books launched and received

Last Friday, September 2, the book “Under The Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry” was launched at the Ayala Museum.

A part of the 4th .MOV International Film, Music, and Literature Festival, the anthology which is edited by Khavn De La Cruz and Joel Toldeo, is a “compilation of 150 Filipino poets: from the renowned and the known to the upcoming and the knowable. It explores the topography of the phenomenal, social, and lingual developments of contemporary Philippine poetry.”

My poem “Stones” is in it, along with works from contributors like Gemino Abad, Jose Marte Abueg, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, Jose Wendell Capili, Mikael de Lara Co, Jose Dalisay, Lourd Ernest De Veyra, Lav Diaz, Simeon Dumdum Jr., Marjorie Evasco, Marc Gaba, Eric Gamalinda, J. Neil Garcia, Marne Kilates, Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta, Marra PL. Lanot, Bienvenido Lumbera, Eliza Victoria, Alfred Yuson, and many more.

The table of content is definitely enough to whirl me to fantasyland. Tin Lao would agree with me.


The event was a strange gathering: mainstream and indie personalities, entertainment bigwigs, and foreign ambassadors and bands took the stage and gave readings of select poems from the book. Though the museum was crowded, I managed to see familiar faces (Alyza Taguilaso, Anne Abad, Jimmy Abad, Arbeen Acuña, Keith Cortez, Noelle Leslie dela Cruz, Eva Gubat, Gian Lao, Ned Parfan, John Iremil Teodoro, Krip Yuson) and say hello to new ones (Erica Gonzales, Jose Jason Chancoco, Lope Cui, Jr., Dakila Cutab, Christa De La Cruz, Jacob Walse-Dominguez, Bebang Siy, Denver Torres, Ronald Verzo).

Also on the same night, I received a copy of the Dream-Pop Issue of Paper Monster Press. My apologies though; I forgot who to thank to here for handing me the little chapbook. My poem “Ghost,” as mentioned before, is in this interesting outing.

So, that was it. In other words, it was a long night.

how sleep can be defined in sestina

I
Sleep? What is sleep but a still moment of escape,
a practice better suspended in litmus clouds,
or cumulus, or cumulonimbus, or stratus in layers
levitating like sheets of linen above closed eyes,
where light could sift through their folds and head
to corners and creases and places night holds.

II
Sleep! The epilogue that the waking eye holds!
Defined by flows and circles, shapes that escape
conventions of space, all forms of sleep head
to where they are contentedly in a blur: clouds.
This has a reason: spires and streets tire the eyes,
And glass buildings split-slice bodies in thin layers.

III
Question: Does one need two mirrors to face layers
upon layers of the self, wherein a hand holds
the multiplicity of sameness, gripping the eyes
with images so grand no marvel could escape
the practical lips? No, what are needed are clouds,
real but invisible to touch. Like thoughts in the head.

IV
Some say sleep does not appoint dream as the head,
the principal in every meditation, since it layers
itself with elucidations on living. They say it clouds
logic, lifebuoy of occasional foolishness. Yes, it holds
some truth: Dreams give the wrong reason to escape.
They trick people not to look with their own eyes.

V
Question: So why trouble on things not seen with the eyes?
Response: Answers are buried beneath the head.
Question: But why trouble on intricate plans of escape
to dreamscapes when most truth lies in layers
of falsehood, in patterns? Response: the sleeper holds
too much weight he wishes to rest on the ninth set of clouds.

VI
Sleep comes not only at night; it heralds the clouds
as day approaches, like one morning a man sees them, eyes
them skimming the sun over the skyline, in bed that holds
him, cradles him in the next hours ,where his head
rests on layers of blanket, of blankets in layers.
He closes his eyes, defines sleep: There will be no escape.

VII
But nothing holds certainty as beautifully as sleep, to escape
with eyes briefly in peace, to see between the layers
of random thoughts where clouds could set sail in the head.

[ a revision of an attempt last year ]

winners of the 61st carlos palanca memorial awards for literature

It’s that season again. A couple of favorites and buddies turn up in this year’s list of winners, and here’s one great holler to fellow katsubong Joshua Lim So for winning first prize in full-length play and third prize in dulang ganap ang haba. Congratulations to everyone. There’s still next year, so better write those works now.

another one

My poem “Ghost” is in the Dream-Pop Issue of Paper Monster Press (along with my dear fellow hipon, Eva Gubat). Lifted from their Facebook page, here is the list of contributors. The launching took place last August 27 at Espasyo Siningdikato, Dasmariñas Cavite.

LITERARY Jim Pascual Agustin (Tubig-alat sa Ating mga Mata)
Jack Alvarez (Chemistry)
Joyce Marisse Amon (Sending Out)
F. Jordan Carnice (Ghost)
Marella Jem Castro (“I Suppose You Are Real,” said The Velveteen Rabbit)
Jose Jason Chancoco (Astral Travel)
Gigi Constantino (Light Captured)
Christa De La Cruz (Reprieve)
Danilo dela Cruz, Jr. (Ang Araw na Para sa Kanya)
Lolito Go (Sa Pagkalalake)
Eva Gubat (How Somebody Mimicking Joy Williams Would Talk One Morning)
Sinta Isaac (Espongha)
Mark Alvin Jabrica (Listen To Your Mother)
Melay Guanzon Lapeña (Continuity Study)
Veronica Laurel (Waking)
Jenni de Leon-Slater (Colin)
A.B. Mendoza (Dry As Leaves)
Patrick Quintos (1:00 a.m.)
Thirteen Salonga (Encounter #1)
Dott Seki (One Man Universe)

