The Poems, The Places

revising my poem

2008-01-29T05:59:00.000-08:00

I decided to revise my recent poem after, amazingly in a dream, "someone" suggested that I add it up:

The breeze whispers
your name again
gentle cascades remind me
of your wavy hair
such cream colored shore mimic
the supple tone of your skin
you are not by my side
yet you are everywhere

untitled

2008-01-23T06:23:00.001-08:00

I tried recalling this poem, in which its original got misplaced after an impromptu composition for valentines years ago; sometimes I felt it would better be left unspoken and remain with one's precious, ethereal moments...

The breeze whispers
your name again
gentle cascades remind me
of your wavy hair
you are not by my side
yet, you are everywhere

STRANGERS

2007-10-23T04:44:00.000-07:00

I wrote this poem many years ago while on 'moody mode'. Although the city I'm in may not necessarily be near-perfect, I still like it. Davao is dubbed our country's most livable city. I live south of it and sometimes when I get silly thought of going back in time and changing things, I get weird stating that I'd change the place where I grew up, but still preferably anywhere within this city.

I strolled by the city
I was with cold concrete
There were strangers and they were
fragments of those whom I met

But I saw strangers
their shadows without faces
with voices without words
walking in paths nobody sees

I looked at my shadow
neither do I see my face
my words were mute; I was alone
the path does not fill numbers

Perhaps in a world of strangers
crude gifts are accepted by frail hands
the foolish laugh and fall like drying leaves
and one who knows will be a friend

THE RED TRUCK

2007-09-23T20:31:00.000-07:00

This essay was actually first written nearly 10 years ago, and had been printed on a local magazine supplement. The red bike was stolen by a thief from Toril years later.

It happened many months ago. I could have written it earlier but for some reasons, only recently had I got the mood. I’m quiet amused by it, particularly with the interplay of the dominant color, Red. It seemed that the events came straight out of a fictitious script, but skepticism is the last thing I need, so I assure again that these events did happen.

After some savings, and maybe luck (if I care to believe in such a word), I was able to scout the store for my particular dream, a mountain bike. They had on display some greens, black, purple, red, and whoa- blue. But the blue bike costs a few more, and my pocket itched that it’s not on the budget. Beside it was a red bike. No way, reds could do well for extroverts and, as my friends claim, I’m not.

But I noticed upon closer observation that it was not the bright flashy red I had in mind. It’s not red, it’s maroon, I said. Luckily, some unknown guy who seemed to know a lot about bikes raved about its clutch, brakes, and quiet convincing at that (thanks, pal). So off I went with my red, er, maroon bike.

My childhood buddy, on seeing my bike, drilled “Why did you choose red?” It’s not red, it’s maroon, I retorted.

One day, I decided to take my bike, and myself, on a rough and tumble test to a place thousands of feet high above the small, noisy town of Toril, in a place called Eden. I once had a friend who went there with his bike, and it gave a challenge. It will be a personal record of sorts, I nudged. Taking some provisions of snack and a book, I’m on my way. I was too excited to check on my bike.

The bike was doing well, I assured as I climbed up a steep hill more than half an hour later. Suddenly, something sounded like a screech! And the pedal started to hit hard. I tinkered on my bike and found out that a nut had loosened up. The wheel reacted in a precarious angle and wedged itself tightly into the frame. Nuts, exclaimed me.

Determined not to let anything, even my bike, ruin my day, I waited a while and flag any incoming vehicle for a wrench. A guy on motorcycle apologized, he had his tool on some other place. I couldn’t flag down those tinted 4x4’s, I can’t afford to get a snub.
I decided to spend my time reading. Luckily, I brought my book. The story was set by a house near the Irish sea, with a landscape of bogs, mossy rocks and dull, gray skies. I traveled to a distant land as I read on.

We would lay nightlines, in our rare moment of tranquility, on a beach below the terrace where our house was…I first saw from the top window, she clutched her coat around her, held her music up to protect her face from the spray and laughed as she struggled with the wind. A wave hit her, nearly knocked her sideways and she stopped for a moment to regain her breath. I saw…

…A red Volkswagen trudging down the dusty road. Immediately I waved a hand. The passengers were a quaint, old couple. I delivered my side and asked for a favor if I could have a few moments with their wrench. They looked at each other. I noticed some uncomfortable movement from the wife. I asked if they’re in a hurry. The wife nodded, “moadto pa mi sa bukid,” (we still have to go up to the mountain) she smiled, coldly. “Ninaog man lagi mo palayo sa bukid?” (how come you’re going away from the mountain?), I was tempted to ask. No matter, I decided not to waste an uncomfortable time and thanked them anyway. The volks continued puff-puffing down the road. Besides, I did not like red anyway.

