Postcard poem

This one's going out to someone out there. I haven't sent you one in a while, but I have no doubt you'll figure out its provenance.

[ Click to view larger. ]

Throwback Poem

Was rummaging through my files and found this prose poem I had written way back. Thought I'd do some revisions.

[Twilight 3 (2002) by Viggo Mortensen, from "45301".]

Beholder *

Gait still unsteady, he stops awhile, shakes off the last lingering moments of sleep, picks up his steps, bare feet trailing gravel as he ambles down the path, where everywhere is quiet, save for the whispering breeze, a grove of glistening beeches, a fluttering carpet of rustling leaves, muted scurryings of some nocturnal animal still savoring the thinning layers of darkness as it yields to the first slivers of dawn.

In one hand he cradles a Hasselblad, that battered black box, cherished companion and aide, spies a vast canvas overhead, readies supple fingers flecked with paint. Aiming this extended eye, he minces memory into a succession of frames, striving to capture what he knows will not keep still.

The ephemera he collects are as elusive as he, as silent, unobtrusive, fleeting manifestations in a world revolving too fast for appreciation, instances too rare for mass distribution. Furiously he shoots frame after frame, now and then shifting vistas on a single scene, oblivious to the observers who gather at his feet as the tide of day washes over the beeches that now seem to cover all the lands.

They look on in awe, marvel at how his feet barely touch the ground.

For he is both collector and subject, both hunter and hunted, both light-painter and point of interest, perceived only by the sharpest of sights. Magnified under lenses, he stands against sky, a quiet light blazing, burning his own hole in the sun.

*[This piece was a pre-cursor to Beholder II, which I posted here.]

This is why

Several months ago I went to a poetry book launching, after not having gone to such events for quite some time. The author was an acquaintance of mine (hey, LY, I know you’re probably not reading this), someone who had said kind words about my writing, seems a lifetime ago. At the launch I saw my old friend R, and I know he’ll forgive me for saying this (you WILL probably be reading this, R), but at that particular moment I had not expected, nor wanted, to see him. R, whose friendship is inextricably linked to my short-lived stint as a "published poet" (I say that with sarcasm), whose opinion I valued the most at the time. A few years ago R had come close to going somewhere I did not want him to go, selfish admirer of his work that I was. Or maybe I’m twisting my memories and he’ll deny this ever happened. In any case, I had written this piece for him, and I hold this in the same way authors arrogantly love particular works they are attached to that they refuse to edit or revise a single word. At the time I had been in a euphoric mood, having gotten two poems accepted for publication in a literary journal overseas, a special edition on Asian writers in English. That I was experiencing this while I knew what R was contemplating, moved me to address him thus (R, you always knew this was for you.) -

Dear R,

It came in the mail today. My longed for future, distilled in two words.

Author’s proofs. Funny what they call them, like it was some sort of joke, some pun to torture us with, we lovers of words, we spinners of songs.

Two words, stamped in red ink. I never would have thought the world could be contained so concisely.

Proofs. That they’re wanted. That they’re yours. That they never again will be.

Was it not so long ago that I asked of you this very thing?

Two words.

I suspect that’s what we youngbloods have always wanted --- some tangible hook to pull us through the long haul, some tenable string to make us want to stay.

Well, they’re here now, R. Plainer than plain. Two words, stamped in red ink. I have them. My proofs. Mine.

And how wondrous, these things I now hold in my hands. The weight of it all has never been as immense.


- most fervently for R., itinerant poet: how I wish you would come back –

To cut a long story short, R did not abandon poetry writing altogether. I did go to that last book launch he had, and I loved the poems. So why did I not want to see him at that other book launching several months ago? Because I had pretty much abandoned writing.

I wish I could remember what we talked about in those brief moments as we stood at the back of the auditorium. I had meant to blog about it, but was unsure if I wanted R to read the said blog or not. I procrastinated and it never got written. THIS almost didn’t get written. I sat down a few hours ago to blog, with this specific content in mind, but my mind found excuses yet again to belay it. But I finally willed myself to just do it. So now I’m sitting in my room, alone, with all possible sources of distraction removed. (If I don’t finish this soon it might very well turn out to be some sort of sweat lodge experience, for even the amount of air circulating in the room is limited. Which is to say, neither the air conditioner nor the electric fan is switched on. And then there’s also the hunger pangs, which I should start feeling in a short while…)

So now what have I got to say? I’m pretty sure R asked me if I was still writing, and I must have said no. And he might have asked why. I must have given a stock answer like I was busy or did not have time or inspiration had not come. I know why, have always known why, and I suppose now is as good a time as any to confront it. Looking back at that time when I was at my most creative, I believe what allowed me to write as much was that I was at least content, and was able to easily turn inward, go to that place that allowed me to wield words. I have lost that place. Amidst the noise of real life, where before there were fragments, lines, imagery, metaphors I used to jot down on scraps of paper or a notebook, there are now hard facts, problems, truths that are hard to swallow but that have to be, to survive day by day. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I used to write about puppies and rainbows all the time – hardly! And surely I had written enough pained, sad, ascerbic, or morbid pieces to be considered jaded. It’s not the subject matter that has changed, it’s where I’m coming from – I can no longer go into the quiet and create. I suppose you can say I have become so mired in reality that I can no longer imagine being anywhere else.

