Poems by Lawdenmarc Decamora 

Lines Composed in Balesin After Work 


There are introductions to this airy 
afternoon. After all, my head lies
against the bridge and knows the
lullaby sung long ago from Balesin Island. 
But you who sits on the rocks 
break my sleep with your tongue
and squirrels. No conceit and not
contrary—I know, I know the real
you with very little time. You are 
Agra, my dearest, the deepest song
swallowing the dictionary of winds, 
the plum-colored sigh of November
when love becomes the habit of the tides.

The cold amusements of clouds,
some kinds of old and new friends 
to populate your mind, to entertain 
my apologia for flowers, oak or pine.
But we’re friends, you said. Memory
is gentler; it casts a shade for graven images,
the nameless trembling feeling—aye!
The kindness of this long afternoon—
cornucopia of warmth and metaphor 
you hamster in your heart.

Agra, no matter how last week’s Toyota 
Dealership went, smell the afternoon 
air like it’s nobody’s empire.         


*A majestic topical island in the province of Quezon in the Philippines


Ode to Your Book (that Sings to Your Injured Foot)


It is not about the terrible Taliban takeover, 
the assassin air that moans with the birds
as Kabul’s wrapped in today’s sentiments 
of newsprint. Nor is it the cheese melting 	
on a fry pan, its cream a thick status quo.  

It is the delivery box arriving today.

I acknowledge my patience like how you 
acknowledge yours. And slowly, I am going 
to close my eyes. Toy zebras, of course! 
Astrolabes and mandalas, why not? 
Or maybe a cute gift box offering
a cosmic-size publication contract.

Huh?!

Grains of summer occupy so much space 
in my mind! You keep guessing 
about the contents of the package, don’t you? 

I only want three things. 

One is an endless friendship 
with common things, lyrical as songs 
about fingernails. Two is to receive
the package while my hands are still 
two happy hands. My third and final wish,
your book. I cannot survive without 
sniffing its garden-fresh air.   

I love all things that go unnoticed, 
as suddenly one of your feet imitates
all the busy hands of the clock: 
hour, minute, second.
Blue-green, black, vermilion.
Those hands become frozen vegetables
paying no heed to your saddest
story of the day. I said I love
the things that are being overlooked,
not because your foot is bandaged 
in stark presentiments of winter 
but because it remains still, 
poised as a loaf of bread,
reminiscent of the pearl earrings 
tingling elegantly 
in a Vermeer painting. 

Your foot becomes the protagonist
of your story. And I listen with a kind 
of attention that radiates
berylliums and some fine words. 
This ode sings to your talcum skin
one more time; you know
healing happens for a reason, 
a reminder that spring’s coming 
and Haiti’s hope, like your heroine-foot, 
is earthquake-proof.  


At Patche’s Thai Resto, January 2020


There are no easy pathways for two people trapped 
in the Corona-verse looking for an endless
story with splendid evenings. During the pandemic 
we can find reality served on a platter by means 
of contemplating fake news; the city square between us 
blankets both time and lies in favor of the size
of our fantasy. Opaque as the dreaded life 
of this plankton fear on earth, I remember
everything about the bridge that guided our dusty feet 
to the place where tradition flavored with coco milk
now folds up to the frozen reference of social media. 

Behind us are the savory spirits wrestling 
with the tar-smoke of the past, the raw noodle 
on the table sways like the bridge above a great shattering. 
I love Thai Red Curry’s soupy July mornings, 
or this afternoon in our hands against the flavors 
in salt and memory. Our patience in quarantine broth 
swirls past the intimate sunset. The bridge in our mind, 
home at Patche’s Thai Resto: the taste of life as the normal other. 
But we have only to keep walking for the bridge, 
our sous-builder, to bind our inarticulate futures.    

Lawdenmarc Decamora is the author of several poetry books and chapbooks, most recently “Lady Pat’s Chapbook of Manicured Eyebrows for Post-Fordist Vending Machines” (UK: Newcomer Press, 2023) and the forthcoming full-length collection “Line Affairs” from Fernwood Press. His work appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Pleiades, The Common, South Dakota Review, Griffith Review, Journal of Postcolonial Writing (Routledge), The Best Asian Poetry 2021-2022, among other places. As a published writer in 25+ countries around the world, Lawdenmarc was a semi-finalist in the 2023 Tomaž Šalamun Prize and his poetry was likewise translated into Spanish and Vietnamese. He lives in Pampanga province in the Philippines.