MUSIC The Dunes (Going Under)
Eggboy (No Way Jose-Alternate Version)
Gentlemen Marry Brunettes (Postlude to Fervor)
Identikit (Tiny Fractures)
The Informations (The Wind and The Stone)
J-Solo (Riding Waves, Passing Time)
KR-O.K (Run To Me-Beegees Cover)
Lipstick Tears (Will You Please)
Minimal Pop (Le Rêve)
Monochrome (Grey Sky Manila)
Neuter Lover (Find)
Phantom Sizemore (How To Kill a Giant Robot)
Pogs (Sticky Dreams)
The Standards (Espinosa)

VISUAL ART
Jesus Tejada
Bunny Rose
Tilde Acuña
Chris Bird

seashells

A feat, this heart’s control
Moment to moment
To scale all love down
To a cupped hand’s size
—from “Bonsai,” Edith L. Tiempo


All this time
Here is a pulse,
As faint as a pin,
Beating, and then gone.
Now this is what I fear:
I have no new words for love.

But I have other things to say,
Ocean wide, mineral bright,
And I need an anchor
To keep them where
They ought to be:
A chair, a small corner,
A dog-ear of a journal,
A hill house, or you.

If this is not enough,
I will comb the shores
For a conch, the poet
Of seashells, and keep it,
Listen to its ageless whisper.

Seldom do we get
A promise of a rosy future
From such smooth lips,
Something out of a treasure
We could hold and cradle
In the arms like a child.

there are no goodbyes

I didn’t expect yesterday would end up as grey as the aternoon skies. At around 5:30pm, August 21, National Artist for Literature Edith Lopez Tiempo passed away. I could not define the sadness that drenched over me all of a sudden, the wall that blankly stared back after receiving the news.

The literary community calls her “Mom,” and at this very moment her children are in sorrow.

She left a void as immense as her passion, and now it is up to her children to keep her words alive. Hope is all we could have—hope for relief, hope for posterity, hope for lasting remembrances.

There is not enough “thank you” to contain my gratitude for the teachings I receive from her, the fleetest moments I am with her, the gentle smile the first time I met her. She may be an old woman but the wisdom in her eyes is young, always ripe, sometimes with a glint of the jokester. “How proud I am to have a writer who is Biblically approved,” she wrote on my Sands and Coral journal I had her autographed back in 2008. In my mind, well, how proud I am to have you as a second mom in my second home.

In the Director’s Dinner last May 17 where Mom graciously attended for the 50th anniversary of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop she co-founded with her husband, Edilberto Tiempo, she said, “I am happy, happy to be with you as I have always been happy all these 50 years with writers, and I hope that each one of you will be happy to say that, ‘Oh, I was last night with a 92-year-old woman who claims she is a writer.’”

And in my simple words, I am happy, Mom. I am.

[ photo by Urich Calumpang ]

mirrors

Nothing could be as sad
as two mirrors falling in love.
It seems they can never settle
on what they want to see
in each other’s faces.

Mirrors only find infinite depth
in sex. Doubling of repetitions
in sweet nothings. When one
reaches for a kiss, ennui is served
on endless plates of silver.

Humility could not save them,
not even their penchant to tell
the truth. Though gifted with
keenest memories, mirrors
fall victim to nostalgia.

Perhaps two mirrors
are too beautiful for each other.
Perhaps both should look
the other way. Though broken,
both would remain complete.

*

Just doing something playful this time. The four stanzas in this poem could be read in different order (1-2-3-4 or 4-2-3-1 or 3-1-4-2 and so on). I am not sure if there’s a name for this writing, but I’d love to continue making more of this—reflecting the content of the poem to the physical form, structure, or in any means other than just the persona talking. It is fun.

brilliance in music

The Camerawalls, which is led by Clementine “Clem” Castro, a member of the now-defunct band Orange and Lemons, has the freshest sound I’ve heard lately in the local music industry.

Lord Of The Flies - The Camerawalls by Lilystars Records


I remember seeing their albums Pocket Guide to the Otherworld and Bread and Circuses in Powerbooks Megamall, but when I went back the other month they were all gone. This broke my heart. Thankfully, samples of their discography are available in their website. Just listen to the song embedded above (my personal favorite, next to “Birthday Wishes”), or those in the site, and you’ll get this grand, sweeping sense of bliss, it’s as if you could touch and taste the beauty of colors.

And wait. Did I hear that right, strings from a rondalla instrument? Beautiful, indeed, just beautiful. Music like this should come out more often in the Philippines.

[ image lifted from this site ]

the storms around us

Can there be more damaging
than the whip of wind
on our roofs and walls?

What rests between sky and dirt
is not depth but our breathing, heavy,
and the regular whisk of debris:

Fur from stray dogs, plywood, broken
tree limbs, galvanized sheets of iron,
tin cans, newspaper front page, etc.

We cannot cry over tempests,
imminent like a plague of locusts
thick for days and nights.

So let us confess with the last
dreg of faith we hold on to, spill
not only the sins we have committed

but also those we have not: the eye
of the storm sees what hides behind
the calm we build around our houses.

We know our own transgressions.
Though secrets wade swiftly
against the current of our litanies

combined, I am a firm believer of rain.
Its urge to fall quiets the noise,
quiets the maddening soul.


