Learning

(In which they are never supposed to stop flowing.)

***

Truth

Is as wild as the hunted.

Belief

As clear as muddy water.

Clarity

As evanescent as fireworks.

Sparks

Do fly. And when they do,

They are meant to vanish.

Meanings

Are not constant.

Consistency

Is boredom.

Excitement

Is a curse.

Curses

are gifts.

Presents

are ornamental unless

Intangible.

Values are not taught.

Education a tragedy.

Reality is a tragedy.

Almost everything is.

Love is not everything.

Love is only

what we chose to believe it is.

And beliefs are as clear as muddy water...

Photo Source:

Woman Reading Window

It’s Easier to Write Poems When You’re Sad

(In which I need not say more, do I?)

***

It’s easier to write poems when you’re sad
one quiet late night.
The streets are lightless and lifeless
save for the full moon
trying to illuminate the blackness
with the yellowness of gray.
It’s easier to write poems with a heavy heart,
when happiness is nowhere near
and you sit next to despair.

It’s easier to write poems when you hear the slightest noise
for around and within you there is silence.
Words flow freely
and thoughts wander aimlessly till they go back
to the root of their bitterness.
It’s easier to write poems when you think
not of sunny days but of windy nights,
not of the sunrise but of midnight
when nocturnal huddle over sodas
and a conversation with a stranger.

It’s easier to write poems when you’re sad.
The pen seems lighter and the images endless.
It’s even easier to write poems when you cry,
when your trembling moves the pen
and your tears magnify the words.

February 20, 2011
11:53 PM

Gerald’s Audacity and the Definition of a Poem

(In which Carl Sandburg reminded me.)

***

And so, I have recently written a poem about an innocent, anonymous individual, which, by the way, may sound creepy otherwise you’re informed of the darkness surrounding the verse. But provided you were informed, it will only sound creepier if not utterly crazy. Not that that was supposed to be cryptic or something like Pérez-Reverte. But that’s something ought to be left to the benevolence of time and pizza to be completely healed.

The poem, anyway, was visible in two separate sites and received a little more attention than most of the posts I dare publish online. One comment was of theological inferences and the other, structural and/or formalistic. I just love it when my readers dare or ask me. Besides, that is the threshold of communication – you ask, then I answer, or the other way around, and then we already have a conversation.

Coincidentally, my lesson with Gerald was about Carl Sandburg’s poem “Languages”. Yesterday, I read it aloud, with the enthusiasm and (pseudo) passion highly reserved for speech and drama class rather than ours, which recently consisted of his “knight in dire lovesickness” syndrome – he lurking on their national chat room and sighing every now and then.

Languages
By Carl Sandburg

There are no handles upon a language

Whereby men take hold of it

And mark it with signs for its remembrance.

It is a river, this language,

Once in a thousand years

Breaking a new course

Changing its way to the ocean.

It is mountain effluvia

Moving to valleys

And from nation to nation

Crossing borders and mixing.

Languages die like rivers.

Words wrapped round your tongue today

And broken to shape of thought

Between your teeth and lips speaking

Now and today

Shall be faded hieroglyphics

Ten thousand years from now.

Sing--and singing--remember

Your song dies and changes

And is not here to-morrow

Any more than the wind

Blowing ten thousand years ago.

And the ubiquitous comprehension questions were asked, this time about style analysis.

“What tells you it’s a poem?” I asked, reading from the textbook and avoiding looking at his downcast eyes, the ones that tell you their owner doesn’t give a damn about a letter on the book, let alone anything to do with poems.

“I don’t think this is a poem. But I have to believe because it’s in the book,” he answered rather robotically.

“What”? I asked, perplexed.

“This,” he stressed, “is not a poem. I think he just pretends it is.”

He! And he’s referring to Carl Sandburg as a poet whose theme song for the moment, as Gerald claimed it, was something from The Platters! Alright. My blog readers can comment anytime with a question meant to target my writing style, i.e., whether what I wrote was a poem or not. But to actually tell me “Languages” by Carl Sandburg wasn’t a poem and he just pretends it to be one, is a crime against literature!

“Okay, Gerald.” I started explaining, “There are two kinds of literature – prose and poetry. It’s prose if it’s written in paragraph form. If it’s written otherwise, like using lines or verses, it’s poetry. In fact, poetry can come in the form of an apple or the letter S. So that,” I pointed out to the poem on the book, “is a poem.”

And then I remembered something I wrote almost four years ago. Yes, it’s a poem, too.

