some revised poems (april-may 2007)
the ritual of washing hair
she is often told
that it is her greatest asset:
a gentle stream of black:
placid and unmoving,
uninterrupted, and occasional
movement as she walks
with a song in her step
creates ripples of light,
dancing like fireflies
after dusk
use it to enchant a man,
They coax her,
but do not return his gaze.
he will go mad
at the possibility
of the touch and scent of it -
use it with utmost humility
so your envious friends
will not wish ill upon you
and celebrate with you
when you marry a rich man
and leave this place
while They say this she
imagines that her hair
is the sea, free of the rituals
of courtship, free of the gentle
compromise
with the elements:
she is
an unconquerable force -
mother, lover, mistress,
mysterious like the mermaids
she dreams about
she remembers it all,
chants it to herself
like a carefully constructed prayer
when water intertwines
with her fingers
in her hair, covering her
body reverentially
like scented oil, the droplets
only lingering just so,
before they are overpowered
by the chilliness of her skin
she marvels at its weight:
her entire being concentrated
in a seamless weaving
of follicles and skin
it is the only nakedness
that she permits
third world snow
the tyranny of the sun
lasted for days,
bleeding the earth
dry
the trees rose up in revolt
arms flailing upward
in desperate prayer
to summon rain and
unleashing a madness
of cotton,
swarming like bees
the frail tufts of white
raining down
angry streaks of cotton,
leaves and dust
spur a frenzy to seek refuge
in concrete enclosures
shielding the eyes, nose and mouth
from the veritable blizzard
eclipsing the familiarity of rain
amid the gaggle of voices
a motorist plunges headlong
into the madness, gleefully shouts
snow! we have snow
in the philippines!
can we have our snow angels now?
our snow men with the crooked nose
and eyes for buttons?
would santa and his reindeer park their
sleigh this christmas?
and can we put nutmeg in apple cider,
sing chestnuts roasting on an open fire?
wanting the white picket fences and the small town quirks
wanting the small town quirks and a roast turkey on thanksgiving
wanting thanksgiving and the mayflower and the pilgrims
wanting the pilgrims and the natives feast like the pictures in the glossy books
wanting the glossy books where the dog’s name is spot and not bantay
wanting the pure-blood pride not the mongrel shame
wanting the blue-collar pride and the american dream
wanting the american dream with that genuwine twang and american slang
wanting the american slang not the call center twang
we can huddle together
for some warmth
pretend we're eskimos
building an igloo
and dream of spring..
the cotton puffs
defiant and white
descend quietly
to the earth,
fallen snow
angels
cradled by
the unseeing
streets
the driver
he is different
from what i expected:
there is a steeliness
in the way he grips
the steering wheel,
a certain roughness
in navigating
the thoroughfares
with uncharacteristic
speed, swerving
around a blind
spot the familiar
vanishes, and
the city is
unyielding and
unmoved,
overpoweringly
male
are they all
initiated into the world
this way?
haunted
by phantom fears
of accidents
and deaths,
to conquer the caprices
of cruel drivers, the tyranny
of pedestrians,
the interminable
waiting
at arbitrary stoplights,
the anarchy of the streets?
and yet live side by side
with gentleness:
to woo, marry, raise a family,
get on well with coworkers,
attend the funeral of a friend,
wait for the first wobbly baby
steps, welcome them
into loving arms,
but on the road,
charge ahead
like a battering ram
plow on,
endure -
an exhilarating
contradiction
watching rain fall over the main library last friday
the rain dropped in
unannounced,
like an apologetic guest,
slightly flustered
and meaning to overstay
his welcome
at a loss, unsure
what to make of it,
the people walked on
unsteadily, raising
an arm or a book
to shelter their
unprepared
heads
the leaves rustled,
as though to cover
an awkward silence,
he is annoyed the prattling birds
were noticeably absent,
the only ones
to pay tribute to a
cowed and defeated god
rain makes a
belated confession
of love and excuses
neglect, abandonment
and delay:
too proud to admit that the sun
had thus weakened him,
unable to admit the feeling
of helplessness
watching his people
waver under her glare,
parched and delirious
with thirst
the gesture
is oddly moving,
forgivable:
a sad eyed child
lifts her face heavenward
awaiting soft kisses
on her cheeks
like tears
a former lover remembers
he remembers her body well
even though it was mostly obscured
by darkness,
fully clothed in daylight
he would still recognize her
anywhere
the casual hellos they exchange now
do not betray them
the occasional pleasantries
do not hint at secrets
neither do they suggest
at some future opportune time
he realizes that he never saw her
twist in her sleep
most nights were just nights,
sinking in, marked by the riot
of clothing on the floor
after the awkwardness
of consummation
- or perhaps,
the assumption of it,
they dress
and part
The Poet
He scratches out lines
On whatever his hands chance upon:
His weather-beaten, hopelessly outdated laptop,
A page in an abandoned notebook,
A receipt from yesterday’s coffee break,
Or the back of his hand, even
Words scamper away from him otherwise
Skittish and imprecise,
It is a game and of utmost necessity
To hold them down,
And force them to take shape
Minute things trigger the impulse:
Perhaps it is a conversation between strangers
In the jeepney he rode today
Where, fascinated by the idle talk, he randomly tuned in
Like twiddling the radio to capture a stray frequency,
Or running into a scavenger child, whooping and running
As he passes, a straw bag for his treasures
Hitched on a bony shoulder, tapping on the sidewalk with his scavenging stick,
Stooping slightly to snatch up an empty plastic bottle before anyone else does:
It is worth P50 per kilo at the nearest junkyard
The city speaks to him when it does,
When the fading strains of the videoke session next door
Signal that it must be early morning,
And people do have to retire to bed,
If only to have enough strength for the next day’s
Drinking marathon
He listens for the retreating footsteps,
The cheerful farewells and the too-loud ribbing,
The dying whirr of engines as they pass
And settle on some uneven and unpaved sidewalk
At night, sans the sound of crickets
And cooing birds
He lies awake: prophet and lover,
Arrested by the dirt and the grit and the beauty
Of this overcrowded, overpopulated city
Uncompromising and unapologetic as it is
He longs for the lull of forest and sea
But knows they have no place here
Knows they could not cleanse this forsaken place,
Where people have learned to bury their lives
With dignity, with humor and with peace,
The way they mourn their dead.