[ image lifted from this site ]

mine included

Under the Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry
Edited by Kvan Dela Cruz & Joel Toledo

Translations by

Piya Constantino, Eduardo Dayao, Mikael de Lara Co, Paula Maria Diaz, U Z. Eliserio, Ryan Fuentes, Luisa A. Igloria, Cecilia B. Imperial, Marne L. Kilates, John B. Labella, Aila Lenard, Paolo Manalo, Mark Pangilinan, Chuckberry Pascual, Sue Prado, Nonilon V. Queano , D.M. Reyes, Sandra Nicole Roldan, Amoz Ezra Salazar, Ronald V. Verzo II, and Xenia-Chloe Villanueva

For the complete list of works and contributors, click here.

Book launching on
2 September 2011 (Friday)
Ayala Museum, Makati City
6 o’clock in the evening

words

There is no stopping
the current of words washing up
on the curves of our tongues.
They roll ceaselessly, abundant
in waves of syllables
only divided, separated
by the many hands
of our crooked coastlines: langgam
crawls on Manilan walls when
it flies over the waters of Panglao
or zips across Agusan skies.
I guess this could not only be
a matter of geography, syntax,
or the origins of story and art
at the ends of history and heart.

Like all legends,
the firstborn tale burrows deep
in the folds of the past,
inconspicuous, the same way how
we can never tell
what differentiates blue and blew
unless one is gestured at:
“Look at the sky!”
“Feel the wind!”

Sometimes words belie
their true intentions:
stay leads to move,
calm equates to danger,
and threat stands as a proxy
for reveal, just as eyes
could conceal itself as blind.

Until we find our panabot,
our many renditions of katwiran
even if our mouths continue to spring
the strangest breed of identities,
we must learn the basics: love
never means love
at all times.

tears dry on their own

1983 - 2011

If not for this talented young girl, the likes of Duffy, Estelle, Paloma Faith, Lily Allen, and even the soulful but shy Adele would practically be heard little in the airwaves. Her songs make up the soundtrack of my melodrama a couple of years ago, and it is sad knowing that I won’t be hearing more from her in the coming days.

[ image lifted from this site ]

doorknobs

A lot has been said about distance,
But what about doorknobs? Rarely
Do their weight and girth beg one
For scrutiny. Let’s turn one over now,
See its gears, knots, screws and spindles,
See what we can make of its anatomy.
Study it, shun the memory of departure
In a corner. Or somewhere hard to reach.
Leave room for these common complaints:

This should turn the other way.
This locks itself twice already.
The key gets stuck.

As infants, we know how close-
Open works, our small palms blooming
And unblooming to the chants of tireless
Mothers, yet now we wait for a doorknob
To turn, the hinges of doors to swing wide
In welcoming angles. On the other side,
The dusts on the mats remain unmoving,
Like something fragile is left for granted.
Somehow, we ignore our own deductions:

There was not much space here.
The air was dense around us.
This was too tight.

But whatever mechanism
These knobs hold within,
How their turns mimic the calls
Of seconds that have passed,
Take a couple of steps back.
We can never be too sure
Of the promise of a doorknob’s
Clicking. Stay away from it
And lean next to the windows.

it all ends

That’s basically what it is all about. The Harry Potter books were one of my early affairs with literature, which were all preceded by Bible stories, a small stack of Hardy Boys, a humongous pile of Goosebumps, and that thick tome of fairy tales from around the world. My attachment grew as the years go by, from grade four in the late 90s to second year college.

Fast-forward to another decade and I still cannot help but find a hint of familiarity in the boy wizard’s life—a story richly told by Jo Rowling whose rags-to-riches story is a triumph equaling Harry Potter’s fate. The series then cemented my first impression that reading would not be some simple phase like toys, afternoon cartoon shows, and pimples.

This first impression, surprisingly, and much to my relief, lasted.

I was glad there were movies to fill the void when the seventh book finally rested on my shelf. But just last week, the concluding film of the series rolled its credits to the score of John William’s nostalgic “Hedwig’s Theme.” Time does go by so swiftly it is heartbreaking.

Directed by David Yates, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 was not perfect. (I still insist the third film by Alfonso Cuarón, and even among the books, Prisoner of Azakaban is the best). They could have done better with Snape’s boathouse scene. The swirling smokes in the pensieve, the trails of apparating Death Eaters, and some spells look all the same. Some ripe stories are altered or forgotten.

There are more nitpickings inside my head but all these are trumped by the gist of it all: the freshness of the familiar, the defeat of all things evil, the inventiveness of a world where memory and magic serve something more than to inspire awe but also friendship and love.

This is what I see of the end, and it is like going back to the very beginning, going back to what captured my childhood imagination. Everything comes full circle, and it is bittersweet. Maybe soon, the pains of my nostalgia would all be gone, but the scar would still linger like Harry’s, perhaps a reminder of how great everything has changed. I believe all will be well.

P.S. The 3D is good except for one catch: the glasses get foggy and wet. You will see.

response to a doctor's findings

The doctor pulls bones,
muscles, tissues, all white
in that ghost of a film
from the brown enve-
lope. I hear it shuffle
with the rest of the do-
cuments inside, as if breath-
ing huskily, owning up the pain.

Some sounds are not meant
to be heard yet I close in.
A series of fluctuating graphs
is studied next to a list
of linked letters and numb-
ers that make no sense.
I consider having my eyes
checked the following week.