What a Poem is to Me

To me a poem is beyond words that rhyme
and measured lines.
It has a body like that of a man,
That sees loveliness in simple things,
Hears the songs of birds in fields of gold,
Smells the fragrance of roses upon one’s nose,
Tastes the sweetness and bitterness of tears,
And feels the softness of the breeze upon one’s skin.

A poem has a heart
that knows the hidden beauty and darkness
of humanity –
and a soul
that lives within the body;
gives life to the words and
essence to the thoughts.

A poem may be a prayer,
a phantasm,
a song
or a hymn.
A poem’s grace is far beyond word’s that rhyme
and measured lines.
It is beauty.
It is life.
Once it is written, it never dies.
Its beauty lives on
from eternity unto eternity.

March 16, 2007
11:35 PM

To Anonymous

(In which I let it slip.)

***

Can you feel the urgency pulsing within me
reaching through time –
past and present and future –
and back?

Are you aware of the fear surging through my veins
as if we’d soon run out of air?

Do you hear me calling out to you at night,
or at daybreak or sunset or just as you were placidly doing whatever?

No?

Do you know that behind the façade of my childish laughter
I keep the secret of you and me
that has now become only mine and his?

No?

Do you know that an inquiry from you has recently brought me
from heaven to purgatory to hell and back
in seconds?

No?

Are you aware of my desperation dire enough for sanity to break loose?

No?

No.

But I’m not expecting a yes.
For we are both unknown variables in an equally unknown game.
We’re equally unknown.
For you don’t know me, and I
no longer know you.
You are more inconsistent and I,
more volatile.

More volatile.

Fireworks

(In which some of my senses are deprived.)

***

I stood firm on the ground like everyone else.
Looking.
Waiting.
Signals were given.
Heartbeats raced and excitement rose.

And then there they were.
Vibrant and bright and loud.
Strong and powerful and vivid.
Proud amidst the joyful claps of children,

those lovely children on their fathers’ shoulders.
Swaying and singing.
Their faced flushed with the shades of the colors’ gift.

There they were.
Magnificent amidst the deafening cheers of lovers around me.
Deafening, the cheers, yes.
And the whispers too – I can almost hear them.
The self-same words my lips want to utter
to you
here.

Or maybe not.
For I held out my hand to my side and I caught air.
So I held up my palm to the darkness above me

and saw colors bursting in between my fingers.
Bursting and fading.
Rising and falling.
Calling out and running away.

You are like them, the colors of fire and air.
Now.
Vibrant and bright and loud.
Strong and powerful and vivid.
Beautiful and distant.

The children and their parents are leaving now.
And the lovers, too.
I’ll see you again.
You and that lovely display of bursting colors.

You –
the lovely display of bursting colors.

Photo source:Fireworks

Zildjian II

(In which we work for survival.)

***

With stabbing bluntness of truth
from honest lips and a heart
so ironically vulnerable,
endear yourself to me.

Surrender thyself in impossibly sweet ways
they will never understand.
In so many sweet ways
they will never understand.
For comprehension is futile,
questions superfluous,
reactions uncalled for;
Let’s just breathe tonight.

For a thousand needle points on red, raw flesh,
let me find my remedy from a sentence.
For a thousand questions and repetitions,
find your assurance in tears and
fears that killed me,
almost.

Let the world breathe.
Let the world die.
Let the world leave
and never wonder why.
For we are refugees – you and I.
So let us flee where none chases and fate is an ally;
where starry nights are eternal

and surrealism, a fact.

(For part first of this verse, click here.)

Photo Source:

Couple in Moonlight

Edna

(In which my writer’s block worked with a dose of sentimentalism.)

***

I stared at the clean, white sheet of blankness
and watched the blackness glide along purity.
Black on white,
Lines on surface,
Curves on flatness,
Words on paper,
Linear movement,
No thoughts.

Your name spoke louder
and stood blacker than the rest.
Black on white,
Curves on flatness,
A word above others ,
Linear stillness
standing solitarily
above thoughtless words.

If you decide to erase traces,
unlock braces and build fences
and hazy mazes, I’ll comply.
Well, a friend doesn’t leave
but stays stamped somewhere deep
somehow,
leaving traces the way lead does on paper.
Yes, the way lead does on paper
where the point pressed deeply.

I stared at the scribble-covered sheet of white, blotted by brine
and watched the ink crawl to the edge of watermarks.
Lines on surface,
Curves on flatness,
Words on paper,
Linear movement,
Attempts of becoming thoughtless
but not numb.

Then I remembered I was wearing red. . .

Verses by Funandfearless: Breathing Fire

(In which a fever is just a background.)

