Letter To A Blank Page

03Jun09

My Precious Page,

Tonight, I am staring at you right here with same candor I have thought for years [against you]. I can’t believe how hard I’ve tried to not leave you with that exquisite whiteness on your face [with that exquisite emptiness you play]. Through something seldom I enjoy thinking, I already expect you waiting for this brief note of my earliest affection.

[I would mean, however, not to imagine the kindest thing I could say.]

Out of modesty, if you require, there is none in my temperaments deeper to ensure you much amusement now. Modesty is always sugarcoating lies if you know that fairly. Though there’s a lot to be said, I feel always caught and held by more than a dozen of past recall. If only I had been able to settle those thoughts upon someone’s mind, I would have resumed and devoted most of my uncertainties in those succeeding years with that person.

For how I have plunged myself in despair, you know not any. Yes, I have discarded and deserted you entirely for months [for innumerable times so strange to remember]; I can’t even remember how you disgusted me with crimson stains someone owed a lot of explanations.

[You never spoke them out. You can’t. But I know they are turning cold and purple.]

I have seldom reached you. And I seem to always have a backward glance each time I see you naked, reflected with neon lights that add a mysterious attitude on your blank face. You feel reasonably safe there and you are. Always. And my generously providing remarks cannot even interfere with your own convenience.

I have never suffered much from your countenance. I can always cast an unending enchantment upon you if I wish. [Remember, it is I who always responses to your plight.] But I prefer not to. Anymore.

I declare. I have grown up being too fond of you, though your emptiness tends to be difficult a lot of times- so unresponsive and declining. Such presence has caused me to behave inconsiderately but you find my behavior as the subtlest compliment I have ever paid.

I neither conceal nor flaunt our unguarded moments. I will just be one of those bitter souls who are so bent on becoming [so bent on becoming you].

Fearing I can no longer hide tempers and tears, I need to risk this flinching truth for there is no more nearer understanding.

Let the crumples I make on you speak for my departure.

[My goodbyes have been easy because they always happen without your knowing.]

Lovingly,

Empty Pen

P.S.

I hope you are not lost in the last line of my letter.

Filed under: Arts, Private Life, Writer's Block   |  1 Comment

You Think It Must Worth Heaven

18May09

(a circumcision poem)

You think it must be worth heaven
at the end of the month
when swollen skin begins to heal,
and strings begin to melt.

That first day,
before it rises, is the birth of a lizard
working to delight a scarlet rose
to bear a heavy bulge of pain.

There is heaven
when you play after recovery
from morning woods
to evening calls.

But when your scarlet rose fails
to bear a heavy bulge of pain,
lonely is the heaven
your lizard is worth to fend.

Filed under: Poetry   |  4 Comments
Tags: Body, Boy, coming of age, Family, Life, Personal, Poetry, Sweat, Thoughts

A Night when Matet Could Not Sleep

14May09

Sharp is the flash of lightning
as the rain falls like broken glass
onto the road, clinking.
I force my eyes to close
but fail.
My thoughts,
which I cannot control,
desire to hear
the crashing of thunder.
I twist and turn
in the bamboo bed,
not because
I have no mat
or blanket
or pillow.
Later
he will arrive, staggering.
He will know I am not sleeping.
He will catch my eyes urgently closing.
Loud is the bolt of thunder
like a slam, thrashing my chest.
Loud is the sound of rain
like broken glass, piercing my gut –
not because of hunger,
but because of his belt,
whipping.

*a translation

Filed under: Poetry   |  3 Comments
Tags: Body, Family, Life, Love, Poetry, Room, Thoughts, Writing

Abstract #1

09May09

That night,

that

very

cold

night,

slaughtered breaths baited

my plight.

Filed under: Poetry   |  1 Comment
Tags: Body, Boy, Death. Love, Life, Love, Memories, Personal, Poetry, Thoughts, Writing

Cigarette Clouds: The Last Poem (of us)

16Apr09

*After reading Kate Chopin’s The Awakening last night

Whose angel can say what metals

the gods use in forging

our subtle bond

which you call tolerance

which I might call love?

Then what part is life

and what proportion is death

when you laugh at my plaints

with eyes that once consented me

courage to wait

and made it torture

to wait?

For how otherwise should I quit you,

my langorous sleep,

when you are forever interwoven

with every coming dream?

If I wake up and overlook the lake

“where our fishes no longer come and go”

again and again,

will it now become clear?

or will it just stop sludging

along its crooked bed?

Filed under: Poetry   |  5 Comments
Tags: Boy, Death. Love, Dream, Heart, Letters, Life, Love, Memories, Nature, Personal, Poetry

Sigarilyo

23Feb09

sa akong ulahing buga
aning hupas nga Malboro
akong ihungaw pag-apil
ang ngutngot gikan
sa gamatoy nga hiwa
sa akong baga
nga nagarasan kadtong
gipidpid ako
sa imong haluk
nga kunohay
timaan
sa akong pagsalig
nga ako ang
katunga
sa imong
kasing-kasing.

Filed under: Poetry   |  2 Comments
Tags: Haluk, Kasing-kasing, Sigarilyo