What language should poets write in?

She [Marina Tsvetayeva] herself passionately believed that "writing poetry is in itself translating, from the mother tongue into another, whether French or German should make no difference."

No language is the mother tongue. Writing poetry is rewriting it…. A poet may write in French; he cannot be a French poet. That's ludicrous…. The reason one becomes a poet…is to avoid being French, Russian, etc., in order to be everything…. Yet every language has something that belongs to it alone, that is it…. French: clock without resonance; German—more resonance than clock…. French is there. German becomes, French is.

-Tsvetayeva chiding Rilke as qouted by John Bayley in "Big Three"
New York Review of Books Volume 32, Number 19 · December 5, 1985

According to Sartre...

"Many young people today do not concern themselves with style and think that what one says should be said simply and that is all. For me, style—which does not exclude simplicity, quite the opposite—is above all a way of saying three or four things in one. There is the simple sentence, with its immediate meaning, and then at the same time, below this immediate meaning, other meanings are organized. If one is not capable of giving language this plurality of meaning, then it is not worth the trouble to write.

What distinguishes literature from scientific communication, for example, is that it is not unambiguous; the artist of language arranges words in such a way that, depending on how he emphasizes or gives weight to them, they will have one meaning, and another, and yet another, each time at different levels."

-Sartre speaking to Michel Contat

New York review of Books, Volume 22, Number 13 · August 7, 1975

paano pumatay ng demonyo

paano pumatay ng demonyo
Rodelen Paccial

...at kung paano pumatay ng demonyo,
yan ang huling lektyur nya sa amin,
bago siya magkayab sa kalangitan.

palitan mo ang kanyang pangalan.
sa iyong isip,
gawin mong Kerwin o Jhun-jhun,
ang demonyo'y demonyo lamang
dahil tinatawag mo siyang
katungaling kahanay mo sa listahan
ng mga astig na hangaway.

ika'y malikot na espada,
ika'y mabigat na panghampas,
palitan ang estado ng mundo,
paslangin ang mga demonyong
Kerwin o Jhun-jhun.

Curfew Poetry Anthology

Axel Pinpin Dilemma ni Carpio

Francisco Arias Monteseña Kuyom

Genevieve Mae B. Aquino Alzheimer's in the Philippines

German V. Gervacio Hu Let Da Dogs Awt?! Hu-Hu-Huhu!

Gracia Alcantara Perdiguerra Fugue
Mark Angeles Fury Tales

Marlon Hacla Isang Pagtutol

Melvin Medes Mga Taong Apoy

Michelle Brences Policurfew

Noel Sales Barcelona Bakit Gloring?

Raul Funilas May Kaba Sa Bawat Hakbang Ng Manghihimagsik

Ravelth Castro-Belicena Mundong Parisukat

Rodelen Paccial Emerald

Rustum Casia One Night Only

Victor Emmanuel Carmelo D. Nadera Jr. Anibersaryo Ngayon ng Martial Law

http://makoydakuyko y.multiply. com/journal/ item/35/Curfew_ Poetry_Anthology

Looking at pictures of our internship year

Looking at pictures of our internship year
(For my Med School Buddies)
Rodelen Paccial

When we were much younger,
And we had much more oil in our faces,
And we were trying to be doctors at the same time,
When we couldn’t sleep
And envy the janitor’s roosters
When we slept and regretted,
When we were half asleep
And couldn’t put in an intravenous catheter,
When we were exposed to the myriad variations
Of vulvae and penises,
Of appendices and breasts,
When we drank and got merry
And blame ourselves the next day,
When we couldn’t eat
when we didn’t have time to eat
when we were faced with the choice
of sleeping or eating,
when we had to wear the same
briefs and panties for more
than twenty four hours
(i know because I looked)
When dreams were fresh
When dreams of becoming
Greater than ourselves
For the sake of others
Were a mantra
Silently repeated in the deep
Silence of our brains,
Because all we did was curse,
On how so much sickness
Can be in this world
And land in your OPD table.

That was the time we fell in love with this occupation and preoccupation,
For like a woman we had to fetch water for and chop wood for,
Medicine was coy and lovely,
Promised everything,
But not now, she said.
“Everything”, she said,
And the wooing was just fine,
Outside her gates,
We chose to stand
And labor while she waits.