A joke, how this one diagram
curves into a smile and mocks
at my failure to figure
the codes siphoned
from my own body.
Incomplete right bundle branch.
Emphysema. Acid reflux.
The charts are laughing.

But there is none of these.
Only a nod and a smile,
real, finally, from the doctor
who hands a prescription.
Before leaving, we
exchange possibili-
ties, assurances and re-
assurances.

“Your heart is strong,”
the doctor says.
In my head,
No, doc, it’s not.
I just think
there are mis-
takes that will al-

ways be right.

2011 philippines free press literary awards winners

Team Jologs strikes again! Here are the winners of this year’s Philippines Free Press Literary Awards that capped last night at Club Café, Makati Sports Club. Netty, you make us proud. And for those who didn’t land in any of the three spots of the two genres, being a finalist I think is enough commendable honor. Congratulations to all!

FICTION

1st - Caroline Hau, “Recuerdos de Patay”
2nd - Jenette Vizcocho, “When You See A Dog”
3rd - Michelangelo Samson, “Erscheinung”

POETRY

1st - Luisa A. Igloria, “Zeno’s Paradox”
2nd - Timi Siytangco, “How to Kill a Whale Shark”
3rd - Andrea Teran, “Weight Without Gravity”

first time feels great [update]

In this case, yes, it does. Last month, I’ve received news that I made it in the first cut of contributors for Under the Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry. It’s great because it would be my first time to be anthologized. I thought it would be no big deal, until I saw the final list just right now.


The anthology, which (previously) aims “to present 113 poems from 113 poets, in commemoration of our 113 years of Independence—of being Filipinos, of being Filipino writers,” is now changed to present 150 contributors due to the overwhelming number of entries received. And here they are, finally, whose one poem has already been selected by the editors, Khavn de la Cruz and Joel M. Toledo. This list is epic.

December, 18, 2008 Anne Carly Abad

The Unfaithful Men Diego Jose Abad

That Space of Writing Gemino Abad

In Place of Emotion Anina Abola

I, Pontius Jose Marte Abueg

Ika-anim na Sundang: Gabud / Sixth Knife: Whetstone Ericson Acosta

eraserase002 Arbeen Acuña

Sea Fireflies of Mindoro Jim Pascual Agustin

Fruit of Knowledge Arnold O. Aldaba

Wala Na Sa Quiapo Ang Nazareno /
The Nazarene Is Not In Quiapo Kislap Alitaptap

Seaman Rio Alma

Train Dodge Jovsky Almero

Shoes Tofi Alonte

Apat Na Larawan Mula Sa Tagaytay Ridge / A Short Quartet

From Tagaytay Ridge Donato Mejia Alvarez

Pointing According To Heraldina Panch Alvarez

Bir-it, Jan-ny! Angelo B. Ancheta

F/light Mark Angeles

Anumang Leksiyon / Whatever Abides Rebecca Añonuevo

Dalawampung Minuto / Twenty Minutes Roberto Añonuevo

Sa Dulo ng Malay / At the Edge of Waking Teo Antonio

Hands Down Lystra Aranal

Eros Mesandel Virtusio Arguelles

Three Variations Cesar Ruiz Aquino

The Lion A.M. Azada

Entropy & The Shrike Amado Bajarias

manoy Desiree L. Balota

Laberinto / Labyrinth Romulo P. Baquiran, Jr.

Mga Tala Sa Isang Pagpatay / Notes On A Political Execution Joi Barrios

Futura Melissa Villa-Real Basmayor

Eksena Sa Susunod Na Siglo /
Scenario For The Next Century Ariel Dim. Borlongan

Because Pandesal is never the same in another country Dave Buenviaje

Touch Me Not Regine Cabato

Carnivalesque Jose Wendell P. Capili

Pagdidilig Ronan B. Capinding

Ha-ha-ha Ronaldo Carcamo

Stones F. Jordan Carnice

Tsunami Blues Lito Casaje

The Smallness of the Everyday Ian Rosales Casocot

Hinatak Sa Kahulugan / A Catch of the Infinite Pull Marella Castro

Barber Shop Brainstorming Jose Jason L. Chancoco

Learning Curve Ayrie Ching

The Yoyo Routine Frank Cimatu

Kundiman Mikael de Lara Co

Stabat Mater Kristian Sendon Cordero

Magnanakaw / Thief Michael M. Coroza

The Current Keith Cortez

P'wera Contra Dakila Cutab

Multiple Choice Lope Cui, Jr.

Bound For Saudi Jose Y. Dalisay, Jr.

Brutalism Carlomar Daoana

On the Feminine Ramon Damasing

Ang Katiwala Mes De Guzman

Speed Ainne Frances dela Cruz

After Impeng Negro Christa I. De La Cruz

ang dalawang puso / the twin hearts Khavn De La Cruz

Absence Muse Noelle Leslie dela Cruz

aporia Nikki De Los Santos

Preparations for History Karl R. De Mesa

Paramdam Iñigo de Paula

The Ambivalence of Staying A Tree Ricardo De Ungria

Supremacy of the Text Lourd Ernest H. De Veyra

Rebolusyon / Revolution Noel del Prado

Social Blowtorching Transcends Scab Worship A Despi

Definition of Respite Glenn Diaz

In Memoriam Lav Diaz

Tinkling Alain Russ Dimzon

The What Jan Brandon Dollente

folding boxes Jacob Walse-Dominguez

The Last Rain of Summer Simeon Dumdum, Jr.

