Walking without shoes

Walking without shoes

Joey Clutario

When I was ten and the world

revolved around cartoons, and candies

and little nonsense, I said to myself:

I will run to the field without

my shoes on. I will catch crickets

and would put them inside jars,

tighten the lid, watch them slowly

suffocate. And I would feel their heart

Beating inside me. Suddenly breathing

will seem hard. My father will come

and see what I’ve been doing. He will get

angry and will beat me with his leather

belt—its buckles will hit my hips until

they are striped. His knuckles would

brush heavily on my face again.

He’ll take me home while the crickets

resound in the field. While mother

stirs the pumpkin soup, father would

take the rag to the kitchen, grabbing

it with his fists tight, dunk it with force, water

bursting into the air, then wipe my feet very hard.

He would say, “what did I tell you about your shoes!”

But it’s too big for me. Too heavy.

He always tells me to never leave without

shoes on.

FOR THE POET OPHELIA ALCANTARA DIMALANTA (June 16, 1934- November 4, 2010)

For the poet, author, editor, and teacher of teachers Dr. Ophelia Dimalanta.

"The older you become and the more mature your art becomes,

the more you realize that you have your own identity."

-- Ophelia Dimalanta

***

A Man (from Abel's Bride)

Denise Levertov

'Living a life'—

the beauty of deep lines

dug in your cheeks.

The years gather by sevens

to fashion you. They are blind,

but you are not blind.

Their blows resound,

they are deaf, those laboring

daughters of the Fates,

but you are not deaf,

you pick out

your own song from the uproar

line by line,

and at last throw back

your head and sing it.

***

What I wanted for us:

What I wanted for us:

by Joey Clutario

An oak bungalow,

perhaps,

built on a cliff― facing the sea―

(like a lighthouse cut short)

painted in stark white―

never stained―

shed roof ―except, of course,

on the living room: glass ceiling―

just like how you wanted it.

A pastel-clear canvass in mind:

how you loved to star-gaze

every night, always

reminding me that even the most

beautiful star dies. There,

I could stare endlessly

watching them, from the living room―say,

while I lie on the cherry carpet,

or while I enjoy dinner.

I could close my eyes and see

you in the morning―warmed

by the oceanic sun from the French windows―

we’re like a holy couple awakening―

our pure nakedness half obscured―

your sun-stricken hair halos the calmness

of your face―morning angel right under the sheets.

Life will be there.

And there,

I could stare endlessly.

When the skies reflect the color of your eyes

I could go out, watch the seagulls from afar―

the gentle rush of breeze against my face―

the ocean singing to a little boy, hush

while with a force it collides

toward the cliff

where like our souls

we

drift.

What I wanted for us:

What I wanted for us:

by Joey Clutario

An oak bungalow,

perhaps,

built on a cliff― facing the sea―

(like a lighthouse cut short)

painted in stark white―

never stained―

shed roof ―except, of course,

on the living room: glass ceiling―

just like how you wanted it.

A pastel-clear canvass in mind:

how you loved to star-gaze

every night, always

reminding me that even the most

beautiful star dies. There,

I could stare endlessly

watching them, from the living room―say,

while I lie on the cherry carpet,

or while I enjoy dinner.

I could close my eyes and see

you in the morning―warmed

by the oceanic sun from the French windows―

we’re like a holy couple awakening―

our pure nakedness half obscured―

your sun-stricken hair halos the calmness

of your face―morning angel right under the sheets.

Life will be there.

And there,

I could stare endlessly.

When the skies reflect the color of your eyes

I could go out, watch the seagulls from afar―

the gentle rush of breeze against my face―

the ocean singing to a little boy, hush

while with a force it collides

toward the cliff

where like our souls

we

drift.

Ocean II

Ocean II

Joey Clutario

You

pull me

up at constant

highs, drowning

myself with your

pulling or pushing me

away to lifeless shores

where all is destroyed by me―

My serenity. Rotating around

each other―you and me

each pulling the other

towards itself. (You

attract every piece of

matter in me) Rigid.

