
industrialized areas to cultivate to make up
for the food shortages
My mother tends the earth
like her mother before her
a farmer
Once
city-transplanted
my grandmother
borrowed a piece of land
government-given
and tried to grow
greens
and reds
then gone in war-hacked England
She could not
In Manchester
she plowed and planted and waited
and nothing came
No shoots
Until she remembered the last winter
with farmers' eyes and mind
Salt in the slushy snow
to move it on
to melt it down
had flowed into the earth
for countless years
Her allotment was lost
as desert as African tales
So she got another,
again government-given
and dug again
to eat greens
and reds
On the other side of the earth
my mother turns the story over
She yanks greens and reds from dirt
night after night
tending this ungodly grave
keeping it clan and bare, not
green
She has forgotten that her tears
could wash away the weeds
though maybe too his plot
- Kathleen Maltzahn, 1994
Regenerations
The generations stop with me
They say silence is broken
but it is not
It is peeled away, clawed away with
broken finger nails
The nails heal
The skin might not
- Kathleen Maltzahn, 1994
you
If the rough
edges of my heart
chafe you
hand it back to me
and I will weigh it in my palm
like a firm green apple
ripe for the eating
and then, taking this
old fruit peeler
plastic red
I will peel away, slice away
its calloused skin in one long loop
and give it back to you
virgin
soft, stripped of hardness, new
then will I please you?
- Kathleen Maltzahn, 1994
Kathleen Maltzahn is an Australian working in the Philippines as a co-worker of the United Church of Christ in the Philippines (UCCP).
The poems by Kathleen Maltzahn are published for the first time, for inquiries please contact Isis International, Manila.