The Grief of Mt. Makiling

It was on this steep earth
that I once stood upon,
when she spoke of the sweetest secret
that made the night the happiest of
Mt. Makiling; the blooming flowers
swayed with the blowing wind
and went on with the rhythm
of the sweet scent of the summer.

But the love she told me of
caused her a regret equal to the years
that wrapped it hidden in the forest.
For she learned of my foes;
their Spanish greed that could stop
the dancing of the leaves of the bushes
and the lies in their stories
that deafened the sound of the wind.

And the truth that she kept
must be said to her suitors
upon the promised light of the full moon,
and She had no choice left.
And my fairy saw a prophecy of
death to come upon my soul.
It stunned the shrubs and left them
a darkness that went on to the break of dawn.

It was in the shed
of this tree that she waited
for me to come. And we two
would float away by the river in a raft
to a pasture of our own,
where tall grasses and thick
bushes hid me from the eyes of death.

In the silence of that day
she was seated on this rock
under the shed of this tree,
far from the stabbing lies
by my rivals. For these,
they caused me a death I could not
stop by firing bullets that
shattered the serenity of Mt. Makiling.

I could no longer feel breathing,
Yet there was no time to grieve
For I must go to that rock
where she waited for me but
Maria was no longer there;
She ran to my body soaked in her tears.

And the silence of the wind
among the grasses
and trees heralded
to Maria’s grief and loss
a sound not heard but
felt by the heart.

A Still Photograph

When sunset rays walked by the terrace,
little kids and their smiles come by our house.
They left their slippers before the entrance
and went inside the four cornered
playground that will soon be
plumped with noises that sing my childhood’s tune.
We frolicked from the afternoon
until it was night: giggling
and waggling1 around like bees
as we stung each other with glee.

My mother was busy looking after us
while sewing pants that were
a foot longer than I was. The best dress for a clown,
I thought. And delight became a giant in me;
it couldn’t wait when it was done;
to seize all the smirks and crush them
into pieces of laughter. And a rapture
swelled around the smallest kid
inside oversized jeans: making
everyone blush and cackle2.

And the sun slept so long in the night.
I closed my eyes for the next day
but woke up with the window soaked
with never ending knocks of rain.
I grew up with that sound
and the silence of paper, pens and books
I had to spend everyday with
inside thick and deafened walls.
Cold mists sneak through the closed door now,
and a frown stands still in the shadowed room.
I hear nothing but my breathing,
As I smoke a stick
stabbing my lungs with smoggy air.

1 move rapidly back and forth
2 high-pitched laughter

cigarette tanka

A flickering fire,
Its last heat to light my stick.
I inhale the smoke
And realize the dried leaves
Would later be my own self.

Piercing Silence

Our house was still the same way it has been after two months when I last left it. I stood at the gate for a moment. I needed a breather.

My mother welcomed me with a smile. I did not smile back. It was not the time for us to exchange our happiness. I still had to unpack the bad news I have been carrying since I left my dorm.

“Ma, I pierced my lips,” I told her guiltily while showing the month-old hole under my lips. It tore her heart when she learned that my rebellious dream had already come true. She gazed at it and said nothing.

The screaming sound of silence stopped me from saying my apology and explanation.

We just stared at each other waiting for the next word to break the quiet air.

Her tears fell when she finally asked me why I did it. “I just want to,” a defiant answer that must have stabbed her heart deeper.

That night continued with our wordless sobs.

I never forgot the tears she shed. They did not stop flowing in my mind until I laid my head down to sleep. The next days will be harder, I said to myself.

The next morning, I found the voodoo doll my mother and I had made together. I assumed the doll was already awake as the sun’s rays hit her through a little spot on the window. It made me wish that my mother could have just been like her. She never asked me why and never cried.

I had always been piercing pins into my voodoo doll and she never spoke a word to me. I never heard her agony. I haven’t seen her shed a tear. Even at that time when I burned her. Her melting velvet skin flowed like blood. But she never complained about it. I treated her like a slave to the angry feelings that stirred inside of me.

But that morning, I did not feel like torturing her. Looking at her, I felt that she had enough already. The absence of pins and a match contributed to her salvation. I just stared at her silently. It felt like the last night’s atmosphere.
“Why can’t she be just like you?” I asked my doll stupidly for I know she wouldn’t answer back.

I smiled and placed her back in the same spot. Everything’s gonna be all right, I told myself optimistically as I looked forward to a new day.

My mother would soon accept my latest disobedience like she did before.

