Thursday, April 17, 2008

Comic Poetry

Green Mountains Review: Comedy in Contemporary American Poetry

Well, I got this for P50 in a book sale. I hope this will bring me good laughs this summer and insights about comic poetry. So far, it's not disappointing me. This can be a good company in the afternoon with a cool drink beside me. By the way, i got two other award-winning books of the same price: House Made of Dawn by N. Scott Momaday and Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008


I was left with images to piece together and find out its heightened meaning. It was only made clear after bravely facing the ghost tasked to give me the images and to carry on the perceived meaning. It was a pained ordeal of choosing what to let go and what to hold on. Often times in choosing it needed desperate measures like tossing a coin. It was necessarily to somehow rely on this archaic and democratic deal. And as the coin flips in the air, I was left with a few seconds to wish which side of the coin I want to appear in my palm. After almost everything, when I’m ready to hang the framed image of this longing, I gaze at my empty reflection—this necessary space left inside praying for better tomorrows.

Short Poetic Dramas

In my almost busy schedule this summer, I’ve engaged my self in some literary dramas.


Instant Messages

i guess we never reach the point of defining
what surfaced from the exchange of text messages,
comments on each others blogs,
or even our abrupt and dated conversations.
from where i’m standing,
it seemed clear to me
where this may lead—
a place
where goodbye is the silence between us
like ellipsis we use in our dense messages.
yes, i almost believed you when you said
that memory does not record the fleeting touch of our palms
because it is swift and instant.
but it seemed to me that you forgot
how we have become shortfall of our attention—
what is hasty stays in my memory
like your coming and urgent leaving.

This poem will be included in this year's dark blue southern seas, the literary folio of the weekly sillimanian edited by John Boaz Lee and Fred Jordan Carnice.


Gonzalo: Kabalo na si Adrian kung asa. Parte na god na siya sa atong pamilya. Adunay limpyo nga towalya sa may CR.

Nita: Unsay plano nimong buhaton?

Gonzalo: Unsay imong pasabot?

Nita: Ang tasa, Gonzalo, ang tasa. Ilabay to, ilabay to.

Gonzalo: Paghilum!

Nita: Ayaw, Gonzalo, ayaw!

Gonzalo: Walay ni anhi karong hapon. Apan ni ingun si Adrian nga nianhi siya.

Nita: Dili!

Gonzalo: Apan na sayop pa jud si Adrian. Matod niya iya daw gi ingnan and katabang nga ni anhi siya pero gipalayas na man nimo ang katabang ganihang buntag.

Nita: Dili, dili!

Gonzalo: Mao nang imong gi palayas si Cora. Kabalo si Cora nga nahadlok ka nga mo sulti siya nako. Tig-anhi na si Adrian diri matag-hapon sa ni labay nga duha ka semana. Aduna na koy namatikdan mao nang ni adto ko og Baguio. Makabalik na man unta ko diri dayon—apan nagdugay-dugay pa ko haron mapadayon pa ninyo ni Adrian ang inyong makasasala nga relasyon.

Nita: Gonzalo-Gonzalo!

Gonzalo: Kamong duha, namakak ug nagparun-ingnon mo sa akong likod.

Nita: Tinuod, tinuod! Ug naulaw na kaayo ko.

Gonzalo: Naulaw? Kabalo ka unsay pasabot ana?

Nita: Wala ko kabalo kung ngano tong nabuhat nako, wala jud.

Gonzalo: Karon kabalo naka, apan ulahi na ang tanan.

Nita: Unsay imong buhaton?

Gonzalo: Patyon nako siya.

Translated to Cebuano, this is an excerpt of Wilfredo Ma. Guerero's Three Rats. This play will soon be staged in Silliman University and will be directed by Claudio Montebon Ramos II. Forgive me for my inchoate knowledge of the Cebuano language. Shame on me.


The phone rings, breaking the cold silence in his bedroom. With his fidgeting hands, he picks up the phone. “Hello, Peter. We’re have you been?” inquires the voice on the other line. He locked himself in his room. Didn’t go to work; to the gym or even bother eat. Nobody could contact or talk to him, even his best friend Ann.
“Oh… Hi. Who’s this?”
“It’s me—Ann.”
“Oh. How are you?”
“How are you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Peter puts down the phone and runs to the bathroom. He stands in front of the sink and unknowingly turns the handle of the faucet. “It was never made easy,” he said to his reflection distorted by the flowing water from the tap like his eternal longing.

This is an excerpt of a longer work.