The TV flashes a face of fluctuating hues
as lassitude fills your eyes.
This has been your escape from days
of discomfort: settling on the sofa,
submitting yourself to Nintendo.
It is entertaining as I watch
your fingers dance in confusion
on the control pad, fulfilling your every
strategy. Much more fascinating than the graphics
and sounds of this diversion you play. I enjoy
your complacency found in no-new technology.
But sometimes even the game causes you
preoccupation. And so I intervene:
“Place it here, move it there, rotate a little more...”
Then we both smile slyly as we witness
the mass of blocks on the screen
gradually collapse.
How I wish reality were as easy.
(For Rowena, my mother)
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Blink
Stone eyes
that see beyond the deadpan faces
fixed on the Bread held up high,
whose color and texture is that of
bones buried in the muddied
form of muck made after last week’s
downpour has crumbled earth;
whose stillness on Sabbath
mirrors the unspoken stories that came
before the storm, those that befell without witnesses,
in the corners of this barrio
only lighted by makeshift street lamps, within
the dark shade of trees, the soft walls of shacks
whose owner has multiplied grace
for mouths gaping on hunger’s account,
has taught altruism in a lesson of wood
and nails, is the Word
became flesh; blink.
And the people turn into salt.
that see beyond the deadpan faces
fixed on the Bread held up high,
whose color and texture is that of
bones buried in the muddied
form of muck made after last week’s
downpour has crumbled earth;
whose stillness on Sabbath
mirrors the unspoken stories that came
before the storm, those that befell without witnesses,
in the corners of this barrio
only lighted by makeshift street lamps, within
the dark shade of trees, the soft walls of shacks
whose owner has multiplied grace
for mouths gaping on hunger’s account,
has taught altruism in a lesson of wood
and nails, is the Word
became flesh; blink.
And the people turn into salt.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Snapshots of Rain
The roads mirror the sadness
of peeling walls.
Feet hurry and hide
beneath the thin
wings of parasols.
Their stares are not the only thing cold:
the statues,
they'd shiver
if only no one
would notice.
Paradiddles on roofs,
splashes in potholes.
I sit
in a sardined jeep,
thinking of home,
where
mother is readying
a bowl of soup for my return.
After the rain has ended,
the only one left to ask where home is
is the vagrant pushing
his cart along the sidewalk.
of peeling walls.
Feet hurry and hide
beneath the thin
wings of parasols.
Their stares are not the only thing cold:
the statues,
they'd shiver
if only no one
would notice.
Paradiddles on roofs,
splashes in potholes.
I sit
in a sardined jeep,
thinking of home,
where
mother is readying
a bowl of soup for my return.
After the rain has ended,
the only one left to ask where home is
is the vagrant pushing
his cart along the sidewalk.
Like an Old Book
I've read this Sunday,
I lay you on my chest
After the day’s chores.
From this recline
I'll open the pages
Of a dream where you are
A princess missing
One of her glass slippers.
(And I, a prince
Whose role, for sure,
By now, you know.)
So how are you?
What have you felt lately
Save from the rise and fall
Of this ribcage?
I lay you on my chest
After the day’s chores.
From this recline
I'll open the pages
Of a dream where you are
A princess missing
One of her glass slippers.
(And I, a prince
Whose role, for sure,
By now, you know.)
So how are you?
What have you felt lately
Save from the rise and fall
Of this ribcage?
Aves
The reason things depart we do not know.
How, for example, a pigeon nestling on a tree
shoots straight off a forked branch
to the blazing skies of sundown.
Or how in twilight,
my hand, like a bird in search
of a new habitat, reaches for yours
and grasps nothing but the plumage of air.
How, for example, a pigeon nestling on a tree
shoots straight off a forked branch
to the blazing skies of sundown.
Or how in twilight,
my hand, like a bird in search
of a new habitat, reaches for yours
and grasps nothing but the plumage of air.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Sentences
Somewhere in this conversation
I find myself unable to speak.
I cannot mention anything,
not even your name,
for you have already drifted
even before the first word.
Who shall hear me then
but the silence you drew
as sword to my side.
The next line is waiting to be said.
Whose mouth to murmur
we do not know.
We do not care
for we have
become sentences
beyond comprehension.
I find myself unable to speak.
I cannot mention anything,
not even your name,
for you have already drifted
even before the first word.
Who shall hear me then
but the silence you drew
as sword to my side.
The next line is waiting to be said.
