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.

BONELESS

Hinati na ng tindero
ang hawak nyang bangus
gamit ang kutsilyo’t
pamukpok nang masigurong
walang tinik na sasabit sa bawat paghiwa.
Duguan ang bangus. Isang buwan at lingo
Bago siya malambat, isa lamang siyang
Inosenteng isda. Pinalaki sa isang malayang
Palaisdaan na kung saan sila’y nakakakain
At tahimik na nakalalangoy. Bawat kaliskis ay
Masusing inalagaan, ang kanyang buntot
Maliksing hinubog ng panahon, ang kutis nyang
Busilak at ang hasang nyang sariwa
Ang nagpabighani sa isang mangingisdang
Ang alam lamang gawin ay ang manghuli’t
Magbenta sa palengke ng mga katulad niya.
Bakit sa dinami dami ng isda sa mundo, bakit
Siya pa ang nalambat? Maraming isda, ngunit iilan lamang
Ang inaalagaan. Iilan lamang ang nasa aquarium na may oxygen,
Na kung minsan, kung suswertehin, ay may kastilyo pang kasama
Tulad ng isang prinsesa.
Ang mga katulad niya, sa marungis at
Mabahong palengke ang bagsak.
Hinati na ng tindero
ang hawak nyang bangus
gamit ang kutsilyo’t
pamukpok nang masigurong
walang tinik na sasabit sa bawat mariing paghiwa.
Kinaliskisan, hinugutan ng hasang.
Pinutol ang buntot.
Isa isang tinanggal ang kinang at kintab
Sa kanyang katawan at
winasak ang kanyang pagka-isda
upang madaliang makain ng bibili.
Mas mahal talaga ang ‘boneless’.

I call her by her first name

I knew it.

Not the gate,
Nor the wait,
Or the fine sunny
Weather that’s great.
Not even the imagination
That I create.

I have to call her by her first name.

I stumble and
mumble the words
“I’m in trouble,”
as she passes through me
Like the wind
blows a candle.
Drizzles and
spiels, “Did I
even gargle?”

Coz I have to call her by her first name.

And so I did and
come she with.
her smile. She likes me.
Like oh I know so
heaven forbid.
She was so
young and I, a kid.

She said I should call her by her first name.

And so the folly
of our youth
Came to end awefully
Said goodbyes
and some nice
Gifts which were barely
Enough to stop me

Thinking to call her by her first name.

I date kisses
every night
Thinking that
I might rewrite
The first story
of the heart
That only she
can ever excite
And the only
one who I call
Before each
night starts to bite

She who I can only call by her first name.

And now I say,
everything to my dismay
How the story
had come astray
The years I burned
ashes in the tray

I still long to call her by her first name.

Now I sit alone in a
place of my own
Waiting for the wind
that once had blown
And saw the one, I
knew I have known

And all I can do is to call her by her first name.

I knew it.

Not the gate,
Nor the wait,
Or the fine sunny
Weather that’s great.
Not even the imagination
That I create.

I can only call her by her first name.

To a love lost

tonight
the bed is empty.
pillow case replaced,
sheets are new
and the sprayed
smell of change is
fragrant
on the blanket. the
lights are low and the
moon hides its face
beneath the strips of
darkness of the evening.
the stars have been
scattered; sparkling sadly
waiting to die
in the vastness of
space.
the fireplace
burns the memories
of yesterday lost and
cursed. the books on
the table had been
finished; closed. and
the solitude of the moon
breezes through
the silent night
where no house is
empty and all doors closed.
the withered leaves
flutter
in the
tune
of the piano playing
distantly
where light has gone out
and the rivers stopped flowing
where the
leaves
letting go of the
bough
is sweet and
the light
Dimming inside
is sweeter while the clock ticks its life away


waiting.

People Love

People meet.
People leave.
People love and believe.

People crash.
People bleed.
People live in misdeed.

People care.
Those who can’t
Are not sure what that meant.

People strive
Hard to play,
Not to live in dismay.

People talk.
People say
It ain’t gonna be ok.

People stop.
People sway
Some survive, in someway.

People meet.
People leave.
People love and believe

And they'll crash
Or they'll bleed
Until all of them has been emptied...

