for Cris Anthony Mendez
who was beaten to death in a Sigma Rho initiation ceremony
UP Diliman, August 2007

***

Blood brothers, they say
Who would've thought rational beings such as
These educated, wisdom-filled men
Even in the prime of their youth
Would take this notion as literal
As animals would

Enter, would-be-brother
Clad in school clothes and blindfold
Cross this threshold of darkness
It shall represent true manhood
A young man's full-grown valor
Bravery at its best

Swing, oh leader
Swing as if seeking revenge
From what had transpired that same night
When you yourself, young and able
Clad in the same school clothes
Eyes stung from the same blindfold
In the same dark threshold

Earned those bruises

Red, from passion
Black, from desolation
Blue, from longing
And finally

Purple.
Victory.

You conquered the threshold
You beat the odds
Gentleman of courage
Prince of strength
Vanquisher of torment
You rose from it all
Brother, Comrade

But did he?
Clad in school clothes and blindfold
Crossing the threshold of darkness
Did this would-be-brother
Young, seeking full-grown valor
And bravery at its best
Earn the same bruises?

Red, from pain
Blue, from hopelessness
Purple, from agony
And finally

Black.
Death.

Where are you, oh brave leader?
You wisdom-filled, rational being
Will you take death as literal
As animals would
And deny, at its occurrence,
This so-called
Blood brotherhood?

Written 24 August 2007

Of smoke and dewey atmosphere
On the fifth at midnight almost to dawn
When music and breeze intertwine
And choppy conversations dwindle into sighs

All else fade once inhaled and preserved
Deep inside throat, lung, and gut
The mind warps as the heart soars
Beat after pound after crack after toll

Three or four times should be enough
Standing slowly and surely till upright
Floating back inside the room, calm and still
As if along the shores of the meager doldrums

I sit and stare at the veins in your arm
I clench the sheets tight with cold fingers
Knowing all too well of an unfolding wave
To crash this side of the equator with disarray

Addicted to this lust, lusting this addiction
A deliberately made bittersweet mistake
To covet inner bedlam in search of verve
To capture even the minutest trace of new

I've been brushing up on poetry from "real writers", as my boss Titus fondly calls it. Funny how he thinks he's not part of the crew when he's one of the best writers I've ever encountered so far.

Anyway, he suggested I read through Sylvia Plath no less. I've liked Sylvia Plath ever since sophomore year in college when I read The Bell Jar, but went on Plath-leave soon after.

Here's one of my all-time favorite Sylvia Plath poems, one of a handful of her works that made me cry... primarily because I can relate!

On Looking Into the Eyes of a Demon Lover
by Sylvia Plath

Here are two pupils
whose moons of black
transform to cripples
all who look:

each lovely lady
who peers inside
take on the body
of a toad.

Within these mirrors
the world inverts:
the fond admirer's
burning darts

turn back to injure
the thrusting hand
and inflame to danger
the scarlet wound.

I sought my image
in the scorching glass,
for what fire could damage
a witch's face?

So I stared in that furnace
where beauties char
but found radiant Venus
reflected there.

I walk to the market place
where the rest of el corporate line up
to hand over thirty five bucks or wait for their change
and finally hop on the vehicle

I sit behind the driver
Pissed to see a woman cut through
It wasn't her turn. But I guess when one pays
it's as good as allowed

The engine revs up
The fumes don't hit my nostrils
For I am sealed tight
Inside

I smell you instead.

It's been a while since that smell
It reminded me so much of everything
Everything from our past and our thought-of future
Basement. Parked car. Darkness.

The memories drown
The images are waves
But I am sealed tight
In the present

The present that weeps.

The vehicle moves
Fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes
And I am sealed tight
I reach my destination

The smell. It stayed.

Written 24 January 2006
para kay Wilfrid

***

Di ka man lang nagsalita
Di man lang ako bumigay
Di ka man lang umawat
Di man lang ako sumaway

Paalam ngunit hindi nagpaalam
Tumalikod ngunit hindi kumaway
Umalis ngunit hindi bumalik
Tumawid ng walang tulay

Naisipang lumayo nung ako'y lumayo
Naisipang humiga nung ako'y tumayo
Naisipang huminto nung ako'y paikot
Naisipang humiwalay nung ako'y napa-sa'yo

Umaga'y sumapit, nagtago ang liwanag
Pagkalat ng dilim, tumagos ang ginaw
Puso'y nadurog sa sakit ng paglisan
Luha'y umagos sa damdaming uhaw

Hinahanap pa rin ang di na mahanap
Hinahangad pa rin ang di matupad
Iniibig pa rin kahit tapos na ang oras
Hinahabol pa rin ang kanyang paglipad

Di maintindihan ang pag-ikot ng buhay
Ibang iba siya sa pag-ikot ng mundo
Bakit nga ba pag-ikot ang tawag
Kung ang buhay nama'y may magkabilang dulo?

Written 27 February 2007
for Wilf

***

Nakatulala, iniisip ka
Ayokong pumikit, nais kang makita
Nasaan ka? Hanap hanap ka pa
Kay layo mo na ngunit ayoko
Ayokong maniwala

Kay bilis mong nawala, bakit nga ba?
'Di ka man lang nagsabi o nagsalita
Alaala mo'y alaala kong lagi
Limutin ka'y nararapat ngunit ayoko
Ayokong humindi

Dapit hapon pagsikat paglubog ng araw
Oras ko oras mo oras ng ating mundo
Ngunit tapos na, tapos na ang oras
Nararapat huminto ngunit ayoko
Ayokong huwag umatras

Ayoko na nito
Ayoko na
Ayoko
Ayokong umayoko sa'yo

Written 27 February 2006
for Wilf

(enclosed in parentheses were his words)

***

Identical souls. Intertwined spirits.
(Free)
Destined to separate painfully too soon
It's been so long but the wound still remains

It was love at the wrong time
(Forbidden love that's killing me)
But fate is immovable. Uncontrollable.
Love will always be Love nonetheless
True and absolute. Knows no earthly bounds.
Knows no concept of time...

