Addressed to herself, sort of.

First. A new poem.


To A., when she turns 27

aaa1
You should not have lied.

The fact is you worshiped your father
and when he told you the space
between moon and earth was so vast
you understood infinity
was a symbol for what you could not hold
a loop that had you going in circles.
Content with the earth and its physics.

aaa2
You forgot
you thought the moon
followed you everywhere. Yes
the shortest distance between any two
points is a straight line—
But by then you understood how diameter
kept two points on a circle separate
how it kept that distance
constant. The moon moves
around the earth, yes.
The distance between them 384,403 kilometers.

aaa3
At times I watch the moon on the water
rippling an invitation.
It is always the same wish
that I had insisted it followed
stamped my foot and yelled it
followed a followed a would always follow.

But is that enough?
The echoed voice, this borrowed—

Daylight, and it is forgotten.
Or else it fades.

*****

Second. May kwento ako. Pero teka, parang di ko yata kaya.

Ahem, tilawan ta estilo ni M. bi:

Sang-una sa Iloilo may drama sa radyo nga ang titulo, "Sin-o ang may sala?" Pamatyag ko, daw pwede ni tani ang akon nga istorya sa programa nga to. Pamati-i bala.

May chismis nga naglapta mga anom ka bulan na ang naglipas. May isa ni kuno ka laki nga naluyag sa isa ka babayi. Kung pahambalon mo mga abyan ni babayi (nga mga nakakilala man kay lalaki; si bayi kag si laki mismo indi amigo-hay), bagay guid kuno sila nga duha, buto guid ang ila nga mga abyan sa ila duha, etc, etc. Indi man guid kilal-anay si bayi kag si laki: asta lang bala sa hi-hello, asta lang sa "diutay nga hambalanay," kung sa ingles pa, kada sila magkit-anay. Pero, kung sundun ta guid ya ang dalagan sang mga nagkalatabo, wala guid sang may makahambal nga gusto ni laki si bayi. Mahuluya-on abi si laki, amo na nga daw wala guid sinyas nga tuod ang ini nga sugid-sugid. Si bayi man ya, matinalak-on, kag daw waay guid man labot.

Ugaling, pagkalipas sang pila pa ka bulan, galapit nga lapit (indi si bayi) ang kaadlawan ni bayi. Ahay, ti ano abi kay daw sa pamatyagan ni bayi naga-tigulang na siya, kag daw kadugay na guid nga wala siya nobyo. Gani man, sang guin pilit si bayi sang iya mga amiga nga siya na lang ang mag-hagad kay laki mag-gwa (dumdumon ta, mahuluya-on si laki), wala man guid siya angal.

Ti natabo nga mga duha ka adlaw pagkatapos sang pagpilit kay bayi nga hagaron si laki, may tukar ang paborito nga banda ni bayi, ang grupo nga "Likod-labaha" (labahita?). Guin panumdum ni bayi nga i-text kag hagaron si laki sa tukar nga to. Amo ni ang dalagan sang huna-huna ni bayi ay:

Bayi sa lawas niya: Ti, hambal nila gusto niya man bala ako.
Bayi sa lawas niya gihapon: Galing, basi indi bala mag-sabat haw. Kahuluya.
Siya/Sila man gihapon: Ah, bay-i da ah. Kung upod, ti upod eh. Kung indi, ti wala.

Pagkatapos sadto nga kalip-ot nga bina-isay, nagtext guid man si bayi kay laki. Guin hagad niya sa tukar sang banda, nagdugang pa nga kung indi lang masako si laki, eh. Sabat ni laki, "Ay nami tani mag-tanaw galing may kadto-an man ko. Kinahanglan nga ara ko sa "Sidlangan-kahoy" (kuha niyo?) subong nga gab-i."

Ahay, kalu-oy man kay babayi. Nagpadala abi sa istorya sang iban nga tawo. Ti ano natabo dayon?

Sang mga tini-on nga gina text ni bayi si laki, ara siya sa isa ka ilimnan nga lapit lang sa balay niya, ang "Batobalani." (Enkaso nga indi magsabat/mag-upod si laki, wala sang may makasiling nga nagmuk-mok si bayi sa balay, hulat sang sabat ni laki, indi bala?) Pagkabaton niya sang text, nagdesidir si bayi nga mapa-uli na lang siya. Mintras nagalakat siya, nagtupa ang puwerte katudo nga ulan. (Daw drama sa radyo, no?) Kay indi niya gusto mabasa, nagpasilong si bayi higad-dalan. Tuyo niya nga hulaton maghulaw ang ulan kag magpadayon lakat pauli. Nati-onan galing nga may taxi nga nagdulog sa atubangan guid sang higad-dalan nga ginatindugan niya. Guin pinsar ni bayi nga isa ini ka sinyales. Guin palapitan niya ang nagahulat nga salakyan.

