Apollo 11

 

That is my hometown, true, I was born in yon house
Grew for a couple of years in that old one and grew
The rest inside this one on long stilts, from where I
            used to watch
Women doing their laundry under the old new-century
Bridge of American iron railings, and
At twelve years old I was dipping our trash in
The banks of the river—with a wheelbarrow—because
That was where the people threw their trash,
Near the blighted bridge I always thought
Was so strong, from photos I’ve seen was
Always the same sight as when it was built in
World War II, I guess,...same even today, albeit rusting
More now with falling slabs of iron occasionally splashed
            on the cavities
Of the slightly underwater two-meter rock solids that simply
            spark at twelve-meter
Falls; I don’t know why women still wash their clothes
Under the threat of iron sparks here that might en-
Lighten their heads with death than with knowledge,
Only for the sake of clean clothes and
The howling sound of the rush within & through one- to six-
            meter
Cavities that suck in the water, that spew them out
Again, always seeming like the water will never get out
            anymore
But they always do, continuing through life...as the
People from the village do, everyday crossing the bridge
            on remaining
Slabs of wood against the irons, that tilt up at the other
            end
When you step on this end, and in each long slab’s
Middle you could feel the wood creak while in sight
Of those cavities down below.
                                                                    Oh you
talk to the women below and they’d always answer
Your screams with screams o’ their own while the
Rocks howl a loudness loud as greek howls in tragedies,
So you just avoid talking and let the river do the
Talking. And people at the other end look at you, now
            cityboy, crawl
Through the slabs, praying that, please, you do not
Fall, half-praying subconsciously though you do.
            It
Was the bridge, all right, and it was the river; and it
Was the riverbank we threw our dead cat
Into, yes; into the trash hills we threw him and saw him
Slide down the height like some bobsled sight we saw once
            on television.

II.
And that Cross-topped Hill is the town hill we climb
Only through a slippery path 40-degrees steep,
Though starting up you first pass through a grotto
So perhaps you may pray for your safety or
"The hour of our death, amen." Now
When you climb there, you’d do well to cling to tall
            grasses as
Tall—when we climbed—as our twelve-year-old
Frames then, on umber soil with clinging rocks,
And next sight you see, an American-era reservoir
Domed with concrete, where we’d peep through the
Manhole, peeping into the dark of the
American mystery, just imagining the pipes that criss-
            cross
About, not knowing anything...was a ten-meter
Boa constrictor really waiting there for prey? Did
The snake eat some p-
                                                        Next
you realize you’re nearing the cross
Getting bigger, and, when you reach the top
You then know the cross is quite taller than your
            father,
10 times, or less, yet you’ll also know you are
Taller than everyone when you see the town
At your feet, the seashores of the island
All at your shoulder’s sight—seeing everything in your
Nausea’d flying, hovering, you’re touching the

    clouds
I’d be like the dead,

III.
But I would not dream of dying in this hometown, who would?
            me having gone
To the cemetery and seen the signs of overpopulation,
            these numbers
Making you wonder if heaven is that wide,
Or if heaven is that full, even as you
Shouldn’t be thinking like that, being doubtful,
But you cannot be blamed in the presence
Of the material in the cemetery: marble tablets or
            merely
Shoveled-up mounds, crosses of wood or concrete
You imagine them all to be decaying with worms,
But that’s not so disgusting as even material
Differences and the scrambling-for-wealth are not new
            motifs . . . you quickly re-
Proach yourself, away from any envy of a better
Decomposition—which?
In concrete walls, compared to a plurality of earth
(Thousands) when buried in soil, but
Of course concrete walls guarantee more
Pungent odors within a flood of sweat c/o a
            walled-in decay,
                                                                                in time to our concrete
cities
            blooming . . .

FINALE
                                            It is from
a City whence I, now cityboy, look back at this my own small
            city (nee town)
And think of what bad or good fortune made me
Grow up there, in my village of friends where
Amiability were in abundance and much contentedness
            occurred
Among my laughing neighbors; but where some of them also
Grew up to be engineers to build World War III
Bridges or grew up to become lawyers and build World War
III histories, while some remained poor there with their
Food and money spent there long ago long gone, my
Only money now too, here, the paper money of words. The
Words yet flow and a few townmates here flock, all thinking on
The past while thinking for the future, our
Hometown and country watched, for more blips—,
            As we badly wait on this moon.

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 1999, 2004 Vicente-Ignacio Soria de Veyra. All rights reserved. Readers are welcome to view, save, file and print out single copies of this webpage for their personal use. No reproduction, display, performance, multiple copy, transmission, or distribution of the work herein, or any excerpt, adaptation, abridgment or translation of same, may be made without written permission from the author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this work will be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

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