In Baclayon, Reading Levertov's For those whom
the Gods love less Marjorie Evasco

Siberia Israfel Fagela

english lyrics to a japanese seduction Bendix M. Fernandez

Erotica Boni Fojas-Almirante

Smooch King Luis H. Francia

Blinds Marc Escalona Gaba

Hydrazine Eric Gamalinda

Coda J. Neil Garcia

Procorpio's Night German Gervacio

What Else Lolito Go

Blind Date Eva B. Gubat

bullet.X.press Ramil Digal Gulle

Death Poem Exercise 64 Asterio Enrico Gutierrez

What I Don't Tell My Children About My Hometown Luisa A. Igloria

Tandang Sora Neal Imperial

Morion Marne Kilates

How The Americans Liberated Northern Luzon, 1945 Philip Y. Kimpo, Jr.

The Revolution Will Be Printed, Not Televised Jeanilyn Kwan

Tampuhan Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta

Tagubilin At Habilin / Will And Testament Jose F. Lacaba

Ina / Mother Marra PL. Lanot

What Ol' Injun told the carnies Christine V. Lao

Here, at your grave Gian Lao

O Elaine Lazaro

NPA Mula sa Tatlong Daang Salita at Dalawang Pulgatang Pagitan /
From Three Hundred Words and Two Inches
in Between John Francis C. Losaria

Kartolinang Ibon / Craft-Paper Bird Bienvenido Lumbera

Ganoon dumating ang balita / How the news broke Soleil Erika Manzano

A Better Good Morning Carlo Angelo V. Marcelo

The Life and Times of a Seditious Poet Edgar B. Maranan

Estranged Luchie Maranan

Saleslady Pia Montalban

Balimbing V.E. Carmelo D. Nadera Jr.

On the Way to the Market Joanna Nicolas-Na

Dark Birds In Winged Chapel Homer B. Novicio

hyperlink Emil Os

Mag-aabroad inin akon mga buhok /
My hairs will travel abroad Voltaire Q. Oyzon

Philippine Eagle Doms Pagliawan

Alibangbang Sa Ulan Agustin Pagusara

Ars Poetica, As Actually Practiced R. Torres Pandan

Disturbances Ned Parfan

The Soul of the Town Allan Justo Pastrana

Prehistoria Carlos Piocos III

Nang Salakayin Mo Ang Aking Pananahimik / The Night

You Assaulted My Deep Silence Axel Pinpin

Vers. Zosimo Quibilan, Jr.

Bunso / Lastborn Jun Cruz Reyes

Sa Ganang Akin Po Naman Ay Ito Lamang Ang Ipinamamanhik /
Thus Do I Humbly Express Myself Fidel Rillo

Eternal Juju Recurrence Virgilio A. Rivas

Euston Road on an Autumn Afternoon Deedle Rodriguez-Tomlinson

Despedida Ardiente Patrick Rosal

Today After Time Immemorial Darylle Rubino

Carabaohood Roger B. Rueda

SpaMusic Jose Leonardo A. Sabilano

Correspondent Joseph de Luna Saguid

Meandering Joel Pablo Salud

Vocabulario Edgar Calabia Samar

Poem About Nothing Rafael Antonio San Diego

Pugot / Beheaded Benilda Santos

Massacre Oscar Tantoco Serquina, Jr.

Balikbayan Box Tanya Sevilla-Simon

Yang Pagtagad Kang Alyana /

Waiting For Alyana Danny Castillones Sillada

Ang Bisita / The Visitor Beverly W. Siy

I Love Poetry Bert Sulat, Jr.

How To Enjoy A Concert : Mula sa concert notes
ng Francisco Santiago Hall ng PCI Bank / From the concert notes
of Francisco Santiago Hall of PCI Bank (now defunct) Ramon C. Sunico

Blueprint Christian Tablazon

Leviathan Alyza Taguilaso

Banal Na Buntis John Iremil E. Teodoro

Weight Without Gravity Andrea B. Teran

Para Sa Fountain Sa Harap Ng Post-Office Building / For The Fountain

In Front Of The Post-Office Enrico C. Torralba

An Appointment, And Variation On
Federico Alcuaz (or Monolgue as Portraiture) Ricky Torre

where my Barbie was safe, lest, if it came out
in the open Denver Ejem Torres

Sa Panahon / On Seasons Charles Bonoan Tuvilla

Ang Tiwalag / The Defected Roberto Ofanda Umil

The Blues R.M. Urquico

Every dawn you dig your own grave Czeriza Shennille Valencia

Independence Day In Hong Lim Park Eric Tinsay Valles

Nimbus Joel Vega

Crime Scenes Eliza Victoria

Rekindled Santiago Villafania

Vestibular Michael Carlo C. Villas

I think therefore I ant Arlene J. Yandug

The Ten Most Memorable Moments with D. Thus Far, & Why
I Can't Let Her Go Alfred A. Yuson

This is grand. Many of these are people I look up to, while some are old and new acquaintances. The launching of this anthology during the 4th .MOV International Film, Music, & Literature Festival on September 2, 2011 would be interesting. Thanks for the tip, Arbeen, Tin and Eva!

cushions

I would like to think
it never ends that way,
what falls down must break.

I condemn this pronouncement.
Just see the motes gliding back
on my bed this morning, golden

and sincere. Say, if I will fold
this blanket into a diamond tonight,
would I be spared from such claim?

Geometries are the only means
to make shape out of all this.
Consider the cushion and its stuffing.