Bayi: Manong, sa "SaHulag*" tani lihog. Katul-tol ka magkadto sa kalye "Hulag" sa "Makatol"?
Tsuper: Tul-tulon eh. Wala na ya problema ah. Sakay lang.
Bayi: Ayus!

Ti amo na ang istorya kung paano nakalab-ot si bayi sa "SaHulag" nga siya lang isa. Ang lain pa, puno ang lugar, kag tanan nga tawo didto may upod. Si bayi ya, ato, nag-isa-isa. Pinakamala-in sa tanan, bisan paborito ni bayi ang banda nga nagatukar, wala guid siya nawili. Ano abi kay sa pila na katuig nga lantaw sang banda nga to, halos amo man gihapon. Waay may nagbag-o. (Ukon basi tuod guid man nga nagatigulang na si bayi.)

Man gani, mga ija kag ijo, indi guid mag pati sa chismis. Wala pulos ang mamati sa kutso-kutso sang iban. Si bayi o, tan-awa, napagasto sang wala sa oras, wala man guid nalingaw.

Ti, sin-o ang may sala? Si bayi bala? Si laki bala? Basi ang tsuper sang taxi? Ang banda? Ano guid bala haw? Basi ang ulan.

Amo lang na ang aton tiempo subong diri sa aton nga programa, "Sin-o ang may sala?"

-----------
Hahahaha. Ay, karadlawan lang. Di End. Ukon, kung ang amay ko pa pahambalon, "Solb!"

*****

Third. "The Partial Explanation."

Kahilidlaw gali mag Hiligaynon. Utoy-utoy ko kadlaw sa tinaga nga "kutso-kutso." Daw gina itik ako. Hehehehehehe.

Ahem. Translation: I miss talking in Hiligaynon, or even just listening to it. I am tickled by the word "kutso-kutso" which means rumor, or even opinion, but I think is Hiligaynon-onomatopoeia for whispering sounds made (by girls, esp.) during gossip sessions. Sure, I talk to my sisters everyday, but always in a mixture of Ilonggo and English and Tagalog. I miss the radio programs, and I miss having to ask my parents what certain words mean.

Case in point: My dad used to get mad (naga-ugtas) at me and my siblings when we ask what something means using, "Ano na-min sini?" How was I supposed to know that "na-min" is bastardized Hiligaynon for "gina-" (a present-tense prefix, not unlike -ing) and "mean" (mispronounced with the short i sound). Literally that question becomes "What is this mean-ing?" when the proper way to ask is "Ano ambot silingon sini?" Which sounds weird/perfect in English--"What does this want to say?"--as if the words actually want to tell you, out loud, their meanings/translation, except that, well, they can't.

Like this: "What does this word, 'panganud' want to say?" "It wants to say 'cloud'."

Anyway.

*****

Last. Post script kuno.
*Kung indi niyo pa gets kung diin nga lugar na tabo ang tukar-tukar, panumduma niyo lang ang isa pa ka tinaga para sa "hulag." Amo na siya ang ngalan sang kalye, kag kung angutan mo sang "Sa-" sa umpisa, mahimo nga ngalan sang lugar-ilimnan.

Amo lang na. Sige, magpakabuot ha!

Bring on the waterworks.

First.
I've been trying to post in this blog more often than once-a-month, but that didn't happen in September. My biggest excuse is that it was college basketball season, and I didn't want to post any basketball stuff--it gets me into trouble. A smaller excuse is that I have nothing to tell; there are no new stories, there are no new poems.

Which make it sound as if September has been another boring month. Not at all. Between lining up for tickets to games; looking for scalpers for tickets and looking like scalpers to get rid of tickets; cheering my throat sore and screaming at referees; and sneaking out of work to watch the games, well, it's been National Basketball Month. And that's never boring (for me, at least). But, I could be getting sick of it. Note, could be. Check back November. N. B. A. Okay, enough.

