Morion Poem
Moryon bungi,
May tae sa binti.
1.
Cresting his Roman helmet,
Sprouting all over
His breastplate, skirt, and cape:
The plumage
Of a thousand fighting cocks.
But the face is all:
Cruelty, guilt, and Grand Guignol,
& thus the power
To scare or suffer mockery,
The grimace of pain.
2.
If one eye is closed, it is
A privilege—
To wear the face of the one
Who poked his spear
Into the Holy Breast
& receive the healing spurt
Of faith—the Centurion’s
Mask reserved
For atoning accountants, engineers,
Mayors, philanderers.
For lesser folk with lesser
Sins or favors—
The out-of-job, the childless,
The returning OFW—the ordinary
Face of infantry will do.
3.
But all is equal in the chance
For show: ermine and nylon fur
Recall a winter campaign,
Throwbacks & anachronisms
From various versions of Armageddon:
Gasmasks from Vietnam or Verdun,
Leather & metal from “Gladiator”
Or “300,” plastic AK47s or RPGs,
Parades on foot, cavalcade
Of calesas converted to chariots.
4.
Under the Lenten sun, on dusty
Fair grounds in Marinduque,
Our motley masque of history gathers
And marvels at itself—the far-flung
Roots of our belief and curiosity:
Longinus appears with his gleaming
Coterie; the crowd falls silent
Or scrambles for a view: the pagan
Rite of blood & sacrifice
Will once more give us a risen god.
We bow our heads, atoning
Or asking for favors, or shoot our
Cameras, oblivious of our own
Unresurrected gods, the unholy
Ghosts of ourselves behind our masks.
NOTE: "Gap-toothed Morion / There's shit on your leg."
Marne L. Kilates
October 30, 2007
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