All I want is something true.
No breaking. Yet this is what you said:
“I don’t sway that way.”

You went beyond the three quiet words
I longed for. Even the gesture of a smile.
Restraint does slip from your hands.

Or this time, from your lips. Have
faith, something hair strands hold,
clinging on damp pillowcases.

I know I have rested fairly
to last me days when the sun
seems shrouded with too much clouds;

even a stab at my wakefulness
would bear no sting more severe
than the bite of an ant.

But I guess I recalled too much forgetting,
walked on the same street again,
and slept a little too much.

And this is why I feel anger
for all the beds we have lounged upon.
There is not enough burden

that could leave a dent on them
for us to understand how heavy
the aches we both carry.

something beautiful

Former students are still students. That is why last Friday (July 1), I left early from work and went to Toyota Foundation Bldg., Asian Center, University of the Philippines-Diliman, for its printing press’s midyear launching of nine new books, which included Beautiful Accidents, a collection of short stories by my former “teacher” in Silliman University, Ian Rosales Casocot (in quotations because technically I was never enrolled in his classes).

This book contains the award-winning stories “Old Movies,” “The Hero of the Snore Tango,” and “Things You Don’t Know.” In it is also the brilliant “Group Study,” which first appeared in Dark Blue Southern Seas 2008. I won’t share why that particular one is brilliant because it just is—with a wink at the sides.

Schoolmates attended the launching, specifically from the college paper, The Weekly Sillimanian, which surprised me a lot. I have never seen them in a long time. There were professors and fellows I met in different workshop batches. There was Prof. Leonor Magtolis Briones, former treasurer of the Philippines, who was our graduation commencement speaker and who also asked for my works when she knew I dabble in writing and left me very flattered.

And last but definitely not the least, there was the (formal, finally) introduction to those who composed the LitCritters of Manila: Dean Francis Alfar, Nikki Alfar, Vincent Simbulan, Alex Osias, Kate Aton-Osias, Andrew Drilon (who left earlier and absent in the picture above) and Charles Tan. Ian was our moderator back in college for the Dumaguete chapter of this reading-writing group, so, to put two and two together, it became SOP that night that the two groups ought to have one magisterial photo.

It was a beautiful gathering. And I think it was no accident.

the places we have visited

I had this project in mind for a long time, and it only came into fruition early last year. Its entirety is not done yet, the process is slow, but I am working on it hard. Very hard. It’s just about rendering the places I have visited into verses. These places are in the Philippines, yes, since I guess I have to “celebrate” them as a way of giving back after providing me the means to “produce” something. The Great Wall of China, Niagara Falls, Eiffel Tower, or the Grand Canyon would have to wait.

I know all this is particularly not a novel idea, even old, but it is worthy of my attention, keeping the practice alive. Thus, I am glad to see this practice find its purpose in the pages of Philippines Graphic. My poems “The Trail to Nagsasa Cove, Zambales” and “The Church Floor in Siquijor” are published in this magazine’s July 4 issue. (And there was “Stones” in the June 13 issue with its origin going back to the cities of La Libertad and Tagbilaran).

Though I’ve sent them to the magazine a month ago, of which by this moment they look and feel a little bit different now because of revision (and more revision), happiness washes over me, like I have written them for the very first time.

2011 philippines free press literary awards finalists

Philippines Free Press literary editor Joel Toledo has released this year’s finalists of the magazine’s annual literary awards. It’s no surprise, the people comprising this list. They’re good. To Margie, Nette, Eliza, and my dear teacher, Ma’am Myrna, here's a shower of confetti for you. What an interesting way to commemorate this blog’s 500th post.

FICTION

Erscheinung, Michelangelo Samson
After The Body Displaces Water, Daryll Jane Delgado
When You See A Dog, Jenette Vizcocho
Numb, Jenette Vizcocho
Recuerdos de Patay, Caroline Hau
Sweet, Marguerite de Leon
Spawn, Popi Laudico
Desert Winds, Jean Gerald Anuddin
A Study of Insects, Irene Carolina Sarmiento
Works Cited, U. Eliserio
Fade to Red, Twink Macaraig

POETRY

Variations on the Expulsion from Eden, Eliza Victoria
The Painted Prince, Frank Penones Jr.
Duwende, Myrna Peña-Reyes
Love is How We Come Undone, Amado Bajarias
How to Kill a Whale Shark, Timi Siytangco
Warrior’s Wife (After Li Po), Ino Habana
Weight Without Gravity, Andrea Teran
The Widow, Upon Learning That Her Old Lover Had
Returned to the Island of San Antonio, Merlie Alunan
Zeno’s Paradox, Luisa A. Igloria
Weight of the World, Michellan Sarile-Alagao

Notes from the editor:

The 2011 Philippines Free Press Literary Awards covers Fiction and Poetry that have appeared in the pages of the magazine from January to December 2010.

The Awards Night will be on July 12, 2011 (Tuesday), 6-10 p.m, at Club Cafe, Makati Sports Club. Formal invitations and detailed poster to follow soon.

Finalists are advised to notify me if there are any mistakes in the typing of your names, especially in regard to the possible prize money if you do win and the respective bank account conflict. Anyone who has contacts with some of the finalists that are not on the Facebook can email me via ramblingsoul@yahoo.com so I can notify them as well.

Finalists are advised to visit the magazine’s website and read the guidelines, policies, and notes for the annual Literary Awards posted in there carefully.

Congratulations to all the finalists and winners who will only be notified that they’ve won and be informed of their respective six judges (three per category) during the Awards Night.

