Tag Archives: poetry

Awit sa Gabi


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?




Pilit na winawalis

ang alikabok ng iyong alaala.

Mula sa itaas ng lamesa

hanggang sa ilalim ng sofa.

Pilit na tinatago,



palabas ng pintuan.

Ngunit nang

akala mong

malinis na,

pagtingin mong muli



at bumabalik pa rin.

Found my old journal and saw this poem I wrote a few years ago (January 29, 2011).

Nine years old, summer


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.

By the Time the Sun Rises

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.


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



Your voice, when you first

called out my name

and every time after that.

–the most beautiful song in the world.



Your smile

how it shines like the rays

of the magnificent sun—my sun.



Your hands, the warmth

of your touch, from the accidental brushes

to that tight grip that speak of

assurance, innocence.



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.









It won’t do.


(c) Recital: Act I


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,

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,

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.

On the Event of My Death


On the event of my death,
I do not want you to mourn for me.
You can shed a few tears
but don’t overdo it.
Your eyes are meant for seeing,
not for where lonely tears
make their exit.

Although some may insist
on either black or white,
please wear something blue or red.
These are my favorite colors.
Besides, the mood is already gloomy.
It is just right to add some color to the occasion.

By all means, you can laugh all you want.
I would not take it as an offense.
Aside from the songs in my playlist,
one of my favorite sounds
is a person’s laughter,
Sobs & cries, the opposite.

You can apply some make-up on me
And dress me up if you want.
Just make sure that I don’t look
that fat.
I’m too much of a self-conscious person
so it’s somehow important for me
to look good.
I’d like to leave a good impression,
you see.

When you are about to lower
my casket to the ground,
release tons of balloons along with
the heaviness in your heart.

Dying is a part of life,
of God’s master plan.
I am just going on a trip.
Only, I think it would still take
a long time until we can see
each other again.

Until then, I shall watch over you,
in my seat made of clouds (remember
we used to gaze at them when we were kids?)
eagerly waiting for when
we could meet up again,
have coffee with the angels (and maybe God)
and talk like this was just
another Sunday afternoon.