Category Archives: Poetry

Awit sa Gabi

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Ngayong malalim na ang gabi,
nakadungaw pa rin sa bintana,
Hinihintay ang iyong pagbalik.

Halika na. Umuwi ka na.
(Naririnig mo ba ang aking awit?)

Iiwan kong nakabukas ang ilaw,
ang mga bintana,
para ika’y salubungin
kung ikaw man ay dumating.
(Hindi kita iiwan.)

Saan ka na ngayon?
Nalunod ka ba sa liwanag ng mga bituin?

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Nine years old, summer

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Mornings start off slow, writing lists
Of Tamblot Street, Doctor dan, and that little bitch who used to throw tantrums.
My cousins hated me.

The radio starts to play Michael Learns to Rock
and there I go thinking about my pile of unread books.

But it’s the afternoon that was always the best,
commuting, riding jeepneys,
getting lost somewhere,
wishing it was that easy for my family to come visit.

Such were the quiet days in the summer.

It’s been a long time since I went to a writing workshop and wrote poetry. This was what I came up with after the final exercise. It’s not that much but maybe I can still improve it. Good thing I didn’t get called to read it out loud.

A smile

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Is a smile is a smile,

a curve of the mouth,

a movement of the muscle,

the Sun.

One for your kin, another one

for friends.

Lastly,

one

for you.

[02/13/2012]

 

I don’t think I made sense there. But nothing is, really. Or maybe we’re just blind to see it? Or maybe we’re seeing things differently? That could also be another possibility.

By the Time the Sun Rises

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Based on Rimbaud’s After the Flood

By the time the sun rises,
Fragments of ember appear in the skies
As the building’s lights turn off one by one,
With birds chirping, singing their songs,
In anticipation of the new day.

 

How great it is to feel the cold wind
Brush through your skin, enveloping you
In an illusion of sleep, its spell broken
By the sound of alarm clocks, pulsating
In its loudness, leaving you with a yawn,
A squint in the eye, as you stretch your body
Into acceptance.

 

Out in the streets,
A streetcleaner sweeps the roadside,
Free from remnants of yesterday,
As dogs look on with their sleepy eyes,
Wondering if they can have more food today
Than before.

 

The old lady sets up her store,
Replacing jars with candies for the kids,
And shooing away men asleep on the benches
Falling in deep slumber after last night’s drunken revelries.

 

Somewhere,
A man is selling bread,
Its sweet scent filling the air,
While wives kiss their husbands good-bye,
Sending them to work,
And so begins their faithful wait.

 

Bright, warm, reality in motion—you remind us
Of our constant battle, the changing of days
As we go closer and closer to the unknown.
But you’re always welcome.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

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Monday

Your voice, when you first

called out my name

and every time after that.

–the most beautiful song in the world.

 

Tuesday

Your smile

how it shines like the rays

of the magnificent sun—my sun.

 

Wednesday

Your hands, the warmth

of your touch, from the accidental brushes

to that tight grip that speak of

assurance, innocence.

 

Thursday

Your eyes, how those black pearls always

seem to pierce through me, my soul, that

I always had to look down,

look away, scared

that it may be able to see.

 

Friday

You.

 

Saturday

You.

Sunday

You.

It won’t do.

 

(c) Recital: Act I

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Nothing tastes as sweet as your first.

With the silver moon as your witness,
Its light casting shadows, forming silhouettes
Of bodies that glisten, stripped down to its naked glory,
–vulnerability.

Love is a world waiting to be discovered
as you move towards each other
with bated breaths,
hesitant steps,
fingers slowly intertwined.

Little by little,
you become the other,
and the other
becomes you.

No prodigy can paint this masterpiece
even with kisses—soft, gentle kisses—
that trace your every outline,
every curve and every corner of your body,
your temple,
trying to memorize the beauty that is you,
but in vain.

You begin to transform into dancers,
moving in perfect rhythm,
full of grace immersed in this dance,
to the music of your beating hearts.

With every push and pull,
the arching of your back,
you move in accelerando,
going deeper and deeper
into the house of Desire,
passion burning in your eyes,
as you learn its ways and shed skin
marked with remnants of the past.

Your fingers curl, driving into the skin,
before you cry out in ecstasy,
both silent and loud,
of pain and pleasure,
waking villages,
cities,
continents.

After the music stops,
its curtains are raised,
doors are opened,
and no same person emerges from it.

 

I made this poem for our Poetry Seminar class. It’s supposed to be an Erotic poem. What do you think about it? Was it effective as an erotic poem? Objective criticisms are very much welcome.