Download Amigo Warfare: Poems by Eric Gamalinda PDF

By Eric Gamalinda

Eric Gamalinda's Amigo war is a gorgeous meditation on identification and the methods we connect to ourselves, with one another, and with the realm: Grief is a country of every body a rustic borderless. Gamalinda's voice soars and swoops via mind-blowing, heartbreaking language, providing convenience amid the grief all of us proportion. In Gamalinda's poems, we're on their lonesome, jointly.

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The archbishop goes through the motions of benediction, and various generals are caught in the crossfire of grace, boot-deep in roses, crowned with halos of flies. 46 2: The thief The rooftops of Medellin have the color of dried blood. The sky over Medellin is invisible to the naked eye. That’s why the windows are small and the rooms reek of perpetual twilight: this is my kingdom when the night draws me out. In my room (in a barrio I won’t name), I keep the fortunes of my wounded country: silver chalices, rosaries, diamonds as impermeable as a prayer, photographs of people I will never know, but may meet occasionally on the street.

That’s why the windows are small and the rooms reek of perpetual twilight: this is my kingdom when the night draws me out. In my room (in a barrio I won’t name), I keep the fortunes of my wounded country: silver chalices, rosaries, diamonds as impermeable as a prayer, photographs of people I will never know, but may meet occasionally on the street. I do my work singly and quietly, and I do nobody harm. There is heaven beyond the rooftops of Medellin: I dredge the towns of the weight of sin, and in their weightless sleep I take the sleepers closer to the skies of Medellin.

I feel no pain. She tells me war is inescapable. You must bomb a few towns if you want peace. If we have children, they will be among the nine out of ten who will never speak in the future tense. For some reason she finds this comforting. When she lies like this, fetal, one arm stretched out to touch my face, she reminds me of the crook of the northern tip of Sulawesi. She showed it once to me on a map: a jungle island almost human in form, teeming with terror, incredibly poor. 37 Autobiography of Water 1 I searched for the origin of my country’s sorrow like an explorer looking for a river’s source.

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