You deform me

successfully.

Walking Home

Walking Home

by Joey Clutario

And since when

has it started to rain like this?

Was it only yesterday

that summer had flown away?

It’s as if every drop,

every single drop that kisses

the soaked ground

points to you. No. You’re not the rain.

But a silence─that

drains and drowns, confuses, and consumes

the morning light

as dimmer the midnight light posts grew

and I’m terrified.

I have seen

the rain.

Ocean by Joey Clutario

Ocean

by Joey Clutario

And though I know

there are many likes of you

I choose you─

among clear waters;

still they run into you.

You run over me─

yes,

I. You lick my dryness

with one cosmic blow.

You run into me

and I am left with salt

and nothingness but your salinity.

You come and go.

Come and go.

And though I know we’re

together, we are separate.

Though I know

You are water.

You are only salt.

Towards Midnight by Joey Clutario

Because tonight─

you said─

is the single most important night

of our lives,

then

let there be light:

As I close my eyes,

while you attend to the

spaces between us

and the clock strikes eleven,

we’re an hour away.

Face to face─

we are no longer strangers;

just strange.

And as minutes grow

distance melts. I press

my lips against your shoulder.

I breathe you. We,

no longer cramped.

Slowly

no matter longer our names;

no matter longer our selves;

no matter longer our stories.

We become Another

the clock─ aligns with our soul

and finally by twelve

we transform

like a metaphor

to one.

creation by Joey Clutario

If I write tonight

say

your name


will you fill my
empty cup with butterflies, or

streets to stroll,or
poems or glances or cookies

or cigars or candies─
of short paperbacks and notes

or

silence?


Your absence


only


rests in my room.

It's a Sad Sad World...No More

Poetry rests

Once in a while,

poetry rests.

When the pen

tears and papers

fold, when the

day mourns under

the silence of the moon.

When darkness covers

an empty room. It

plagues.

***

The day started as it is. The smell of tocino and fried rice welcomed me into a typically warm Tuesday morning. I was worried last night because my computer suddenly gave in to the number of virus it has in its system. For a moment, it felt like it's the end of the world—it was a crazy night for me.

So I got up out of bed, fixed the beddings, stacked my pillows and headed to the bathroom. My usual routines follow.

I checked the clock and it was past 11 in the morning. That explains the warmer feel inside my room. It was a hot day, intensified by brighter skies and dustier streets and I didn't even expect it to be this sweat-dripping.

I charged my cellphone and went on to prepare for what I expected to be a good day.

After taking a refreshing bath, I decided to put on my black polo instead of the light blue long sleeves my mom prepared for me. I usually have the hardest time choosing what to wear on a particularly sunny and sultry afternoon. But, nothing is harder than fixing an ugly, curly and strangely pathetic hairdo. In 365 days, I fortunately live 60% of it having the baddest hair day. Good thing hair waxes and stuff that makes your hair less monstrous were available. Hide that hideous hair! I always tell myself. If Sue Sylvester were Filipino, I probably would keep my hair at least 5 meters away from her devilish comments.

And so enough with the hair. I unplugged my phone and finally, I was ready to go.

I said goodbye to papa and hurriedly got inside the tricycle. I've had everything in mind: the meeting I was about to attend, the documents I needed for my MA application, my escape book, and my keys. All were inside my blue and orange bag.

I usually take two jeepney rides, after the tricylce drops me at the nearest intersection. So I took the first one to pass by. I know I was going to be late so I was kinda hurrying not to miss the important details of the meeting and to avoid the nasty jokes of my friends.

The driver shouted in a demanding voice, "lipat na kayo sa kabilang jeep, kakain na ako!" What a jerk. Just when you needed a quick ride, then comes the irritating insistence of a jeepney driver to transfer to another ride. Ok, then.

So I transferred to the jeep parallel to the first one we had. Not bad. It was more decent and finally a nice and humane ventilation.