Nazareno

mga paang itim at balat na sunog, sandamakmak na pawis at kalyo
ng mga mamang kuwarenta't singkuwenta y anyos
ang bumalot sa Quiapo't C.M. Recto

singkapal ng EDSA Dos at Tres ang nag-tila
dagat na mga debotong ninasang masilaya't
mahawakan ang magarbong karo ng santong itim

sa lansangan nasilayan ang daan-daan at libo- libo
mga Good Morning at Sandong tatak Nazareno
sabay hithit ng sigarilyo’t pagte-text ng todo-todo

nilakad ng malayo ang daan patungong pista
dahil ito daw ay sakripisyo sabi ng iba
sa aking isip, “ang Nazareno, may pagka-Sadista ba?”

sa wakas ang tampok ay siya na ring inilabas
naka-kapa ng telang mas mahal sa ‘sang sakong bigas
nakakorona ng gintong ninanasa ng mga balasubas

sa kanilang paniwala buhay ay mababago
kapag nahawaka’t napunasan itong itim na santo
na ayon sa kanila’y siyang pag-asa ng buong mundo

ang aking tanong, bakit ang pag-babago
hinihingi natin sa isang itim na santo
gayung tayo naman ang siyang gagawa nito

mahirap bang magsakripisyo para sa kapwa tao
magsilbi ng marangal, at maglingkod ng totoo
ng hindi na kailangang ibigay ng Nazareno

sa dalang krus na itim ng santong sunog
at mga panalanging lib- libo na sa kanya’y bumugbog
may pag-asa pa kaya o sagot na hinuhubog

kailan bababa ang Nazareno sa karo
upang sabihing hunghang at ipokrito ang tao
mga daan-daan sumasali’t hindi naman nagbabago

ihampas ang krus sa mga deboto
upang kumilos at baguhin ang buhay na magulo
at magsimulang ituwid ang buhay sa mundo

o santong Nazareno kung buhay ka ngang talaga
bakit di tumakbo sa eleksyon, tiyak mananalo ka
ang problema ang santo ay kahoy lang talaga

sa sunog na balat at maputik na yapak
kailan mo lilinisin ang bulok na tatak
at mga pangakong matagal ng alam na wasak

sa pagsigaw ng viva viva viva
isipin ang buhay at kapakanan ng iba
ito ang gintong batas di ba sabi nila

Nazareno, Nazareno sa Quiapong magulo
walang himalang mangyayari ang manggagaling sa'yo
dahil tanging ang tao ang siyang susi sa pag-babago


Author's Note:

I respect people's devotion and intention in continuously patronizing the Feast of the Black Nazarene. This poem was written as an expression of an observation and personal belief of the author. We can all live in harmony by agreeing to disagree.

Gusto Kong Batukan ang Aking Mahal

Gusto kong batukan ang aking mahal.
Ganito kami araw-araw. Minsan sisipain nya ako
Habang ako naman pinipilipit ang kanyang buto.
May mga araw na mas masaya kami kapag
Gumagamit kami ng kutsilyo at “icepick.”

Gusto kong batukan ang aking mahal.
Pagdating nya sa bahay, galing sa trabaho,
Bubuhusan ko siya ng kumukulong tubig
Dahil paniguradong tadtad ako ng tama
Sa armalite niyang dala.

Gusto kong batukan ang aking mahal.
Hay, kung minsan nga yung sinaing,
Kakainin ko nlng ipang babato ko pa sa kanya.
Favorite ko yung kapag unti- unti niya akong
Sinasakal gamit ang hose sa banyo, tpos bago
Matulog lalagyan ko siya ng unan sa mukha
At ididiin iyon hanggang siya ay
Maubusan ng hininga.

Gusto kong batukan ang aking mahal.
Batukan hangang sa dumugo ang batok nya.
Masaya kaming dalawa kapag nagbabatukan
Dahil alam naming hindi namin ito kayang gawin sa iba.


Author's Note:

After contemplating on Cirilio Bautista's "Patalim", I was kinda inspired and then attempted to write what I think is the worst poem I've ever written. Well, I honestly admire and respect Cirilio Bautista and his genius. However, I would just like to share the thought so here it is. If you have negative comments, please do say it nicely hehehe. Enjoy my crap!

