Poetographie

I run,

Run

Run,

Run,

Run,

Run

Till the only word

I can write is run,

Till the only thing

I can write is crap.

I run,

Run

Run,

Run,

Run,

Run

Till I run out of time

Till my words stop

Bleeding and

reach the final line.

P.S

Di talaga ganyan ang form ng poem ang run eh naka indent siya every after the word run then horizontally written siya. huhuhu.

You Draw,

I sing,

You dance,

I act,

When you write,

I can

Sing,

Dance,

draw

And act

All together.

when you write,

It seems that the melody jumps out

of my song,

when you write,

It seems that the beat distorts my dance,

when you write,

It seems that all forms of art fade-

Like writing is the only form of art ever existed.

*inalis ang but before the word when sa 2nd stanza( as suggested by Ate Thea)

Sometimes when I try to tighten my words,

I put them beside yours,

Expecting them to be beautiful and grand.

Sometimes when I try to tighten my words,

I look at yours,

Then I would feel pain,

For no one could bring beauty

Other than your words and your style.

They could not be imitated,

For imitating you would cause my downfall

The beauty that each line contributes make

my poem fall into pieces

as though a jalousie is smashed-

the pieces are useless,

they could not be retrieved-

one thing I am sure is that,

if I lose my poem because of you

I can be the most pathetic being in the world

Never wanting to write poems,

crap such as this,

But I am lucky.

Your poems and my poems are two different worlds-

Mine is a crap and yours is the form of beauty

But I have known that not all beautiful things are favorable for I found

My poem dancing out of a crappy experience,

So now, tell me whose poem is better

Yours or mine?

Is it yours that has the real beauty or mine that is

Motivated by beauty and has the real reinvention?

Sometimes when I try to tighten my words,

I lay them on the table and smile,

For they radiate on their own,

Without becoming beautiful and grand.

When

you cry,

I am as sad

as your

desolate eyes-

As vulnerable

as them,

As showy as

those tears-

unforgiving like you.

When

you cry,

I am helpless.

I could not lend you my

Blanket,

I could not give you my stars

I could not permit the moon to shine

I could not color the surroundings red

The Truth is,

I would have wanted

to be

your

Star,

your

Moon,

Your

Happiness-

If you’ve only searched for me-

But no,

You’ve wandered

somewhereelse-

Endlessly walking-

searching for

his planet.

It has all the shapes in the world

May it be round, rectangle or square

It moves after sixty beats,

the other stick serves as a “liboter”

it doesn’t rest, not until everything

inside is tired.

It tells you the value of everything,

It speaks for the seconds,

And prompts you what was changed,

The sticks may sometimes form a straight line-

Exactly to tell you the hours of the day,

When it ticks,

You only hear it with your ears-

But the sound will linger

If your heart sees each beating

and listen to it, as

each second moves-

and the lost memories

will recoil as the second hand

brings forth

to its redirected memory.

One morning when the sky

Turned overcast,

She* sang the song

of the saddest people-

a gesture of sympathy.

When she reached

the last line,

the sky

gave birth to tears

So she sang with my hands

Trembling- she looked

above the sky

And felt the tears

Gone

For they danced together

With the wind and the ritual

Of the sky-

They hit her

with sharp edges,

Like little arrows

Freed by

playful cherubim.**

**The last lines of the poem

were originally written

(after the word trembling) as:

And my tears

And its tears drifted-

Rolled into one.

*The persona is changed into She as suggested by Kaeos.

I have been to Baguio last Saturday,

I didn’t inform you because it aches me even more knowing that you can’t be with me-

It’s so frustrating.

Everytime I go to different places I always wish that we journey together,

Even if it hurts, I still let my feet touch the earth, alone- believing that one day we will travel and visit different places together even if they are considered as the unreachable parts of the globe.

You know what, I have been traveling for almost

3 years, just by myself.

Often times, I meet strangers and wonder if they could come to journey with me but the thought slips thru my head as I think of the possibility that someday, we will journey with our hands interlaced,

Timeless travels and boundless places to visit.

I would love to travel with you-

So much.

