Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “[W]rite an active poem. That could be a poem comprised of active (vs passive) verbs. But it could also be about exercising, playing a sport, or keeping your mind active. Any activity would do, I suppose, even watching the paint dry.”
Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “In honor of the always-becoming nature of poetry, I challenge you today to select a photograph from the perpetually disconcerting @SpaceLiminalBot, and write a poem inspired by one of these odd, in-transition spaces. Will you pick the empty mall food court? The vending machine near the back entrance to the high school gym? The swimming pool at what seems to be M.C. Escher’s alpine retreat? No matter what neglected or eerie space you choose, I hope its oddness tugs at the place in your mind and heart where poems are made.”
Alan worked with both prompts; he told me, “I have an action poem set in one of those liminal spaces.” I am inserting that image below the poem.
On the Border
I was alone and driving home
from Birmingham, a disappointing trip
to read a paper at a post prime conference,
the last one of my circle left to go,
and I was in the pope’s nose tip
of Georgia, where they later put the Q-Anon
conspirator in Congress, when I saw
the exit sign for Taco Bell, a place
I don’t resist when I’m alone,
but Chattanooga, half an hour north,
was likely locked in traffic, and I thought
of Baja Blast, the Windex-blue
exclusive fountain flavor of
sweet Southern Mountain Dew,
and I pulled in. The parking lot
was empty—nothing seems to stay
in Trenton past its unofficial curfew, but
the dining area was clean if rough,
upholstery half-ripped, at least one bench
torn up and looking like a boat
my uncle cracked colliding with a dock,
fluorescent tubes just out of sync
while blinking in one corner. When the kid
behind the counter wandered up to take
my order, she had red around her eyes,
and I could see mascara smeared on her right wrist,
and she was nice. I filled my cup
with Baja Blast while she walked back
and started to prepare my food. Although
I knew that it was late, I couldn’t figure out
why she would work the counter and
my order, too. The place was empty; only she
and I were there as far as I could tell,
and no one brought in garbage cans
or mopped the floor (not that it needed it—
the place was spotless), stepped out from the back
or made a sound. I sipped my Baja Blast
and checked my phone for messages; Duran Duran
was playing in the background, and I was hungry, not
quite sure if I had ordered plenty. She
began to bring my tray and slipped—she caught herself
and laughed—but I could sense she wanted me
to take my seat and eat. And, so, I chose
a table far across the store—if she were there
alone, I didn’t want to seem a threat—
and sat so I could see my car, the counter to
my left. She disappeared into the back,
and I began to eat, half listening
to Tears for Fears, the Thompson Twins, Berlin,
the Talking Heads—I wondered if my credit card
had sent some demographic, coding playlists, when
the music stopped as Annie Lenox sang.
I bused my space and went to get
a last refill of Baja Blast to go. The first
police car pulled into the lot, its blue
lights pulsing, and I filled my cup
as some patrolman half my size
stood at the door and motioned me
to come outside. I thanked the girl
behind the counter—not that I could see
her anywhere, and left the store
as cruiser number two pulled in,
no siren, only lights. ‘Who all’s in there?”
the first cop asked; I told him just the girl,
and when the two new cops got out,
the older one pulled me aside and asked
for my i.d. and walked me to my car,
suggesting a detective, coming soon,
would want an interview. I wondered when
I would get home. The ambulance
pulled in without its siren, too, and when
the loaded gurney rolled away, a car
pulled up, and some man just my age
was let inside to take his daughter home,
I later learned, although she wouldn’t leave
until she balanced out the till,
her first night on the job, her boss
collapsing to the floor and gone
a little bit before I first came in.
—Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
https://twitter.com/SpaceLiminalBot/status/1378793937813565440/photo/1
Alan, wow, that is one weird story, very nicely told. It goes very well with that eerie photo. Bravo!