Second.
I think the older a woman gets, the less prone she is to tears. That's a new theory of mine. Wait, maybe I should qualify: The older I get, the less prone I am to tears. It kinda makes sense, since you start to realize they accomplish nothing, and worse, you look like shit afterwards. (No offense to the woman who knows how to use tears to get the advantage. Different strokes for different folks and all that. And let me just add, You go girl!)

A couple of weeks ago, I met up with some friends at D.'s house. I had just come from a basketball game then, I think, and people were asking me if I'd watched it. Of course, I say. We won, right? L. asked. Uh huh. Did you cry, too? Because M. cried, he reported. Why would I cry? I said, There's one more game to go. So, if we win the next game, would you? he persisted. I wouldn't cry if we lost, why would I cry because we won? I was perplexed. L. just nodded his head, considering-like.

But it got me thinking. What would bring me to tears nowadays. Well, there are the movies and the books, but the kinds are getting farther and farther apart.

(Aside.
I remember once in college I watched Saving Private Ryan and I was crying at almost every frame. And it pissed me off because I could imagine Spielberg directing it just so: "Ooooh, let's shoot this scene from behind. Once they hand her the letter, she reaches for it, hands trembling. She reads it then falls to her knees. No need for dialogue. I can almost see it people! Bring on the waterworks!" Boy, that really pissed me off, I stopped watching movies for a couple of years after that. If it weren't for his brilliant Catch Me If You Can, I'd never watch him again.)

Anyway, it made think. What makes me cry nowadays? I thought about it, and I thought about it and I thought, What a fucking waste of time. So I grabbed the book I was reading then, Dava Sobel's Longitude: The True Story of the Lone Genius who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time, and went back to it.

Nothing to make you cry in that title, right? Wrong. Oh boy. Here's the formula: Take one history of science book, where the protagonist is an ex-carpenter who is self-educated, and pit him against the whole Royal Astronomy Society (or whatever) of the whole of Britain. Mention that the search for the answer to this "Greatest Scientific Problem" led to the discovery of other things--the refinement of the gravitational relationship between planet and satellite, the discovery of the moons of Jupiter and the rings of Saturn, the calculation of the speed of light, and peripherally, how sauerkraut defeated scurvy--to taste. Add a loyal son who fought for his father's invention, and a rival/evil-astronomer named Nevil. Plus millions and millions in prize money. Et Voila! I've got tears running down my cheeks.

Not just that: Ask me to tell you about it, then watch my eyes. I swear they'd be bright, like a grandmother's recalling her youth. Oh boy.

It isn't even brilliant writing (Sorry, Ms. Sobel). I mean it's not lyric, it's not poignant. (It put me off too, that Diane Ackerman had good things to say about it, and to see later on that she's Ms. Sobel's "good friend". Ugh.) It's matter of fact and basic, just like a science text should read. But we're talking about the invention of the chronometer here. (Chronometer. Isn't the name enough to give you goosebumps?) And I like how she starts it, her own curiosity over those "invisible lines", and how she ends it, at the prime meridian, seeing another fascinated girl, at literal zero hour. It's beautiful.

Ask me, I'll lend it to you.

Third.
My new favorite poem.

Addressed to Himself
Cirilo F. Bautista


How hard I have made life for you, Cirilo
Who wrestle with words to free my mind;
Your various battles, you do not know,

Pose at me the same buckle, the same wind
That eagle in anger hotly ride on.
Yet like buckles you never break, though blind

At times you pine and pine for beauty gone--
Ah, never take the same courage, mon ami,
Wisdom and the past are never one.

But learn to distrust language that we
In constant dreams deem the only fact
Kill it in seduction or heraldry

So eagle-like you may invent your act;
Then think you walk in a world of thrall
Where Beauty walks too but does not look back,

Crossing the foggy fjords of the skull.


Fourth.
A poem to make me cry? Nope. They make me envious and they make me swear. They make me want to write, or want to stop writing. But they don't make me cry. It's science more than anything, that wrenches the tearducts open. Conduct an experiment if you want proof.

Fifth.
That's it. Just wanted a nice finished number to end this with. Bow.

This is how I eat my words.

1 Let me tell you a secret:

In the first-ever writers workshop I attended, panelists extolled the virtues of imagist poetry. One even told us to write down ten images everyday. Most of us, most of the time, take the world in visually, yes. But this exercise was not only to help us actively capture these visual feeds, but to reproduce them in words, and in words that will repaint these images for the reader.

