Felino A. Soriano
Felino A. Soriano was awarded the 2017 erbacce-prize for poetry. His writings appear in CHURN, BlazeVOX, 3:AM Magazine, The National Poetry Review, Small Po[r]tions, and elsewhere. His books of poetry include A Searching for Full Body Syllables: fragmented olio, Aging within these syllables (2017), Acclimated Recollections (2017), and Vocal Apparitions: New & Selected Poems: 2012 – 2016 (2016).
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from This is how my Speaking Moves Recalling __________ By now, the lyric doesn’t resonate. Said of its vocal momentum, enough is the waiting my jawline tires from associated mimicking. I sing until the melody begins: echoes curled into repetitious absence. Morning learns my body, knows the rusting voice of my healing spine, lento. Afternoon explains adjusted orientation: the body now warmer, each finger across the spine has awakened multilingual music, and the movement awaiting me will be a facet of remembering far into the evening of how each of my eyes will braid their eventual fruition. __________ Me?, I’m of my father’s disposition. Fire ( my rendition, though, soft in its initial reach north, prior to the voice’s ability to strangle upon adrenaline igniting me into a separate body, separate lexicon of untiring impulse, interpretation ). Then, of my mother’s susurrant eyes. Combination containing husband, father, grandfather: dimensional identity into seeing my ability to walk in spectral prayers, answered and shed from the holding hands of a doubting contamination. __________ I’ve thought about how this’ll end. This. Deepened home, multilevel, multi________. An end is the great -est breath twirling, visual. What’s invented is a turnstile math, awaiting hands to complete complexities of unknown remainders, walking -through—unneeded, the hop over doctrine. Birth has retained me long enough, and this middle life function is a handful of excogitated philosophies Portrait of How I Listen Falling then finding rhythm. The hymn of it. Each voice of participating watching, (under my pillow, between architecture of dragonfly alphabets) earn what needs your prosaic whisper, the freedom to initiate interpretive sitting, or the ornate modulation each clap and wave the hands invent to oscillate within the function of harmony’s organic heredity. Why this jazz draws tears south upon my aging I’ve an almost answer: piano voice of my ghost soloing intentional harm into woven histories reminding of vacancies of my absent effort, my joy subtracted within the silence my fading vision articulates Early Instauration —for my father Part of my childhood hand still holds the tambourine. Band practice. To it with you I’d travel, yellow Camaro, smiling, my forest green corduroy shorts detailing summer wear on this coast identified by beach, wind and electronic silence at midnight. We’d arrive— scents of lumpia, rice, pancit (trilogy of my favorite meal) welcomed our batches of comfort and purpose. Dad singing me watching listening engraving sound into and unknown version of an older, first person response— barstool housed me, my particular interest in rhythm and the legato cultivation of my dad’s vibratory voice. This garage a world stage, my feet dangling from the stool, such as two crows circling synced within the order of mobile adaptations— Trio of Multilingual Pianoing (or what heals in the development of sound, sound) —after Robert Glasper, Jason Moran, & Craig Taborn i Origin certainty the blend of a diameter’s philosophy to return even death. Momentum toward me. Toward me a window of multiplying sceneries, bodies leaping landing organic in pulsing joy, pausing fiction of desolate discoveries. Introverted dragonflies visit, abscond in ascending numerical anticipation. Gilded these rhythms, guiding within slanted syntax rain conveys amid prayer and division of hours’ articulating harmonies. What I’ve done a miracle to what watches my x-rayed meditation. Overheard, circulations of wing-oscillation, verbs undulating, overwhelming noun anticipating chant, echo and the fade -in fulcrum lending warmth amid a nonchalant noon’s anatomy of winter’s cultivated clichés. Too many of me to continue counting. I’ve begun subtracting. Now, what the sentiment draws across me equates to my father’s innate stairway climbing toward the memory-hover high in meaning in mentoring: authenticity begins in your feet; swell within them, learn their pain in side -stepping grouped addiction to same size articulation of simple syllables defining another’s mirror’s fatigue ii Cup of sound, glass of cadence, |transparent veneration|, —each reveal of curtain undresses light in the angle of its meaning, origin of curled fingers ballet|ing| nearer to soul wearing halo and configurative language amid cold energy before a death invites itself to bother. This is when night is both sad -dened and crawling toward morning’s eventual embrace, interrogation of saddened shadows. Daytime, an intertwining of monologues, birth-wearing versions of