Poetographie

i'll
send you
my paper boat.

Tonight,I write a sort of poetry
in a state of melancholy,
where words weep in their own sadness
and syllables snivel in hidden sentences


I could hear a voice,
your song to be exact
it has its own rhythm,
an unspoken requiem


Hush now, the moon is still
a gorgeous beauty in midnight-
i hear the silence of fear
dancing with a tear.

it would
be painful
if you
imitate pain
in a
painless manner,
ending a poem
hanging,
a dangling
idea inside
one's head

lyk u knw,
hw mny tyms
do i hv 2 tl u
dt a tir symblzs pwr
\

lyk u knw,
hw mny tyms
do i hv 2 tl u
dt crage s a strngth


lyk u knw,
hw mny tyms
do i hv 2 tl u
dt war s nrmal


lyk u knw,
hw mny tyms
do i hv 2 tl u
dt nvr a sngle mmnt dd i frgt U

how do i sail without a paddle?
how do i write without a pen?
how do i dance without music?
how do i talk without a mouth?
how do i walk without my feet?
how do i weep without a tear?
how do i smile without happiness?


how do i journey without a friend?

Hope
a song
with perfect melody-
nothing's out of tune

You
and me
together we journey,
with our hands interlaced

Gone,
in your shadow-
behind, hiding.

For Jane Mardellete Obenieta

Party hats are worn,
Candles and cakes are prepared-
Wishing you the best.

For Emily

I could have tasted the cookies that you baked
I coud have written a sort of poetry like your Death
I could have joined you in your solitude
I could have marvelled some of your poems


Dear Emily, your poems I regard in high veneration
they sing a rhythm in my tainted heart-
its as if a silent requiem wants to be heard, listened
I understand how you noticed the purity of white-
for me, it's now the color of death- pure,
when death stings like white-
it illuminates, it gives brilliance-
it is transcendental- the feeling,
sublime.


Death is an ecstacy-
like the power of weeds and foils,
it isn't stoppable-
it is magical,
like your poetry


Dear Emily, They should know the grandeur of your poetry
loathing your poetry is like a feeling when hating one's self


You don't bring any harm to their hearts-
it's just that
they don't allow the penetration of risks,


nevertheless, you share no attention in their poetry
like your own neglection


I'll dance with you Dear Emily,
we'll laugh in our own way,
together with sorrow-
let's be happy Dear Emily
let white be the color of Death.

A lady is lying in her blanket of sadness-
tears gliding slowly reaching her palms-
her eyes,
soaked with tears-


her mom taps her back,
"what's the problem?, she asks
"nothing mom, its just me".


she wipes her tears and writes,
"A lady is lying in her blanket of sadness-
tears gliding slowly reaching her palms"
she rings the other end of the line
"I have my thoughts ready, would you mind listening..."


the call ended
so her poem died.

Pain,
the flavor-
so sweet.

Pain is just a feeling-
an emotion
when someone believes a lie.

it would have been another story if i didn't shed a tear on that Sunday morning


i was lost-
mom came and gave me a hug,
dad dried my tears-


(thought i lost another part of me-
another buddy)


it's okay child,
"expect the sun to rise tomorrow-
expect that everything will be fine,
we're still here for you"
"but mom..", i whined
"respect is the least thing you can do-
do it,
respect"


it would have been a beautiful Sunday morning
if I restricted and freed myself from pain,


it was just one of my typical Sundays where I used to cry
goodbye bitter yesterdays
"yes dad, yes mom i'll do it
not for others
but for Myself,"


Respect is the least thing i can do.

When will I see that smile again?
When will I see you again?
When will this conversation end?


How do we mend a broken heart?
How does it mean to be happy?
How does it feel to wear other people's bagagge?


