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..

Of Fireflies and Falling leaves

Me: Why aren’t there fireflies by that tree anymore?

She: They must have gone to a quieter place dars.

Me: Why not here?Were we such a big bother to watch them at night?

She: Yes we were.

Me: How did you know?

She: I didn’t actually. It just an alibi so you won’t bug me anymore to watch them.

Me: What about luciferins you fancied talking about?

She: Forget about it. I don’t give a damn anymore.

Me: You won’t join to watch a firefly if i see one?

She: Nope. Sorry.

Me: I’d still enjoy watching their flickering lights without you by my side.

She: Okay then. Go. Find a firefly on your own.

Me: I will. You will see, I’ll be smiling soon.

Dried Out of Tears

rain

falls

down

from the sky;

like rejected angels,

soaked

in their tears

and covering their whole being

sadness felt within.

cold hearts

and loneliness

pushing them down

down

down to the ground.

and below the earth

they weep

with no more tears to shed.

broken hearts and concrete floors

(note: this will gored with purple patches)

(Ignition…Clutch…First Gear…)

The rain outside the window  seemed to never end as i hoped it would be. The sky’s not clouded but only dark. I was on my way home. The dashboard was the only view aside from the long road I was taking. I knew the directions but I was  going nowhere.

‘Pouring over photographs…I’m living in your letters…breath’, the stereo’s whining with the sad thoughts from the track it plays. I had no choice but to hear it over and over again for I was busy driving home. And the windshield wipers kept on waving with the music. The soaked pavement of the front lawn of my house drawn in mind’s still a mile away.

A postcard laid next to the lighter and the cigarette case. The sight of it tempted to light a stick. But, my head ache forbade me to. It’s the best thing to do at times cold like those but it was good as a filler on the dashboard’s empty space at that moment.

(Clutch…Brake…Reverse Gear…)

Looking back I remembered myself sitting by a chair holding a glass of vodka on my right hand and it’s half filled bottle on the other. The room was warm from the burning wood by the furnace. I enjoyed watching every twig turn to coal. I watched them while slouching on my favorite couch. And just as the last twig burned black, my back grew tired of my position and I started to sit erect. The window was the first thing I saw. I let my eyes see further.

It was starting to pour outside. It was the end of summer.

I bade the best season of the year so long as I raise my glass to it and took a sip. The liquor slid straight from my tongue, to my throat and down below leaving heat and made me feel the summer I missed for a while.

The room was poorly lit by a lamp shade next to an empty couch in front of me. I gazed around. I looked at the fridge for the second time. And this time, I took the courage to stare straight at the note stuck on it’s door. I filled my glass full until the last drop of the bottle I was holding. And then, I zoned out with my sight fixed at the note I haven’t read yet.

…Summer rushed in large amounts of memories within me, the heat first burned my body and then squeezed my brain. My skin perspired and my forehead dripped sweats to my temples. I let out a calloused sigh. ‘That was too much of head ache’, I said, ‘too much that it had my heart throbbed with pain.’

The bottle I held was on the carpet and the glass was already in pieces by the floor. It’s fall was not saved by the thick cloth an inch from it.

My watch struck 12 am. I had no time to clean it over for I had to go. I took the note and headed to the car.

I placed it on the dashboard and started the engine.

(Clutch…Gear First…Second…Third…Fourth…Fifth…)

I was in a hurry that I even forgot to close  the door. No time to waste. I had to drive fast to the station.

There were only empty seats when I arrived. It started to rain hard. I wanted to wait for someone but there was no longer no one to wait for. I just headed home.

‘If only that place never existed, there would have not been a great university there. That glass could have not been broken. It could have been a cloudless night. I could’ve stopped the rain.’, I realized myself talking while I tried to keep the car running straight avoiding the concrete road’s shoulder.

And everything was quiet inside. I hoped for the passenger seat to speak but it didn’t. I changed the speed to gear fifth and stepped on the gas like I was hoping the car had sixth gear.

I stretch my hand for a stick and the lighter. I ignored my aching head and lit it up. I was driving with only one hand on the steering wheel at top but still I felt I had to read the note again. ‘This distance seems terrible…’

CRASH!

My head was stuck at the steering wheel but my hand still held the paper ‘…there’s no need to test my heart with useless space. These roads go on forever, they’ll always be a place for you in my heart.’ It read.

I looked at the wall I just hit. It was dry. Only my blood  soaked the pavement wet. It made me realize that making up a false rain does not help an absence stricken heart.

And the song on the stereo went until the end, ‘…Cause turning to you is like falling in love when you’re ten.’

ooOoo

Dashboard Confessional. “Broken Hearts and Concrete Floors” Swiss Army Romance. Fiddler Records, 2000.

…for those who did not understand this piece of flash,.just leave a 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.

Ang Kamalas sa Itoy nga si Junar (Marxist Criticism)

 

Usa ka adlaw sa akong paglatagaw ning syudad nga wa nako ma-ilhi, aduna koy namatikdang mga iro nga arno nga nag-riot sa tunga sa dalang walay ubang nag-labang, ako ra. Kalingaw ra ba jud tan-awon sa ilang pagbinigyanay. ‘Tsoy, unsa’y hinungdan aning gubota?’ nangutana ko sa isa pa ka iro nga nagsabay sa akong pagtan-aw sa mga arno. ‘Aw, nadakpan ni Browny si Lassie nga nag-jer jer kay Barbie kagahapon. Palag kaau mga tribu ASPO bai.’

