Mga Awit ng Galit, Pag-ibig, at Iba Pang Uri ng Panghihinayang

To The One I Leave Behind

2007-06-22T18:06:00.000-07:00

Don’t bring out the curtains just yet
Or repaint the bedroom,
It’s too soon to be doing that.
Just open the windows wide,
Let the sun in during the day
And air it out at night.
But take out the plants,
Place them in the patio
For once let them see the unfiltered sun–
Let their leaves feel the unconditional breeze.
Undress the mattresses and launder the sheets,
Hang them in the backyard where they can play–
Swaying with the wind all day.
Let them soak in the smell of flowers
Until they blossom like one.

And you, do not think of me sadly
I may not be here but I will always be with you,
Dreaming of you, wondering
If you’re sleeping sweetly like you always do.
Look at the night sky when you’re lonely—as I will
We’ll count the stars together
As we usually do.
So don’t shed a tear,
Instead shower me with a thousand smiles
And a hundred kisses;
Enough to carry with me in my travels.
That way, when I think of you
I’ll think of your cheeks and your eyes—
Of wide airy spaces, of green leaves,
Of downy sheets, of soft cloth;
And how happy we will be when I return
In your arms

The Girl With The Everlasting Gaze

2007-06-19T18:12:00.000-07:00

“I remember the last time we gathered roses in the garden, I found my wits, but truly, you lost yours.” - I forgot the author.

I

She collects stories like she collects her books, at random but with a central theme; she likes her stories to be tragic.

“Life,” she once said, “is a tragedy, whichever way you look at it.”

She treasures these stories like scars in her mind, indelible and something to be looked at again and again. Sometimes she would go through her collection and allow herself to go through every cursive sadness contained within them. She would relive the heartaches and the sea of tears that were shed as if they were her own.

“It’s so sad,” she’d say, and then indulge herself with a good cry.

II

Over time, she stopped seeing things. She would walk the streets to her office not noticing the sidewalk vendors selling cigarettes and gums, nor the frantic jostling of cars whose honking were muted by the conversations going on in her mind.

Her stories have become so entrenched in her consciousness that she can no longer distinguish where these stories end, and where her existence begins. Her eyes have taken on a fixed, glacial quality that pierces through people as if they were some kind of a mirage and she can see through them.

III

She had once dreamed of raising a family, and have little ones running all over her backyard. She was so much younger then, and possessed with a love that was so much more than love. She loved fiercely and was loved equally in return. Like everyone who has drank from the fountain of that intoxicating drink, she was, no longer hers; she was only a half person, having given the best part of herself to someone she swore she would perish for.

Her days were filled with giddy conversations and at night she dreams of sleeping forever, her beloved by her side. There was no happier girl than her. Too happy in fact that some felt it was obscene. With all the suffering in the world, some believed that no one person should have that kind of happiness.

IV

She was picking roses from her garden, choosing those yellow ones who have audaciously attempted to spread their petals after a few days of budding. She marveled at their form and gushed at how beautiful they looked.

“One more,” she thought.

Grasping her gardening shears with her right hand, she steadied the rose’s stem by holding its base with her left.

“Aww!!” She quickly withdrew her hand. A thorn has pierced through her gloves pricking her index finger. She felt a grim sense of foreboding as she removed her left glove and saw her finger bleeding profusely.

V

Somewhere in the city, her beloved stopped by a grocery store to buy strawberries. He knows how she loved strawberries. He was smiling as he paid the counter.

He was admiring the berries he bought as he stepped off the curb to cross the street to where his car was parked.

“They’re so red.” He said, before he was lifted off the ground, his body thrust up in the air, his head violently snapped back. He felt himself flying, looking at the perfectly blue sky as it slowly turned red, then purple, then black.

VI

“I’m sorry miss.”

She was still holding her gardening shears when the two policemen came to her house.

“The car came out of nowhere.”

It was all she needed to hear.

VII

When she came to, she prayed that it was all just a bad dream, but looking at all the anxious faces surrounding her, she knew that the worst had happened.

She didn’t know that such kind of pain could exist.

“It would be better if I’m torn from limb to limb, then somehow, I know that there would be a medicine I could take to lessen the pain.” She told her mother after the funeral.