Very sound advice, I think. But I worried that my brain doesn't work this way. I think in concepts, then look for images to represent them. Insecure, I asked one writer what if. What if I do it this way? She looks at me(was it pity I saw in her eyes?): Then maybe poetry is not for you, she announced.

Well, Fuck that shit is my very concise and very image-riddled answer to that one. If for nothing else, I will make a great adobo of these seven words--sprinkled with some of my poems to taste--and feed them to her.


2 But. This is how I eat my words:

That I can just pluck past experiences and use them in my poems now like so much fodder. And still not enough.

Is this a writer's life? That moments beautiful, bizarre, heart-breaking later on serve to tell a story, to execute an effective line? How pathetic. To look back and cull from past images to serve a present need. An ever-present need to write.

I have never owned a camera, never needed it. Events in my life have gone undocumented this way. I always thought pictures diminished experiences to the whats, whos, whens, and I have always gone for the hows and whys. But if these pictures in my head find themselves in my poetry, and without their true context--those whats whos and whens--won't I, in a different way, be losing them too?

I imagine myself old and wrinkled, rifling through a box of yellowed poems. Will I wish for photographs instead?


3 Enough. Two poems:

Gretel in Love/Lost

As if words were crumbs leaving a trail to my emotions
I have retraced my steps, picked every surface clean.

You were the one with
Words for everything:
Tobi, you said, tracing circles
The flight of some bird with your finger.
Later, my own fingers traced through words
In search for meaning:
Tobi. A bird of prey--

And that was how it was
With me circling and circling
Words like so many crumbs
Hints to a road I cannot follow.
Or won't.

If these should lead to a house
I have lived that story.
Once.


Reflection
aaaaWager then without hesitation that He is.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa--Blaise Pascal

Forgive me my love
I have turned my back on you.
Fidelity was all you required. And waiting
I spent my time looking at mirrors.

In my bedroom in the glass
Men have come and gone behind me.
Like clouds over a lake pass shift dissolve
With every drop
Their features shattered rippled into your face

As if heaven and earth finally met.

I began to believe they were you
That you were everywhere.
Or I refused to look closer.

In the mirror my eyes dark and brown
Like coins in still waters.


4 Poet vs. Scientist:

A poem by (a certain) Jacques Prevert, "Les paris stupides:" goes:

"Stupid wagers:
One Blaise Pascal
etc... etc..."

Is Pascal in heaven? And what if Prevert is there too? Are they friends? Did God make them shake hands and kiss each other on both cheeks after introducing them? Was Prevert embarrassed? Did God have to admonish Pascal for feeling a bit smug? Or was he generous and waved Prevert's apologies aside?

What if they were both in hell? Is Prevert still razzing Pascal? Is Pascal feeding Prevert infinite number of pages with "Les paris stupides" printed on them?

You see how in both cases it's the poet who eats his words? Food for thought.

a

shorts

I'll borrow a page from my friend M's blog and (No, no, I will not post in Ilonggo.) post key words/phrases for expansion on a later day, when I feel like writing and updating. Today sucks.

1. Got a granny-style japanese bike from a friend for the price of lunch! Woohoo!

G. gave me a bike-with-basket, which having owned only mountain bikes before, I automatically categorize as a granny-bike. Went to his house a couple of weeks ago to get it and we went out to lunch, for which I gallantly offered to pay. It all came to about P150, with tip. Double woohoo!

2. Fear of death while crossing Katipunan with said bike--I had a dream/foretelling about this: "Corinne Baily Rae video turns bloody" is my anticipated headline.

For a week before I got the bike, I would have this dream of riding it to school, braving Katipunan Avenue and its weird U-turn slots. The dream always started out like that Corinne Bailey Rae video--a group of girls in skirts riding girly bikes, with me leading the pack, wind ruffling our hair and hems. Then I'd give the snappy little bell a flick, anticipating its krring-krring sound. Instead, the pee-in-your-pants whoosh of an air brake sounds from behind me, and when I turn around, the girls had been replaced by an 18-wheeler.

So until now, I haven't yet taken that bike to school. I'm not ready to cross Katipunan, and that thin line between brave and foolhardy--fool being the operative word.

3. Was put on a spot the last poetry reading--"a victim of circumstance" I said then, but I should've bet on the lottery that day, see if all that strange "luck" applied.