Whose mouth to murmur
we do not know.
We do not care
for we have
become sentences
beyond comprehension.
Homeward
Maybe in a plane past this country,
past its cities drenched by rain,
you think of home instead of departure.
Against the coldness of your trip
you keep yourself warm
with the excitement of reuniting
with transitories you have left days ago:
a job to land you on international markets,
night-outs in faraway shores, shopping sprees,
independence, and your Malaysian-Indian roommate.
As clouds close in,
resemble dreamy pillows
for your weary head,
someone whispers
a story amid the storm.
In the story, you are in a different plane
on a different path leading to a different
destination with a different purpose.
You are
descending,
resting,
residing.
You to him
are slowly coming home.
past its cities drenched by rain,
you think of home instead of departure.
Against the coldness of your trip
you keep yourself warm
with the excitement of reuniting
with transitories you have left days ago:
a job to land you on international markets,
night-outs in faraway shores, shopping sprees,
independence, and your Malaysian-Indian roommate.
As clouds close in,
resemble dreamy pillows
for your weary head,
someone whispers
a story amid the storm.
In the story, you are in a different plane
on a different path leading to a different
destination with a different purpose.
You are
descending,
resting,
residing.
You to him
are slowly coming home.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Letters to Could-Have-Been Lovers
I. Dear Q.
Don’t bother yourself, brother.
But really, had you sang your heart
A bit earlier than the dawning
Of her childhood love, now could have been
More than a stolen night spent in your car.
Tonight, as the mist chills your skin and her hopes,
It’s only a promise unsaid that goes unnoticed.
See, both your hands tremble of earthquakes
Longing to be hushed by the certainty of chances.
But never fade the thought that sirens in serenity
Have songs to offer too. Someday in the blooming
Of a different knowing, she’ll sing.
As if you’re the only one listening. So breathe.
Breathe as if this is far from an ending,
Near to what should have been your beginning.
Breathe as you once told me
That she is the rise and fall of your chest.
II. Dear J.
It’s not the songs he intentionally sings for you
In a videoke bar. Not the lyrics of which
Are what he offers his longing but you.
The vagueness of falling in love that is you.
Indifference is not to blame. What reference
But to say that heart-censorship kills
More than infidelity! And you know it.
You know that as he smokes a cigarette
In response to your restlessness
Brought by a different boy elsewhere,
There’s love in between his puffs.
You know that you smile in the presence
Of someone you once knew.
Someone to drive you from city to city
And finally home. You know
That the romance is too young to close
For you to hold on to someone else’s nearness
Which has a distance incalculable as the past.
(Published, Philippine Graphic, April 2, 2007)
Don’t bother yourself, brother.
But really, had you sang your heart
A bit earlier than the dawning
Of her childhood love, now could have been
More than a stolen night spent in your car.
Tonight, as the mist chills your skin and her hopes,
It’s only a promise unsaid that goes unnoticed.
See, both your hands tremble of earthquakes
Longing to be hushed by the certainty of chances.
But never fade the thought that sirens in serenity
Have songs to offer too. Someday in the blooming
Of a different knowing, she’ll sing.
As if you’re the only one listening. So breathe.
Breathe as if this is far from an ending,
Near to what should have been your beginning.
Breathe as you once told me
That she is the rise and fall of your chest.
II. Dear J.
It’s not the songs he intentionally sings for you
In a videoke bar. Not the lyrics of which
Are what he offers his longing but you.
The vagueness of falling in love that is you.
Indifference is not to blame. What reference
But to say that heart-censorship kills
More than infidelity! And you know it.
You know that as he smokes a cigarette
In response to your restlessness
Brought by a different boy elsewhere,
There’s love in between his puffs.
You know that you smile in the presence
Of someone you once knew.
Someone to drive you from city to city
And finally home. You know
That the romance is too young to close
For you to hold on to someone else’s nearness
Which has a distance incalculable as the past.
(Published, Philippine Graphic, April 2, 2007)
To Bury a Sword
In the burning
Wound of pride:
To be a warrior
Who takes laying
His armor down
At the mention
Of his maiden's name
As a secret revealed
In dragon's fire.
(Published, Philippine Graphic, April 2, 2007)
Wound of pride:
To be a warrior
Who takes laying
His armor down
At the mention
Of his maiden's name
As a secret revealed
In dragon's fire.
(Published, Philippine Graphic, April 2, 2007)
The Unbearable Absence
The absence is unbearable.