(I'll escape from being barred,
from being neglected,
from being condemned


I'll find my way home-
SOON.)

i want to lend you my hanky
to dry your tears
"stop crying"

i want to see you happy

i want you to listen to my poetry
(you've been working like ants)

i'm not asking anything from you,
i just want to see you happy-
SMILE.

sail away, sail away,
goodbye, goodbye yesterday,
of the sweetest pains-
the winds of May

i hear sadness in the rustle of the wind-
they cry silently,
without a drop of tear.

i went on top of the mountain-
i screamed out your name--
called you, but you never returned
only the echo recoiled


after years of despair and solitude
the mountain's still the same
i screamed out your name
still
the echo reverberated,
none of which is you


only the saddest tears
of forgotten memories-
of my longing
and of the ryhthm of sadness.

love hides beneath the pages,
in the corner of the sentences,
right from the edges of the letters,


why did you buy that book?


you're ashamed to love him
to know that you too is in love with him,
that he means the world to you


why did you buy that book?


to share the same literature
to enjoy the pages he marvels
to travel with him even if it is too impossible


why did you really buy that book?


I know some of the answers,
but I'd rather keep them in my poetry
like the love you slid beneath that nook,
oh i'm sorry, i was about to say book.

I doubt if you'd answer this


why flirt with him?
why chat with him?
why talk with him?


when infact, you don't really love him


does love dance like arabesque
or does it read like literature?


if you really love him,
give him a chance-
open your heart to any risks


but could you afford to break 3 hearts


if you allow your heart to love him?


well,
I doubt if you'd answer this.

just last night i went to a coffin maker

to ask for a cadaver reservation,

he asked me what I would prefer

the one that fits my size or the one with an allowance

i preferred the latter,

so i could have my little things with me

i could imagine myself lying inside the cadaver

wearing mother's Sunday dress,

people peaking before me,

hearing testimonials during my eulogy

and cold teardrops hitting the coffin's glass

i would like to be my own Cinderella when i'm dead,

beautiful and adored

make-up, red lipstick to hide the scar on my lower lip

i would like to witness the smiles of the people i love

i would like my favorite songs be played

when i'm buried, i would like my family to visit me everyday

I embrace death but death has no response,

i'm tired of needles, of cups and saucers, of filthy

chimneys, of street garbage, of other people's baggage

but i am already a family myself,

no siblings, no mother and father-

an impossible ideal death as they call it,

when a woman of my kind wishes

merely through her death fantasies

Last night, I prepared the room for the two of us,

fresh red roses beautifully arranged on top of the side table-

beside the bed,

scented candles warmed the room,

sweet music serenaded the night

and “romantic desires” perfumed the air inside

but I slept alone.

He arrived the next day,

almost five in the morning

everything inside the room had died out,

myself along with my desires,

my longings

“Happy hour with the boys,” he said.

I wailed like dead waves on a sea,

Hit the shore and relished my recoil

“There will be better days,” I said to myself,

I’ll laugh together with unhappy wives

exhaust myself-

numb the pain

after all, the night was not really for him-

it is a gift i shall offer to my little angels,

my children

I am no wife,

just my children’s mother.

Greet the morning sun at the doorstep tomorrow,

darkness should curl on its blanket and give way;

revel, revel before the nightfall will show.

Even though your husband has just arrived,

happy hours with the boys until five in the morning still

Greet the morning sun at the doorstep tomorrow.

Household chores wait for you inside the house

frying pans, broomstick, plates and laundry yearn for your company,

revel, revel before the nightfall will show.

Your little children asleep at night,

No husband beside you for sweet talks and morning stories just

Greet the morning sun at the doorstep tomorrow.

Workaholic husband, exceeding office hours-

away from home, enjoying the pub, the mystery of the night,

revel, revel before the nightfall will show.

