Three poems by Simon Anton Diego Nino Baena
Where do you start
in this? The streets are silent
and the trees are weary,
and you light another cigarette.
Every morning, the church recedes
in the embrace of a mist
along with your muted shadow.
In the ossified city of phantoms,
your house is a massive cavity
where laughter is woven with grief
in a long recollection of sins,
you search for your footprints
somewhere in the pitch black
soil of its once green fields—
listen. Someone’s voice continues to
echo, as the infant weeps,
the antique belfry roars
in the company of a drizzle.
The sky vomits lightning
again. And words are heavy
like iron bars, and your breath
is a little bit slower than usual.
Every night, these wet streets
continue to haunt you, in your nightmares,
and even in your dreams.
All the windows are painted black,
and open to welcome a breeze
that is foreboding. Here, loneliness is
engraved in the dripping walls
of rain, where your tears remain
an abundant commodity
in the grey atmosphere of day.
In my balcony I will sit and listen to the music
you create with your jointless fingers, whenever
you take a leak above my roof of nipa leaves,
whenever you visit this city of sleepy streets
and dull houses, where the scent of sugar burns
in February. Feverishly, my ears anticipate to hear
the sound of your falling waters, as I stare at this
blank sheet of paper and my dad’s pictures,
taken last summer in Alhambra before
he passed away. Outside, the cable wires begin
to sway in harmony with your bleating melody.
And the windows are moistened with tears. Rain,
I want you to know that I don’t seek rainbows
even if there are landslides and bloated corpses
flooding the news, because of your monsoon.
Silence, in this barrio
the old folks used to say
is bliss. Hovering above
the leafless acacia
are weary clouds,
they move gently
with no sound.
One hundred meters
from where I sit
is the sea, listless,
and always indifferent,
when something ominous
approaches from the east–
now the rain falls
to kiss the humid earth.
As the anemic moon lies
on top of the pebbles
of Nabaoy river,
the mangroves do not sway
and the birds never come
to build their nests.
Editor’s Note on Monsoon, Rain, Silence:
Monsoon, Rain, Silence are not the first poems that Simon Anton Diego Nino Baena has had published in Eastlit. Apart from Monsoon, Rain, Silence, he has previously had work published as listed: