Awash

The words we refused to utter.
The questions left unanswered.
The laughter unheard.
The smiles unseen.
The kiss that ignited.
The touch that set aflame.
We carry them in boxes
small and quaint,
beautifully decorated
to conceal, to mislead
the darkness they contain.
What of these, you ask.
Nothing, I whisper.
And that is how things are with us.

---
Reposting from Hushed Hysterics, my other writing repository. Online carbon imprint has increased exponentially. Oh my.

Forgiven not forgotten

We have always
sought the December wind.

Perhaps because it reminds us
of warmth despite the cold

the radiance of
hearts so light

the temporary rising
of pristine flags

surrendering to the moment,
joyous and unrestrained

hostilties forgotten,
all's forgiven for the time being.

What

Begins when everything ends: Love
vestiges of lust, evolving with a hint
of truth; written in many, many forms
of blood, from blood as ink, ink of blood
drip, drip, dripping from a heart
worn, aching --- ready to relinquish
its claim upon your sleeve.

There are many measures of love.
A heart contrite, for one. And two, a hand
reaching out into the eye of the storm
that exists for us both: similar and not the same,
differing in minute details: the intensity perhaps,
what it picks up along the way, debris, the chip off
a shoulder, baggage lugged  from one continent to another.

Love
has been written about elsewhere before
rewritten and rewritten but can never
claim to be rewritten no more,
perhaps by myself, wary and yet dauntless ---
as a way maybe of moderating desires or
questioning them:

Do I love you, for example; or
Do I love me with you that's why I do love you?
You and not you when you are with me?
Or what you do to me?
Now that I've shrugged off the fear
of what could be and may and will happen,
I will let love be[gin].

Cease to maim

We have stopped
speaking in knives.

Afraid no longer
of mines still buried
in the ruined city
of our affections.

Seasons

Goodbye...

When you walk away too fast

I am transported to a time when

my life knew of only two seasons:

Winter and Fall

when tragedy hung loosely around the edges of things.

Yet there is a stillness:

my mind is filled with quiet

distilled night terrors subdued into

ominous dream sequences

where Beethoven played in the background.

The next time you walk away too fast

I will push the oxygen in my lungs

to exhale the petty worries of yesterday.

I will stand still and smile...

See you tomorrow.

Mayakovsky

Stumbled upon Frank O'Hara and thought, "Hoom. This guy loves like everything and nothing in his works." A writer and a curator (cool!), his tone is both casual and spontaneous, which I think very few poets have mastered. Us, writers, we take life and a lot of things (even the small stuff) seriously to a fault. It's hard to find works that simply simplify and yet unfailingly move still.

Been reading a lot --- Yeats, the guy mentioned above, some local bloggers/poets --- and just started doodling some (this is what I call my imitation of art; I don't think I'm any good but I've managed to produce decent sumthin' sumthins').

I have a theory --- If you really are good at what you do (writing, et.al), you wouldn't need all the shit that comes with life and love to produce something decent. Nor do you have to keep fucking things up on purpose to experience exquisite sorrow as fuel to regurgitate a few heartfelt verses. Here's a thought: Just keep doing what you do.

So, in the spirit of self-preservation and enjoying every millisecond of my Days Have Finally Gotten Better With You Know Who You Are aka V (See subtlety isn't one of my strong points. #SMH), I will keep writing, churning out prose, poetry, prosaic on various topics regardless of how I'm feeling at the moment. Understand: Writing is hugely personal and you guessed it, meanings are in people. Also, I will keep doodling and will undertake that something ambitious soon and by that I mean something that's 24x30 and will find itself vulnerable to the world in a semi-corner office.

In the meantime, enjoy Mayakovsky ---

1

My heart’s aflutter!

I am standing in the bath tub

crying. Mother, mother

who am I? If he

will just come back once

and kiss me on the face

his coarse hair brush

my temple, it’s throbbing!

then I can put on my clothes

I guess, and walk the streets.