effectual maturation, |upheld prophecy|, —beside my hearing a duo of scent wears my curious directional lead, holding what hand I’m choosing to deny cold and the closure of curtain among an hour’s figurative display of esoteric hiding iii Water, as wardrobe its consistent undress -ing of sound, movement, all measurable momentum— plural. Here is what history becomes. Voice or legend calm in the mobility of predetermined alterations. As with. Body. Arid alternatives to mensurable deluge delivers comparable markings identified cultivated redefined to contain clarity of nuance and multilayered evidence/s/. This is what history spoke of when language was uncompromising, lacking of lie and achromatic function— __________ formation confirmation, hearsay needn’t exist upon the mouth’s architectural truths with alternate tongues erasing silent flames creating insensate freedoms unrelated to warmth and how the body responds when healing orthogonal to a stone’s immovable rhetoric— __________ Quintet of Soloing Toward It __________ Trumpet Visceral closed-gate mouth a tightening mention to what moves my tongue initiating imitation: why wales call me private, the body seeing into my mirror’s soon obsolete remembering __________ Saxophone Promissory. Desolate wind wrapping worry around what’s buried beneath organic reason, each apparitional tone sharing shape, my sharing swollen character fragmented, searching exterior to engage whole momentums allotted to flail __________ Piano Coincidental dexterity. Here I’m home—dance, awaken breathe. Too much constellation is never realized, the and of its purpose erased or burned by voices un -able to hear beyond the tongue of their own singed approximation— __________ Bass Each of my bodies bending, a realization among sustained origami notions. Vibratory syllables, the fingering sway prose meanders spine and oscillating tributes to personal configurations— then is what calls to my hearing appearing later after death after breath succumbs to disconsolate mathematics __________ Drums Cultivation our conversation our becoming within rhythm within focal connection to approach within camouflaged silence— Listen to what new morning brings, eventual timing curtails wandering into moments’ system of awakening dialogical insinuations Compositional North i Within a noon full of steam rising. A rosary of crows, bell-sound-ing the whole of its nascent brilliance near-halo contribution for those in the peace-search diagram of dialectical faith observation. I’ve pivoted back toward the piano’s normalized construct: pace splay layout emphasis subtle broken heirlooms sudden-on the backside configuration of my hands’ losing rhythm. Cancer. Much of its articulated poison or a fear into my tongue’s good use no one expands beyond an understood dissection my language moves into rhythm unintentional ii Burned wind the scented hollow its whispering leverage a formulated finding among the trumpet’s autumn excavation of obligatory tone⎯ Conjoined Listening Recondite this psalm I’ve organized into the relevance of aging prose upon italicizing its analytical weight, architectural joining of this neoteric etched growth upon palm and the other version of hiding what has found me dying __________ I hear my father’s teaching me through voice, an Al Green rendition a surplus of angular space redirect -ing my hands away from speech and into the listening whole of what my mother does best: Love Upon Hearing Or What the Drumming Represents Coax is open-curtain geometry— the solid O of an open eye gaining radius search as skill and find as formulated proverbs. Each night since dad died I’ve erased a notion through the death of its absconded fruition. Long way home still finds me searching. Home is a broken leg unhealed but strong in the sense to allow asymmetry’s logic to rebuild smaller rooms. __________ I’ve attempted riot but find the pocket too smooth from which to remove myself exterior to these drums __________ An exhaled fiction fixates the fulcrum of reliant what was said bridges the soloing of nuance with the language needed to upend where this death will confine me Cultivated The breath from you always informs how I need my body to increment. Each gradation an eventual momentum, a motivated need to later conceal hides within the standing bass’ ornamental influence. The eye of an organic moment slides rhythm into bones, my incessant glide toward hearing and having fullness of what was once fractioned in the marrow of a silent interpretation
Felino A. Soriano was awarded the 2017 erbacce-prize for poetry. His writings appear in CHURN, BlazeVOX, 3:AM Magazine, The National Poetry Review, Small Po[r]tions, and elsewhere. His books of poetry include A Searching for Full Body Syllables: fragmented olio, Aging within these syllables (2017), Acclimated Recollections (2017), and Vocal Apparitions: New & Selected Poems: 2012 – 2016 (2016).
Visit Of the poetry this jazz portends for more information.
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