On remembering
you will remember it differently
than i, you and your discrete units of time,
marked by the traffic of people
that arrive, and stay, and sometimes
stop to talk, or perhaps you remember
geographically, what is fixed
and what moves, where it moves,
what is comfortably still,
or perhaps you remember
in color, the absence of shadow,
the tables and chairs laid out
and remain constant like set pieces
in some theatrical play, day
after day without aging,
and all else is peripheral to you,
or perhaps you remember none of it at all,
while i brush away the images
of chairs and tables and people like annoying cobwebs,
leaving only a few knickknacks of memory,
and you've never noticed how
i try to sound more interesting, and
when i talk to you, i am part
nervousness, and all illusion
of confidence, and if i asked you,
"what color and shade
are my eyes," you would stammer
slightly and make a foolish
guess, but i, i can tell you
that sometimes when your eyes widen
just so, they are a luminosity in the darkness,
and then perhaps you would ask "how can light
penetrate black on black?" but i will tell you
that black has nuances too,
not just the paradox of absence, and
that sometimes when you're terribly excited,
the color is startlingly clear
and transparent like a mirror: these fragments
are important to me. i remember well.
she is often told
that it is her greatest asset:
a gentle stream of black:
placid and unmoving,
uninterrupted, and occasional
movement as she walks
with a song in her step
creates ripples of light,
dancing like fireflies
after dusk
use it to enchant a man,
They coax her,
but do not return his gaze.
he will go mad
at the possibility
of the touch and scent of it -
use it with utmost humility
so your envious friends
will not wish ill upon you
and celebrate with you
when you marry a rich man
and leave this place
while They say this she
imagines that her hair
is the sea, free of the rituals
of courtship, free of the gentle
compromise
with the elements:
she is
an unconquerable force -
mother, lover, mistress,
mysterious like the mermaids
she dreams about
she remembers it all,
chants it to herself
like a carefully constructed prayer
when water intertwines
with her fingers
in her hair, covering her
body reverentially
like scented oil, the droplets
only lingering just so,
before they are overpowered
by the chilliness of her skin
she marvels at its weight:
her entire being concentrated
in a seamless weaving
of follicles and skin
it is the only nakedness
that she permits
third world snow
the tyranny of the sun
lasted for days,
bleeding the earth
dry
the trees rose up in revolt
arms flailing upward
in desperate prayer
to summon rain and
unleashing a madness
of cotton,
swarming like bees
the frail tufts of white
raining down
angry streaks of cotton,
leaves and dust
spur a frenzy to seek refuge
in concrete enclosures
shielding the eyes, nose and mouth
from the veritable blizzard
eclipsing the familiarity of rain
amid the gaggle of voices
a motorist plunges headlong
into the madness, gleefully shouts
snow! we have snow
in the philippines!
can we have our snow angels now?
our snow men with the crooked nose
and eyes for buttons?
would santa and his reindeer park their
sleigh this christmas?
and can we put nutmeg in apple cider,
sing chestnuts roasting on an open fire?
wanting the white picket fences and the small town quirks
wanting the small town quirks and a roast turkey on thanksgiving
wanting thanksgiving and the mayflower and the pilgrims
wanting the pilgrims and the natives feast like the pictures in the glossy books
wanting the glossy books where the dog’s name is spot and not bantay
wanting the pure-blood pride not the mongrel shame
wanting the blue-collar pride and the american dream
wanting the american dream with that genuwine twang and american slang
wanting the american slang not the call center twang
we can huddle together
for some warmth
pretend we're eskimos
building an igloo
and dream of spring..