Now I’m thinking of another possibility,

What if the clock stops ticking,

I can’t chase the time anymore-

My life gets boundaries of its own,

Do you think it’s still “possible” for you

To be able to experience the journey we long to have or

Perhaps,

the better way to put things would be this,

You may journey with the strangers I have met,

Their faces as numb as their frozen hands will remind you of a stranger who once wanted to have a companion to journey with her,

The only comrade she wanted to have.

Now, if you get to talk with the strangers,

Don’t ever forget to glance-once in awhile

Up the doomed blanket of heaven,

There you can see me shining-

Our dreams I have raised

victoriously-

twinkling,

as the beat

of our hearts join.

P.S

I still have my shirt hanging on the clothesline for almost 3 months, you know what to do already.

P.P.S

This epistolary is made for the person whom i consider as one of my "best" treasures. I don't miss you, statement: I'm a liar! hahaha

I sat in the stone like a reserved fairy,

waiting for my magic spell,

My eyes

Blinked once and as I opened them,

I saw dusts sprinkled like tiny confetti’s dancing,

Their swaying colors of spectrum

landed on my spot,

Hitting the stone

Naked,

I cupped them with my hands,

Nothing happened, they slipped through my hands like sand.

I again waited for another magic spell, another chance, I said.

Not even a dust drizzled,

None of those dancing tiny confetti’s showed up,

Those tiny confetti’s were important for I

could have written a poem out of the dust if only I were able to cup a hand full of it.

I could have danced before my masterpiece as I form tiny

sand-castled words beside the stone,

But it is useless for I could not have that chance again,

I am supposed to form a single compact line,

a line that should never be erased by a wind and the dissolving ability of water—

as promising as Ozymandia’s head.

The sun was almost

leaving

When I stepped out

of the vehicle,
I was surrounded by people whom

at some point

I have met

somewhereelse.

There were mothers,

Couples and a group

Of teenagers

with motorbikes-

puffing tangy

vapors that

quickly disperse

before our very eyes,

I tried to chase the remaining vapors, expecting

To catch a

neutralizing

feeling,

But it is as fast as a blink of an eye,

The last thing I knew was

The pulverized filter

already reclined

on

the muddy ground.

I picked it up feeling like an innocent child-

Ready to know everything

Even the most dirtiest color of the earth…

Now, I am 15 and I still wear sweaters and a traded trench coats-

ready to fit inside

their sheaths and

by their

Dry and adventurous souls-

Ready to be pierced

By the chill I first experienced when I stepped out of the vehicle.

Originally written: 02-22-08

Revised: 04-21-08

Torn bag of chips,

Half-emptied bottle of long neck Tanduay,

sleeping pack of cigar,

An unattended pitcher,

Thrown cigarette filters,

Screaming voices,

Sodium lights-

Hungry souls,

Never satisfied hunger,

Starving, whacked creatures,

Cries of the stimulated zombies,

Puffed ecstasies,

Final line of the song plays,

“konting alak lang kahit walang pulutan…”,

Raging waves

hit

the

lonely

shore.

I Lie flat in this rectangular death bed-

The piercing chill detaches me

From the gray colored world of uncertainties.

Today, I shall walk into the valley of death

Where I sing the happiest melody of sadness.

Today, I shall wake up with a rosary

Coiled on my hands-

I shall write with no hesitation

Only they gray silhouettes of words.

Today, I shall punish my hands-

pound each word on the white paper-

so I could squeeze the juice of syllables-

and paint the

Abstraction of my thoughts.

Today I shall draw a line

That divides each world-

A thin endless line,

Like a knifed horizon

Where the sky and the sea

Seems kissing from a far-

Kissing-

Like an asymptotic bliss*.

*best, allow me to borrow your words, hehe.:)

I grab a pen and paper or type in front of my laptop,

The blank sheet stares me blankly and the cursor mocks me-

my mind feels like floating,

My right hand stroke letters and glide each time an idea pops out,

I hit the keys with my patient fingers,

the set of letters form words, an incoherent sentence.

