abo sa dila

May iniisip ka? Oo. Ano? Ayaw kong sabihin. Baka magkatotoo.

Dahil makulit ka
Kilala kita. Oo, ikaw 'yun: Nagkasalubong na tayo minsan, sa LRT, sa Gotohan, sa kanto ng Aurora at Katipunan. Nagkatinginan tayo. Hindi mo ako kinausap, pero alam ko, nakilala mo rin ako. Kaya ka narito, di ba? Para sabihing, Oo, oo, ikaw nga 'yun. Naaalala kita.
O, ha, Plurk, o, ha!
Radyo? Radyo?
Libreng humirit

Mag-exercise tayo tuwing umaga
Tambay ka muna
Lokal Kolor
Ano'ng hanap mo?
Basa lang nang basa
Tropa ko

    na, mula noong 24 Enero, 2006, ang nakitambay dito

The Doomed
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Poetry with lilies can’t stop tanks.
Neither can poetry with tanks.
This much is true.
Here is more or less how it happens.
You sit at your desk
to write a poem about lilies and a clip of 9mm’s
is emptied into the chest of a mother
in Zamboanga. Her name was Hamira.
I sit at my desk to write a poem about tanks
and a backhoe in Ampatuan crushes the spines of 57
-- I am trying to find another word for bodies.
The task of poetry
is to never run out of words.
This is more or less how it happens:
I find another word for bodies
and Hamira remains dead.
Her son was with her when she was shot.
I didn’t catch his name.
I don’t know if he died. Perhaps
he placed lilies on his mother’s grave.
Perhaps he was buried beside her.
One word for lily is enough.
There is enough beauty in flowers.
I want to find beauty in sufffering.
I want to fail.


posted by mdlc @ 2:25 AM   1 comments
Sunday, February 14, 2010
We believed stories never died.
Our songs were our dreams retold.
Sometimes we woke up screaming.
Our hearts would spill from our throats
like jagged-edged pebbles.
We thought silence was a virtue.
When our children cried
we fed them from our hands.
Home was that place
no one else claimed as their own.
We chanted at our bamboo walls.
We spilt the blood of goats
and prayed only for rain.
We hungered only when we slept.
When we thirsted we knelt by the river.
The water slipped through our fingers
like a story, never ending.
We believed something came
after dying. We died.
We fought back.


posted by mdlc @ 3:42 AM   0 comments
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
This is a church
and the faithful are singing.
Across the aisles their voices
leave a trail visible
only to those who see
without straining. What music is
is rising, a yielding to some gravity
greater than that which grounds us.
The stones know this.
If only they had ears they would long
as I do. If only they had fists
they would know how a hand
is defined by its unclenching.
By opening. Some day listening
will save the world.
What music is is five fingers
pointed outward. A palm
facing skyward. Asking
for nothing. Receiving.


posted by mdlc @ 12:54 PM   2 comments
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