Well, that Monday started out weird enough. Went to a Starbucks near my house and when I got to the cashier, they perkily informed me that I was the lucky 100-something-th customer and that I get a free next-drink after I pay for my first drink, simply by visiting blah-blah-blahdotstarbucksdotsomething and encoding some 10-character code then answering a survey which will give me the code which I have to write down... (Pretty smart, offering one a free drink for answering a service survey. Goodwill to us and free coffee for all!) Anyway, never being one to win anything, I felt I hit the jackpot--which made me think of buying a lottery ticket. I mean luck works like credit card rewards right? The more you use it the more you get?

But. That Monday night proved weirder--This guy J. shows a short-film-cum-poem whose title was similar to my name. Which! which! nobody would've noticed except that the host calls me to read right after because! because! the film was named such-and-such. Which! which! of course lead to teasing hoots and speculative looks and inane questions (like, "Who were you in the film?" "Didn't the girl there look Japanese/Korean?" I mean, do the math, will you?). Thus, the victim-of-circumstance comment. And if that isn't enough, the poem I read then was a new one I wrote after I remembered Pascal's Wager (another post for another day...)!

(I mean look at this: future free coffee, almost-my-name-titled film, wager poem--all in one day! What does it all mean?)

Aside. When I was 17 or so, I got this eye infection from contacts which, my doctor told me, happened to one in every one million contact lens user. When my dad heard this, he immediately asked me for six numbers between 1 and 42. Apparently, he didn't share my luck-as-credit-card-rewards definition. Perhaps he thought it was catching, like an infection.

4. Saw pictures of Batanes' boulder beach, rolling hills, kitschy lighthouse and weird cattle. I want to go, I want to go.

I want to go.

5. Books, jeans, hair color. Oh my!

Last week, my dad gave me around P2,000 to buy whatever I want. Since it wasn't my birthday nor his, this was like christmas mid-year--or christmas when I still got presents from my parents, anyway. I thought of buying a nice pair of jeans. Then I thought of a trip to the salon. Then I learned that this weekend is the last two days of the international bookfair. I am going to have to make do with my torn jeans and the fact that my hair is now two-toned. And I'm going to need another shelf soon.

6. The past few weeks I was a slave in front of the computer at work. So I decided to paint my nails royal purple. Makes sense, no?

What else can I say?

7. Met with a cousin I haven't seen in years--no, decades--last Sunday. He's been all over the world because he shipped out, literally, when he was 18 or something. Asked him if there where any females in the tanker where he worked--Except for the wives of some officers, no. Sexist, yes? I gotta find me a sailor.

Aherm. Did I say that?

8. This is the same cousin who fell in love and married his first cousin on his father's side. (He's my cousin on his mom's.) My aunt told me how he'd gone home--on his knees, crying, to beg her forgiveness--and how happy she was that their priest finally gave in and married them. What bothers me about all this was how proud she seemed about the "kneeling and crying" bit. If this is religion-induced guilt and pride, I think, I'm glad my parents never imposed religion on us.

Don't tell my Tia M. about this. She'll be hurt and bewildered and convinced that my family and I are doomed, doooooomed! "And all that rock music. The work of the devil, I tell you. The de-vil."

9. This is the goddamn truth: Heart's version of Led Zep's "Battle of Evermore" is way, way better than the original. I'm sorry, but it is. And yes, Heart of "Alone" "Barracuda" and "All I Wanna Do is Make Love to You" fame.

Speak of the de-vil. Funny, the same week I came to this conclusion, I met D. who's also a Led Zep fan and shared my sentiments exactly. His wife B. used to sing great Heart in karaoke during our Japan days.

10. Who needs a drink?

Who doesn't? To misquote The Boss, "You can't start a fire without spark"--If I learned anything from my chemistry days, alcohol is generally flammable.

August and Everything After

Yeah, that was a great album by the Counting Crows.

But for now, it's just a literal statement. It's August already, and everything after that will just be more (or, actually, less-than-half) of 2007 racing by like whipping typhoon winds, while I stand and... wait for the typhoons to come.

