Sebastian Penalillo shares three poems he used to get into AU’s MFA program.
Undulations
Sebastian Penalillo
for Wallace Stevens (1879 – 1955)
It is
The spellweaver,
murmurer,
Speaker of
Strange words of
Long
Incantations;
Their puissance of
Syllables are
Demarcations.
The lines are
Attestations,
Memories,
Sensations.
It is
A confession,
Engulfment,
Proliferation,
And
Sole
Signification.
The line is a
Strange wave of
Expressivity,
Ambiguity,
Lucidity,
And
Creativity.
It is
Psyche,
The breath of
Life—the line—
Enjambment,
Artistic
Oscillation.
Valley of the Moon
Sebastian Penalillo
for Pablo Neruda (1904 – 1973)
You, porous rock, silent,
Son of salt, crystalized formation,
Ignimbrite rock, underneath Evaporite blankets,
How much time have you seen?
How many scorching days and frigid nights?
Weathering rain and tumultuous winds?
How many people have given you names?
You are an old rock celebrating another millennium;
You have seen the three Marys baptized,
The ones who prayed, for their bleeding sons;
The ones who prayed for their lost sons.
The central virgin on a Halite base
Protects the valley with a Selenite glow.
The major dune with his sandy waves
Danced and drifted with the three tall sisters:
Handkerchiefs twirling wind, gusting dust storms.
It is passive erosion that produces novelty!
A constant change in you is the formatting of creativity,
But your spine is made up of clay, undone
By human hands, smelling of rica-rica.
In every year... in every grain... you have changed. 
Yesterday, a boulder...
Today, a pebble.
It is Time that made your eyes concave
Into black holes, forever gaze, upon lunar planes:
The endless, boundless Atacama Desert.
A Day Visit from Thought
Sebastian Penalillo
If given some paper and pencil to hold,
Then letters shall write, become fat, and bold!
Looking out of the window pensiveness comes
Posing his questions like who made our thumbs?
The lyrical sway brings forth premonitions;
He asks away, building neural infusions.
Why are the necks of pigeons iridescent?
He asks away, looking up at moon crescents.
How big is the moon and why is it broken?
He asks away; autumn leaves have spoken.
If things had been different, if nothing had changed,
Then letters would be strange lines—unarranged!
Was it intentional of the rank maker
For a prodigal son, a chef and baker,
To visit in rhyme and perform a few lines?
To poke at the dough, make canvas for beaux?
To craft, or to build, a world without will?
To hold, or display, the lyrical sway?
No. It was folly, an attempt for jolly,
To write for nature, build her nomenclature,
For the poet to use, decide when and how,
Metaphors shall adhere to the here and the now.