My hands, my fingers battle with my mind,

Which word to use, which thought is to be concretized

Which lines are to be enjambed

What words need to be cancelled out,

The idea needs to be squeezed like a sponge

The excess, unimportant details

Should let go are emancipated by the passionate hands

to have a compact and tight poem.

The images should be worked out,

Details of colors, smell and vision should be felt or can be imagined by the reader,

It should be devoid of the author’s feelings,

The experience while one reads it should

Have an effect and linger to one’s mind,

In a given moment or longer…

The third stanza lists the things I learned from Poetry and criticism classes.

I am trying to apply them to this crap,

I am aware that a poem should speak for itself,

But it seems that my words are falling like withered leaves of a tree-

It losses its strength.

A failure to make a poem,

A failure to give birth to words-

an attempt to Ars Poetica.

The black vertical thin line mocks me

for the nth time-

When my paper bleeds words

like pain and sadness,

The black vertical thin line

harmonize with the

Beating of my heart-

counting numbers of death,

Echoing inside the hollow room-

guarding like death’s rusty armor.

Now, my paper is half-filled with words-

words that will defeat the black vertical thin line’s purpose,

Now, my words devour the page

where it can no longer mock-

But just sleep and hide

as I turn

My succeeding thoughts

into an end.

The sun is up,

Girls are busying busy queuing to take a bath,

Inside the laundry room my pants hang damp

The alley floor scatters food left-over-

A simple food fiesta for hungry cats,

The surroundings is the same, even if they

Have grown green leaves and let go of

Withered petals, even though their branches

Spread-out, even though they give life to us-

Still their existence remains the same.

The mineral water bottle is empty,

The orange and blue tumblers

Stand proudly even they are ¾ filled with water,

Even though they appear like thirsty

Penises.

The mineral water bottle is like a womb-

A hallow room of a baby.

The lid is open,

Making it vulnerable to objects that are

Willing to penetrate.

These trains of thoughts are complete-

Giving birth to an inanimate objects,

Producing a poem,

Producing a baby out of words.

Words is equal to a whole creature-

A baby,

A baby is born and so with my poem**.

*The idea is an allusion to the movie Juno

**The last line is changed as suggested by Ate Thea

The sun is up,

Girls are busying queuing to take a bath,

Inside the laundry room my pants hang damp

The alley floor scatters food left-over-

Another icky food fiesta for hungry cats,

The surroundings is the same, even if they

Have grown green leaves and let go of

Withered petals, even though their branches

Spread-out, even though they give life to us-

Still their existence remains the same.

The mineral water bottle is empty,

The orange and blue tumblers

Stand proudly even they are ¾ filled with water,

Even though they appear like thirsty

Penises.

The mineral water bottle is a womb-

A hallow room of a baby.

The lid is open,

Making it vulnerable to objects that are

willing to penetrate.

These trains of thoughts are complete-

Giving birth to an inanimate objects,

Producing a poem,

Producing a baby out of words.

My poem is complete-

After 9 minutes of thinking,

9 minutes of arguing with my mind-

I have produced a baby-

My baby which I will call a poem.

*The idea is an allusion to the movie Juno

Last night, when you whispered

to me the crispiest story of the day

I laughed with a colorless reaction-

You stared into my eyes,

a thirsty tiger waiting

to be quenched.

I pushed you away from me

but you stood behind me-

Leaning, pushing your body harder

to mine-

from the time

you drew your hands into

my shirt-

I could feel your cold bare hands

Exploring,

nurturing each of my

full grown fruits of pleasure-

You kissed them with your ambitious lips,

imagined them by your ecstasied* eyes…

We breathe, we stopped,

we were in a brief hiatus-

surrounding us were white curtains,

undulating

with tempos beating, beats from our

Tainted hearts.

I moan for forgiveness,

I cry for bliss,

I envy the goddesses-

We cry in tears.

When things were done,

I clasped my bra and

put on my skirt

and so with my white sticky shirt,

a spit from your nicotined* mouth

tarnished my shirt

and the owner of the fabric,

Everyday I go home with this thought-

as dirty as my whole-

a whacked swollen whore.