Sa tunga sa kagubot sa mga baba nga nagkinagtanay sa dalan, sa dihang ni-abot si manong nga taga-dog pound. ‘Gashong! Dagan pareng!’, ang tingog nga wa nako nadunggan kay akong mata napuno sa kahadlok sa kadena ni manong.

Kasamok ba aning higot. Ganiha pa naglingaw ug tu-ok sa akong nag-pula pulang li-og. ‘P*ta! Scooby! Pandak! Tol, asa na man mo?’, ang akong walay pulos nga pag-singgit, kay dili makalusot akong tingog sa baga nga ding ding sa salakyan nga nagdagan. Ang akong kalagot misurok padulong sa tumoy sa akong mga dunggan sa pagkabalo nga si Browny kauban sad nako didto. Ug sa kamalas na lang jud sa akong kalag, sabay pa jud niya iyang mga batos nga mga dagko’g lawas inig mubarog pareha sa ilang leader.

Nipahiyum si Browny sa ako sa iyang pagsulti, ‘Tsoy, barkada man daw mong Lassie daw?’ Apan kalit nako namatikdan ang tudlo sa akong inahan, “Dong, ayaw jud pamakak kay ma-impyerno ka.” Ug nisulti ko kang Browny sa akong kahadlok sa mga pangil niyang nag-siwil sa kangit-ngit sa gabii. ‘Ay, kuys, dili gud.’

Abi nakog kalusot nako sa iyang kalagot sa akong bati nga dagway. ‘Uy, tsoy, nagsabay baya mu tong gi-jer niya si Barbie, kita ta ka sa kiliran sa dalan’, ingon ang dakong baba sa yawa nga akong kaatbang. Sa tinuuray nga storya ako miingon kaniya, ‘Kuys, nilabay ra ko ato.’

‘Ay, ay, sa imong kabayot, palusot ra ka.’

‘Kuys bitaw kuys, wa jud koy labot atong affair nila.’

‘Bakak! Dagway nimo, wa koy makit-ang kamatuuran.’

Wa na nakatubag akong ba-bang nagkurog kay kalit ra ko niya gi-bigyan sa tiyan. Ug iyang mga batos nitabang ug kulata sa akong lawas nga ilang gikaliwa’g pa-ak pa-ak. Usa ka kilo nga karne na ilang nawagtang nako pero wa pa sila napul-an. Kagat diri. Kagat diri na sad. Kagat. Kagat. Kagat.

Ang akong lawas napuno na sa kapula sa akong dugo ug sa kabaho sa ilang mga laway. Kanus-a pa man ni mahuman akong paglisod? Kapait na lang jud ani sa kinabuhi sa irong latagaw. Walay balay. Walay pagkaon. Tripan pa jud sa mga arno. Ma, wa man ko namakak pero ngano man ko na-impyerno??

Wala pud koy mama nga mag-tubag sa akong pangutana kay gipatay pud siya’g kulata ni Browny sauna human pila ka bulan ko niya gi-anak. Mama man gud ba, uyab man unta to sila ni Browny nya nisabay pa jud kay papa. Awa, naanak na lang ko. P*ta! Ngano gi-anak pa ko?

Agay! Agay! ‘Kuys, tama na kuys. Husto na! Husto na!’ ang kapila nako gisinggit sa mga nag-pista sa akong kaluoyng lawas. Ug at last, ni-abot si manong. Ambot unsa iyang gisulti pero naundang man sila.

Nya, gi-isa isa mi’g kuha sa sakyanan ug gidala sa lugar nga wa na sad nako ma-ilhi kung asa. Apan nakasulat sa entrance,

“Polomolok City Dog Pound:

Pagbantay sa Iro,

Iro, pagbantay pud.”

 

°ooOoo°

  

            We can see here the struggle of Junar as a wandering teenager dog with nothing else in life but only himself. And also the hierarchy of the dogs in the neighborhood with Browny at the top because of the respect they owe to his strength and his many friends. In a way, a sense of political capitalism is owned by Browny and it serves him the privilege to scorn other dogs’ life. Junar could not do anything with the tormented fate he did not choose to have. The same would be the picture of the millions of Filipino under the poverty line. They did not choose to be poor but still they could not do anything to rise above the many capitalist that continues to intensify their struggle and push their status down in the pyramid of class struggle.

            By the way, I made a flash fiction and used the bisaya language as medium with some kanto terms (e.g. arno, which is similar to the term ‘bugoy’ and equivocal to ‘buang’). Since the characters are stray dogs comparable to the ‘tambays’ and the OSY we see lingering around the streets of the city. Forgive me for the comparing the dogs to the situation of the people in the streets but I guess it’s the closest situation for the story.

            For all the things that happened to our pitiful character in the story, he was innocent. He did not choose to be born, and it is true that when Browny saw him with Lassie f*cking Barbie, he was just a passer by, like how he was in the riot when the guy from the dog pound caught him. But he could not do anything anymore; they had arrived at the dog pound where he will spend more time mauled by Browny and his company and the ‘Repressive State Apparatus’, the dog pound.

            If only, the spirit of communism rules the dogs in the neighborhood of Junar, he could have not struggled with his life. Browny could have used his strength to help other dogs. Everyone could have fair to everyone. Say for example, Browny could have listened to the defense of Junar that he was just a passer by because the little teenager dog had the right to speak and to be listened to.

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.