***

Inhaling smoke
bitter to the tongue
and somewhere else.
Suspending breath
for sweetness.

Speaking words
and question marks;
alien sounds to your ear
and somewhere else.
Suspending sputtering
for a sigh.

Breathing fire or barely breathing.
Clicks and tones
and Lea Michelle in my ears
and somewhere else.
Suspending fear
for optimism.

Thinking purple,
seeing violet in my eyes
and everywhere else.
Suspending now
for infinity.

Photo Source:
Purple Smoke

Musings and Waiting

(In which I wallow in this “perfect” combination.)

***

Not being able to finish an art fiction or start an art work in lieu of the most important phone calls is something I won’t consider as a heavy sacrifice. Not even a sacrifice. I do what I choose with someone I chose to be with. We don’t look at things as troubles when they make us smile – happy even. Yes, they're not sacrifices. They're blessings. For when you finally found yourself willing to give up the little things you like for something big – for that thing that you love, it’s a blessing. Life has taken a new course and you’re on your way to completion. In my purview.

But my big things and blessings always come with sacrifices. Oh! The irony of happiness! And what sacrifices? To tire of being stationary and immobile. To hate one's self for being impatient. To resist illogical reasons and childish demands. To suppress urgency and restlessness. To set aside selfishness and conventions. To wait.

Yes, waiting. And what is more torturing that the silent and slow brushing of time against one’s stillness? What is more puzzling than the ignorance of tomorrow made more complicated by fateful surprises? What feeling is more enigmatic than the emotional outbursts that contrast each other when we wait? Oh, please, let the waiting end.

Verses by Funandfearless: Cycle

Butterflies
fluttering and dancing
in my stomach;
An intensified waltz
day after day.

Music
ringing and humming
in my ears;
Higher elation
minute by minute.

Heartbeats
rushing and pulsing,
racing;
heavier thumps
as the clock strikes time.

Tick . . . tock . . .
Tick . . . tock . . .

Then

Once . . .
Twice . . .
Thrice . . .

And it starts
all over
again.

Sandali Na Lang by Hale

Photo Source:

Silhouette

Contrast

(In which I risk . . . and rise.)

***

I hate promises
uttered with a smile
or an intent gaze stretching to the future.
I hate promises
of circles and hearts and infinity;
of cold white,
of scented orange,
of blazing yellow
and of cool green.

I hate promises sang with songs
and strings and beats and dances.
I hate promises witnessed
by the proverbial moon and stars
or by the four mundane walls.
I hate promises locked in clasped hands
and assured of tears that never will fall.
It’s the self-same tears that shall wash them.
I hate promises and bodies
intertwined in embrace
then later divided by a push and a hiss.

I hate these.
And you know it.

Now should I hate you for promising
promises with a voice as beautiful as fire
and a soul equally flammable as mine?
Should I resist and defend,
build a wall and hide?
Or should I listen and cry,
let all the hatred go,
the coldness thaw,
and my love for you overflow?

You know what I did.

© September 12, 2010
2:40 PM

Zildjian

(In which arts and emotions fused in an instant.)

***

A tap and a crash and a strum reverberating slowly,
the feeling of the bristle and wet paint on my skin,
uttered poetry in my ears
and a surreal image.
A surreal feeling and a romance,
audible and invisible
but impossibly palpable and sweetly felt.
Whispers into the darkness and flesh
tightening and melting through promises.
What more can I ask for than the reality caused
by a glimpse
– an actual glimpse –
of you?

For Vanity and Wallowing

(In which I show an evidence of being productive despite the lack of posts.)

***

I know you’re not asking and you don’t mind if the last entry was dated last month. But as the keeper of this site I feel obliged to post something. It would be nice if it’s a review of the last book I’ve read with a final note about the new book I’m on but since I haven’t even finished At Risk by Alice Hoffman halfway, the sight of a review on this blog will take time. I thought of posting the titles of my gradually increasing to-be-read pile but that would only make me depressed that I still have to read three hundred pages to officially start on another art fiction. So to compensate and to explain to my constant reader/s (I know you’re not more than three) I decided on posting the reasons for my procrastination. There are two.

The first one is this.

I made another decision lately – that I will be making pencil drawings of roses. And I started with this one. It took me almost two weeks to finish it, having only a couple of hours of work or more each day. I had to do this while working or during breaks in between classes. Now my current floral project was left pending to be fair with the book I should be reading.

