Ayn Frances dela Cruz
|Ainne “Ayn” Frances dela Cruz, 22, is a lecturer at De La Salle University-Dasmarinas and University of Perpetual Help-Dalta System She is currently studying for her MA in Comparative Literature at the University of the Philippines She was a fellow for the 7th UST National Writers Workshop for English poetry Her work has been published in the Philippines (Kanto, Kilometer 64, Philippine Graphic, The Literary Apprentice Light, Philippine Panorama, Perlas ng Silangan, Paliparan, ANI 33, Very Short Stories for Harried Readers, Road to Remembrance), United Kingdom (The Argotist Online), USA (Nimrod International Journal, The Bathyspheric Review, Rumble Microfiction Magazine, The Flask Review, Blood Orange Review, Strangeroad), Argentina (Zone), and India (Kritya), with work forthcoming in Canada (Ygdrasil) A vegetarian-bum-poet, she spends her free time walking the streets of Cavite.|
The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Ayn Frances dela Cruz and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Ballet school, ten years ago
I got interested in flying
pirouettes through the air
rond’ d jambs, splits
all on pointe
I always wanted to leave
this old skin behind Leave everything
behind, fly you know,
it was a secret wish
Oh, for the feel of that again
those shoes again
those lace-ups tightening my toes
until they could bend
and stand on their own
my body bending down
going round those toes
and my body only
only the ever widening air
The close-open game of flowers
smatters like words on a highway Dangwa daytime begins
with big, burly men
screeching their throats to a halt
their rough-gnarled hands
coaxing flowerbuds to shape Of course, there’s always one
that refuses the invitation That sprig of monkey-vine
still shriveled-yellow in chrysalis
speaks of dew that dissolves
to the touch Hands there are, always, that
force growth from without
letting the monkey-vine
bleed before its time All the deep crimson blushing
through yellow, jaundiced, cloudy Mouths held limpid, arrested
as the flowers start to hold up
one, two, three fingers Now a whole hand.
|Paul ‘beast of thermal bath’ Murphy lives in London and spends most of the Winter keeping warm In the Summer he seeks southerly places, preparing himself for the coming Winter Paul Murphy is not a bear.|
The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Paul Murphy and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Three: Broken Rivers
Though this was the end end of town
Neither compass point, not even dead There a woman urinates against a wall.
I walked on glancing left, straight ahead, then back
Heard a salty sea descend on a dry well Yes the Apache would be grateful.
Their Commanche brethren, even the Mixtecs
Grateful Yeah and they, not they
Even Latter Day Saints mulching on the grassy plain
Yeah grateful and they I walked on and wondered:
I’d seen many, many things, dead men, living men
But never this and they, never this, never this.
For through the night the shiny serpent
Flies through fetid forests and on But never this, no never this.