Living in an archipelago that expects an average of twenty typhoons yearly between May and November, and still expecting the first one in August is a bit like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Yeah, yeah. If I go by the weather bureau's alphabetical naming system (or lived in Samar) , I'm sure we've had at least two venture into our territory. But let me ask you this: Have you woken up to rain at 6 o'clock in the morning recently, and snuggled under the blankets wishing you didn't have work or class? Have you experienced an all-day rain lately, and resigned yourself to cold, wrinkled, fish-white feet when you take off your socks at the end of the day? Have you walked with an umbrella and have the wind shift directions so quick your umbrella becomes a funnel, and what-used-to-be-your-dry-side is slapped by a sheet of rain-pellets? No? Think back to June, May even. Still no?

Yes, we've had rain, and everyday too. But in case you don't know it yet, it's still artificial-to-offset-drought rain, a project of the agriculture department or the energy corporation. Hmmm. Are our waterfalls drying up too? And why in Metro Manila when it's the Northern Luzon rice fields that are really suffering? I mean, sure wind direction (and cloud positioning, I suppose) might be hard to anticipate, but if you're project has induced daily downpours at roughly the same time for weeks now, then you must be doing something right. Right? You just need a site transfer.

Besides I haven't seen a single rice field (or waterfall) within Metro Manila for the past 10 years I've been here. The only thing here I've seen grow and gush with the rain is traffic volume, and floodwaters.

So, no. Which makes me want to scream, What the hell is going on?

The reason I'm anxious might be purely selfish--I don't want typhoons (super or otherwise) for Christmas; I like knowing when it should be cheap to go to the beach; and most selfish of all--I don't want typhoons suddenly coming from the west, since I come from Iloilo (I'm just being honest--but this is meteorologically impossible, I think.)

To every season a reason is a cliché because that's the general idea. Otherwise, there's be no such words as acclimatize, or mothballs, and weder-weder lang 'yan would be a world-known expression. Call me boring but I do appreciate routine--If I wake up in the middle of the day and have my first meal at noon, I still call it breakfast. I hate Monday mornings regularly, and Friday nights I make it a point to be out of the house. I'm less likely to complain if I'm sweating like a pig in April. And I like my class/work-suspension-due-to-inclement-weather to fall during the first semester. Is that too much to ask?

And before you slap me down for being self-centered ass, Yes, climate change exists and is a great deal more urgent and wide-spanning problem than how I've presented it here. I also know that for every signal-number-three storm that cancels my classes or work, some family loses a makeshift house or have to temporarily relocate from under the bridge. And droughts in rainy season and typhoons during Christmas time are scary rather than inconvenient.

It's just that, honestly, I simply miss sheets of rainwater rolling off a wide glass window, or being caught willingly in a downpour (despite the odd looks), or that after-rain picture where the traffic's just starting to thin, the streets and sidewalks brown-puddled for miles, and the city looks grey and defeated--but for the green. Darker, bolder, greener. As if the world could really be clean again.

Three poems

Because for once, there are no stories to tell, or there is nothing I want to talk about--not that everything is great, lah-di-dah. I just can't seem to make things funny, which, as you might have noticed, is how I confess. So here are three poems/confessions:


1.
Birth Order

Because I was guilty
not being a good sister
I worked on homework
I must have done ten years ago.
She stayed up late
with me: Guilty too, perhaps
of always asking for help
and always getting it.
So we spent the night going over
formulas, patterns
over and over
feeling holes, filling blanks.
As if this were all
of life--hollows to be filled
with what fits for the moment,
why we practiced
on shape-sorter toys:
Trials and errors we live through
to get it right. Years later,
we get it: Square peg, square hole.
As if it were fit that bound us--
not love, not blood
but birth order: Guilt
relative to one another.


2.
Letter to a John
aaaaaaa(or, Elderly Woman Behind a Counter in a Small Town... aaaaaaaaaTalking to Herself)

I love you.
Or I loved you--

Time, memory
I've learned not to trust them.

See, if I told you a story:
Two strangers meeting
In a country not their own
Falling in love, living together, lah-di-dah--

Say it ends with them
Returned to lives that used to be
Stories they'd tell one another--

Story, truth
These words interchangeable
Like foreign local house home.

Say it ends with them
Telling this story
Differently, and to different people--

How can I tell
What I feel versus
How I remember
You and I in ----?

No, we don't live there anymore.

aaaaaaa(With apologies to Pearl Jam.)


3.
This Story

You have heard me
or heard of me
telling this story or that--

How, for example, I left
science for poetry--
and you admire me.
Passion, you say, how brave!
This is what I want you to say.

But now, listen:
This is me naked in front of you
and I am hideous.
You are looking at me
and you do not want me.