2

I love you. I love you,

but I’m turning to my verses

and my heart is closing

like a fist.

Words! be

sick as I am sick, swoon,

roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I’ll stare down

at my wounded beauty

which at best is only a talent

for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win

what a poet!

and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.

I embrace a cloud,

but when I soared

it rained.

3

That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest

oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks

what a funny place to rupture!

and now it is raining on the ailanthus

as I step out onto the window ledge

the tracks below me are smoky and

glistening with a passion for running

I leap into the leaves, green like the sea

4

Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and

brown and white in trees,

snows and skies of laughter

always diminishing, less funny

not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of

the year, what does he think of

that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,

perhaps I am myself again.

Frank O’Hara, “Mayakovsky” from Meditations in an Emergency.

Let her sleep

Water slips through the slits of her fingers as she keeps

her gaze to the vastness of sky; she wonders how 

she dreams and in what color --- cerulean, sienna,

or that plain block of brown --- do they come in, her dreams.

Or maybe she slumbers in silence, void of images, a blank slate

which clamors to be filled, splattered with paint: a splash of red

for passion, a smear of carnation, signaling a silent, burning love

she longs to send her. So she whispers to the night, willing the wind

to carry her words to where she sleeps, dreaming in snippets --- a fingertip tracing

the outline of a scar from when she once tried and failed, a hesitant echo,

silence golden and yet wishing to be taken back with the words 

I love you, darling. And somehow, that is all that matters; her resting,

caught in slumber for when she awakens so it begins. Again.

Yen

I need to come up
with new words to describe you
my darling, my little delicacy ---
this is what I call hunger, desire. The strange need
to rip you apart with my bare hands.

I imagine how you would tear: shining, shimmering
invisible threads holding my human[e}ity together.
Resplendent like the sun -- you are enticing -- existing
to feed a hungry, pernicious creature like me.

How I long for you, my sweet.
Your eyes are pearls and how you smell like a December dawn.
Cold and crisp , alchemizing to warm and comforting
under my nimble fingers.

And yet, you remain remotely beautiful
within some surreptitious corner ---
Oh, sweetheart! How you forsake me:
keeping yourself hidden, tucked in some distant creation.

Strangely feeding my hunger, the yearning
making my blood boil. No words to describe
desire or how you make me feel at three in the morning:
when in need, I taste you and have you move against me.


---
In pursuit of abundance in writing.

No hearts

And yet

I've said this far too often

how one day we will be nothing more
than bits and pieces of dust

swirling in the vast expanse of sky

without direction. 

Nothing.

No arms for reaching nor

hearts for feeling.

So this I tell you:

We are running out of time

to claim this brightness while we still can.

Because, really,

What else have we got than

you and me?

---

At 1:38 a.m.: Dissatisfied with this poem. Seems like a quilt of verses, scraps and spillage, almost there but not quite. A deletion seems necessary so ---

Mula sa Musa

Para sa Manunulat --- 

Isang malalim na buntong hininga ang sagot ko sa pag-agos ng mga salita mula sa iyong pluma.

Dahil sa unti-unting dumudulas ang mga sandali, parang hindi ko kayang pasanin ang kalungkutang mararamdaman ko kung sakaling dumating ang araw na hindi na ang aking anino ang lililim sa katawan mong magbibigay-buhay sa isang tula.

Natatakot ako na sa bawat indayog ng [mga] buwan dala nito ang mga alaala na ulap na lamang ang nilalaman.

Natatakot ako na hindi na maaari ang mabagal na paglalakbay sa bawat araw sa kagustuhang bawasan ang lawak nitong distansya sa ating pagitan.

Nababalutan ng takot itong aking pag-amin na nais kitang mahalin — sapagkat 

anong sagot 

            ang maisusukli mo 

                                    sa akin?

---

Muted gestures and imaginings. Often it is the writer who captures the words behind beauty and inspiration, bottles up the emotions, and unleashes them on the page. Do you ever wonder -- what of the muse? 