“But this,” she bit her lower lip as a fresh batch of tears rolled down her cheeks, “this pain is alive, and it’s burning me from the inside.”

VIII

She went through her husband’s journals one day and found a heavily marked book of short stories lodged between them. She started reading it. Without pause. Until she finished the entire book. It was already dark outside.

“Thank you.” She said softly, as she slowly closed her eyes.

For RSL

2007-06-05T18:45:00.000-07:00

Is it your scent that makes me dream
(of thunders and low floating feathers)
or your slender, weightless frame?

Is it when you deftly part air--
(whistling, like picking flowers)
Or when you mess with everyone's hair?

How can something so graceful,
Be something so powerful?

I steady myself with these thoughts
Chasing my breath,
While those who would defeat us
Stand in motionless awe
Watching our shuttles fly.

The Girl Who Loved Lavender

2007-05-22T18:46:00.000-07:00

1

I once knew a girl who loved everything lavender. She used to collect hairclips and ribbons of all sorts but in only one color.

“It has to be lavender,” she would say, “or it would be pointless.”

With every purchase, she would smile like a little girl getting candy for the first time. She had lavender pens and bracelets. She even searched the net for lavender kittens. Her amused friends find her pre-occupation with the color cute.

One of her closest friends asked her one time, when she was examining a pair of lavender flip-flops, why she was so obsessed with the color.

She took a little pause before she answered, “It’s not just the color, I love the scent too.”

She then gave her friend the sweetest smile and went to the counter and bought the flip-flops.

2

Several years have passed since I’ve last seen her. I would have completely forgotten about her if it weren’t for a common friend who I bumped into the other night. He said he was on his way to lavender girl’s house, to pay his last respect. She had been long suffering from leukemia he said. She finally succumbed to the disease and died Tuesday last week. He said that before she died, lavender girl even asked her mom to dress her all in white and not to have anything lavender near her coffin. That was to be her last wish.

“It’s strange,” he said, “how towards the end she seemed to make a turnaround and didn’t want to see or smell anything lavender.”

It’s strange perhaps, but it’s been known to happen.

Leavetakings

2007-05-08T18:13:00.000-07:00

When you leave, take me with you
Put me in your suitcase like you would your clothes;
Place me in between your apple green sweater
And your tan corduroy jeans

Just pretend I’m a piece of cloth that you have to keep
Near you, just in case
You need something to wipe your brows
When you’re done following your road
And seeing your dreams come true.

I don’t care if I get all wrinkled and creased
I would rather be rumpled, lumped with your clothes
Inside your suitcase
Than be out in the sun, free, and away from you

Every Now And Then

2007-02-13T18:18:00.000-08:00

Every now and then I still find myself
Thinking about the things we used to share.
I still stop by that park at night, looking at fireflies,
The same fireflies we used to chase.

I’m taking a different road now,
Somewhat different from the road I hoped
I would be walking down forever
With you, holding your hand.

Do you still twirl your hair when you’re thinking,
Or talk to yourself when you walk?
Are you still unable to sleep before dawn?

Do you sometimes think about me too?

I don’t know where you are now,
But I hope you are happy
Holding another’s hand,
Even if it’s not mine.

Ang Paglisan

2006-12-06T04:11:00.000-08:00

Isang gabi, hindi ka na makapa.
Kahit anong paglinga ang ginawa, hindi ka makita.
Sinubukan sa ilalim ng kama, hinanap sa alikabok
At sa mga agiw na naipon, wala ka dun;
Tumakbo sa banyo at humiga sa ilalim ng gripo,
Sinilip ang tubo baka sakaling sumuot at dun nagtago;
Lumabas at itinaas ang kanang manggas,
Sinipat ang pangalan mong nakatatung parang ahas.
Subalit maliban sa nunal na merong balbas,
Walang kahit bulate man lang na katumbas.
Tumingin sa salamin, umaasang nandun pa rin
Kung ang damit ay huhubarin; ang sugat--
Alaala ng umagang sinaksak ng iyong ngiting naging sibat
Itong pusong dating nakapikit at sa kaligayahan ay namulat.
Ngunit pati yun ay nawala, naglahong parang bula.