There is honesty here.

I am the woman who forgets
to check the mirror. In fact
there is no mirror.
I forget to look
the way I forget to answer the phone--

The way my fingers shake
because they have something to say
and I have refused to open my mouth
or let go of the pen
or let it move.

There might be nothing
here: White paper like flat glass
without silver backing.


Yun lang po. Bow.

Lunes na naman!

Featured poets for the Happy Mondays Poetry Nights in magnet katipunan this coming Monday are:

1. Gémino H. Abad
Poet and literary critic Dr. Jimmy Abad obtained his B.A. in English from the University of the Philippines in 1964 and his Ph.D. in English Literature from the University of Chicago in 1970. Since then he has fulfilled a number of functions at .P., particularly as Secretary of the University, Secretary of the Board of Regents, Vice President for Academic Affairs, and Director of the U.P. Creative Writing Center, now an institute. He continues to contribute to the growth of the Institute of Creative Writing as an active member of its Board of Advisers. At present, he is Emeritus University Professor at the College of Arts and Letters in U.P. Diliman.
He co-founded the Philippine Literary Arts Council (PLAC).

2. Marne L. Kilates
Sir Marne has published two books of poetry, Children of the Snarl (Aklat Peskador, 1987) and Poems en Route (UST Publishing House, 1998), both of which have won the Manila Critics Circle National Book Awards. He was educated in the province, at the Divine Word College in Legazpi City, and has attended the Silliman and U.P. writers' workshops. His third collection, Mostly in Monsoon Weather, will be published by the University of the Philippines Press.

Apart from writing his own poetry, Sir Marne is also a translator of Tagalog poetry. His most recent translation is that of National Artist Rio Alma's, Sonetos Postumos (UP Press, 2006). He is a member of the Board of Directors of the Unyon ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas (UMPIL) and is an Associate Fellow of the Philippine Literary Arts Council (PLAC). He has also won several Palanca Awards and the 1998 SEA (Southeast Asia) WRITE Award given by the Thai royalty.

3. Glenn Vincent Atanacio
Glenn obtained his AB Journalism from the University of Santo Tomas in 2005. One of the most promising poets of his generation, he has honed his craft on the streets of Manila as much as in the conference halls of workshops and seminars. He has been a writing fellow to the UP, Ateneo and IYAS National Writers Workshops and has received due recognition, including the award Thomasian Poet of the Year 2003-2004. Glenn has served as associate editor and literary editor of UST's The Flame journals and the organization's head literary folio, Dapitan, which was awarded Best Student Literary Folio by the Catholic Mass Media Awards.

4. Enuh Iglesias
is a law graduate, an instructor in the University of the Philippines, Diliman, and a banned show dog trainer. She is interested in events-organizing, blogging, podding, and troubleshooting her ibook. She is one of the prime-movers of BANNED Movies.

5. Andrea Liamzon
Deep in her heart, Andrea desires to be a professional birdwatcher and/or amateur iconoclast. In her spare time, she likes diagramming the confusion in her head. She will be leaving for St. Petersburg this August to continue her studies in Russian Literature.

6. Alexander Barrios Agena, Jr.
Alex is a budding and published poet from the University of the Philippines, Diliman.
His poems have appeared in various literary journals and magazines, including Caracoa 2006. He currently works as a technical account executive in Makati. He is a member of the U.P. Quill, the web-based Peaks, Pinoypoets, and Guni-Guni. He was a fellow of the 3rd UST National Writers Workshop.

7. Nash Benitez
is an interior designer, part-time writer, and part-time host. She is interested in architecture, art, design, travel, reading, football, extreme sports. She says she is passionate about life and her country. She believes that to whom much is given, much is expected. She loves the latin phrase, Carpe Diem.

8. Arkaye Kierulf
is a chemistry senior at the Ateneo de Manila University. His works have been published in various literary journals and nationwide magazines, including the Sunday Inquirer Magazine, The Philippines Free Press, the and Ateneo Heights Journal. In 2005, he won the San Francisco-based Meritage Press Poetry Prize.

9. Ramil Digal Gulle
Ramil is a two-time Palanca-winning poet and the author of several books of Poetry, the most recent of which is Textual Relations, published by the UP Press in 2006.

