Posts Tagged RAINBOWS

Hermit Stories

how to get directions.

We must speak of loss first

Let us examine how the ebbing left

You with fermented songs

How one morning you searched

And plundered the widening heaven

With stories of abandoning

Etched clearly when you stretched

Your mouth like a river 



I went up at the arrivals lounge full of resentment other than my own, the couple on my right side complained in silence  why the sun is so searing today close to being unforgiving. my left-side lovers are cool about the whole thing perhaps they took the weather as a premonition how their day would end. I am caught in-between, this is exactly the kind of scenario that i dread – finding myself in the middle of two loves. Outside, the sky threatens to pour out it’s long overdue discontent to all the widespread dryness. These are the things i cannot undo.

Oh well come on, hit me hard and low.

I just came from an island and instead of going around and loiter on its beaches, i decided that i will just sit down, take my pen, and started to waste away in a different world where inanimate become animated, and the animated become stiff, sturdy, rigid, and not to mention frigid. Like how i want to proceed these days, i went incognito.

Out of nowhere the phone screen stared at me and shouted ‘travel is the saddest of all pleasures.

Let me argue with myself first, In travel you’ll have to bear with absence, but then again,  you will have to open yourself with a new kind of presence, no matter how you want it, you have the island for yourself. What sort of absence are we articulating ? The long blank trail between people that doesn’t end somewhere?  The peculiar absence of the pushing and pounding of machines against machines, and the frightening bliss of silence traversing your bones? There is only mud on my feet, they’re thick, slippery, and earthy. The water buffaloes behind me rise in agony as the rain came like an infant’s embrace – very unforgiving.

The emptiness of the road and all it’s bareness is a strong metaphor of vulnerability, it is an endless stretch of longing.

However travel allows me to outgrow all of those things that has been bothering me for so long.  Every time i press my ears on unfamiliar walls, every time i turn doorknobs – i open places, i open new, distant, constellations – cobwebs, windows, sheets, and faces.  Every time i pay for bus tickets, i do not just send away money, or coins, i also shooed away nightmares, restlessness, sleeplessness, and all that pushed me deeper in my bed.

Travelling is relative to remembering and forgetting

We have different manners in travelling, we have all sorts of rituals and other beliefs. Some dwell with how they fold their shirts making sure that the scent of their love ones who left before dawn is intact in the cloth. Some chew their food incessantly and in precise rhythm of their lovers laughter. Some take photos, some simple and some as elaborate as metal puzzles.

You shall not forget. Dusk will peer into your
Window, tragic-eyed and still,
And unbidden startle you into remembrance
With its hand upon the sill.

 -Angela Manalang-Gloria

Travelling for me is a pilgrimage, just like writing, it is sacred as it is trivial, it is of both worlds. I set out to darkness waiting for somebody to arrive.  It is also the art of bringing together elements to form civilizations –  guava, chico, pomelo, durian, jackfruit, mixed with milk, breath, and gun powder to make mother wombs as valiantly explosive, bursting in spectacular colors. A race made of rainbows on your wrists, lips, breasts, and hips.

After a long travel, the long haul, the longest sleep, i will fall deeply like a stone, tenants will even moved under me – like millipedes, centipedes, rats, and other creatures of the crevices. They will use my body as a foundation, they will have Ferris wheel,  clowns, food joints, and even governments complete with fascism to strike down dissent of people questioning their exploits over my body.

I came back today – i catapulted myself to the familiar chaos,  of people cheering mistresses and philanderers, while jeering those who profess love in the open, i came back to unknowing. I’m back to all that is familiar.

My hand is that of alloy, with fingertips made of chrysanthemums, sunflowers, and thorns. My feet, they’re flightless birds, that only glide in short distances, but i have more elastic frog legs, i can leap higher then glide, they may be wingless, but it will bring me again to travel. My arms are horses they speed up to race with time and hunger, my heart is a kitten it can only purr,  but my mind is hawksbill diving to nothingness.





ang imong palad

aron mobukhad usab

ang ubang palad



sa panganod sa dagat

ug sa langit



hangad ug ihapyod kini

sa imong dagway

lakip tanang suok




aron mapukaw

ang tanan nga


sa mga anino

damgo balak

ug sugilanon



unya inata imong kaugalingon

aron matul-id ang tanan

nga nahiwi u gang tanan

nga nasaag miliko

misimang makatultol

sa karaan nga dalan

ug pamaagi



sa pagdamgo

sa pagmata



sa pakighinabi




Imong mata ug baba

Idungan sa tunglo

Sa subang sa adlaw

Ug mga bituon



Tawga ang mga bato sapa

Bukid lapok panganod kahoy

Ang yuta ug uban pa



Dawata ang

lain-laing dagway

sa pulong



tan-awa ang tabanog

tulin kayo nga mipauli








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between us is a space, as immense as the ocean

from the sewers, stories came marching in like a revenge, with their huge flags, in bold letters, they’ve found me, and i became their unwilling target, they pushed  me in the corners, violate me relentlessly, and tied me to a table, and offer me to the void of the planets.

they read before me irritating verses, enumerated my sins, and spoke lengthily of the obscurity of my silence.

These stories in vivid colors, i retorted – i did not seek solitude for religious purposes , but solely to avoid people and their laws, their teachings, their traditions, their ideas, their clamor, and their wailing.

What are the laws that kept me silent for a long time? the poetics of anger? or the poetics of poverty? the night just caught me somewhere.

The night became O

enclosing us in an eternal embrace


you spread your feet wide as your name, it is immense even in abbreviations. 

pardon me, sometimes incoherence is an anthem that would want to stick its nose on your skins.

1. remember those months when hunger came like a delayed menstruation

2. think of all those who left you because poetry is a lie and a tragedy

3. think again and allow yourself to be lured again by the promises of words becoming flesh like a bladed weapon that cuts your chest open so the world can see how inglorious the beatings of your heart looks

4. count how many times you were made to believe that longing is alcohol induced and is manufactured by those who made us believe that we can don wings when remembering is a lightning – sudden and without notice

5. smile and recall the conversations you had with friends in onw hurried afternoon, and how everything was shared unabashedly without fear that tomorrow, all those kneeling around you will be inundated with grief , as if it is a gift that christmas failed to deliver

There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself—
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
-Sylvia Plath


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