Ang aking pag-ibig na iningatan, na kung ilang taong inalagaan,
Tuluyan nang nakalimutan, pumanaw sa pagsibol ng bagong buwan.

The House of Past And Present*

2006-12-04T18:32:00.000-08:00

There’s a house near the river bend that people only mention in hushed tones. Fishermen who pass by the house on their way to their little fishing trips make the sign of the cross three times, and mumble incantations taught to them by their fathers, and their fathers’ fathers before them.

The house has been there for as long as they can remember. The old folks say its been empty since the end of WWII (though no one could really tell). Strangely, they can’t agree whether the owners have died or have left the place for distant shores. They couldn’t even remember who the owners were.

Nobody has ventured near the house for decades. Stories about weird goings-on have been handed down from generation to generation and as is the case in most far-flung barrios, these stories were never verified. After all there’s no harm in believing these things.

The structure itself, surprisingly, remains intact. The wide capiz windows have escaped destruction from the mischievous kids’ slingshots, those rubber and wood contraptions that seem to be always aimed at moving objects, like birds, and more often than not, in whatever inanimate object that catches their fancy, like the lamp post bulbs, or whatever of it is left in the barrio’s scarcely lighted streets. That it remained intact may be due to the stories of “gaba”(karma) and bad luck that have befallen those who dared to mess with the house. Or so the stories go.

Its thatched roof and old wood walls have also withstood time. There was even no evidence of termite damage. Perhaps the termites have also taken the trouble to avoid the house as well. While the surroundings have now been fortified like a fortress by the cogon grass surrounding it, no other sign of vegetation touched its backyard, just the dry collected dust of time, making it appear like a charcoal painting hidden in a basement.

It is a strange occurrence that once in awhile, when strong winds coming in from the sea blow through the area, dust would rise up in spirals like mini-twisters in slow motion. The occasional passerby who happen to witness this occurrence immediately averts his eyes for fear of seeing feral eyes staring back at him. After a while when the winds die down, the dust would take their time settling back to the ground to resume their collective nap.

During one the barrio’s fiestas when everyone erupted in a colorful cooking/feeding frenzy, there emanated from the old house waltz music as if coming from a brass band. Of course the barrio folks dismissed this and blamed everything to the buzz brought about by too much indulgence in coconut wine (tuba), and went about their dusk-’til-dawn revelry. No one would acknowledge what they heard. Being simple people, those who even entertained doubts in their minds quickly cast these thoughts away like useless bottle caps.

They woke up the following morning feeling the effects of their indulgence, cleaned up the debris of their celebrations and moved on with their rural life, the previous night’s music already forgotten.

II

Inside the old house, the patriarch and his two grown sons, attired in strict barong tagalog, as is the custom of colonials, were smoking cigars as they listened approvingly to the brass band striking up the latest tunes while the coiffed matriarch guided her young daughter in the ways of the waltz.

They were celebrating their latest harvest. They had been blessed with a typhoon free season that year. They had more than doubled their output compared with the previous year’s harvest. The patriarch stood up and went to the veranda to get some air. He had consumed a fair amount of brandy and was feeling a little light-headed. He looked out and gazed at the vastness of his hacienda. He had done well, he knew that. Ever since his father returned to Spain and all but disowned him, he insisted on staying in the islands and got himself a Filipino bride. He never regretted his decision. His sagadas respect him well, and he always treated them fairly.

He turned his attention to the dense forest that bordered his abaca plantation. During this time, his manservants would be cowering in their quarters, afraid to venture out. “Malignos,” they usually say. “It’s the feast of the encantos living in the woods.” No amount of money would make them go into the forest and survey the land to see if it would be suitable for his envisioned sugarcane crop. He shook his head in disgust. The Katipuneros have done their job well. They have sown fear into the hearts of these ultra-gullible simpletons. They’ve made up stories of duwendes and other nocturnal creatures roaming the forest to dissuade them from accidentally discovering their hiding places.

Looking more intently, he thought he saw a fireworks display in the midst of the forest. Some sort of a celebration. He chuckled silently. “Even I, am already imagining things,” he said softly to himself. “I should be going to bed.”