Little Boys and Barbie Girls

the little boy looks at the toys
as if it was for him. he smiles and says
"these toys love boys,"
and so in bed with them he lays.

the little boy chose the one
which he thinks he will have fun.
the poor toys in love with the boys,
mesmerized with all their noise.

the little boy looks at the toys
as if it was for him. he smiles and says
"these toys must love boys,"
and so in bed with them he lays.

but one little barbie girl his eyes have caught,
and so in the department store with love he bought.
now the little barbie girl and the boy in love
dates and years will be sealed with bow and dove.

but the department store has just too many toys
little poor barbie girls for the little naughty boys.
and the little boy just couldn't stand
all the pretty skirts and smooth silky hands.

the little boy looks at the toys
as if it was for him. he smiles and says
"these toys should love boys,"
and so in bed with them he lays.


Author's note:

Due to some violent reactions regarding the subject of my poem, I was compelled to add this footnote. Well, I believe that women should be respected and that they are not in any way, a toy for boys. However, there was an experience which brought me the very life of the poem- that not all men stick to one partner; that not all men think that women ought to be respected; that not all men, how nice or kind they may seem to be, are worthy of women's trust and devotion.

I have always believed that men and women are equal, and that we all live in a society of mutual rights and responsibilities. And that, as a poet, my responsibility is to bring into consciousness the things that had happened, is happening, and will happen that will shape and mold the formlessness of our experiences in this world.

In the silence of words

In the silence of words
by Joey Clutario

Lady picks up an old photograph
of her late husband. It was not dusty, but shiny
Though the colors may not be the same, not as bright
or as happy because it’s not a mirror but a casket:

Deep breath
Pressurized breathing, shaking
…
Sigh
… slit of the mouth slightly opens
… then closed again, hard painful gulping
pressurized deep breath. Release.





“I picked up daisies today. You should’ve seen me…”






Deep breath
Pressurized breathing, shaking
…
Sigh
… slit of the mouth slightly opens
… then closed again, hard painful gulping

blank endless staring

***
When a poem comes in guise of words
It strikes
as lightning cannot touch the same ground
so are the words:

“It plunges deep into the heart-- rushes into the tense, arrested muscle




and is gone.”

Midnight lyric

midnight shared with an empty cup
a glance
that would last forever.

we were still. lambs turning to beasts
the emptiness devours our entirety and

it was midnight shared with an empty cup
a glance
that would last forever.

it was summer, and summer was me;
but the seasons,
NO. just summer. and it was, still,

midnight shared with an empty cup
a glance
that would last forever.

midnight was forever. forever.

the glance; the summer
they had been momentary.

i and the empty cup
staple alone in that midnight.

even after day breaks midnight
it has always been
midnight

an empty cup
a glance
that would last.

CURSE FROM A LOVED ONCE

Now
you are there, here am i.
Without words,
solitary: the unvoiced song of a raging tempest.
I thought you would feel the crushing, the torn,
My sore heart.
I couldn't kill you. Long before you killed me.
No. I wouldn't try hard.
To curse you is how my heart uncurses mine. And so,

you will live a long life. Ten of us would not be enough.
Three heads in the pocket
of your sleeves. Indulgence visible at the layers of your neck.
you will lose shape, those jelly belly. Hair grows at the back of
your ears. Everytime you walk to the bathroom, you'll lose
tons of fat; but regains itself after lunch. Slowly will you lift those
arms and joints will ache as excruciating as the brokenness you gave me.
One night someone will cross your
door mats, and creeps up to your bed unscreeching as you sleep peacefully
under the sharp bright starry evening
as you dream of your death it will come in a nice soft white pillow
not to hug but to struggle.
Don't be shattered. You will feel indomitable. Afraid of dark. Afraid to be alone.
I won't kill you.
Or cut you throat with a knife just like what you taught me.
But someone will.
Because you big bastard will live long enveloped in this curse.
Then you'll think of me
and how miserable my life turned out after you threw me away
like those smoke sticks you enjoy
- sipping the light out of it. The life out of it.

I'm your residue.

As the lines of your life struggles to peak, I will pull them down
--down until you are so ravaged.
It's so hard to tell you to come back when you'll
just slap me. And I will be contented because you touched me again.
Now
you are there, here am I.
-- how can the world be so through with you?
Yet,
you're not through with me.