...the passing of which is inevitable

But why go ahead painfully too soon?
Wishing each night I could bring it all back

The scent that you wear, the touch of your hair
Cold fingertips trailing down my neck
The slap of your breath against my tired cheek
Body and soul swallowing us whole
Holding my hand, sharing your strength
(When you said to me "be strong")
It travels so quick with a simple, mere touch
The way you pierce my soul with a five second look
When you bring me the sun each midnight when you call
(Those midnight calls)
The first high and the last goodbye
Your truth. Your passion. Your everything.
(You.)

Goodbye, my friend. My one great love.
Goodbye again
and again
and again

Written 27 February 2006
for Wilf

***

Orange and yellow.
Dorky, computer geek glasses.
Throw pillow propped against an empty swivel chair.
Big earphones.
Slouching twelve inches away from the screen.
Annoying goofy mocking laugh.
Black, worn out sneakers.
Nicotine.
Understanding each other completely through a tightly sealed clear glass window.
Gypsy looks, momentary glances.
Music. Good music that haunts. And trips. And sticks.
Poetry. Rapturous, even despairing words of passion, written on a crumpled piece of hotel paper.
Escape. Escaping necessity. Escaping reality. Escaping responsibility. Escaping duty.
Mole.
Rough strands of just-shampooed hair.
Beads of sweat.
Skin.
Cold fingertips.
Body.
Your body.
Your unforgettable, citrusy scent.
The scent that you wear.
Clinique Happy.
Mouthwash.
Soft kisses.
Violent kisses.
Body against body.
Neck.
Flailing thrashing careless limbs.
The excitement of keeping it secret.
The pain of keeping it secret.
Letting go but not letting go.
Leaving and coming back again.

You said not to rush love.
Am I allowed not to rush letting go too?

Written 17 November 2005
for Wilf

***

Prologue

Yesterday, here
Today, disappear
I itch to cling on
But tomorrow's already gone

I

The white wood above me
Is my own sky
I gaze and squint
As specks of stardust
Constellate
Reflect
Through the darkness

II

I let you swim inside my
Now murky mind
The sea in my head is
Saltless without your
Dash of truth
I forcefeed my dreams with
Bite-sized visions of you

III

But now that all's done
My nights remain paper-thin starved

IV

Time is unstoppable
Makes things inevitable
And try as I might,
I remain motionless
Motionless
But willing to take it all in
To embrace the inevitability of life

...and the finale thereof

V

I never imagined it to be
This soon
This deep
I wasn't prepared to let go

VI

But on this day
A day that is yours
(And it shall remain yours)
Time will indeed still move

Epilogue:

But so will you
And so will I
So let these final play of words
Breathe goodbye

Written 17 February 2006

***

What is life? Such a pity really for anyone to ask such an overused question, bringing up such a worn out topic. It is as if flipping through a stack of three dollar Hallmark cards or mulling over an ivy league application essay. But have you ever wondered why such a question, why such a topic, as ambiguous and difficult to figure out as it may sound, has become such a favorite ingredient of thought?

More than anything else, Esther wanted to write about life. "Is that just fucking vague or what?", she half-joked after explaining to Bernard her sudden craving for a published novel.

"It is fucking vague," he said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head as if it were the craziest, most pitiful thing he's ever heard in all his years as a professional, award-winning local novelist. He's never encountered aspiring novelists who didn't know what to specifically write about, who'd unashamedly come to him for advice without a good amount of research to back their ideas up. Even fiction requires research. But as frank a person as Bernard was, he knew when to keep his opinions to himself, especially when Esther happens to be part of the equation. She was, after all, the greatest friend he's ever had.

Bernard was in the middle of giving Esther a fiction writing crash course over jasmine tea. He was trying to dig deep into what his best friend truly had in mind and what she embraced with her soul. As amateurish as her thoughts were, Bernard knew that beneath that writer's block surface, Esther will someday be able to touch so many people's lives with her work.

"I'm surprised you suddenly want to learn how to write fiction. I thought you thrived entirely on day-to-day accounts of the real, am I right, Anne Frank?"

Esther was expecting this. And he was right. But the thing is, no matter how often she wrote and read about the life she regularly captures on paper, it seemed like she couldn't get anything from it. It always felt like they were only ideas being said, having it pass through one ear and eventually letting it freely, wastefully slide through the other, out into the sea of nothing forever.

She wanted something even more than real, and that was when fiction came to mind.

Bernard, as usual, seemed to have once again read her mind. "Darling, when you write fiction, remember that you are going to have to fabricate. It will all be lies. But the thing is, these lies will eventually have to march towards a particular truth. And that is what makes good fiction. That is what makes a good novel."

Perhaps that was precisely it. Maybe life itself, in all its seeming realism, is actually filled with all these illusions. Maybe that is why people continue to ask about it. Maybe that is why the world, in all the confidence it bestows when it comes to all the problems solved and questions answered, still continues to try to figure something out. It tries to figure it all out, not knowing that there's nothing to figure out in the first place.