I returned and picked up my book and ate my snack. The scorching sun was relentless. A little girl over there was nagging at the top of her lungs at the boys on a tree behind me. They were stealing her guavas.

Then the red truck came. I thumbed up and it stopped before me. I could see on its window posters of half naked women looking foxily at me. Ah, a driver-na-sweet lover kind of guy (this phrase were often posted as stickers on some Philippine jeepneys). Any self-righteous nut could easily judge less of him.

I told him about my dilemma and asked for his aid. Not only did the man readily hand me his adjustable wrench, but he also sent his assistant to help me. A few minutes later, the problem was fixed. Profusely I thanked him and his assistant as they drove on.

I gazed at the man and the boy, on a red truck with naked posters. He was an image of a modern-day Samaritan. Man, you are in for a record.

Hours later I finally reached the crossroads of Eden. The place was so high that the city of Davao looked like clusters of tiny pebbles. The mountain air was cool as I savored the achievement. My bike, the red volks and the red truck played on my mind. Then it started to trickle.

The downhill road drove my bike fast, but nevertheless the resounding rain had me drenched. I arrived home really dripping wet. But what the heck, an amusing experience that was.

LADYFALL ENCHANTS

2007-09-02T19:50:00.000-07:00

My tribute to the regal lady with sparkling white hair, from enchanting Marilog.

A regal lady washes

Her crystalline white hair

In a sparkling gem basin;

Her skin supple and clear

Her garment of velvet green decked

With jewels of jade and emeralds

And a string of strawberry rubies.

She welcomes with droplets

Of cool dewdrop kisses

In this wistful, charming land.

Her royal court embellishes

Her beauty with pompous aisles,

Lush fans and showers of golden flakes.

Trees with slithering roots

Were like statuesque snakes

Tamed by her ethereal charms

And her loyal subject, a

red dragonfly landed

on our fingers.

STRAWBERRY GIRL

2007-08-23T06:10:00.000-07:00

This elation expressed in poem occured before we encountered the climactic scene, in the real-account essay 'The Silent, Mysterious Witness.'

Cross the street
Of rocks and writhe
Search a piece of wit.

Along the way the woodwords say
Strawberry Jams for sale!

Slippery sweetly red
And ripened berries
Slither in your lips

Little kids with lithe cheeks
Mothers' hearty smiling lips

Will little girl take us there
Quaint cottage, ripply water?

Greeting flowers dweller and creep
Taste sweet water of limestone creek.

Bye smiling ladies!
And little girl, thanks to you...

Kinda' notice with little girl's face
Radiant sweet as strawberry ways!

5:30 More or Less

2007-08-18T02:14:00.000-07:00

In a passing time one afternoon with the nudging gravity of the radiant moon affecting my musings like high tide...

this afternoon
I am at the beach
on a rock
in knee deep waters
with the bright lit moon
above me in a blue sky
turning indigo
with purple hues and clusters
of white-gray clouds
floating by

I

2007-08-14T06:56:00.000-07:00

One of the Panelists mentored that we may gauge how the Workshop (UP Natl. Writers Worskshop) affects in transforming our lives with these allegorical questions. This was my 'reply.'

I

Who am I?
What have I become?
I am a presence
I have become a breeze
A box bears the presence inside
The breeze enters the box
And from its enclosure
It perforates towards space...

...and then to complement it...

Eye

Look into the sky
On a moonlit night;
Let the stars measure
the height
The East and West are
your sides
Let your soul fathom
the depth
And may your Innerself be
your face.

THE SILENT, MYSTERIOUS WITNESS

2007-08-11T18:12:00.000-07:00

An actual event that occured after the Workshop, which continually amazes me.

I saw the Marilog forest and I was awed. It seemed as if the minutes, for a moment, stood still. I gazed, mesmerized by the scene enveloping me as droplets from the morning fog drew misty imprints on the vehicle window.

Marilog, gaining ground as the city's summer get-away, may be reached after an hour and a half ride from downtown Davao. Along the way are the vacation cottages of the city dwellers and the rustic village scenery of the local folks.