---

True to my editorial colors. Original scribbles from The In-between. Because I'm bored and would like to put the 'use' in amused. Hehe.

Got a kick out of this poem, et. al.

She doesn't know, but I know
Allen B. Samsuya, Anthuluge ~ Easy Does It

She doesn’t know but I know

how she still has the hots for me —

How she keeps her hair kempt

and smelling of warm gin

and citrus so she’s sure

she intoxicates me

despite the distance she claims

to have between us. And how

she wants me to take her hard

against something, a wall perhaps,

or a closet, or a king-sized bed.

This, I can tell by the way she walks

away — the shape love takes

when nurtured in secrecy poised

on the curve of her waist.

But she walks away, anyway.

Being writer-ly:

Inspirations [sort of] notwithstanding, I've been trying to write more. Experimenting with languages and dialects to see where I'm most comfortable.

Current assessment: A toss-up between Filipino and English.

Loving the challenge I get from writing a tula and at the same time, playing around with length in English is giving a hands-clasped-behind-the-head satisfied feeling. Sadly, something erotic doesn't this way come. It seems being sensual is better done than written about (but this is just me).


Sometimes wishing I can translate to the sound of letters how my body curves at your touch, how a sigh slips from my lips at your caress, and how we dance to the edge of the world and explode midst a slew of stars...

that sort of thing.

Life, lately:

Been feeling a bit under the weather. The mad, mad combination of sun and rain and gloriously polluted Ayala has taken its toll on little ol' me. Work is something else, too. Physiology will buckle somehow when caught smack in the middle of shitstorm season. And so we sigh, roll up our sleeves and get to work (nonetheless).

Looking forward to the rainbow this June. A 45-minute plane ride will usher my feet back to Iloilo for a week of celebrating birthdays, meeting up with friends, and playing with my rottweiler Pucci. Some alcohol-filled night-out or two is also in the works. Perhaps, I can squeeze in a day at the beach if I'm lucky.

Oh, yeah.

Atin Ang Gabi

Ikaw, ako,

kape at kuwento.

Dala ng magkaugnay na hapdi

itong higpit ng pagsalubong sa sandali.

Ito ang naging simula:

Minsan tayo ay tumigil sa paggalaw

at nanatili sa iisang lugar.

Hinayaan ang banggaan ng mga kapalarang iba-iba ang tangan.

Bumalik tayo sa nagdaang panahon.

Ikaw at ako, sila --- ang pinagsaluhan.

Binilang ang araw ng pagsasama

nang sabay tapon sa mga panghihinayang.

Ipinaaalala sa atin na wala na rin namang silbi

ang pag-inda sa lungkot na minsan nilang dala.

Tiyak ang paglaho ng kung anong bahid ng alinlangan.

Hindi natin sila kailangan.

At naganap ang hindi inaasahan: Napunit ang langit

sa pagsiklab ng sandali.

Ating ipinagdiwang itong minsang pagtatagpo

sa pinakamahabang gabi.

Ngunit walang katiyakan

itong pananatili ng mga sandali,

bagamat magkatabi at masaya

hanggang sa tahimik na pag-uwi.

Sa ngayon nababalutan ng pag-unawa itong pagsasama.

Isinantabi sa kaloob-loobang sulok ang pananabik.

Maselan ang pagbitaw sa mga salita.

Walang nangangako sa takot na walang maaako.

Hanggang sa muli,

mananatili sa kalagitnaan itong tagpo.

Di tiyak ang pagpapatuloy o pagtatapos

ng ating kuwento.

The Story of Remembrance

1

is the ceaseless attempt to forget.

2

When all that is left is the sound of wanting ---

the soft whisper of loneliness

aching to be spun into song.

Your name escapes from my parched lips;

a sigh barely heard for it has been too long,

far too long.

I give it another try.

Chords for want of stronger sound

straining.

I must utter your name

so there will be no forgetting.

3

On days when the past knocks on my front door like an old friend, I do not quite know how to react. Or if I want to welcome it at all.

But it comes bearing gifts; and almost always, I cannot resist. How can I when they come in such beautiful, ornate boxes? And when, deep inside, I am hoping, encased in perhaps an intricate decoupage of gold, green and silver, I will uncover You?

4

Today I stand before the place where I met you.

My hands are formed into cups nestling the box I have chosen.

This box: striking in its beauty feels oddly heavy in my hands,

its weight shooting daggers of hope in my heart.

I am itching to open the box, anticipating our reunion.

Already my mind is racing ---

How are you? Do you remember me? What do you remember?

Tell me, tell me.

In my haste, I almost didn’t hear the moon.

Its mellifluous voice, mocking, calling me foolish

for believing too much,

for believing in so many things.  

5

It is said that dust is formed from our skins and that if we stay in one place for a long time, an eventual mound of dust shall have formed at our feet.

If this is true, and if by some unfortunate circumstance, the wind comes our way, what will become of us? Particles in the wind, we spin away from each other bearing versions of our story. Away and away, the distance erecting walls between us. What once was ours shall have become yours and mine.

Open it, said the moon. And I oblige.

Nothing.

Save for a thin coating of dust.

I waited too long, I told the moon.

6

Dust in the wind. You and I.

If so be the case, do we still hold the right to ourselves? Do we not become properties of the wind --- our story becoming the wind’s own?

7

The moon was witness to our story and its beginnings. And she tells me in dulcet tones that with each of her motions mapping our days apart, underscoring the absence of sight and sound and touch, a memory is taken away.

The smoke wafting from your half-opened lips, the color of the night, the feel of your palms on the small of my back as you steered me to our spot by a palm tree. Or was it a potted plant?

See how the details are easily forgotten? The moon whispers.

8

I empty the contents of the box into my hands but I am not careful enough.

You slip easily between the slits of my fingers to be blown away by the wind.

9

What am I to make of this?

It seems so unfair when all I want is to talk to you so desperately.

And so I whisper stories of my day to the wind hoping that somehow it gets to you. 

Who are you, Woman?

I do not know the woman

I only know of this ---

She is the hand resting lightly on my shoulder,

becoming the language no longer needing

the soft swish of letters.

She is the song that lulls me into a dream,

where upon waking, I find the sky is mine for the taking.

She is the rain masking my tears,

leaving a trail of kisses as I take back

my heart in need of mending.

She is the words I weave into a poem

bespoke of courage and strength.

She is love forged between weak links,

supped over broken phone lines and

hurried text messages.

She is my mother, the woman I do not know.

Save for her beauty, her serene acceptance

of the daughter who will not have become her.

I must surrender what little I know of her

what little I understand,

when what we have

is the absence of sight.

And what we try to do

is fill the void with sounds

of bodies being forced to injure/endure

shared time and space apart.

----

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama. I may not say this as often as the gods or you or me would like but you know I love you, right? Oh, and I'm sorry if I do not answer back after a particularly horrid night at the office. It kills me, you know, how to the ladies I love/particularly like I am so available but to you... Shame on me. I am working on it, Mama. I am. Because all this time --- It's been always you and me.

Bagong Buwan

Sa sandaling iyon

Umiral ang isang tagpo

Nang kinuha mo sa aking kamay

Ang isang tala at ibinalik ito sa kalangitan.

Ang sabi mo:

Mahal, ako lamang

Sa gabing ito, ako lamang.

Sabay tayong maglalakbay

Patungo sa isang banyagang dalampasigan

At doon, mag-aabang ng panibagong buwan.

Kung paano sa mga sandaling iyon

Umiral ang pag-asa, hawak kamay.

Hindi natin namalayan ang paghilum

Ng mga kung anu-anong sugat

Na dala-dala ng nakaraan,

Habang tinatalunan natin ang mga alon

Ng walang pag-aalinlangan.

Ang ating mga tawa umaalingawngaw

Habang tangay natin ang isa’t isa ---

Hudyat ng umuusbong at namumukadkad na simula.

---

If you listen, ever so closely, you will hear my sigh. The sound of feathers, my choosing to nurse this ache happy.

Inspiration[s]. Sort of.

Tell me about it. I've been spewing words for weeks now. And I'm as surprised as you are. But amused nonetheless. So who could have caused this? Some list.

1. Someone of all trades. A master of one. Or two. Oh, alright, a few. Fine, several. It was good while it lasted. Sweet escapes. Quite civil given half the chance, no longer chummy. Questions. Kaput.
2. Epic: One of the most amazingly talented people I know. A mean combination of prose, poetry and photography. May wield more, I'm afraid to admit. Or maybe I have, i.e., reason for unsound sleep, flying.
3. Silent. Fleeting. Most likely. But then we'll never know for now. Feathers all around still.
4. Smiles that make me forget how dark the world can be. Sweeping. Primal and unadulterated conversations that could go on for days. Progress report: Nil.
5. Constant like change. 
6. Some kind of wonderful.

It should not come as a surprise that all of them are women.
Men, you ought to shape up. But I couldn't care less. Har dee har har.
Save for 5, I'm currently keeping a safe distance for my own good. And theirs.

Haiku-happy for days now. There are words but they speak too much of the truth. Only a haiku because the poems must get shorter in the attempt to not risk anymore of what's left (if there are any). Oh no.

Lose yourself in art ---
in poetry surrender
in song abandon.

and because the heart has indeed grown fonder but has learned its lesson and will opt for silence:

Windblown refugees
wandering with empty hearts
mistaken for stars.


See what I mean?

To silence

At night, she bellows

the sound barely audible

unheard ‘til the morn.

“I would like to know

what it will take to make you

fall in love with me?”

In the morn, humming

she sings laments of longing

the tune without words.

“Winged the span of time

Yet your footprint remains etched

right here, above my breast.”

That thing with feathers,

hope, discloses everything;

revealing nothing.

“Within the confines

of my heart, I begin the

task of vanishing.”

You

You are the wave that
quickly retreats the moment
it touches my feet.

Seems almost as if

She will let the ---------- fade away
much like the mark on her breast
she will give it a week, save for the feel of her skin
and the photograph of the back of her head
during the short drive away from her.

Etched.

She whispers an apology.
And hopes to live through this.

Ang Pagitan

Mula sa koleksyong Corpus ni Carlos Piocos III

I.
Kapag lumapit ka pa, sige, halika

lumapit ka pa, mawawala ang tunog, garalgal, gasgas

at sagasa ng mga salita mula sa aking bibig patungo sa iyong tainga.

Sapagkat hahalikan kita at saka mo pakinggan

ang mga sinusukat mong akala.

at eto pa

II.

Kung lalayo ka pa ng ilang kilometro, isang milya,

Tutunog ang katabi mong telepono sa loob ng opisina,

at sa ganito kalayong distansiya, ibubulong ko kung

natatandaan mo pa ba ang pangalan ko?

On another note:

Listless, lackadaisical... this is how I am these days. Zero drive, which is sad because we are entering shitstorm season in the office. But here I am, wanting nothing but to write snippets and fragments of poetry, pseudo-poetry, love and letters and... if only I can spend my days writing and hope for the world to be a better place. If only it were that simple. 

Just now:

Me: I didn't go to work today.

Mom: Tired? Not feeling well? Or not feeling it?

Me: All of the above.

Mom: Why?

Me: Beats me.

Mom: You want to come home? So you can recharge?

Me: Hmmmm...

Thank God for mothers, especially mine. They know just the thing to make you feel better. 

Yes, Ma, ikaw lang ang babae sa buhay at puso ko. Naks!

I guess I'm just tired. And a big wuss at that. So many things going on and I'm caught smack in the middle of it. You are not helping. And you... you inspire me. Thanks, and I'm sorry.

There, I said it.

Note to self and to you, out there, going through the same thing as I am, probably worst: It's going to get better.