He went back inside, bade goodnight to his wife and children, and headed for the master’s bedroom.

ooOoo

Imagine a world where time flows like a current, continuous and graceful. Everyone would be living in their own time, as is the way it usually is and logically, should be.

But if time is a current, then there would be worlds existing upstream, and downstream, and in between. Because the current always moves forward, as if by design, then these worlds are naturally unaware of each other; each world believing that their existence is absolute and there is no other time but the here and the now. They dismiss other times and other worlds. Those they have outgrown are called past, and those they will grow into are called future.

However, what if some world moves faster than another? Say for example that the past now have 23 hour days, and the present retains its 24 hours a day. Then at some point these two worlds would converge, although they won’t be headed for a physical collision, as each world will be existing in its own version of time. And while no world can occupy the same space at the same time, surely there would be indications of each other’s presence. Some would say that this is manifested by deja vu and those other unexplained things like ghosts and apparitions.

*Heavily influenced by Einstein’s Dreams, and too much coffee.

We

2006-10-10T18:35:00.000-07:00

You,
Wearing your smile
Thinking your thoughts
Walking inside my head
Daintily skipping barbed memories
That crop up when I wrestle with sleep.

You,
Twinkling your eyes
Laughing your laugh
Roaming around my dreams
Touching my cheek, pretending
That a smudge caught your eye.

I,
Whispering my sighs
Asking you to stay
Willing the night to go on
It didn’t, you didn’t–
Now all I have is a shiny morning.
And an empty room.

For Viola (the Unsinkable)

2006-10-06T18:37:00.000-07:00

The last time I heard her sing
She had her arms around me
Her voice took me to secret places
Where no lover of hers has ever been.

With my head on her shoulders,
My eyes seeing everything,
I listened to her singing
About the night she heard Caruso sing.

Through her songs she told me stories
Of her longings and of her fears
Of heartbreaks and goodbyes
Of getting old and being alone.

She sang like it’s the most natural thing
She sang as though she didn’t want to stop
She sang as if through singing she can bring back
Those faded memories of what we used to have.

So with my head on her shoulders,
And my eyes seeing everything
I listened to her singing
About the night she heard Caruso sing.

Black*

2006-10-05T18:38:00.000-07:00

*inspired by Nina Simone

Black is the color of my true love’s hair
Those long strands of silk slithering round her neck,
Like a waterfall cascading down her back.

I tried to drown in her tresses
One balmy night when,
With my soul in my hand,
I dove through the wisps of her hair
And lost myself;

If I should die, I said to myself,
Let it be like this–
Quiet, unobtrusive,
Smelling of languid days and secret passions
Enveloped in the darkness of my true love’s hair.

Gasping for air, I broke the surface
And found myself watching her peaceful sleep
In her make-believe world

She opened her eyes, and drank the full sight of me
I wanted to jump right into those dark pools
And swim there forever,
While she brushed from her face
Those errant locks of hair.

But if I should live, I have no other wish
Than to always see the wind in her hair
While she, gazelle-like, runs after fireflies
Hidden in misty evenings–
Evenings as black as my true love’s hair.

Check & Mate

2006-10-04T18:40:00.000-07:00

Seven evenings I’ve wondered
How you can serenely sip your cup of Earl Grey,
(Like a washed-up drunk wetting his horn)
While speed-reading your filthy tabloid,
And completely ignoring me.

Seven mornings I wake up
With this bitter-weird sensation
Because my tongue strangely tastes like tea
(Which forces me to ask this tawdry question)
Have you been kissing me?

Seven days and seven nights,
One week of wondering and waking,
Maybe we should just continue this game
(And perhaps before it ends),
I would somehow stumble across your name.

Fragments

2006-10-04T18:39:00.000-07:00

I don’t know why sentences fall
Off in the middle.
As if the bridge connecting the subject to
The predicate has collapsed.

Like the paragraph I
Constructed yesterday afternoon–
Which started with two
Pillars of fragmented phrases
And ended up with four.
Instead of the twin
Towers, I was left
Holding a flat mall.

It must be habit I suppose,
Because even when dialling
Your number, or calling
Your name, I find
My voice trailing off before
We can say our hello’s.