But it is the surviving forest that gives the place its character. Its serene, innate beauty and the soothing silence seemed to weave a charmed, enchanting portrait of Marilog. The trees have that strange, whitish gray hue on its trunks amid deep ochre green foliage, with some areas blanketed by mist. Silence mingled with the cool fresh air that I breathed. Moss held on to surviving endemic trees with branches that grew unusually contorted, like an old man's hand. The trees were mute witnesses of this overwhelmed being. They were a tall, ancient soul.

I decided to come back.

It was an unexpected return on that gray cast morning of Nov. 1, 1996 as the 28th University of the Philippines (UP) National Writers Workshop culminated in Davao. My friend, Hansel, a Poetry Fellow decided to encounter Marilog with me.

During the workshop, an intriguing story written by a lady Fellow, Josie, elicited much discussion. She wove a unique character named Indang, known thereabouts as a manghihilot (local version of a massage therapist), and an albino. It was set in Marahan, in barangay Marilog. We dissected the story and it revealed; Indang was inspired by the forests of Marilog.

Hans and I packed our backpacks as we headed North while the other Fellows headed East towards the airport. Our initial plan was to visit the Philippine Eagle Nature Park but we finally decided, we must see mysterious Marilog. By afternoon we boarded a bus towards the small town of Marahan.

It was a gray morning the next day as we readied for the adventure towards the surviving forest. In a Marahan lodge we saw the mountains slowly covered by mist, as Hans sketched the view. Knowing I had an artist as company, I blurted that the mists were like a woman's veil. It seemed that the clouds added the doleful mode too, ready to pour rain as we prodded on. The locals did not seem to follow suit though. Their unadulterated smiles cheered us up as we waited for the bus ride.

We wondered where the vehicles were, the road seemed unusually empty. Then we remembered it was an All Saints Day, probably the reason for the dearth of buses. We decided to do hitchhike. A 4x4 approached and we thumbed up. It whisked over. Then, a jeepney appeared and we did the usual thumb sign. It also sped over, as expected.

Or so we thought. Suddenly it slowed down. We raced towards the godsent beings and, what a coincidence, they were once my childhood neighbors. The driver recognized me and decided to pull over.

Gratefully we thanked them as we droppped by a small village. We spotted a hut with a crude sign, selling strawberry jams and rabbits to boot. The ladies in the hut warmed us with their smiles as they offered crude chairs to rest.

I remembered the sweet taste of strawberry jams, as tiny raindrops landed spritely on my face, giving its tingling sensation. Then the folks sent a child to accompany us to a nearby resthouse. We were attracted by this quaint, western-style cottage with its tree covered loan and a limestone brook by the side, giving its music of rushing waters.

Indeed it did not take long for the place to mesmerize us as we walked on, as fogs slowly descended on the mountains like thick palettes from an artist's canvas. The character from Josie's story and the forest began to link in our view. In this otherwise denuded area, the enduring native trees with contorted branches must have been there for decades. Indang had that soother's hand, a manghihilot would contort his or her hand to reach for nerves and muscles.

The trunks hued whitish-gray by lichen, the tall Falcata trees, and the limestone rocks profusely littering the vicinity must have inspired to portray Indang as an albino. She was also a loner, a character who kept matters to herself. Silence lingered here with surreal melancholy, sometimes covering us with mist. We would later comment, the silence seemed to weigh of unexpected things to happen.

For it did.

On the right side of the road were vistas of Arakan Valley stretching to panoramic horizons. We would clamber towards the nearest mound and admire the view. Sometimes we would imitate another character in Josie's story, and shout to the top of our lungs high above the valleys.

At the main road I chanced upon a small footpath a few meters to my right. It traversed a mound, hiding a sure view of the valley below. Strange, but I saw the footpath on a mound a few days ago, in a dream. I pulled my companion towards the footpath.

There was something of a rotten smell in the air as we came nearer. Suddenly, among the blades of grasses, we saw a pile of bones. Silently I hoped it was of a dog's or some large animal's. What we saw startled us; before us was the unmistakable figure of a human skull.

I stared at the whole skeleton. I saw wires wound around the pile. The person was gagged, the skull blindfolded by a handkerchief. I could even see the dentures in his mouth. It was disturbingly polished, washed perhaps by the previous rainfall. The victim's faded jeans was neatly folded nearby, with his black bag. The jeans identified the victim as male. His remains were only about twenty feet from the highway.

