Random thoughts:
It was a relationship.
I am a writer.
Good memories are natural
they are never scripted.
I knew there was Love
when we considered and reconsidered
each other.
I knew it was You
when my heart
yearned
for someone
like you.
. LC5 Farm & Resort, General Santos City
Showing posts with label Ergo Propter hoc. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ergo Propter hoc. Show all posts
Virginal
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I am but an Island
for B who never stops on sailing...
This is where true emptiness lies.
People believe that an island
is another paradise-
it is a dwelling of hope
it is the light, the life of the sea.
Every morning, I welcome the sweet
voices of the waves, the dance of whitecaps
every time they leap over me-
it is always a performance,
Sometimes, I wonder how they celebrate at night,
do they also dance
or sing. Do they consider
an audience?
(I love to be with the waves. I love the solitude, i love the joy)
True.
There is happiness in the sea.
There is total emptiness.
(when they don't notice my existence).
Chopsticks
The day drew nearer to an end when we met.
It was not a call for jubilation
nor it was an understated coup,
it was simply a plain engagement
in a fancy, Japanese restaurant,
we exchanged glances
earmarked smiles,
understatements and ironies
I just remembered how it looked like;
you were next to me and
they were in front of us mulling over
a thought of our possible correlation
that was never familiarity
but a conceived fondness
born out of "their" excitement-
Not knowing it was a metaphor of yearning.
Verge (Repost)
Surreal by Van Almeria @ Seawall, Davao CityJanuary 30, 2010*for Star. Art*
Don't
write like Dickinson
Don't
dance like a ballerina
Don't
cry like a cat
Don't
argue like a lawyer
... stop screaming
you are not a blank page
... stop tiptoeing
you are not a thief
... stop whining
you are not a convict
... stop complaining
you are not a patient
afterall,
Dickinson is not a blank page
a ballerina is not a thief
a cat is not a convict
and most of all,
a court
is not a hospital.
Topic: Negation
Blast
I did it again.
it is not something to be ashamed of,
but it has something to do with addiction
somewhat like a Vice.
It is a streaking madness.
A spectra of pleasure.
A glint of euphoria.
A heightened Carnality.
It is neither Vanity nor pure Lust.
it is because i love to do it again and again
because when I slip,
slither and skid
I think not of
loops and pores
but something
darker,
greener than
the leaves of a coconut tree-
somewhat like a verdant,
all-pervading blast.
Photos by: Van Almeria
When a Poet tries to Paint
I could not paint you with my bare hands
Art is not my forte;
it was never mine-
but how i would love to paint
a portrait of you
somewhat like a (modest) La Gioconda
a cold but lovely work of art
an Italian standard of beauty-
a portrait close to perfection
with you, it's not the smile
nor the perfect set of eyes,
not your pointed nose-
for an artist,
it is how he connects with the character
and the beauty that exists beyond...
how i would love to see you
in a framed canvass-
devoid of ambiguity
(I could not paint you tonight, nor the years after)
because Art is more than imagination-
it exceeds profundity.
Loving Poetry over Short Stories*
*D taught me how to write poetry. Now, I'm still writing our memories through abstract images . If i could describe our Friendship it would be a Red Rose:
Red Rose
It was the death
of a red rose
where crimson
turned
darker than
our blood.
~V
Lassie's Lassitude
a lassie who loves to spend
afternoons in a loge
with such splendor
(who defies a byronic man,
for her,
he is a theatrical show
a simulated mind).
days darted a meaningful stance
where a valley of vision lies-
a forgetful lassie,
who adores the ending
of a love story-
alone shedding
a clandestine
lassitude.
Vacillation
with his name
faces his glory
with questions,
falling into the pit of darkness
way
back home,
God appears like
the saints and prophets
in the heaven calling out the Pope
hallelujah
he screams,
a fan of him
with his sick eyes
watches an abomination
indeed,
God's voice
is the lips of an angel-
sweet and vile.
Isolation
because of your personality
someone who has the charm
to rule over the boys
and to be one of them
you know how to act
like a bitch-
to scream like your Sylvia
to pant like you own Ted
well, you know everything
from life to arts
from symbols to alphabets-
now what,
what is Europe without Paris?
what is history without civilization?
you scream in silence,
you defy conventions
you become a goddess,
a fairy, an adored ballerina
just when you thought
you're one.
how come you've become
like this:
shunned?
To the Belle of the Ball
for my best friend, GKRO
There's the remnant of ashes,
the stained white rose petals
which scent smells of a dying
charm rest like broken earthenwares.
there's no death in beauty
as it is relative to perfection
thus, it is a selfish possession,
a gift of property.
like the quality of ashes,
it is vulnerable, it can be destroyed
but still it has its pulchritude
tangible yet for others, it is imperceptible.
it is the standard of taste
that defines beauty
as i said, it is eternal
for the word itself
captures the kind of elegance
and grace it could give,
it blooms from the lips.
Snow-Covered Hills
for JRD
How does it feel to reach a snow covered hills?
Would it be best to climb in the morning
or at night?
Would it be best to climb alone or
with someone?
What are the tools to bring?
