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Silliman University
May 12, 2008
3:55AM

I miss Dumaguete.

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.

Space

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.

I

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.

II

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.

III

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.”
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.

Across the Universe

I've been a beach bum these past few days and will still be in the coming days. I just love the sand, sea, sky and sun. This is my therapy. I can escape from the hazards of city life and think of other possibilities.
Here are some shots I took while bumming around. I named this collection Across the Universe, of course, inspired by The Beatles. I'm crazy over this song lately, especially this part:

"Pools of sorrow,
waves of joy are drifting through my open mind,
Possessing and caressing me
Jai guru de va om"

Dauin, Oriental Negros
Silliman Beach, Dumaguete City
Dauin, Oriental Negros

Letting Go

'Get out of Dumaguete and find work somewhere.' This is the ready answer I would reply to those asking me about my career path. For most graduates, this is a common answer. For a city as small as Dumaguete, it's almost impossible to find a good and high-paying job. It's been a week since I got up that stage to receive my diploma, but I'm thinking otherwise. The city's quaint charm has captured me indeed despite the pain I'm running from.

I remember telling my a friend that the acacia trees in Silliman University represent my biggest heartaches. And yes, they still do. But every time I think of leaving this place, I always find a reason to stay and it's getting hard to deal with everyday. Maybe running away from them isn't really the best way to heal? Maybe the only way to heal is to bravely face them?



I really don't where to go. Would staying here in Dumaguete still be a right decision? But maybe there are no right decisions. I should only be brave to take the further step to eventually move one. For now, I'll stare at the horizon and find out what to hold on and what to let go.

I'll be with the poet...

This Valentines Day I'll dine with my poems and the poems I love. Let me share an excerpt of Pablo Neruda's If you forget me and this is perhaps one of my favorites.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Listen to the poem here.

Happy Valentines Day! Share love and peace!

Turning Red and Green

Cool. Wala lang.

Apologies

PAHABOL: Everytime I find a reason to go on, gravity pulls me back into the reality of empty possibilities. I know this is suppose to be just about me, but I guess the heavier threads are pulling me again into pieces. Again, I'm sorry. I hope I can find other ways to heal.

It's a load off my chest. This is a very selfish act but I know this is the best thing I can do for myself. I've been serving the "institution" for more than two years and I've done enough. It wasn't perfect but I made it sure that I did something new or at least made it cool.

I'm very sorry for giving you false hope in the beginning but I promise to help you make it it through in the end. I hope you do understand me. This time I should be thinking of myself and what is waiting ahead of me. After all, I deserve it. It's time to take life seriously.