My mother, alone, with a basket of tears

stand up, be strong, I beg you

Greet the morning sun at the doorstep tomorrow,

revel, revel before the nightfall will show.

i sit in front of the mirror

beside me are my precious possessions

a bottle of romantic wish I owed from my friend

lip and cheek tint from sister Lucia

a L’Oreal foundation I asked through a rich, real estate broker friend of mine

a set of make up given by my pamangkin from Las Vegas

(in which all of her other Tita’s were also given)

she sent last month through a balikbayan box

and a manicure kit I haggled at Bankerohan public market with my younger daughter

here i am, plucking my eyebrows with my rusty puller

which I bring with me since my college days

my eyes drop a tear every time I pluck these tiny hairs, one by one

“what color should I wear today?,” I ask my younger daughter

“violet nay,” she answers me swiftly

“okay, then get that violet spaghetti strap for me

located beside the pink T-shirt you gave me last year during my 50th birthday”,

I feel the cotton on my hand,

the smooth hands of my younger daughter,

her smell, as she serves as my window to the world

I have an occasion tonight

“Si nanay uie, you’re already old enough to be treated like a kid,” my younger daughter complains

as she slowly leaves the room for a call

when shall I ever see the bright colors on my make-up kit,

the smile on my younger daughter’s face,

these precious possessions I only have,

when the object I could only see

is the perceived beauty

I have been always seeing

in my dreams—

wonderful,

deteriorating.

We were in a room on a midday

he was sitting on a white chair,

I stood behind him

and we witnessed the crisp leaves fell from an old mango tree outside

the wind gently caressed our bodies,

it was like watching the wailing waves on the sea

as the sea breeze kissed the shore

he lifted his right arm(which had more strength than the other)

pulled my hands to his chest,

my fingers were trembling with fears

as though they were stems of a wilted rose

i tried to undo his grip-

he was strong

i could feel his warm breath right before my horrified face-

it was engulfing, devouring, hungry

he pushed me on the white blank wall,

pushed me, pushed me, pushed me once more

until he reached his anticipated ecstasy

I was trapped by my own self

shivering in the cold

like a broken piece of glass battered on the floor

I gathered myself -

he left none of himself

(only his haunting shadows on the white blank wall)

his breath echoed off the wall

together with my silent tears,

a crimson dot spotted the floor

Two pairs of slippers left unworn at the doorstep:

the white ones, looking like a woman's feet with floral prints

carved on its straps.

They appeared like two lonely lovers

one head tilted over the other or perhaps,

a man kissed by his lady

the black ones, with strong etched lines on the soles resembling

that of a dinosaur's backbone were wedged two feet away from each other

as if protecting the white pair of slippers-

the other foot stepped forward in a slant position

with its tip touching the edge of the molave door

when the wind knocked the door closed,

it dragged the black slipper away from its lover

they seemed like a frozen journey of footsteps—

the way my husband left me for a girl.

When words complain like an infant, feed them a bottle of milk

but if they won’t stop crying cradle them to your bosom

treat words as if they were your babies-

they need to be nurtured

When words stretch like kneaded dough

mold them until their size becomes sufficient enough to bake

treat words as if they were bread

they need to be refined

When words stain like blood on a shirt

wash and bleach them to attain purity again

treat words as if they were your laundry-

they need to be rinsed

When words jumble like the clothes inside your dresser

arrange them in designation

treat words as if they were your cluttered clothes-

they need to be sorted

But when words scatter like dried leaves in your lawn

leave them alone,

there are still plenty of household chores to do

abandoned beginnings,

lost hopes

impossible birth to a new breed of poetry.

1

Andy Warhol’s knives-

scratching your gut

Leaving it with a muzzled dot

2

Mad woman wailing,

a seed swimming in the air-

in night’s seclusion

3

Pain.

Pressing the glass-

deep into the wrist

4

cold winds hit the shore

wailing waves of the sea-

footprints on the sand

5

wrapping a chain

around one's throat-

soul swings in the air

"I'm on my way home hney", my husband told me

"Ok", was my reply

before he'd ask me to cook for his favorite adobong manok

I had already cooked for him

before he'd ask me to iron his office polo

I had already ironed it for him

before he'd ask me to wash his dirty clothes

I had already hanged them on the clothesline

before he'd ask me to clean the house for his visitors

I had already dusted off the curtains and arranged the furniture

before he'd ask me to prepare for our kids' baon

I had already slid it inside their schoolbags,

"emrgenC mting hney," my husband told me

"Ok", was my reply

when I'd ask him to go home early,

he never replies

when I'd ask him to buy food for us,

he never replies

when we need him,

he is never with us

when the house is sad,

he is never with us

"I'm srry hney, i still luv hr", he texted-

I didn't reply.

