Walcott and the poetry of cigarette

Time out for poetry.

I can't recall where I came across Derek Walcott first. Or maybe, I do. Lia. In a garden. A clump of poets, writers and one wannabe. Tita. Who was not there. Who was spoken of. For having said she cannot write anymore since she stopped chain-smoking. Hahaha. Lia said. Me too. She had to stop smoking for a long long while. Someone so finnicky made her so. Traitor. As though that was a bad thing. She was in Derek Walcott's class, she said. In Boston. It was for Derek Walcott that she went to Boston. Or chose Boston U out of so many. Great poet. A Tobagan. Lord, I don't know how do you call someone who hails from Trinidad and Tobago. Trinidadian and Tobagonian? Eeeee. But in his class, Lia said, they had to sit through all that chain-smoking in that air-conditioned classroom. Hahaha. But no one was laughing. Only Lia. You don't know how to appreciate the poetry of cigarette, he used to tell his class. But Walcott, she said, is no longer in Boston U. He went back home to Trinidad, probably. Where maybe there is no smoking ban hahaha. Lia didn't say that. And Lia didn't laugh. She also didn't say that Walcott retired. I think poets don't ever retire. Maybe he only went out for a long cigarette break.


LOVE AFTER LOVE
by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

We write for ourselves, because
if we don't we feel less of who we are.


Lia Lopez-Chua

Some people, maybe in the Philippines, will call me a Chinese poet. But to the rest of the world, I will be a Filipino because of my country of origin.

Is my poetry Chinese? Filipino? Regional? Cultural? Existential? Maybe a region of existence.

Different readers will respond differently to my work. My book's title and cover may grab some and not others. My poetry will resonate with some and not with others.

If the kids cannot afford to pay for my book, they will find a way to copy. I have done that too, and years later when I can afford them, I went searching for those books to have them in my hand. I don’t think I need to bring anything down. The book can be loved or lambasted, or whatever. Just like any work of art, it is what it is. And so be it. Not to mention the book can be thrown into the discount bin, then hallelujah.

What I can say regarding this book is: I think I have given the important details enough thought. I think as with anything important we get ourselves into, we will have second thoughts as to the validity, appropriateness, and verisimilitude of details. And of the endeavor itself. Is this book worth publishing? Is it worth the weight of the paper, the money, the time of people involved, the beautiful cover design? Does the title and the art on the cover do anything for it? Will it be accessible? Some of us will say yes and some of us will say no.

But to go back to writing itself:

No. It has nothing to do with print. I have never focused on print myself. All the publications I’ve had after the age of 22 were not of my own initiative. The only reason I published when I was in college was because my poet buddies in college were published, and it was a challenge to me to get published.

I don’t join literary competitions. I think I have enough ups and downs in my life, just being myself, just doing my darn best to function like a normal person and take care of myself. I only share my work with friends. With Tita, and she had been an advocate for me, sending my work here and there, and of course, there’s her Road Map. The truth is, no matter how corny it sounds, we have to write our truth only for ourselves. I believe that if anything I’ve written deserves its own existence, it will find itself a place in this world. Life has a way of taking care of its own, for whatever reason it has. I was driven to “conclude” The Fate of All Progeny and take care of and put up with all the tedious details because I love the cover so much, because I value what all my friends did to help me get the book together. Otherwise, I really don’t need a book. Especially now, at 52, who I am has nothing to do with either I get published or not. I am a poet whether I write poems or don’t write them anymore; I am a poet even if I don’t publish.

I will always be a poet, because of my way of being in this world, because of my sensibilities. We write for ourselves, because if we don’t, we feel less of who we are. There will be stretches of time when we don’t write or can’t write, and these are the times when we must not forget who we are.

The most memorable thing my ex-partner said to me when I was at the lowest point: Lia, do not forget who you are