the cotton puffs
defiant and white
descend quietly
to the earth,
fallen snow
angels
cradled by
the unseeing
streets
the driver
he is different
from what i expected:
there is a steeliness
in the way he grips
the steering wheel,
a certain roughness
in navigating
the thoroughfares
with uncharacteristic
speed, swerving
around a blind
spot the familiar
vanishes, and
the city is
unyielding and
unmoved,
overpoweringly
male
are they all
initiated into the world
this way?
haunted
by phantom fears
of accidents
and deaths,
to conquer the caprices
of cruel drivers, the tyranny
of pedestrians,
the interminable
waiting
at arbitrary stoplights,
the anarchy of the streets?
and yet live side by side
with gentleness:
to woo, marry, raise a family,
get on well with coworkers,
attend the funeral of a friend,
wait for the first wobbly baby
steps, welcome them
into loving arms,
but on the road,
charge ahead
like a battering ram
plow on,
endure -
an exhilarating
contradiction
watching rain fall over the main library last friday
the rain dropped in
unannounced,
like an apologetic guest,
slightly flustered
and meaning to overstay
his welcome
at a loss, unsure
what to make of it,
the people walked on
unsteadily, raising
an arm or a book
to shelter their
unprepared
heads
the leaves rustled,
as though to cover
an awkward silence,
he is annoyed the prattling birds
were noticeably absent,
the only ones
to pay tribute to a
cowed and defeated god
rain makes a
belated confession
of love and excuses
neglect, abandonment
and delay:
too proud to admit that the sun
had thus weakened him,
unable to admit the feeling
of helplessness
watching his people
waver under her glare,
parched and delirious
with thirst
the gesture
is oddly moving,
forgivable:
a sad eyed child
lifts her face heavenward
awaiting soft kisses
on her cheeks
like tears
a former lover remembers
he remembers her body well
even though it was mostly obscured
by darkness,
fully clothed in daylight
he would still recognize her
anywhere
the casual hellos they exchange now
do not betray them
the occasional pleasantries
do not hint at secrets
neither do they suggest
at some future opportune time
he realizes that he never saw her
twist in her sleep
most nights were just nights,
sinking in, marked by the riot
of clothing on the floor
after the awkwardness
of consummation
- or perhaps,
the assumption of it,
they dress
and part
The Poet
He scratches out lines
On whatever his hands chance upon:
His weather-beaten, hopelessly outdated laptop,
A page in an abandoned notebook,
A receipt from yesterday’s coffee break,
Or the back of his hand, even
Words scamper away from him otherwise
Skittish and imprecise,
It is a game and of utmost necessity
To hold them down,
And force them to take shape
Minute things trigger the impulse:
Perhaps it is a conversation between strangers
In the jeepney he rode today
Where, fascinated by the idle talk, he randomly tuned in
Like twiddling the radio to capture a stray frequency,
Or running into a scavenger child, whooping and running
As he passes, a straw bag for his treasures
Hitched on a bony shoulder, tapping on the sidewalk with his scavenging stick,
Stooping slightly to snatch up an empty plastic bottle before anyone else does:
It is worth P50 per kilo at the nearest junkyard
The city speaks to him when it does,
When the fading strains of the videoke session next door
Signal that it must be early morning,
And people do have to retire to bed,
If only to have enough strength for the next day’s
Drinking marathon
He listens for the retreating footsteps,
The cheerful farewells and the too-loud ribbing,
The dying whirr of engines as they pass
And settle on some uneven and unpaved sidewalk
At night, sans the sound of crickets
And cooing birds
He lies awake: prophet and lover,
Arrested by the dirt and the grit and the beauty
Of this overcrowded, overpopulated city
Uncompromising and unapologetic as it is
He longs for the lull of forest and sea
But knows they have no place here
Knows they could not cleanse this forsaken place,
Where people have learned to bury their lives
With dignity, with humor and with peace,
The way they mourn their dead.
On remembering
you will remember it differently
than i, you and your discrete units of time,
marked by the traffic of people
that arrive, and stay, and sometimes
stop to talk, or perhaps you remember
geographically, what is fixed
and what moves, where it moves,
what is comfortably still,
or perhaps you remember
in color, the absence of shadow,
the tables and chairs laid out
and remain constant like set pieces
in some theatrical play, day
after day without aging,
and all else is peripheral to you,
or perhaps you remember none of it at all,
while i brush away the images
of chairs and tables and people like annoying cobwebs,
leaving only a few knickknacks of memory,
and you've never noticed how
i try to sound more interesting, and
when i talk to you, i am part
nervousness, and all illusion
of confidence, and if i asked you,
"what color and shade
are my eyes," you would stammer
slightly and make a foolish
guess, but i, i can tell you
that sometimes when your eyes widen
just so, they are a luminosity in the darkness,
and then perhaps you would ask "how can light
penetrate black on black?" but i will tell you
that black has nuances too,
not just the paradox of absence, and
that sometimes when you're terribly excited,
the color is startlingly clear
and transparent like a mirror: these fragments
are important to me. i remember well.