I was alone at the breakfast table. My mother was not home. The sound of the utensils reminded of how the table looked like when we placed the new jeans she had bought for me from the market last summer. It was the only time when the sound of wares was not the noise in the kitchen but the music of our excited voices. I was so happy that day. I hurried to the mirror as I tried them on. I was so proud to wear them to school, as I was the only punk guy walking on the pathway. “My mother bought them for me,” I told everyone who asked me where I had gotten them.

But I don’t wear them anymore. I looked awkward wearing them. They are just lying in darkness inside my closet, waiting to be worn again.

I went outside for a smoke. I sat near the clothesline. I saw my favorite t-shirt hanging with my other self-printed stuffs. I printed it with the famous profanity, Puta. I was not sure how my mother felt when she saw it. I did not bother thinking about it. All I knew was that, it hung there clean. She had washed it.

I chucked my cigarette and noticed the worn out black nail polish on my fingers. “Where did she go?” I missed my mother to fix that nail polish. She’s the artist of my nails. It had been easy for her; the only color I asked her to put on them was black. She always did them well.

I could not find her. So I did my nails by myself.

When she came back, she saw how ugly my nails turned out because of my novice skills. She sat beside me, held my hand and applied acetone on them. I was glad. She cleared the mess on my nails. And as usual, she did them well.

I thought that night would last for a long time. But it ended when she arrived. Her touch reached my heart and stitched it fixed. Our smiles became needles that sew our relationship back to the way it used to be.

That moment felt so happy I wished it would never end. But it had to. I have to come back to Davao. My mother packed my bag for me. Everything was there. She never left anything out. Most especially, she never forgot to pack my beloved voodoo doll. She laid the doll on top of my clothes. Resting in the comfort she deserves.

I’ll fix my doll when I arrive, I told myself as I think of the stitches my mother and I did on her when we made her. The burn under her left arm was the only piece that was yet unfixed. I found a cloth to patch her up and stitched her tight. I did it like my mother’s stitching job. She looked better after my work was done.

Every morning when I wake up, I always see her beside my bag. She makes me remember that night when I had told my mother about my piercing. She gives me the same cold stare my mother gave me. She never failed to make me feel the silence we had that time.

I looked at my voodoo doll and told her, “I’ll pierce my ears.” She just stared at me like she always does. That seemed like an approval to me. So I did it, six pins. The pain would be worse when I get home, I told myself as I finished the last one.

My mother welcomed me as she always did. A disgusted expression was on her face when she saw my pin-cushioned ear. But things worked out like they usually did. The wounds on my ears healed fast. And as they did, my mother accompanied me to mall to buy myself a new set of earrings. We bought black round ones. It was my choice. And she agreed with it.

I transferred the pins from my ears to my voodoo doll. She looked awful with them on. So I just threw them away.

She doesn’t deserve any more piercing on her. I have learned through her silence that she also needs love. A love equal to the love she had always shown me. #

si vylet krolithikah

p.s. this’ my voodoo doll,.if you want a picture of my mom,.just comment..

a past that is psychofreak’s

Looking back as it was the only thing he could do for the moment. The door creaks closing back. And darkness was all that was left on that gloomy night. The rain seemed to ignore his cold wrapped body and there was not a star to look up to for hope. But there was none to look back for. ‘To leave away from hell to suffer the coldness of what I thought was heaven’, his mind whispered a thousand times as he stood by the lawn staring regretfully to the house he never wished to live in.

He didn’t know what time it was as he never did and never will. The wait for a sun-dried morning that is not to come was the only thing he was sure of.  In the darkness of that evening, the street light was the only thing standing out. Yet he did not know what it was; as all he could see was red. At that, he didn’t even know it was red forgetting what it was.

The rain stopped.

And the only sound disturbing the stillness was falling leaves taken by the wind from the twigs. Some fell upon him but he did not bother to notice. He was suffering a pain that cannot be disturbed.

‘You did it. You finally did it. It was all his fault. It is right that he is gone.’

He scream but not a sound was heard. Lacking the strength to stand, he fell to the soaked ground.  He was crying, but his eyes could no longer shed a tear. ‘Why?’, he asked but there was none to answer his cry.

‘Who killed ma?’, the next question that bugged his mind as she saw her lying by the doorstep. ‘Ma, i’ll saved you ma. Dad won’t hurt you again’, he said as he stared straight at his lifeless mother’s eyes dripping red. ‘But…but…but you tried to kill me!’ and he was filled with rage, ‘you did! this is the knife you stabbed me with!’ He looked at sharpened steel held by his hand,’this is the evidence! I tell the police.’

‘But Dad’s the police!’

‘Haha, he’s already dead.’

‘He can’t get me anymore!’

Like the sudden change of the weather, his laughter broke out into the night. ‘At last! It feels good to be alive!’