but now,

I'm done with all of this waiting,

Frustration slowly kills me,

done,

done,

done,

I wil nvr be hs wyf,

he has just got 1.

go away child,

i don't want you to come near me,

you don't own my flesh,

you don't share my fate

i play with the boys during the night and you,

together with your playmates in the day

i attend parties as an escort,

sleep with them in luxurious hotels

and once played tong-its behind the bars

i don't want you to come near me,

and flash that angelic smile

your sweet gestures-

the lollipop you offered me,

paper dolls you gave me

i hate them all,

you don't deserve my pity-

i share none of myself to you

don't say "mama, i wanna pee",

don't cry "mama, mama help me",

"you don't like to sleep with the rats, don't you?"

or play with tattered dolls?"

so don't come near me,

please go away and leave

i don't need an angel, really-

For dear child,

you know nothing about me.

Watch-out!!!!

We were in a room on a midday
he was sitting on a white chair,
I stood behind him
and we witnessed the crisp leaves fell from an old mango tree outside
the wind gently caressed our bodies,
it felt like watching wailing waves on the sea
as the sea breeze cools the shore


he lifted his right arm(which has more strength than the other)
and pulled my hands to his chest,
my fingers were trembling with fears
as though they were stems of a wilted rose
i tried to undo his grip but he was strong
i could feel his warm breath right before my very face-
it was engulfing, devouring, hungry


he pushed me on the white blank wall,
pushed me, pushed me
until he reached his epiphanic ecstasy


I was trapped by my own self
shivering in the cold


felt like broken pieces of glass lying on the floor


I gathered myself
as he left me shattered


he left none of himself-
only his haunting shadows on the white blank wall


his breath echoed off the wall
together with my silent cries,


a crimson dot spotted the floor,
nothing was left of me.

It was on the last week of summer,
We were inside the blanket of our innocence,
we danced like naive boys and girls
under the ecstasy
of music and disco lights
of cigarettes and chocolates;
of weeds, foils, bottles of white wine
and a 500 peso starvation bill he crumpled like shit
left lying on top of the old narra table


To flush you in the toilet was an option but
I would be happier if
You’d rot and die
inside
my
womb,


like a shrimp inside a jar-


but slowly dear child,
I gorge your flesh with my claws,
I knead your breathing space,
for the last time


after the third month,
I am now here lying on a surgical bed
like a swine,
with sterilized seaweeds compressed into thin sticks,


what for? I ask the nurse, feeling like a kid,
to absorb moisture and expand the cervix, she replies


she takes hold of the pliers-like instrument,
and sings in her own melody,
a sort of a limerick,


“seizing the leg, the arm, the genitals and other body parts
is the thing I always do
breaking this little saint’s heart,


then I twist and twist the flesh
and tears it from the cleft ”,she continues to sing


today dear child,
I bid you goodbye, goodbye-
as you die inside my womb
to welcome your final tomb.

I had a letter for you-
i dropped it at your mail box,
hope you had the slightest chance of reading it

i know it wouldn't speak for itself
but it i tell you it was worth reading
than your Othello
and your book of arabesque -

but
i need not to blame my words
for they were just constructs,
for you still have the last say
to read or ignore

but i guess
the answer was obvious,
"yeah right, thank you anyway"--

just this morning I saw my letter
soaked in the rain

my words blotted
as heaven's tears devoured the paper,

sometimes, people are just too busy
to take notice of small things,
small details
to the point that everything is neglected,
and treated
only like whispers of the wind

The pen says, can you write and tell stories like what I do?
The stethoscope says, can you hear heartbeats and detect illnesses like what I perform?

well, I am a pen
and I feel more superior than you are
I can write and articulate ideas,
I can draw or sketch a thing, an object-
I am the medium of art
I can dance and trip,
Art is my master.
I run out of words when at times I am empty,
when blood doesn’t feed me anymore
I draw abstraction,
I create illusions-
I ink happiness and feelings
how about you, you timid object?