What was your reaction seeing
everything below the snow covered hills?
How far was the snow covered hills?
How lovely was the snow covered hills?
Did you meet some girls
while on your way to the snow covered hills?
Was it cold in the snow covered hills?
Do you have any regrets upon reaching the snow covered hills?
Did you enjoy your trip going to the snow covered hills?
Did you write your experience in the diary that I gave you?
Did you think of me when you reached the snow covered hills?
Did you regret leaving the snow covered hills?
Who were your companions?
Do you plan to go back to the snow covered hills?
How does it feel
to be alone now?
Van*
every monday-
jampacked with
workers
from the slaughterhouse.
i ride a van
every tuesday-
factory's breath
along the way--
the scent of
unpopular May
i ride a van
every wednesday-
the road widens
upon reaching
the crossroad
i ride a van
every thursday-
the stance
of Mt. Matutum,
an undefeated Apollo
i ride a van
every friday-
traveling
the longest
highway.
*van ride from July 7-September 30, 2009.
Nightfall (Salumsom)
under the moon
a song can be heard
silent.
an indication:
the sharp whip of stillness
a grasshopper’s whispers
they have the same ears
like blades of grasses
growing in the wild.
And in this stillness
and the faint light of the moon
his lonesomeness
becomes one
with the silence
and the nightfall.
Translated by Khareen Culajara
You're a silver- tongued creature!
I heard
the war of echoes
in the stillness
of the night-
each of those evenings
i wept
together with the blanket
of longing,
i felt
the coldness
as
it absorbed me
like
any prejudiced waves
Rage, rage
in the dying of the night
you're a silver-
tongued creature
full
of might
I heard
the war of echoes
in the stillness
of the night-
harrowing
into that gentle
good night.
You have the option of ignoring the truth until that moment when the dead begins inserting messages inside your dreams*
Say it softly, whisper it gently
the words you ought to say
a sweet serenade
before my deathbed
I will listen to you
like any forgotten cadaver-
like one
of your forsaken lovers
I know no accuracy
as I lived with
vagueness
and ambiguity,
but now,
you're standing before me
shedding beads of tears,
how do I know
that I'm not somebody's tomorrow
(I waited for so long)
like the paradise
I once wished we were into-
alive in a yesterday.
A person has a right to protest and complain and to yearn bitterly for release*
Where can I rest?
in a land of famine,
none at it's best:
not under the mourning sky,
devoid of sweet hopes-
of still moonshadow
not in the farmfields,
not in the scars of history
not in the battlefields
not under the whimpering
voice of democracy
Where can I rest?
not in your pride
away from your sight-
far from any emotional
dilemmas
Where can I rest,
when all I can see is dirt black
where there are shadows
running everywhere
where there is
no room of my own
where there is
only me
and my
solitude.
Verity
i was silent
for the past few days:
i recalled images, recoiling-
Picasso's Guernica,
Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray
and Piet
Mondrian's
Boogie-woogie
there were
scratches of lines,
silhouettes of faces
scattered on the canvas-
an incarceration from
the world of verity
i felt chaos screaming
inside my head
so, i sat like Auguste Rodin's
The Thinker
while some random images
squeezed me
I felt like I was a voyeur
figuring-out
abstractions
and ambiguity,
I pondered.
Hearing
the ticking of the clock
loudened-
it echoed,
and for a few seconds
a lady,
shrouded
by her own cravenness,
in silence,
would have wanted to
die another death.
The Smell of Jasmine
Dear X,
twice this time,
the smell of jasmine perfumed the air last night
i wonder how it was able to envelope our bodies
like a sheath
or a shroud perhaps
that shield us against the cold
it was the smell of our bodies
and the fullness of things against me
that made me shiver before the flame flickered
it Was our conscience that chided us
away from the very fruit of IT
exploring around the corner,
sucking the very core
along the edges of heaven that sang
and brought us to the holy
sanctuary of sin
if it wasn't because of the smell of jasmine
i would have thought of it as an act of acknowledgement
where every gesture was but an earmarked salutation
and your eyes were
only cronies of the gods
witnessing every bit of me
like a tamed lioness
but it was not an Ordinary gesture
as it was an aphrodisiac-
the sweet arousing smell of jasmine
the petals,
the stem and the bud
smelled a kiss of Sin-
a consuming purpose
now
as i'm trying
to forget the smell
i'm also Vindicating
the sensation
of what was once
a bitter taste
of The Past.
Synergy
it is the symbiosis of the sea and the shore that I love
not the divergence of their character
not the sadness of the heaving waves
not even the song that they cry
not the footprints that mark the shore
for they know no persistence to endure
not the brawn of the bellowing winds
that knows how to bend a tree
not the sand dunes,
not the melancholy starfishes
(not those invisible tears)
that dwell along the shore
not even their vibrant colors,
none of their kind
not the promises
or marriage vows that lovers cast
not their underhanded oaths
sworn to the wind
and to the other gods in between
but it is the relentless longing
of the ocean waves
curling over
and falling
as they reach
the cold
and embracing shore.
Photo taken at Fernandez Beach Resort last June 5, 2009
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