ERIC GAMALINDA

Valley of Marvels

You must be single-minded as Humberto Delgarenna,
who risked his life along the glacial ridges
of the Valle des Merveilles to carve his name
on Mont Bego. The year was 1629. He may have never
made it back. He may have fallen among the crags,
his bones now interred among graffiti, the apothems
and zigzags whose inscrutability was sorcery,
medicine, object of fear. Let that be a lesson
to all who want to be remembered.
You must be crazed with vision. You must be a pilgrim,
wrapped in rags. A sailor, sick with scurvy,
waiting to jump ship. A hunter or a shepherd,
the words wool and venison sacred to you.
Decipher the enigma of verdigris. Be metal,
be clandestine. Navigate through shadows,
use touch and sound to recognize the shape
of luminance. Learn a skill, how to carve
a perfect spoke, or a rouelle. Find your way
back to water through guesswork; begin
from the cul-de-sacs of Tende. And if you discover
the seven rivers to be true, drink and resist
believing you have been saved.
You will not be saved. You will walk away
as you were before. You will be a blacksmith
or a vender of flowers. You will make a living
doing what you dislike. You will live so long
you will forget what you’ve been searching for.
The mornings will be cold and fierce.
The towns will lose their tools and weapons.
Invaders will come, first the Remedello,
then the Rhone. They will find, clenched
between your teeth, the words dagger and halberd.
They will uncurl jewels in your hands.
Your bones will resemble rock.

Autobiography of Water

1

I searched for the source of my country’s sorrow
Like a nineteenth century explorer
Looking for the origin of a river.
I searched for it so I could give it a name,
Trace its course on a map so future travelers
Could pinpoint its depths and bends
And say: I’ve been there. I wanted to find
Its history, to know if its waters were rich
With minerals and mud that made pottery
Glisten like metal, or impoverished
And stricken with bad luck, drifting
Eels and corpses to dead-end towns.
If cities were built upon it, wars waged
To win it. Or if it meandered all its life
Unknown, a vengeful but healing deity,
Crossed only once by a tribe whose name
No one now recalls.

2

If you ask about my life
I will tell you: I once loved someone
Who dived for shipwrecks.
If you ask for a history I will say:
Born at midnight, in a city
Hospital, in the year of Sputnik.
If you ask for references I will say:
I told everyone what I thought
Was the truth. If you ask for an address
I will say: Water is the purest state
Of impermanence.

3

 Water is the opposite
Of repose. Hibiscus is the opposite
Of mausoleum. Jetstream
Is the opposite of stalactite. Memory
Is the opposite of fear. A magic lantern
Describes the earth in revolutions
Of shadow and moonlight. This much
Is real. History is the opposite of war.
Love grows out of its own opposite,
Which is silence. Albedo is the opposite
Of midnight. The world is full of gods.
We are all made of charm,
Strange, up and down.
When we die, death chokes
On us, and stops
Breathing.

# 846

time for healing has begun again, light so languid
spreads itself over the vineyard trellises
from Les Arcs-Draguignan to Gare du Nord
and everyone’s rocked to sleep on the TGV
there you go faster than the speed of memory
green is dying everywhere and that is good
the cemeteries stacked on the hills
the earth crunching its nest of bones
the blue windows have been shut and they are like pools
of sky, in your notebook you’ve copied
three lines that talk of God in another language
and God in another language is kinder
for his distance, you have chosen to believe in something
and now it is your burden not to deny it
the telephone wires collect the hiss and static
of all the names you’ve never called, and night
is a different era, you were beginning to like it
there is nothing in the world that cannot contain
the possibility of beauty, you have chosen to believe
you were its armor and sail, to protect what is dangerous
to you, whose colors lacerate you and whose every gesture
is subliminal, that too is good, you will not slow down
till darkness overwhelms you, it will never overwhelm you
you are the balance and spire and the Roman ruins
you are the smokestacks and the spray paint
the shadow of the hanging tree
you are the Saracens and you are the cross
nothing you do contradicts the agreement you have made
with your birth, you are looking out the window
at a sky full of infinities, no one hears it but you
time for healing has begun as it never fails to do
this hour, this track, no matter what republic
you pledge allegiance to, this orbit, this dialect,
you will be drawn again and again into the zero
of caliphs who dreamed in numbers, drawn back
to stations where poets and soldiers go home wounded
you will forgive what is most difficult to forgive
then nothing more will need your words.

Eric Gamalinda was born and raised in Philippines. He is the author of several
books of poetry and novels. He is the Professor of Asia Pacific American Studies
at New York University and the editor of the forthcoming poetry anthology.