well, I am a stethoscope
and I feel a lot more superior than you assume
I can detect illnesses depending on
one’s heartbeat,
I can hear the sweetest music ever heard,
I am the product of higher form of thinking-
science is my master
and to understand life fully
you need science just as how you need Art
we can explain everything,
the body’s physical disposition and suffering
can be aided through science,
is that all my friend,? the pen asks,
how could science explain religion,
let’s assume that you could answer everything,
how could science explain abstraction
and
how could science tell the story of its Art
without referring to Art itself?

Dear Aunt Julia,

It’s already a decade since you left,
the house smells archaic
Lola Norma’s wound is getting worst,
she’s been bed ridden for almost a year now,
she told me to mail you and tell you that
she misses you badly,
when at times she’s alone in her room
she reads the book that you gave her before you left
I caught her weeping once
and asked her the cause of her despair
she didn’t answer
but instead she got hold of the book and hugged it into her bossom

I always tell her that you’ll be coming back,
with plenty of pasalubong and assorted batiks of her choice,
the photo album where you used to put plenty of our pictures
is kept by Lola Norma,
she couldn’t sleep without it beside her,
she complains every time the photo album is lost or misplaced
(for sometimes I borrow it without asking permission)

Aunt Julia,
when will you come back?
I miss you so much

Yesterday, I went to see a movie
and I could not help but feel sad because
I remembered the day when you treated me in the same movie house
because I topped the first long exam,
I didn’t order pop corn
because it will just remind me of you,
when will you treat me again Aunt Julia?
when will those pop corns pop again?

I would be the happiest girl if you come back, one day
when will those memories be colorful again?
I can’t dance life’s music without you,
Lola Norma will surely rest sadly because of you,
she wants you back Aunt Julia
and
she wants Me
to dig
your grave

Sometimes it pays to open the window
and gaze at world’s wonder,
where flowers bloom and trees stretch,
rising up to heaven, where the rivers
offer you fresh water,
where the wind dances in its own rhythm-


There will be no sadness in the air
as everything is nature’s special gift-
the mountains rest proudly
and the shadow of the clouds covers its plains,
and the terraces


The robin’s song will accompany the rustle of the wind-
and there, a perfect music is heard,
rivers, leaves, and the robin’s-
whistling the still and those lying dead.

Shall I ever find the girl
who once cried at the terminal and asked me for help?
with her pair of kind eyes and the weight of her tear
I could never turn down,
heavy dragging steps hindered me to leave her-
offered her a piece of cloth for comfort.

When the siren of the bus go silent
I hear her voice, her whisper
echo in the air
the melody of her sweet and amiable words
make me feel more like a boy

she’s my damsel,
the sweetest damsel I have ever met,
but I wonder where is she now,
does she still cry?

if she does,
I still have plenty of white cloths to offer for her,
reserved and special-
none of which I will sell
to the jeepneys and to private cars
and even to my daily customers,

I will weep with her if she wants,
until she forgets she’s a lady
and I
a man.

When your words complain like an infant, feed her a bottle of milk
but if she won’t stop crying cradle her into your bosom
treat words as if they are your babies-
they need to be nurtured like a vixen to her young

When your words stretch like a kneaded dough
cut them until they become sufficient enough to bake
treat words as if they are bread
learn to cut and estimate for the refinement of its quality

When your words stain like a blood on a shirt
wash then bleach them to attain one’s purity again
treat words as if they are your laundry-
a poem bleached and properly rinsed attracts attention on its readers

When your words jumble like the clothes inside your dresser
sort them out; see to it that everything is on its own proper place
treat words like clothes-
not a thing should clutter and scatters the poem into pieces

But when words
fall
like
loosened leaves of a tree
sweep them and
leave them
alone,
for there are many more chores to do inside the house-

that’s the hardest thing in poetry,
abandoned beginnings,
losing hopes for the ones
you already have started-

giving birth to a new breed of poetry.