I gazed at the skull, he was staring at the sky. It seemed that the victim, in his last moments, was looking at the heavens, mouth agape. I did not touch the bones but knew it was cold, as cold as the air. Tiny droplets dampened his moist bed, cleansing his inert bones. The silence that was once soothinlgy mysterious had been transformed into another dimension.

Then I remembered the stench. We went back, feeling nauseated. I choked, wanting to dispel the fetid stench like a lump in my brain. I wanted to puke, but nothing came out. I gasped for fresh air.

Were we the only witnesses? There were no huts nearby, but only the trees of the Marilog forest.

Hans decided to divert the subject, the event had burdened him. We wanted to focus on our surroundings instead. I began to feel the contempt, perhaps by the grievous sight, or by the supressed, denuded forest. We had not seen its lush edge enveloping the road.

Yet, despite the confined, old trees amid otherwise barren mounds carpeted by cogon weeds, the place was never dull. We saw a house built above a tall hill, amazed by the builders' sheer determination. The seemingly surreal mountainscape, with mist calmly floating with the cool air like gentle brush of an artist's painting, soothed me from this event.

I glanded at my left side. My senses jumped when we saw, framed between two hills, a dense portion of the forest. Something in its lushness was different, and unusually brilliant. I later found out, among the monotonous hues of deep ochre greens, those were the radiant colors of sprouting leaves. Light, strangely coming from within the forest, perforated through its foliage, making the sprouts seemingly glow. I had it in my memory like a treasured gem.

There was hope, before our trip ended, we were reminded. The forest was growing.

We rested in a cluster of roadside huts farther down the highway. We asked the locals whether they had seen the skeletal remains. They denied but knew of the stench that they thought was from a dead animal's.

A boy bobbed out from the hut's window. he said he saw it that morning when some Marahan folks asked him, after bathing from a nearby waterfalls, to investigate the stench from that part of the highway. He said it was already reported to the police outpost, on that same day.

Waterfalls?

The bus finally arrived. We signalled and clambered through the door. I saw a man with a gun holster on his trunk, but he gently motioned us to proceed further inside the bus. Sheltered inside, it was then that the Marilog clouds rained with resounding strength. I looked at the rain-drenched window and watched the surviving forests and valleys of Marilog, the splashes drowning the silence.

A human life was stifled here. The forest was the only witness of his agony. The forest beckoned and we saw his last remains. It seemed to mourn for him. He had his own story, but his death cannot be forgotten.

The Forest Mourns

She saw his last sleep
She bowed her head
With her frail, rough hands
covering herself
With white veil

In a stifled time
She closed her eyes
Cleansing innate depth
Of his lifeless body
Silently she mourned

More than four months later I went back to Marilog with other companions. We searched for, and found, the waterfalls where the Marahan folks most probably bathed. It was beautiful.

Always in the recesses of my memory, I will remember the soothing serenity of the place. Despite the odds, she will always be the beautiful, mysterious, Marilog.

(NONFICTION)

THE JOURNEY

2007-08-09T19:22:00.000-07:00

Among my oldest poems, partly inspired by a friend who went beyond the distance to marry his wife.

In an endless field
A man walks;
Despite the vast space
He speaks.

Must he walk
and not be tired?
Will he speak
But not be heard?

Yet man walks and talks;
He must take his course
And run and stumble, then
Be weary and cry of thirst.

In her weariness
She seeks comfort;
In his efforts
He searches reprieve.

Knowledge is unfathomable,
It stretches without rest;
Existence reaches the farthest star
And cradles the tiniest of life

But the arms of one embracing
Defines life no sage
In all his knowledge
Can achieve.

And a listening ear reaches
The depth of a heart's echo
Whose well none can fathom,
Soothing its faintest sigh.

From its waters thirst is quenched;
The farthest place, for a beloved's touch.
In these man finds, and
A journey ends, then begins...

BIRDS ARE POETS

2007-08-07T20:46:00.000-07:00

I witnessed one early morning, a moment when the very first rays of the sun sprinkled on the foliage tips of a large mango tree and its feathered dwellers all began to sing in chorus to greet the new day.

When the morning sun shines

the birds compose;

the trees offer fruits,

their sturdy branches turn gentle

for a perching bird.

They fly above;

they gaze at the ardor

Of scenes and scents

and of smoke rising

towards the realm of space.

And below are little kids

with slingshots and pets;

Dogs may chase them

but birds pick their morsels.

Chirp-chirp-chirp

Little bird I wish to touch you

Before the nimble lithe prints

and the fluttering wings

of an ephemeral moment.