Self-portrait

2006-10-03T18:41:00.000-07:00

Long haired boy
Why the misty mountain stare?
Your sigh is a heavy blanket-
From a bottomless well.
Your best years are past,
You’re rooted to your spot-
Facing the wind;
Your friends they have babies,
They go home to their wives
You have yourself—
And your queen-sized bed.
You are graying,
You are receding,
You are shrinking;
You maintain you’re okay,
Your eyes aimed at the city
Looking for mountains
They’re not there–
Though you see them clearly
Dark and blue and brooding,
Next to that skyscraper.
Long haired boy
You need to cut your hair.

Sana

2006-10-01T08:23:00.000-07:00

Sana, pagkatapos ng kaganapang ito
Masasabi kong may kabuluhan ang lahat
At hindi lang dahil kailangang mangyari o gawin
Dahil parang nahihirapan na akong huminga.

Sana ang kabataang kaybilis dumaan
Ay hindi nasayang na parang tubig
Na nabuhus sa tabi ng mabatong daan
Kung saan walang halamang maaaring mamulaklak

Sana bago mamatay ang sindi ng kandilang ito
Makita man lang kita
Kahit sa malayo
Kahit masakit.

Lakbay Diwa

2006-07-02T21:36:00.000-07:00

I
Gusto kong maglakbay sa gitna ng dilim,
Hindi nakikita at walang pakialam.
Tatahakin ko ang landas ng karimlan,
Patungo sa mga puno, talahib at halaman.
Doon aking ilalapag ang bitbit kong duyan.

At hihiga.

Matutulog.

Makikinig sa mga kuliglig.

Susundan ng mata ang maharot na indayog ng mga alitaptap.
Minsan puti, minsan dilaw.
Singdilaw ng iyong blusang walang manggas,
Isang gabing lumilipad ang iyong buhok sa ating habulan.

Natatandaan mo pa ba, nung ikay nakipag-ulayaw sa kanila,
Sa ilalim ng malalaking punong singtanda ng mundo?

Sumasayaw ka nun,

At tumatalon,

At tumatakbo,

Pabalik-balik ka sa akin, para kunin ng iyong mga labi ang aking hininga.
At iiwan uli ako, nakatayo, di makapaghintay sa minsan mo pang paghalik

II
Gusto kong mangisda sa gitna ng laot.

Mag-isa,

Walang isla,

Walang lupa.

Ibaba ko ang aking lambat at ito’y kakalimutan.
Maghihintay sa pagbiyak ng araw.
Tanging baon kong alaala, dahan dahan kong ipupunla
Sa mga alon na nag-uunahang itaob ang aking bangka.

Along kumekending kasabay ng buhok mong sing-itim
Ng katahimikang naglalaro sa aking kamay,
Na sinubok kong tuklasin sa pamamagitan
Ng pag-amoy ng halimuyak nitong
Singkapal ng unan nung minsang tayoy nakahiga
At ikay isang pahalang
Na musikang bumubulong, binubulong,
Ang kanta ni Nina Simone.

III
Gusto kong maglaho sa gitna ng tahimik.
Kung sa ilalim ng lupa ito makakamit,
Akoy walang humpay na maghuhukay.

Maliligo ng dumi.

Hindi na aahon.

Mananatiling nakabaon.

Walang alaala, walang kahapon.

Sandali Lang

2006-07-02T05:59:00.000-07:00

Sandali lang.
Hayaan mo munang pulutin ko
Ang pira-pirasong parte
Ng aking katinuan.
Katinuang biniyak ng katotohanang
Hanggang dito na lang.

Dito.
Kung saan inililibing
Ang mapangahas na mga pag-ibig
Ng ninumang gustong kumawala
Sa mga nakatakda na.
Sa mga alituntuning nakaukit sa bato.

Sandali lang.
Papahirin ko lang itong mga luhang
Kanina pa gustong tumalon
Mula sa aking pilikmata.
Luhang dati namang nakatago
Ngunit ngayo'y hinahanap ka.

Alam kong ito'y nararapat lang.
Kailangan.
Dapat kong tanggapin.
Kahit mahirap.
Tatayo din ako sa aking pagkalugmok.
Sandali lang.