Winners must be physically present during the awards night (all the finalists will be formally invited) to claim their prize money and their respective trophies, lest the monetary prize be forfeited (winners can claim the trophy anytime they want to at the Philippines Free Press office). This is as per the magazine’s policy.

return to the city of gentle people

To those who would be going back to Dumaguete, like me who would be flying to that city in time for Silliman University’s 110th Founders Week festivities, you might need this calendar and this schedule. See you all soon.

terrains

We know too well the lines on our palms
Fork into branches and crawl to the back
Of our hands
Our elbows
Our chests
Our necks.
And I wonder,
How long would a wrinkle take
To reach the soft crack on that lips?
In one nod?
In one word?
In one gesture of the hands
Pulling my arm, gravity
Losing purpose
Other than that face
Drawing close to mine?

Hear me—there is no expanse
That want would not cross,
Not even the verdict
Of cartography and the study
Of weather and heavenly bodies.

Ancient men lived by chartering
The phases of things:
The moon
The sun
The seas
The winds.
Yet I still wonder,
How long would it take
For that face to turn to mine?
In one rotation?
In one revolution?
In one undulating wave
Of glances, awkward
In their quiet relay
Of messages better tucked
In the pocket to be read at home?

Hear me—these men have survived
Even the most solid fists
Of their smiting gods,
Of their own two hands.
Let us mine the gold in our earths.

returns

Around 130 people watched at the Sydney Observatory, with one woman dressed as a vampire. “There was (also) a child dressed very elegantly as if she was from another century, and a little boy dressed up as a red superhuman,” Sydney Observatory manager Toner Stevenson told reporters.
—Lunar eclipse turns moon blood red, Philippine Daily Inquirer (16 June 2011)


The longest lunar eclipse
since the last decade proves
we have not seen all things yet,
more so with our patient satellite
now waxing and dressing
the shade of too much
ripeness.

It prompts a flood of prophecies next,
and I fear not the stories
of vampiric newborn creatures
nor the peeling of skin in some hut,
but for that boy on a hill
towered by men, elbowing, eager
to witness the event before dawn.

There is so much around us
yet we could only grasp so little,
and I hear the child cry.
I guess this is the most basic sound
of misery, one that could find its way
to all ears. Except for this moment:
This moon is in pain. This is pain.

The crowd returns to their routines;
perhaps a hundred minute is enough
to bear such lurid beauty.
When the weeping closes to a hush,
I search for the boy
only to find a membrane of light
staining the field of bermuda.

[image lifted from this site]

stronger

A few weeks ago, I visited my doctor. I handed her the results of my tests, and she studied them very closely. A few nods later, she finally said, “Your heart is strong.” In my head, “No, doc, it’s not.”

Chos.

altered for good

[Update] Yes, look up, I’ve changed the header. Petty things are petty things but something has to be done about it. Now it looks good with the rest of the layout. And don’t argue with that, mirror!

*

After five years and six months, I changed the template of this blog. And this would be my 491th post, by the way. Amazing. It took that long for me to notice how an eyesore this site had become. There could be other reasons too. It must be due to Muse screaming in my playlist, or the rain that has been pouring since yesterday, or the change of dashboard look Tumblr has undergone, or the simple desire to see something new, even in the minutest things. The header remained though, perhaps serving as a retrospect of how this logorrhea began. [06/09/11]

stoner

My poem, “Stones,” the lengthiest one I have written in that genre (for now), is in the 21st anniversary issue of Philippines Graphic (June 13 issue, vol. 22). The cover story’s on divorce law, by the way. Maybe that would be enough reason for you to pick up the magazine since its official site hasn’t been updated yet. Enjoy.

variations of a smile

May 20 – Last Day, Gala Night

Friday, six in the morning. I woke up way before a single soul stirred in the apartment. Thursday night was something not to be missed, so a few of the golden ones stayed in the city. When all had their drinks until the early hours of dawn, I ushered all of the “overnighters” to my humble abode. It was SOP. They were momentarily my orphans.

That morning, I led them to Bethel Guest House to hitch on the war bus and get back to Valencia for the last workshop session, along with the students from the University of Iowa. I met Robin Hemley, the lead coordinator of the delegates, and he said the bus won’t be leaving until nine. Bullfrogs. The fellows had to return before the said hour. Since I could not think of any other way of hauling eight lethargic people to the mountains, I straightened myself up, approached Mr. Hemley, and asked if we could go ahead to the village, that the bus would be returning for them by nine-fifteen. He obliged with a smile.

Yes, being a feelerette has its plus points. If not for that, future workshops would probably bar me for imparting delinquency to the fellows.


*

Just when I was slowly sinking deep into my nap, the alarm rang. It was fifteen minutes before four o’clock. After a late lunch at KRI with Kirpal Singh, Alfred Yuson, Gemino Abad, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, and Ceres Abanil (of which, we were later joined in by Peachy Paderna and Misael Ondong), I thought of taking a short rest. It was short indeed.


I turned off the alarm, dressed up, and set off straight to Claire Isabel McGil Luce Auditorium for Gaudeamus, the workshop’s closing Gala Night. There was a whirlwind of distractions happening in the previous days that I was caught off-guard by the actuality of tonight’s gathering. This is the closing event. I didn’t exactly know what to feel. When I entered the auditorium, wherein almost everyone’s in there, I knew what I was feeling. I went hurriedly to my seat, greeting people I know along the way with a smile that seemed heavy than the usual.