Walls glow in the palest of whites
And sheets scream for her soft skin.
The hollowness within
Feeds on the unrestored visibility
Of the skies of a storm.
In my mind,
No desirous circles turn
For we neither push nor pull.
We are forceless.
In the letterbox, missives emptied of blood.
(Published, Philippine Graphic, April 2, 2007)
Walls glow in the palest of whites
And sheets scream for her soft skin.
The hollowness within
Feeds on the unrestored visibility
Of the skies of a storm.
In my mind,
No desirous circles turn
For we neither push nor pull.
We are forceless.
In the letterbox, missives emptied of blood.
(Published, Philippine Graphic, April 2, 2007)
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Fortunes
Some lines deeply etched
On your palm never rest
As flesh crevices. And cards
That have refused space
In a gambler's hand,
Settled methodical
On a clean cloth spread,
See you in the absence of eyes.
Perhaps definition—
A sort of fate's progression
Or its delay, or the dependability
On what lies beyond mortal time
And space: the be all and end all
Of soothsaying. But really who are we
To know how certain things will fall
In a forecast told by a stranger's voice?
On your palm never rest
As flesh crevices. And cards
That have refused space
In a gambler's hand,
Settled methodical
On a clean cloth spread,
See you in the absence of eyes.
Perhaps definition—
A sort of fate's progression
Or its delay, or the dependability
On what lies beyond mortal time
And space: the be all and end all
Of soothsaying. But really who are we
To know how certain things will fall
In a forecast told by a stranger's voice?
A Deficiency in Decibels
And I wonder:
How will you comprehend
The scream I let out
The moment you lost
Your ears to indifference
Will soon be
A reticent pendant dangling
On your breasts?
How will you comprehend
The scream I let out
The moment you lost
Your ears to indifference
Will soon be
A reticent pendant dangling
On your breasts?
From the Sky to the Kite
& the blessedness
to fill your wedding church will be him.
not the familiar faces cheered
by candles, splashed with hymns.
not the promise you'll sacredly utter
in front of god & a thousand petals. not the knot.
not even the groom who on that day
shall see beyond the whiteness you wear.
there will be an aching prayer
you'll hush in your heart.
& with that prayer you'll know beyond the heart,
beyond the prayer itself, beyond the vignettes
left of you of him—a cup of espresso,
a toothful & thoughtful smile,
kids commemorating him through personalized shirts,
birthdays, christmas, your mother—that
daddy is & will always be your sky.
& you, a little kite now flying away from the earth.
fly, little kite. say i do. & he has loved & loves you too.
(For Riz)
to fill your wedding church will be him.
not the familiar faces cheered
by candles, splashed with hymns.
not the promise you'll sacredly utter
in front of god & a thousand petals. not the knot.
not even the groom who on that day
shall see beyond the whiteness you wear.
there will be an aching prayer
you'll hush in your heart.
& with that prayer you'll know beyond the heart,
beyond the prayer itself, beyond the vignettes
left of you of him—a cup of espresso,
a toothful & thoughtful smile,
kids commemorating him through personalized shirts,
birthdays, christmas, your mother—that
daddy is & will always be your sky.
& you, a little kite now flying away from the earth.
fly, little kite. say i do. & he has loved & loves you too.
(For Riz)
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Your Navel
Tonight, as we discern the rising of the moon
in a single perception you tell me
that you can offer not the sweetest flavors
of desire for many lovers have already known
the secrets of your skin.
Memories of which instantly make you
as brittle as the pages of old books
kept in the darkest corners of libraries.
And I am diminished
to this lonely longing of lust:
I masturbate my mind hoping to reach
the whiteness of your navel.
(Published, Philippine Graphic, March 27, 2006)
in a single perception you tell me
that you can offer not the sweetest flavors
of desire for many lovers have already known
the secrets of your skin.
Memories of which instantly make you
as brittle as the pages of old books
kept in the darkest corners of libraries.
And I am diminished
to this lonely longing of lust:
I masturbate my mind hoping to reach
the whiteness of your navel.
(Published, Philippine Graphic, March 27, 2006)
For the Girl Who Loves to Play in the Rain
Look! The rain has freed
itself from heavy, ashen clouds.
Come, take my hand
as we shall cleanse all pretensions
and share this sadness of the skies.
Forever we'll hate the sun.
Together we'll hate the sun.
(Published, Philippine Graphic, March 27, 2006)
itself from heavy, ashen clouds.