The other, I guess, is more obvious. I write poetry. I admit that I am a slow reader. I ruminate when ambushed by a heavy scene or a thought-provoking line. Then sometimes, memories flash through. And then images. And then words. And then music. Actually, there isn’t any particular order. The chronology may change anytime. Right now, it’s music then memories then words.

I Think God Can Explain by Splender

Nirdla (Part II)

Should I regret
that I’ve asked what those words meant?
Those words that shouted messages
As secret as yourself.

Should I be glad
that you answered despite
your taciturnity and nonchalance?

Should I be happy
that you shared four minutes of melody
of guitars and drums
and voices lamenting,
questioning?

Or should I just understand
that your reticence is suffering made calmer?
That your smile is a curtain for fears
And smears
And tears?

And that the melody is a sanctuary
for your silent agony?
That the melody is yours for her . . .

. . . and now mine for you?

(For the first part of this verse click here.)

Photo source:
Full Bloom

The Artist’s Eyes (Part I)

(In which I search for an unbiased, more reasonable vision.)

***

Exteriors.
Not just presentable
but attractive to all the senses.
Fair and smooth
and foreign-branded
are now what we wanted
to elucidate
beauty.

Exteriors
devoid of character deeper
than mere skin.
Placating by all means,
charming its way
to everything
and everyone
are now what we needed
to be considered
let alone seen.

If an artist sees beauty in all
then could these exteriors be at par with a wall?
Or a lemon peel or a ball
of fire or nothing more
than waves rushing to shore?

If an artist pays
the same interest and attention
to the fair skin of a lass as he does
to mosses on rocks, could he also see
how character builds beauty?
If he does, let me pray
for a pair of irises that recognize
what’s invisible in colors
and cutis textures
and dimensions of youth.
Let me wish
for pupils free from enchantment
of these masked faces.
For liberating are the eyes
that care not for
beauty dictated by

Façades.

Exteriors.

Façades.

Photo source:Masked

Through Spines and Pages

(In which the recluse speaks.)

***

I find refuge in the written word
I, the epitome of loneliness
the person no one wants to be
the face you don’t want to see
in the mirror
before you.

I find respite in the written words
I, the escapist who believes
in ever after
and waits patiently
for the one destined.
Yes, I believe in destiny.

I find comfort in the written word
and love – yes, love –
in fictional lives,
of fictional people,
in fictional situations.
I, whose hands sought
darkness and felt air
walked
and still found
nil.

I find life in the written word
of others and mine.
So in case I, the existence unnoticed,
woke up one day invisible
their words and mine remain.

I find respite in the written word

when almost everything in the world spites me.
I, the person next to you,
your neighbor, your friend,
your unrequited lover
whose life is about
hope
and the death of it,
expectation,
frustration,
a ray of light,
total darkness.
Dreams.
Failures.
And the cycle goes on
and on
and never
ends.

Photo sources:The Reader

A Lucid Dream

(In which it hurts like reality.)
***

It was a journey of an unknown reason
bound to the unknown.
He was a traveler and so I was,
his path similar to mine.
Nights and days rolled by and I
am always by his side.
I often thought that I am somehow destined to be his bride

But lo! The desert turned into the forest
and the forest to my bedroom;
With me on the cushion and he on the floor;
staring right through me.
Screaming in a foreign voice;
uttering deafening insults and painful facts.
Does the truth need always be harsh?

Though aware I was of dreaming,
oblivious I was of why
when I asked him the silly question
he changed into another man!

Then off we went,
outside my house,
Walking on a familiar path.
Behind him, I walked.
His face from my eyes was obscured
but his voice was clear.
It was his.
It was real.

He no longer speaks hurtful truths
and how avaricious I really am.
But he said he has to leave
and that the time has finally come.

We climbed a stairway of hard clay and dust
that leads us to a road.
I wished to walk with him farther
but he looked at me and refused.
At last I saw his face again
but why is he suddenly far?

He finally turned and left me.
I know that I have yet again lost.
I felt my eyes open
and I slowly rose.

June 10, 2010
1:30 AM

L

(In which I look back with mixed emotions.)

***

Look at me again with the eyes
of an innocent child.
Touch me again with your
warm, trembling hands.
Tell me stories of your life –
Your eccentricities
Your clan
Your complicated life
Your beautiful plans.

Talk to me again.
Forget the struggle for words
and speak about
your philosophies
and romantic analogies.
Tell me again
how stubborn I am
how I enchant you
and torment you.
Confess again to me.
Tell me your secrets.
Trust me.

Let me hear your voice again
in your moments of glee;
its shaking and trembling
in austere sorrow,
pain and fear.
Tell me you’re scared
of missing me.
Of losing me.