Now I'm sitting here wondering how I should end this entry. Back when I started this blog I had said this was not meant to be a confessional. I could go several directions from here, but I won't. Perhaps I will leave that for another day.

This

...was the one I meant to post yesterday. Published somewhere sometime. Took a screencap because I'm thinking it'll be a bitch trying to format it in html, so I didn't even try. Yes, it's probably what you think it's about. (Click on the image to view it at a more readable size.)

Digging up an old poem because I haven't written a new one in ages

Yeah yeah, snort and chuckle all you want my friends. I can almost hear you now. Oh what have we here, imogen the cynic posting a loooove prose poem on Valentine's Day. After not having blogged in ages! First off, it's not exactly a love poem, is it? Well, yeah, it's a different aspect of love perhaps. I was going to post a real love poem (one of the less cynical ones I've ever written) but then hah, apparently my files are not in this laptop. I've managed to find only this one. So.

No, I have not written poetry in ages. Yes, I have still been thinking of getting back to it. And no, I have not done anything about it yet. By the by, I might be able to write again. Don't rush me, that will only serve to delay it.

So for now this will have to do.

At the Reading

This must be how it feels they think, at a mountain summit, when all you have is rarefied air, as they watch him, study him intently as if he were on exhibit, on display. He, his face, his body, is a map as familiar as their own. It is a cartography that charts the precise beatings of their blood. He is the shore upon which their stares have ebbed and flowed, have lapped and beaten, waves upon waves, raging and restless, a vast ocean stretching infinite and boundless. But they are not at sea, not now as they view him, watch him, as tentatively he raises mug to mouth, fingers like lithesome vine imitating the graceful curves and delicacy of teacups. Ridiculous it seems to infer this from a man whose mere presence makes every woman catch her breath. Rather: long coarse digits caressing china, he raises it to mouth, the interminable interval before it reaches his lips mimicking a slowness with a too familiar agony they wish to share. Their gaze burns a path along his angular jaw, traipse down the prickly stubbles that cover the breadth of his chin, touch his neck, the adam’s apple that screams his sex. He raises the cup again in salute, takes a sip. From behind its wet rim he fixes a stare, eyes changing hue. They suck in the beginnings of a moan, jagged and strained, pain as sheer as the edge of a blade. Just as slowly, he puts down his drink, devilish lips curling, creases forming at the corners of his eyes. The room heaves a breath, generates heat as thick as skin, feints a swoon. All this and he has yet to utter a single word.

Waxing poetic in the metro II

The first one almost got me in trouble, but well, here it is.



Me pides sampaguitas... No te envío,
porque, al ir a cortarlas de la rama,
sentí temblar mis manos y mi pecho
prensado por la lástima.

No quiero que padezcan esas flores,
como padece, lejos de tí, mi alma,
no quiero que al contacto de mis manos
perezcan marchitadas.

Humingi ka ng sampaguita... Di kita bibigyan.
dahil nang puputulin ko na sa mga sanga'y
nanginig ang aking kamay at ang dibdib ko'y
nanikip dahil sa awa.

Ayokong magdusa ang mga bulaklak na iyan,
gaya ng pagdurusa ng puso kong malayo sa iyo;
ayokong sa sandaling hawakan ng aking kamay,
iya'y malanta at mamatay....

- Jose Palma (1876-1903)




Si alguna vez la vida te maltrata,
acuerdate de mi,
que no puede cansarse de esperar
aquel que no se cansa de mirarte.

Kung sakaling malupit sa iyo ang kapalaran,
alalahanin mo ako,
dahil hndi mapapagod sa paghihintay
itong walang sawang tumitingin sa iyo.