Come, take my hand
as we shall cleanse all pretensions
and share this sadness of the skies.
Forever we'll hate the sun.
Together we'll hate the sun.
(Published, Philippine Graphic, March 27, 2006)
Love
Love to bother
Like morning hair
Flailing in the air
Never ceasing to its fixed form.
Love to gather
Lost thoughts floating
In a sea of dementia.
(Published, Philippine Graphic, March 27, 2006)
Like morning hair
Flailing in the air
Never ceasing to its fixed form.
Love to gather
Lost thoughts floating
In a sea of dementia.
(Published, Philippine Graphic, March 27, 2006)
Cold
Behold me
when your lips
are pink butterfly wings
that have forgotten
fluttering:
an ice cube
floating,
soon melting
in a calm sea
contained in a cup.
(Published, Dapitan Vol. 1 No. 2, 2005)
when your lips
are pink butterfly wings
that have forgotten
fluttering:
an ice cube
floating,
soon melting
in a calm sea
contained in a cup.
(Published, Dapitan Vol. 1 No. 2, 2005)
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Whitewash
On nights like this
when the moon is ill
with glaucoma, too white
to see the disturbance
in the waves, I'd renounce
the waking of words
as if telling my flesh
the everlasting story
when the moon is ill
with glaucoma, too white
to see the disturbance
in the waves, I'd renounce
the waking of words
just to feel upon my chest
your soothed breathing
as if telling my flesh
the everlasting story
of the sea and the shore.
Room 103
Under the red ball of light, the lone source
of warmth in this room freezing
flesh and flaws, we make the fullest of connections.
"How many times can a circle go round?" you ask.
"Limitless," I reply.
Lying down
we weave the wonder of wholeness:
my heart opens to human frailty
as stars explode between your thighs.
of warmth in this room freezing
flesh and flaws, we make the fullest of connections.
"How many times can a circle go round?" you ask.
"Limitless," I reply.
Lying down
we weave the wonder of wholeness:
my heart opens to human frailty
as stars explode between your thighs.
Romancing Camille
the purple dove in saffron skies,
the hammock of stars,
the dream in a moonlit room,
the souvenir of the morning sun,
the erosion of enunciation,
the landscape of memory,
that burning metaphor on the brink of sanity,
my reckless allocations and broken poetry,
who is antiseptic to wounds reopening,
who casts a shroud on all things clandestine,
who melts the cold in hibernation,
who blooms flowers from trembling fists,
and turns my heart into gelatine.
Note #22
camille, words are my possession
at the moment, also a heart
ready to implode at a sigh.
this infinite night has estranged me
from the wonders of the stars.
and i find no redemption
as this instance is the same
place i long not to be.
and there is no profusion
as this space becomes a great
emptiness where i can reach
no one.
not even you.
see, i cannot reach you,
the omnipresent truth
of fantasy and reality.
and for that i am one stale desire:
a smokeless fire.
this sadness bleeds into a poem
that cannot be written by these words
i own.
at the moment, also a heart
ready to implode at a sigh.
this infinite night has estranged me
from the wonders of the stars.
and i find no redemption
as this instance is the same
place i long not to be.
and there is no profusion
as this space becomes a great
emptiness where i can reach
no one.
not even you.
see, i cannot reach you,
the omnipresent truth
of fantasy and reality.
and for that i am one stale desire:
a smokeless fire.
this sadness bleeds into a poem
that cannot be written by these words
i own.
8: 22 a.m.
I should be continuing a poem
About you, Camille, with lines like:
I steal moments witnessing
How your eyes, crystalline like marbles,
Reflect the colors of stained-glass butterflies
Hovering over sun-kissed ripples...
But my brain, keeper of all
Realities, all madness, all beauty,
Rests in neural slumber.
Too tired from indulging
Too much in a selfish purpose:
Imagining you as a little girl
Lost in the labyrinth of my love.
Pieces of a broken poem are swept away
In the young hours of a Monday.
About you, Camille, with lines like:
I steal moments witnessing
How your eyes, crystalline like marbles,
Reflect the colors of stained-glass butterflies
Hovering over sun-kissed ripples...
But my brain, keeper of all
Realities, all madness, all beauty,
Rests in neural slumber.
Too tired from indulging
Too much in a selfish purpose:
Imagining you as a little girl
Lost in the labyrinth of my love.
Pieces of a broken poem are swept away
In the young hours of a Monday.
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