*

Suddenly, the golden ones were gone. There were no long hugs, teary eyes, and sloppy farewell pronouncements. Something was keeping my attention that time after the dinner in the lobby when I noticed the fellows were all on the bus, ready to return to the village. I stopped and waved my arms from the distance hoping this conveyed everything I wanted to say. Stay, I thought, but then again, I supposed they should go. As how many wordsmiths wrought it, distance would keep our ties stronger. I waved once more, hollered my parting words, and capped it with a smile. That I guess was enough.

*

Blue Monkey Grill was perhaps the vacuum of all things good that night. We were drawn to the place like moths to a flame. (But there was no burning, thankfully). The Iowans were there, most of the panelists were there (yes, including Sawi), and the alumni were there—even those who didn’t turn up in the previous jamborees: Anthony Tan, Ed Cabagnot, Israfel Fagela, Francesca Kwe, Kris Lacaba, Nicolo Vitug, Aaron Jalalon, Carlo Flordeliza, Ida del Mundo, and many more.


It was fun to be in the company of both like and unlike minds, minds that at least had one thing in common, which was the desire to read and write. Except for the inevitable setbacks, we wondered when would be the next gathering of this scale, of this shared unpretentious connection, of this same familial atmosphere, and we continued wondering. All of a sudden, Peachy Paderna broke out crying because, even after a couple of years, it still pained her to witness the parting all over again. Of course, like any consoling brothers and sisters of the family, we gave her a hug. We will meet soon. There will always be next time. And then she smiled

The next day, I lost my comb.


Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 |

from different ages and places

May 19 – Finally, Converged

The previous day didn’t entirely end in a bad note, what with the catalog of lost things that continued growing almost every other day. As mentioned before, there was good news. Before I and the rest of the alumni hopped on the war bus to visit the Silliman Rose Lamb-Sobrepeña Writers Village in Valencia, to barge in the fellows’ second from the last workshop session, I purchased the May 21 issue of the Philippines Free Press and confirmed what had been previously relayed to me. My poem, “How to Write Another Story” was published in an issue that had literary works (by Alfred A. Yuson, Jose Wendell Capili, DM Reyes, Ricardo De Ungria, Nerisa del Carmen Guevara, and Christine Godinez-Ortega) dedicated to the celebration of the workshop’s anniversary.

It was a big deal, of course. It has been born especially for this event, and to actually see it during the homecoming activities is beyond words. I just blushed. To all alumni and the current fellows of the 50th Silliman University National Writers Workshop, this one’s for you.

*

How to Write Another Story

Remain calm,
the (word/world) ends only when
the (word/world) stops spinning.

Consider the whiteness as some sort
of cleansing: do not let the blank page
(t/d)aunt you.

Remember, in space, there is no void,
only a chance to burst in multiple
limitless directions.

There are other stories to tell.
Never depend on the full moon
—it could be the devil’s halo.

Just squint a little harder.
Look instead for things golden(ed),
like the dictionary in the attic.

Yes, a lot has been too easy these days:
the smiling, the laughing, the l(o/i)ving,
the homemade remedy for bee stings.

But easy is not always right.
Not even enough. To ignore complexity
is to question the generosity of the sky.

Take (ad)vantage of this (short)coming:
what we own is a glorified reflection
of what we do not have.

Case in point: apple on the table.
This fruit could be re(a)d
for another (r/s)eason.

*

Poetry hums in the very core of Dumaguete. It pulsates in all sights and structures, fragrant in the air as if uncapped bottles of perfume were wedged in every street corner of the city. Nighttime came and people congregated at Rizal Boulevard for dinner, conversations, and most certainly, poetry—care of this year’s workshop fellows.

What made the evening special aside from the presentations, Banda Manga, and Sharon Dadang-Rafols’s singing and chanting was the presence of the students from the University of Iowa. They went here for cultural immersion, visiting the country’s tourist spots, just in time to take part of the celebration.


Age, race, language—barriers of all kind collapsed. We probably made Blue Monkey Grill happier that night because once again we were there, now with the Iowans who mingled from one table of alumni to another until the early hours of next morning. The clinking of beer bottles was the night’s popular music. A couple of the writing fellows were present too, perhaps delighting in the remaining hours of the city’s charm. In just a day or two, they would be going back to their respective routines.

The moon in the sky was still nearing its full form, but the writing family in this small spot of the city was in some ways complete already, just continually growing, branching from different parts of the world. The lively chatter faded as the hours inched forward, but everyone knew this was something that would linger in the head for a while (and it wouldn’t be a hangover).

(seventh of eight parts)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 |

to the old kvetch

Maybe the earth is too round for your liking, the raindrops too many to count with your fingers, the fruit trees too tall for your reach, but dear, listen to what I have to say: I could not disagree with your disbelief on why some things do not align with the planets of the cosmos that is your mind. Instead, I praise you for this incredulity, as to how rainwater slides from our bodies, feeling great about it, the only departure we could love. You see, ‘wondering too much’ is an awful marriage of words; there is no gauge, no measure for an article of wonder. You ought to know that curiosity did not kill the cat, rather, it brought itself a mouse for dinner. You might receive your mouse too but not now because Father (can I call you this?) we too are as bland as the earth have expected (…till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Remember?), too reliant with what we have, too short the heavens, had to promise the trees would drop their fruits if it’s time. Let things be just for this moment, let the great old world spin quietly. Quietly.