- Luis Garcia Montero

Waxing poetic in the metro

Last week on the LRT Line 2 I was pleasantly surprised to find poetry on the train. There were posters inside the train with pretty pictures and layouts of texts in Spanish and Filipino. I instantly thought that it must be a project of Instituto Cervantes, one of the most active cultural institutions here in Manila. So I stepped closer and found it was indeed their project. I had a backpack with a laptop strapped to me and only a very short ride, so I messed up the pic. Just tonight I attempted another shot, and again I had a backpack and a quick ride, so this is still blurry but it will have to do (clickie for larger image):

The text reads

Oh Maynila, sa talulot
ng mahinhing liryo isinilang!
mabunying prinsesang nahihimlay
sa bula ng karagatan!

Oh Manila, en la corola
de un casto lirio nacida!
gentil princesa dormida
sobre la espuma del mar!

A Manila
Pacifico Victoriano

According to the Inquirer, Berso sa Metro is a campaign aimed at promoting reading among Filipino commuters and strengthening Filipino-Spanish ties. The works of Filipino (Jose Rizal, Jesús Balmori, Claro M. Recto, José Palma, Evangelina Guerrero, Pacifico Victoriano and Fernando Maria Guerrero), Spanish (Calderón de la Barca, Lope de Vega, García Lorca, Antonio Machado, Luis Cernuda, Luis Rosales, Miguel Hernández and Gil de Biedma) and Latin American poets (Pablo Neruda and César Vallejo) have been selected for us to enjoy. The campaign is planned to run for three months but may be extended depending on the public's response. A quick blogsearch tells me there are people taking notice of (and pleasure from) Berso sa Metro:

I Heart Manila
Let a hundred flowers bloom
Digital Buryong
...and then some
sealed with a kiss
Palaboy
pattypot
Loving Multiply, Multiplying Love
The Coolness that was...

Another poem I spotted was Pablo Neruda's Tu Risa. I messed up the pic (wide shot while sitting, sorry, my aching back!)



but here's the text:

Ríete de la noche,
del día, de la luna,
ríete de las calles
torcidas de la isla,
ríete de este torpe
muchacho que te quiere,
pero cuando yo abro
los ojos y los cierro,
cuando mis pasos van,
cuando vuelven mis pasos,
niégame el pan, el aire,
la luz, la primavera
pero tu risa nunca
porque me moriría.

Pagtawanan mo ang gabi,
ang araw, ang buwan
Pagtawanan mo ang liku-likong
landas sa isla,
Pagtawanan mo ang torpeng
lalaking ito na nagmamahal sa iyo,
Ngunit kapag bubuksan ko
at isasara ang aking mga mata,
Kapag ako ay umalis,
kapag ako ay muling bumalik
Ipagkait mo na sa akin ang tinapay,
ang hangin, ang liwanag at ang tagsibol,
Huwag lamang ang iyong ngiti
Dahil ito’y aking ikasasawi

(They should have acknowledged the translator of all the poems they used. Or perhaps it was indicated in small print, I just didn't see it?)

Now if only they take this bright idea and start posting more of Philippine art and literature. Say, post comic strips in series. Or Philippine art - photographs of paintings, sculptures, and so on. Illustrations from children's books. They can even serialize these, make it a game or puzzle for children and adults alike. Wouldn't that be a treat?

From my old files

A hack dreams of Klimtian Viggo / Viggoesque Klimt.
[Larger.]

Beholder II

See here, that odd congregation of flags,
those black dogs vanishing in a haze,
a leaf on a chilled forest floor,
curled trunk, stained tusk, white camisole,
cluttered graffiti on the walls.
These random abstractions,
recent forgeries of the ways of things,
they are what I revere,
the elusive, the fleeting, the evanescent ---
the moment that passes over once, and fades.
You say I take far too many,
that I seem to be in constant vigil
of scenes at the periphery.
Is it some coincidence of memory
that compels, some urge to mark
the ebb and flow of days,
lest they go stale, lay mundane?
And I say, what does it cost to remark on
the lines of this silhouette,
the graceful fall of fabric beside decorated skin,
the eloquence of ghosts dancing, or
an ineffable fleck of pale wings undulating in green?
What is there to remember: a tail, a hand, an ear,
a baby’s foot, dead fish, or calf, pig, or bird,
passing through the desolation of Tamdacht,
disappearing into Chetwood’s otherworldliness,
the bright chaos at Odense, the prospect
of a snowstorm at Te Anau,
even the daily grind in Venice.
It’s all I know to take, how can I disengage?
These are my points of focus, uncertain
exposures now merging in a blur.
See, underneath this assemblage
of traces, evocations, ephemera ---
Wanyánkin ye yo. Look at it:
Beholder.
Miyelo. It is I.
Kholá, it is you.

19 October, 2003

Note. The digital collage was an entry I submitted for a creativity contest at viggofanbase.com a couple of years ago. For the collage, I drew the lizard, took the swirly light photos, and used a poem I had written the year before for the background text. Beholder II above is that same poem. I won a Viggo Mortensen CD for the collage (or was it a book, I forget). I can't remember if I entered the poem simultaneously for the poetry category. I think I won something for that, too.