Finally, a chance to text my friends that I'm almost there. I was checking my bag when suddenly... BINGO! I didn't feel my phone on the left pocket of my bag. Tension entered my bloodstream. It was a quick decision of me to hand that ten peso coin I have on my hand, and in a few minutes I was in the opposite lane waving for that saving ride, rushed inside another jeep going back to where I started.

I kept checking and looking at the pockets of my bag. There was no sign. My only hope: I wish I left it at home. Still, I was tensioned. It felt like I was in a race against time. A race before inhumane fingers press my frightened little SIM card out of my phone and.... (it was a delusional ride).

The worst thing has happened to me, since that Ondoy and Maguindanao spectacle.

In few strides, I was at home and the only thing I can hear is my dad asking what happened and where I left my phone. I can't answer. I can't even think of answers. I was in denial of things. This is not happening. It's not. Not now. Not to me...

That was the second time. The first was equally depressing and soul-dampening.

I guess it was the immediate reaction of someone, who was left with nothing of the things or possessions he once had after years of hard work. It was the feeling of someone who was not prepared for such loss. Or probably, it was just how things work.

After calling my friends, (and they were laughing by the way, which kinda made me feel lighter and better) I realized that what I lost is not more that what I learned.

I learned that I put too much value on material things. I learned that things given will someday be taken by the one who gave it. One has to end, for the other to begin. One has to lose, to find something much more special and essential. And ultimately, cellphones need to be taken care of. XD

I am not happy, nor sad about what happened. I think I just understand better, what the Great One has always been teaching me and trying to continually remind me: Life goes on. It will go on.

I will just let every contact, every picture taken, every MP3 downloaded, every message—saved, sent, and recieved, remind the person who has in hand my phone right now that, we move in circles. That the things we do, measure the things we experience and the things we experience will make the person we want us to be.

Goodbye my phone. See you at the shops soon.

(-_-)!!!

PS. Donations of any kind are welcome. LOLS

City of Angels

The world has removed
itself from you
toward the shadows

of ancient past;
twice removed
from the fountain

where harts drink,
where thirst ends
in a drop of water―

crystal clear so
magnificent it washes
the pain away

like sea clearing
the dry parched sands,
like Sunday rain washing

the earth from its dirt.
City of angels! You’re perfect
yet unloved. Cast down

your demons set them
on fire. The world’s not
dead in it’s alabaster dreams.

It speaks in alamoth of
Alpha and Omega:
They who rescued Lot

from Sodomic wrath;
who announced the
manger’s miracle;

they who rebel―
a heavenly being
who will bring judgment.

You exist in your
inexistence.

Family portrait

Family portraits look
good on walls, like ours:

colors blend flawlessly,
as Mona Lisa is to Da Vinci;
no shadows cast; not much exposure;
plastered smile on each other’s faces
never grow old and tired―
Never! not even once;
curtains never stained, furniture’s never rust,
blinds are down; lighting’s perfect
it hides wrinkles and scars and white hairs
and the growing distance in between;
always in four corners;
always shiny underneath the thin sheet of glass;
always smiling;

never minding the loose
screws where it hangs.

Midnight conversations

Midnight conversations do not
get past one in the morning or two

(either the other gets bored
or one of you gets a ‘do’)
like apples cannot stay ripe―
like Cinderella can’t take long dances
(or the prince’s brutally long nose)
or else the rats stay as horsemen
and the pumpkin a carriage (and oh
how could we even forget the shoe?)
like buttons cannot stay unbuttoned,
zippers unzipped, mouths widely shut
while the curious meeting of minds busts
the tik- toking of the clock.

For one cannot leave without the other dying
and the coffee melting in hot hot water
pours cold at three in the morning.

Life, my dear, starts at three.

White Elephant

Hail the beast which passeth
all others in “wit and mind.”
-- Aristotle

There it stands―
sallow, unclean mess
lying on the floor
mother swept after
taking care of the laundry
―trunk slithering foul;
arrogant and loafing.
Plumpish limbs of three
base to the house (some
five-foot filth
dusting the walls)
spraying putrid ardor

and one pointing
as if with forceful
edict― see:
its sharp ivory tusk
push while she
puts on new
bed sheets.