this is arguably my favorite poem of all time.


Impressions of Lent
Alfrredo Navarro Salanga

I.
Lent is the season of hot suns and mad dogs made mad by hot sons. It is also the season of the madman, and of beggars. Old women crowd the churches with candles and the smell of mothballs. And the children must learn to be quiet or the devil will cut their tongues out. One must be good these days and one should say his prayers slowly. Kiss his foot, son. No Mother, it smells bad. And one must remember to give food to stray dogs.

II.
The boy and the dog stood leaning on the cold stone of the church pillars. Women filed past them slowly, with the downcast eyes one often associates with adulteresses discovered. One must not throw stones unless he is without sin. The dog, who was incapable of sin, bit an old lady. The boy, who had just gone to confession, threw a stone at a beggar. The beggar, who was blind, started to thrash around in anger and, with his stick, knocked off the candles from an old woman’s stall.

III.
Maria was praying. With clammy hands, she counted the beads. She gazed at the suffering Christ above her. Fake drops of blood caressed His brow. Maria sighed and found it hard to pray. Fake! Fake! Everything was a fake around her. She turned her face and noticed the young man behind her. She gazed long at him. She gazed and thought of how much he resembled her god. The young man rose and she saw his limp.

IV.
Vis Crucis devotees were wailing their way. A leader chanted some verses and the chorus responded with cracked voices. Some of them walked on their knees. And they loved to do it. They left a trail of blood from their scratched knees. They loved to do it because Christ would love them more and make their husbands stop beating them. A woman in black thumps her vanishing breasts as she learns of Christ’s First Fall. An American tourist is busy taking pictures of the group. The devotees are shocked because is wife does not wear a veil.

V.
Home. And Mario is drunk. He sings a dirty song. He staggers around the house and makes a lot of noise. He swings an empty bottle and hurls it through his neighbor’s open window. The bottle strikes the shrine in the living room. And the Virgin’s image falls. The falling virgin drops on the baby’s crib. The baby is hurt and she cries. Later, when her mother comes home, she will blame the Virgin.

VI.
The doddering priest bellows from the pulpit. The Seven Last Words are as tearful as soap operas. He orates, declaims, cajoles the crowd into tears, and, by crying himself, causes the women to cry louder. As the Hour nears, the crowd cries and sings and prays. Many are waving their hands in an annual manifestation of sorrow and repentance. The church is full of women. And, in the churchyard, henpecked husbands fondle their roosters and think of Easter Sunday and the smiles it will bring; and, yes of course, the gala cockfight.