The author actually wrote this poem

by a poorly lit candle light

because it blacked out in Sitio Basak

just five minutes before he started

to work motivated by the thought

that the effort in the act writing

is what makes a masterpiece great.

He could have actually gone to a place

where fluorescent bulbs were working

and where he can see the paper in a better light;

to a place where the shadows

are less darker and he

can write with ease.

Yet he did not go away from his table,

from his chair and his room

for his mind had pushed his hand

to push his pen to write: to press the ink

to scribble out the picture

of himself that night.

For if he went away from there

there might not be a struggling writer

sweating his palms and his temples

under the brightest light of the moment

trying to create himself in this dream

of words and sentences, of lines and verses

to put your thoughts in the midst

of a candle, a pen, a paper

and himself.

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.

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

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.

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..

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.

like it’s raining fire at the skies

burning the clouds to white

and it’s background a heat of blue.

a steam i’ve never seen fogs the air

then blankets my skin

with a warmth  you won’t dare think about

on a very snowy evening

because it had always been noon.

mornings were never mornings

but the extention of the sleep

robbed by the alcohol

hurriedly bought at 1:55 am

just before the liquor ban

and the empty bottle lies by the floor

just after dawn dies.

the day becomes night then

when my eyes pull down  the lids.

I then wake up to the sarcasm

of a great morning

and goes on all through out the day

which started without a bath,

for it will just come at me

as i bore holes to ground

with a big deal of iron

enough to fit our heads to it

for we always willed to come late.

yet this tardiness

could plant 30 trees

watered by sweats

running down from pores

widely opened by the days will

uttering the coming of the herbivores

ready to bring death

upon the little sapplings

who would’ve thrive better

on there plastic covered soil.

but they must be on the ground

for us to thrive for our future

seemingly dim for the haunting

thought of  soccerfields and courts

brought upon the feud of two faculties

playing us 32 caring less for the unfortunate.

we toil as the day ends,

but oh! for the love of treeplanting

i’m doing it again

for 100 trees more!

*************************

dig,.dip,.die,.

note: only my brods and sisses would understand this

Long Live UP Latagaw Lamdag Society!

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.

Today, it is yet even harder to make the world realize the value of an artwork, which is different from the scene of past decades and century. For the pressure, in the beginning of the revolution of art, was not a growing factor as there were just few varieties of art that existed. Michael Angelo, Da vinci and some other renaissance artists became famous for they have jived with the popular taste of the public, which had only one kind of taste. The music of Beethoven and Mozart became hits because it was only their genre that existed; there was not even a sense of difference of kinds of music before. Nowadays, particularly in music, kinds or genres have already been established. There is a very vast selection of the kinds of music: pop, jazz, reggae, rock, r n b and some other definitions of styles and approach to tones, rhythms and lyrics. From time to time, popularity shifts among these genres giving artists the difficulty to become famous and for their masterpieces to be appreciated. The same happens to other forms of art. It just depends where fame will swing its chance.

Having these many kinds of genres, classics, according to the genre they belong, can only be appreciated by the audience of its said genre. It is then so hard to make classic that can cover all the genres for there is a big difference among every person’s taste. For a composer, the challenge to make a classical piece has become a greater than before.

But we cannot deny the fact that there is still a presence art today. The recognition of it is just close to negligence. The blunted view of art slowly blinds the majority to what really art is. Who is to be blamed for the unsharpened scrutiny of the majority?

The blame resides on both the artists and the majority itself. Artists are paid according to the taste of the majority. The majority’s taste depends on what the composers feed them. And so then artists have the power to make the majority realize what art is through the masterpieces that they believe to possess an intrinsic value of art. Yet they have still the responsibility to please them. So they end up making pieces for the delight of the public and not for the sake of art itself. In their endeavor to please the majority, the classical value is more often neglected. This became a fault in the history of art, and unknowingly, became a trend.

The selection of the art can be defined with the word trend. This word is a threat to the survival of the classics. The metaphysical poetry of John Donne and George Herbert was replaced by the free verse of new artists. New artists made it a trend for metaphysical conceit was yet hard to be created or it did not click to the taste of many readers. Just showing the fault of both artists and audiences. Sometimes, artists can’t compare with the classics so they just make something that pleases the audience. Or, the audience has paid less interest to deeper thinking, which sometimes makes literary arts great and noble, they just choose to read selections that delight their taste and level of comprehension but don’t possess any touch of art in them.

If something really has a capability to become a classic, it will last for a long time. Shakespeare was an artist who delighted his audience and his patrons but still manages to make himself immortal to this day through his works. But there is can no longer be another Shakespeare that can exist now. The problem is that, there is a wrong sense of taste among majority. According to David Hume, in his essay, the Standard of Taste, an object before it can be claimed as good or bad must be examined to its smallest component. But the thing that is happening now is that, people agree according to the strong taste they experience from the art they appreciate. Artists of their time, like that of the Beatles or Elvis Presley, had this strong taste, which made it possible for them to become an epitaph in music. Yet this strong taste is no longer effective to the generation of listeners of the present for they consider themselves so young to adhere to those oldies, a reason we can connect to trend.

There are two kinds of composers, the worthy and the abuser. The one that makes music for money sake, yet still is appreciated because he rode with the taste of the poisoned majority. The worthy composer makes music for art sake, but is not appreciated, does not earn money and fame, for he does not delight the paying public. The bad means now gets good ends while good means receive bad ends. This is true especially in the present. It is easier for composers to make music that has no classical value and delights the majority; he can be famous and have a lot of money. Yet, this must not be, for without the practice of art, it may die. If composers are given two choices, art or money, the current market will suggest them to choose money. It is a wise choice if these composers can make something that delights to art and the audience. Yet, often, composers end up with the wrong choice suggested by the influence to earn market.

Another problem for the survival of classical music is how it will make its presence seen in the midst of millions of albums and artist. Diamond, how beautiful it may be can still be hidden within a pool of dirty mud. As there are so many artists today, best ones are often unseen by critics as there judgments are blocked by some unworthy artists. Sometimes, the critics themselves are also poisoned by the blunted view of the world. They judge music according to taste of the public. When they do, the majority notes as good critics. These critics may also dictate the market. Their views affects the music industry to be economy-oriented, contrary to what music should be, art-oriented.

To pursue the value of art may cause efforts that are worth a lifetime. And even with that sacrifice, appreciation in return may still be so negligible. This endeavor is a real painful task. This is true among almost all artists. As they always say, there is no money in writing, yet there are still students who still study writing to make it as a profession. Painters must have to wait for a real long time for a painting that is worth of a thousand bucks to be sold. Composers must wait for his album to be released, may be months or a year without the assurance that it will become a hit. It will just then depend on the swing of fame if to which genre it will shower its promise of appreciation, and some grace of cash.

A true composer or an artist will not let the fads and showbiz rationality rule this world. He is entitled to make a new one. The world can’t just stay with Greek Classicism or the Renaissance Art. Yet, the 21^st century must not consider these economy-oriented-alone kinds of music to be said as the best in this period. The poisoned public will continue being poisoned if not a new classical music will arrive to change the view of the world. No matter how long the wait before it will be appreciated, the most important thing is that, there should be.

It is established that it is even harder to pursue art in the present. If there exist true classical composers today, they will have faith in their masterpiece and face the challenge. No matter how big it may be. It is not possible for them to not care if their music would not sell but then more of their care must reside on the thought that the art in music must not die.

Art will still be art without its audience. It must not be created for the purpose of the audience’s delight for it loses its essence, its artness. It rather called audience then, than being called art.

(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.