Fighting Kite (page 9)

Here is the first poem in Fighting Kite. This was written when I was pursuing my Master of Fine Arts (MFA) in poetry from about 1986 to 1989. I'm gonna guess that I wrote this in Yusef Komunyakaa's workshop. It certainly shows his influence, especially in my handling of imagery.         1931, although a drought year, still brings the feast of San Martin, turning Pasig’s main street into a river: colors strung from windows, a marching band in homespun. The market blooms religious relics, red and green papier-mache toys, in the church plaza. Little boys in yellow kerchiefs chase a greased pig in and out among buyers, competing for a purse of centavos. At sunset, the streets scintillate with candles, wisps of flame escorting the dark-skinned Virgin in gold and vermilion on hardy shoulders. Banks of townspeople singing hymns are led by Simeon, the cantor. The finale at full dark, the zarzuela stage show: all day grandmothers hinting about a “special appearance” tonight, perhaps a famous singer from Manila. But before all that, in the musky heat of early afternoon, my father is tying a sack of ashes behind his back, slung from his waist as he shinnies up a pole slick with pork fat. At the top, 25 feet above the hooting crowd, a pouch of pesos. The younger boys unable to reach, the older ones get a turn. “You’re 10, right?” the parish priest asks my father. “You go first.” Sweat stings his eyes. My father climbs 6 feet, starts to slip. The crowd chants, “Martin! Martin!” Slow like a cat, he stretches right hand then left into the sack. Fingers dipping in ash. Almost there, almost there. This is his life. Page 9 I have said often that Fighting Kite is a poetic biography of my father. In fact, this particular scene is fictional, though it's certainly possible that my dad partook in this fiesta game in the city of Pasig, Philippines, where he grew up. In this game, called Palosebo, youths try to climb up a greased bamboo pole to reach a prize, as described in the poem. I thought this game, with its difficulty and its ease of failure, was an appropriate metaphor for my dad's life. As such, this piece works as a kind of thesis poem for the entire collection. As always, I'd love to get some feedback or discuss anything with all y'all. Comment, okay? Thanks. Ingat.  FIGHTING KITE   FIRST FRONT CONTENTS PREVIOUS NEXT LAST