Miróesque Musings

L'Oiseau Mongol, Joan Miró, 1969

Happy Birthday to me.


I would like to be a dot in a painting by Miró
by Moniza Alvi


I would like to be a dot in a painting by Miró.

Barely distinguishable from other dots,
it’s true, but quite uniquely placed.
And from my dark centre

I’d survey the beauty of the linescape
and wonder -- would it be worthwhile
to roll myself towards the lemon stripe,

Centrally poised, and push my curves
against its edge, to give myself
a little attention?

But it’s fine where I am.
I’ll never make out what’s going on
around me, and that’s the joy of it.

The fact that I’m not a perfect circle
makes me more interesting in this world.
People will stare forever --

Even the most unemotional get excited.
So here I am, on the edge of animation,
a dream, a dance,a fantastic construction,

A child’s adventure.
And nothing in this tawny sky
can get too close, or move too far away.


[View a Flash version of the poem here.]

Flash poem, anyone?

You know how things turn up when you're not looking for them anymore? Well this file is something I had been trying to find for ages. Finally found it when I cleaned up during the holidays. (Good thing the diskette is still working.) A few years ago I attended a Macromedia Flash workshop. This animated poem was one of my projects. I must say, the poem itself isn't one of my better pieces, but it was rather well-suited for translation into Flash. The thing wouldn't convert into a Quicktime movie for some reason, so I just made it into an animated gif.

(Click on image to view a slightly larger version. Point the cursor on the image; if you see a "+", click again to further enlarge. The poem loops continuously. Just refresh the page if you want to see it from the very start.)

You are invited to a book launch

When: Jan. 27, 2006, Friday, 4:30 pm
Where: Natividad G. Fajardo Conference Room, De La Costa Hall, Ateneo de Manila University, Loyola Heights, Quezon City
What: Launching of the new series of Philippine Studies and the Special Literary Issue 2005

Ten years ago, poet/critic Emmanuel Torres, after Philippine Studies came out with its literary issue, remarked on how featuring creative writing through the journal

"would be doing a morale-boosting service to writers who have kept faith in the literary text as we know it in an age increasingly hooked on video, pricey comic books, graphic novels, the Magic Eye mania, and the interactive games of computer technology. "

He further noted that "it is a service certainly welcome in a milieu where the media give far greater attention to the visual and performance arts than to literature."

I am of a generation caught in such an age. Alright, the Magic Eye mania is passe -- I have taken my share of near cross-eyed stare sessions and all that, and I have drawn the line at interactive games, after realizing how I had spent so much time in completing two role-playing games (cherished experiences both, mind you) years ago, but as for video and graphic novels, I am completely in thrall. I don't see why these and literature can't go together. Imo, there IS a lot of good writing to be found in movies, tv and graphic novels if one knows where to look (no thanks to Pinoy soap operas though, bleh).

I have two poems in this Philippine Studies Literary Issue. One takes off from a favorite graphic novel, the other relates to technology and the question of making connections in a borderless world.

Philippine Studies is the oldest academic journal in the country. Aside from poems, the literary issue also features short stories and creative nonfiction pieces from the likes of Ramon Sunico, Krip Yuson, Ricardo de Ungria, Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo, Gilda Cordero-Fernando, Gemino Abad, and many more. Published by the Ateneo de Manila University Press, the Philippine Studies Literary Issue 2005 is edited by Dr. Soledad S. Reyes and co-edited by Dr. Rofel G. Brion. In the introduction, Dr. Reyes notes that the 60 contributions collectively celebrate the act of writing against the odds and "offer a clear window to the world" of contemporary works with all the challenges and tensions attendant to the attempt to express or approximate experience, and to "locate the self in an increasingly globalized and complicated world."

Come one, come all, people. You are all invited!

[The literary issue as well as other Philippine Studies issues will be available at the launch venue, and the Ateneo Press bookshop afterwards (4265984, 4261238, 4266001 ext 4613, 4614).]

Blogger me this, this is not a confessional

I find this very apt to start the new year. Very special thanks to my friend G who found it and gave it to me along with a gorgeous set of gifts ;-) Beyond this I say nothing further.


What's in My Journal
by William Stafford

Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean
things, fishhooks, barbs in your hand.
But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.
Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous
discards. Space for knickknacks, and for
Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify.
Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected
anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind
that takes genius. Chasms in character.
Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above
a new grave. Pages you know exist
but you can't find them. Someone's terribly
inevitable life story, maybe mind.