10. Kris Lanot Lacaba
Kris "El Pinoy Matador" Lacaba is a well-published poet, performer, and filmmaker. His works have appeared in various literary magazines. He was a fellow of the U.P. and Dumaguete National Writers Workshops. He recently finished his M.A. degree in Creative Writing form the University of the Philippines, Diliman. He now works for the Manila Bulletin.

11. Kash Avena
is "magnet" incarnate. A senior student of Miriam College, Kash is finishing her degree in Comm Arts and is keen on working in an advertising agency soon, or becoming a full-time poet. She gets enough credit for her passion for poetry and distinct poetic voice. She was the literary editor of Miriam's literary folio, Fragments, last year.

12. Corin Arenas
is a junior Comm Arts student in Miriam College. She is into visual arts, poetry, music, and theater. She is a co-founder of PINAY, a theater group in Miriam.

13. Drey Teran
will host the reading with Joel Toledo.

14. Mikael De Lara Co
Kael graduated with a BS degree in Environmental Science from the Ateneo de Manila, where he is currently pursuing his masters in Panitikang Pilipino-Malikhaing Pagsulat. He was a fellow for poetry in the Ateneo, UST, IYAS, and Dumaguete National Writers Workshop. He is the lead guitarist of the band Los Chupacabras.

15. Angelo V. Suárez
Gelo is an MA Communication student at the University of Santo Tomas, is the author of two books of poetry: The Nymph of MTV and else it was purely girls. He has won prizes from the Carlos Palanca and Maningning Miclat Foundations, and the National Book Award from the Manila Critics Circle and the first Bridges of Struga International Poetry Prize from UNESCO and the Republic of Macedonia for Nymph. He is currently working in close collaboration with visual artists on his new book, Dissonant Umbrellas: Notes Toward a Gesamtkunstwerk.

16. Lope Cui, Jr.
is the deathbringing, harmonica-toting singer of the art-goth-snore-core band, Tabloid Lite and an up and coming poet and Mall of Asian. He holds an MBA degree from UP Diliman and is a business professor at Miriam College.

17. Lourd Ernest De Veyra
is a multiple Palanca-winning poet and essayist, music critic, musician, and chef to friends. He was a fellow of the U.P. Advanced Writers Workshop in 2006 and the Dumaguete National Writers Workshop. He is the frontman and lyricist of the acclaimed band, Radioactive Sago Project.

18. Joel M. Toledo
will host the reading along with Drey Teran.

19. Israfel Fagela
Easy was a fellow for poetry in the UP and Dumaguete National Writers Workshops. He is a practicing lawyer, and the lead singer, composer, and instigator of the band Los Chupacabras.

20. Rock Drilon
is a much-acclaimed and recognized prime-mover and figure in the realm of the visual arts. He graduated with a degree in Fine Arts from the University of the Philippines, Diliman. He owns the Magnet chain of galleries, cafes, and bookshops.

21. Michael Balili
Mike is a member of the U.P. Quill, winner of the Amelia Lapenia-Bonifacio award for Poetry, and a published poet.

22. Bianca Consunji
works for the 2BeU section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer. A graduate of U.P. Diliman, she is a former winner of the Ramon Magsaysay awards for the essay.

23. Ken Ishikawa
is the co-editor of the upcoming anthology of new Philippine Poetry with PLAC founder Cirilo Bautista. He is a former fellow of the Dumaguete National Writers Workshop, a published poet, and the proud father of daughter, Yuuki.

24. Adam David
is the random fandom fellow of the recent U.P. Advanced Writers Workshop in Baguio. He experiments and innovates with his fiction and poetry. His works have appeared in the UP Writers Club folio, The Literary Apprentice and the Caracoa 2006.

25. Khavn de la Cruz
is a filmmaker, writer, and musician, and two-time Palanca winner. Since 2002, he has been the festival director of the .MOV International Digital Film Festival. With his independent film company Filmless Films, he has produced ten digital features and more than forty short films, several of which have won prizes in the Philippines, Tokyo, Spain and Italy. He has served as a juror in the Clermont-Ferrand International Short Film Festival (France) and Jeonju International Film Festival (Korea). He has been invited twice to the Berlinale Talent Campus, and has received the Hubert Bals Fund grant thrice. He is the lead singer of the bands, The Brockas and delakrus.

Reading runs from 7 to 930pm. The prog-stomping, nearly experimental, almost famous, and semi-obscure band Shinjuku Lager Club plays in between the reading.

and after, the wasakan continues as Wahijuara and Radioactive Sago Project rock the house!!!