The pavement he laid his frailed body was still wet with the rain and his blood when he started to walk away from it. He didn’t notice it was from his wounds as all he could see was black on it. Struggling with a pain he tried to avoid noticing, he fell again. Yet his right chest dripping blood couldn’t help him for it. He can’t stop it. He fell to the ground.

The cloudy sky was the last view before he closed his eyes.

He opened his eyes to wake up from the thoughts he hated the most.

‘And now! Did you realize why you don’t have the right to live!?”, he shouted at a girl tied on a seat. She couldn’t answer back not only that fear stopped her from gathering any thought but also her tongue was cut out along with her teeth. ‘Your eyes, they’re beautiful’, he said to her while pointing a knife straight to her forehead, ‘No! They’re not yours! They’re mine now.’

‘Thud!’, a sound of a stab and the sudden beat of her heart seemed to be same, ‘Thud!’

‘Thud!’

…

You know what happened next.

[enter] I look around my room realizing the many points I missed to tell you.

But, I’d wish you’d not ask for it. You might be robbed of your right to live.

If your not insane you’ll agree with me, ‘I don’t want that to know either.’

oOOOo

You might think I’m making up an excuse for lack of writing skills. It’s just that. I don’t want to die yet.

A Hell Tale of the Crows, the Demon and the Tree (Psychoanalytic Criticism)

Last night I dreamed of crows

perching upon a beautiful tree:

her slender trunk that goes down

in a graceful flow to the ground

like perfect curves of a fairy goddess;

smooth and lustrous like velvet cloth.

And her leaves of green that sways

with the slight blow of the wind.

 

But my dream was about the crows

perching upon that beautiful tree.

Waiting for the green drupes hanging by

her branches that are strong enough

to hold the prettiest fruits I’ll ever see.

I saw in my dream the red berries

she would soon have:

they glittered with rays of the sun

resting on her pleasing stance.

 

Oh that beautiful tree,

standing in her innocence

upon the verdant meadows.

Helpless in her solitude,

not a knowledge of the crows’ desire

crossed her mind:

they waited perched and caressed

her innocent branches

to slaughter her berries

with no mercy at all.

 

And there shined a shiny demon

in the middle of that grassy field.

He was black with anger

and became fiery

on the sight of the evil crows

perching upon that beautiful tree.

He thrust his sharp claws

on the crows that perched only

to devour the beauty of that tree.

He grasped them with a clutch

that separated them from their feathers,

tore their flesh and plucked their eyes out.

 

He opened his mouth

and shouted to all

who would dare go near the tree

“She is mine! Only mine!”

 

He burned while he hugged

the tree’s trunk and burned her.

 

He sent her soul to hell

to be with her forever.

Burning the whole place

with an passion immeasurable

 

even with the heat of the sun.

 

I then woke up from that dream

with a smile I did not understand why.

 

°ooOoo°

 

            It is obvious that this piece would belong to the psychoanalytic criticism, not only for the identifying phrase that I enclosed within parentheses above but also for its elements that would define itself. First and foremost, it is a dream. Which Master Freud mostly concentrated his time on, which, in the more popular term, it is obviously the unconscious state. I did not make this poem while I was unconscious; I just stated that it is a dream to seem like it was such. The events that happened could also make it seem like a dream, the exaggeration, the unity of scene that do not complement each other; e.g. verdant meadows + shiny demon = distorted image.

As I have used the definition dream in this poem, I would like to state about latent content and manifest contest. Latent content is the real desire of the author, and manifest content is the reported dream. Therefore, manifest is the plot while latent is the true meaning based on the author.

            So what is my desire? (We’re talking about author psychology here). Before I answer that, let me state that I am the Demon in this hellish tale. Therefore, my desire is the tree. Or let’s say she (she-who-must-not-be-named). And also to kill the crows that always perch upon that angelic tree(they also correspond to real people in my reality). I don’t know what’s in their minds or what their desires are I, as the demon, just want to kill them and own the tree. Nah, I just don’t want to see them around her. Is this obsession? Yes. And I am mad. And so, that’s a good example for psychoanalysis. (I need a psychiatrist).

I have already said that this poem is just a dream, a desire. Therefore, if we would have this explanation reach the ‘Tripartite model’ in Psychoanalysis, you know, the famous Id-Ego-Superego thing, it is purely Id. Id is the irrational part of a person’s psychology; it is unconscious, which contains secret desires, wishes and fears. Ego is the rational part or the logical, the part that is awake and corresponds to the reality principle. In the dream, ego could not regulate the Id. But when the speaker was already awake, then the ego claims its part. Superego was also absent since social norms mean nothing in the dream.

But why did the speaker smile at the end of the poem? He was just happy that what he desired happened in his dream. If only there is no such thing as ego and superego, the death of the crows is already done by now.