I am working today only from Brewer’s prompt. Since my novel-in-poems is about Philippine monsters, specifically the aswang, the phrase “aswang activity” came to me. That both words began with A led to this abecedarian poem as I strived to come up with two Bs and two Cs, etc. The entire poem morphs pretty quickly into an exploration of the activity of a “babaylan,” which is the social role Clara takes on after returning to the Philippines with her son Malcolm.
So what’s a “babaylan”? According to Carlos Villa, “Babaylan is a Filipino word that refers specifically to an individual or a group of healers, mostly women, who were acknowledged by friends and family as possessing extraordinary gifts . . . having a gift of vision; an ability to see through schemes or situations and later advise on future plans . . . or the gift for healing; a specific touch or intuited or passed-on knowledge to specific processes of ‘fixing’ and ‘putting’ people and things together. The first priority of all Babaylan [is] her community.” (FAQs)
The Center for Babaylan Studies further defines: “Philippine indigenous [precolonial] communities recognize a woman (or man) as a Babaylan, someone who has the ability to mediate with the spirit world, has her own spirit guides, and is given gifts of healing, foretelling, and insight. She may also have knowledge of healing therapies such as hilot, arbularyo. She is a ritualist, a chanter, diviner. She has the gift of traveling to the spirit world or non-ordinary states of reality in order to mediate with the spirits.” (What is a Babaylan?)
While I’m at it, a “barangay” is a Philippine district or village (or, in a town, a neighborhood), akin to “barrio.” A “hilot” is a Philippine healer who specializes in massage and manipulation of the body. And a “diwata” is, in Philippine mythology, a lesser god or goddess. Okay, now you’re ready. Enjoy the poem!
Babaylan
Aswang
Activity? Not in this
Barangay. I am
Babaylan. I am
Clara the priest. Not
Catholic but priest nonetheless.
Devotees sometimes call me priestess, but it
Doesn’t matter what they call me. I am not
Elected, but all look to me to lead.
Ever since we arrived, people have come to me
For relief from aches and pains,
From fevers and seizures. I
Gave them ease of mind, offered
Grace for their bodies by
Harnessing the medicinal knowledge I
Had learned working with plants
In San Francisco all those ages ago.
I continued to learn more from the nearby healer
Josefa — hilot, midwife, herbalist — for years, until
Just three Christmases ago, upon her death.
Keeping our faith alive, I have
Kindled a flame in two young women,
Leah and
Lolit, who will continue this work after I die.
Malcolm helps me now. Every week, every day,
Many people come to visit me,
Not just for their bodies to be healed,
Not just for their minds to be made whole —
Of course, I do that — but because it is
Obviously my destiny and my duty to
Pray with them for the ancient Diwatas’
Providence, to encourage the people’s
Quest for justice, for peace, to
Quench their desire for dignity. I teach the people to
Resist the corruption of selfish men, of evil
Rulers. As the community’s
Shaman, I venture into the
Spiritual realm, bring back wisdom and insight
To use in chants and rituals,
To foretell the future and
Unravel the way modern life twists our
Unity, our tribal and communal
Vision, to foster our people’s
Vigor and energy. As babaylan I have always
Willed the preservation of tradition and
Wholeness, in its most sacred form, in all its
eXtraordinary power. I
eXhort the divine Bathala to
Yield all that is good. We pray
Yes to the gods Aman Sinaya of the Ocean, Amihan of the
Zephyr. I claim all of this with indomitable
Zeal. While I, Clara, am still and always
Aswang, I am also no longer
Aswang. I am Babaylan.
—Draft by Vince Gotera [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
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2 comments:
Enjoyed both of these. Yours was an effortless and engrossing abecedarian, and Alan’s was a slightly creepy narrative that, as you said, fit the photo perfectly. I combined both prompts but don’t know if I quite went in the direction that Maureen suggested. I also offered an older poem on my blog, which happens to be called “Liminal”.
Thank you, Mr. Niedt--
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