Angela Manalang-Gloria

Short but good. Old Maid Walking on a City Street Angela Manalang-Gloria She had a way of walking through concupiscence And past the graces her fingers never twirled: Because her mind refused the heavy burden, Her broad feet shovelled up the world.

One of my projects is to create a collection of poems where I live. This is one of my inspirations. Ermita in the Rain Angela Manalang-Gloria It is not the rain that wanly Sobs its tale across the bay, Not the sobs of lone acacias Trembling

Putting up the last three poems that I have of this brilliant woman. Any Woman Speaks Angela Manalang-Gloria Half of the world's true glamour Is held--you know by whom? Not by the gilt Four Hundred Parading in perfume, Nor by the silvered meteors That light the celluloid sky-- But

Written by Angela Manalang-Gloria on 31 January 1928. To A Lost One Angela Manalang-Gloria I shall haunt you, O my lost one, as the twilight Haunts a grieving bamboo trail, And your dreams will linger strangely with the music Of a phantom lover's tale You shall not

Written by Angela Manalang-Gloria on 23 October 1935. To A Lovely Woman Angela Manalang-Gloria Shall I compare you to a rainbowed shower Drawing to earth the very arc of dream, Or shall I say you are an orchid flower That fevers men beside a jungle stream? Shall

I knew I was already wrong the moment I said that. But I can't take it back. That's the tragedy of speaking too soon, the folly of wanting to hurt you first before you can hurt me. Can a poem

Written by Angela Manalang-Gloria on 17 November 1935. To Don Juan Angela Manalang-Gloria It was not love-why should I love you?- It was not folly, for I was wise, Yet when you looked at me, your looking Opened a kingdom to my eyes, It was not love,

One of my favourites by her. I Have Begrudged the Years Angela Manalang-Gloria Perhaps the years will get me after all, Though I have sought to cheat them of their due By documenting in beauty’s name my soul And locking out of sight

More poems. Cementerio del Norte Angela Manalang-Gloria To the memory of Consuelo And so, it all must come to this—a dying afternoon, Thin cerements of rain around the forlorn ghost of weeping, White tombs so desolately splendid, a priestly monotone Drifting in sacramental grace, and then—the final

The book is gone. I can't believe I gave away my copy. And when I came back to the only gallery where they sell her book, there's nothing left. How could I let this happen? Tonight all I did was