Show me who you are.
Talk about your reverence to your people
your family
and religion.
Utter again promises you can never keep.
Write me more letters to read.
Give me more reasons to weep.
Let’s make more memories to look back to.
For you said
that those lovers without
beautiful moments to cherish
are the most unfortunate.

June 6,2010 12:21 AM

Bon Voyage

(In which the thoughts of an unrequited admirer all pop up suddenly.)

***

In your clandestine trip,

God bless you.

Regarding your coldness,

I don’t care.

And for your happiness,

cheers!

Go

For the space between us isn’t measured by miles.

You were already far

Even without

the physical distance.

The Final Countdown: My Stupid Sickness and the Time Thief

(In which Time shows how swiftly he moves.)

***

There was so much to blog about and I blame my lack of post on our computerless household, which I then blame on my breadwinner status and meager salary.

So I got sick last week. Correct. That was the week with so much stuff going on that drained my energy and finally had me sick-abed. For the sake of recall, I worked for three hours last Monday in search for a new job which failed then went on another half day at work last Wednesday because of a terrible combination of asthma, fever and cough that made me stay away from the office during the next two days.

And now I was back. Happily back. And when Sandy saw me she was very ready to give me a hug. It felt so appropriate to borrow from Robin Padilla’s lines.

I heard that she has finished the peanut book with another teacher which I was really thankful of. Who wants to study a book that has been so controversial because of its simplicity yet we always end up having problems with it anyway? And now Sandy’s mom has recommended a new book to study for the last four days of classes.

Last four days. I have always known that they are leaving soon. But now that it’s just a matter of four days, I thought, isn’t it too soon?

In our class, she has displayed an amazing feat of zeal and liveliness that I just want to laugh with her and agree that today is a No Class day. But we have business to do. And as she was answering questions on her workbook, she started scribbling something on her paper then asked me to continue.

“Please draw two more gold bars.”

And I did.

When I finished, she explained what those gold bars are.

“These are time gold bars.”

“Time gold bars?” I asked. I have never heard of a time gold bar. But the adage, I have, of course.

“Yes. This is for Monday. This is for Tuesday. This is for Wednesday. And this – oh no! We need one more gold bar!” She drew another gold bar. “And this is for Thursday.”

Then she drew an hour glass. “This is our time left. Every day, the Time Thief will steal one gold bar and so the sand go up then it’s Thursday.”

“Why gold bars?” I asked, but my mind seemed to wander somewhere really far.

“I don’t know,” she chuckled innocently. “But it’s really gold bar. Just.”

“I see. So tomorrow, we only have three gold bars left.”

She nodded.

I inhaled deeply. “Now why don’t you finish that activity before the Time Thief takes all our time away, huh?”

She laughed again.

***

Laugh
Live
Love and waste not
Any precious moment.
For when we sleep
Or even if we don’t
The Time Thief will steal our precious gold
In the coldness and stillness of the night.
Beware and think of the uncounted ones
And never let another one slip by.

An Hour Glass With Gold Sand

(Now that I’ve seen this, I’m thinking: Why does it have to be gold bars and not cold coins? Just thinking.)

Nirdla

(In which I could never find the right and sufficient words to tell you what you are to me.)

***

Your eyes never tire of aristocratic beauty
And they always are free for censored pages
But they never seemed to be when I flashed a smile and my
Texts are never worth your time.

Your lips admittedly never run out of lies to utter
Yet I believe the prevaricator that you are.
Did I sense the subtle truth in them
Or was I just another stupid woman?
I know. You never told me to believe.

This is not meant to insult you for I’m sure you’ll never know.
And if you did, the insult is mine
For I bothered again to write about you
And your elusiveness
Your beautiful elusiveness.

Have I told you that your eyes are enough to melt my internal ice down
and your smile makes me feel blessed?
That your name is more than a reason to be breathless
And that I sometimes believe the second god-like word is destined?
But Nirdla, worry not, for I know
That you always have the heart for and your eyes on
Her
Never for me.
Never on me.

January 18, 2010

9:30 PM

Borderline

(In which things can never be oversimplified, indeed.)

***

Pretenses. I have a lot.

Forced by the fear of being naked before you, I hid.

But your eyes slashed through my depths

like cold-bladed sword

I became transparent again.

Words. You have a lot.

Polished by aged skill, you drift in the darkness

scattering glitters.

Sparkles visually gone in seconds

But not in everything else.

If we cut this thread we believe had bound us,

will we find our way back?

Will you find your way back?

Or will we just forget we have met again

And exist the way we always have?