*
The worst thing about poetry is that if you say you are a poet, no one takes you seriously for the rest of the night.
Ungas makes me feel like Tina Paner ever
and yes,
that’s why I always dig people who call me in the most humiliating,
discriminating way but still read every piece of crap that i write and
the way they paste their hands on their cheeks, take their eyeglasses off, grin and shake their heads in sheer awe or filth-coated discomfort.
a little interview for a little something:
Tell us about your poems.
They are hobos attending a Lit Class. They have testis. They are the view of the sea from the rooftops. They are exaggerated unachieved pasts. They are me but way bolder and more honester (yes double comparative, honey). They are it-begins-to-rain. They are sadness trapped in a happy girl with polka-dotted skirt.
How long have you been writing?
I wrote diaries since my mother sent me “cute” journals. My sister used to steal them and read the name of my crushes out loud. I used to like a studio photographer in my little town. No wonder, I had so many ID pictures. 1×1, 2×2…sometimes I conclude answers in a non-sense demeanor.
What do you think is your biggest poetic achievement to date?
Writing an oratorical piece that sounded like a poem, drunk. Very drunk from the prom. I guess the judges picked my work over those that were written by English professors because my erasures were poetic. The grammar errors were like Dickinson’s pee with seashell floaters.
What’s the best thing about writing poetry?
You can always save your goddamn English and leave readers thinking that you kick ass. Seriously, it’s more of the soul than the skin.
Got any suggestions for young, upcoming poets?
Read others’ writings. Others do not exclude daily people, an emo boy’s journal, a mother’s snail mails, a resignation letter, a death threat, the mushiest love letter to ever hit the mailbox and ever hit the postman’s fingertips in an ever giddy sunny day, a pupil’s “ang aking pinakamatalik na kaibigan” and so on. Listen to music. Stop pretending. Stop impressing too much. Chop your prose and call it poetry. Who cares. Breathe and spill.
Who/what influences your poetry?
It all begins here “.”
.
*
She Bares and Browns by him, the activist/caricaturist
1984
she made a 17-year old Ilongga cry with joy,
and her husband, drunk with glee, butterflies in his stomach.
she had reigning cheekbones and pout-carved lips
and a childhood that will follow her to the cities and mini pedestals.
1995
she had a pet dog, Bradox. She slept in the afternoon, found him on
her uncle plates when she woke up. She cried so hard, she hated him so much
and she lit candles on their backyard, sobbing like an orphan.
2000
she was a sad girl behind eyeglasses and medals.
she sang at the back of the door when the guns were out and everyone
was yelling bullshits.
2003
2004
she was more alive, half dead.
2006
she keeps things secret, like stories and lies and pieces of river banks.
she keeps crumbling Christmas trees well past May.
she keeps trying.
2007
she had a skateboard she tried to ride. she had a book she tried to read. she had a boy she tried to love.
she tries to make her bed, some late nights and pretends it’s 5:30am.
she tries to believe that her wishes might still come true.
2008
tomorrow i am
sleeping in to
put off waking
up without you.
Still.
.
*
(no subject)
From: *drop-asd
Date: Sep 23, 2008, 2:46:37 PM
Hi, Tin,
I miss you so much. I’ve been away for so long… The last time I was here all of your writing was still here, too. I can’t believe you’ve deleted it all and since I consider myself one of your greatest fans I insist on you at least telling me why you did it. I’m sorry in advance if this sounds like overreacting, I’m just feeling a bit anxious, a bit scared, a bit misunderstood and a bit too sensitive right now.
I don’t know if I ever told you how much you influenced not only my way of writing but also my views of life and I really really wish to be like you one day. I have so much I wish i was close enough to you to share with you. (I certainly hope this is not a goodbye, is it?) And could I ask you if you’re planning on making a book? If you are how can I get a copy? And if you’re not do you mind sending me some of your poems? I would go back to your poetry for a new dose of inspiration about every week but now, when all inspiration seems to be gone anyway, I just need to read something by you so badly. I’m sorry if I cause you any inconvenience though I’m not quite sure you’ll read this at all.
Umm, I guess that’s all that I needed to let out now, maybe I’ll write to you again later.
Love you,
D
Heimat- Hauschka
fellow hyacinth,
one time, i sat next to my 4year old brother
i pointed the ricefileds to him and held my breath
i told him he is going to paint it
i told him it was the most beautiful portion of the trip
the little boy rolled his eyes
“manang, it’s just green.”
i really am disappointing D.
i tell you, i murder relics
but i want you to know that your
writing is majestic because you have a sincere soul
and not because you read me.
i guess it’s just like this,
deviations had to die that way
like the sound of the rain outside
reminding you of your lover’s
pee the last time he made love to you.
i’m afraid that the poems you love
are no longer in papers now
no longer in a folder named after stars.
maybe they’re somewhere
i don’t wish to know
but hope to find.
salamat.
i miss the icons you use
and the way your cleavage smile
with you in your IDs.
t
.
*
nostalgia by: Pipo Sulpico
Traps, flaps and flights- Alindog
in this sphere of flights
is there somewhere to hide?
where someone stands
between you and the sea
holding your hand
clasping the sand
someone who unsails
just to hear you breathe
in this land of leavings
why do you stay?
why do you settle for the years
that have sailed?
for the broken smile of your wife
for the curtains of your night
for the smell of the dawn
when all the flames have died
sometimes, saying goodbye
is like trapping a firefly
it flickers through the night
flapping beauty and light
you wake up the next morning
it owns no streak of life
in this endless loop
whose arms do you hold?
are you around the one who can’t let you go
or do you lie next to the one you cant live without
do you palm oasis
in this square of drought?
if there are beautiful deaths
would you brave to die?
~
i woke up with this song. gargled with beats.
.
*
Currently, biking along country roads, tumbling down to the sea shore, waiting for the sun to sink, for the stars to dangle and the rain to fall into ripples. Forever young. Forever a bus window lover.
She is religious this way: Streetfoodgasm, Aurgasm, Laidbacksm, Quirkgasm, Cheapoism.
*
---
---
and this. a proof that:
how you see LIFE is how
you actually see YOUR self.
*
*
***
maddening spurt:
----------------------
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!”
-Jack Kerouac-
----
she lives:
* to observe MORE: a lot of parallels in this microcosm of society. which is interesting to see, sometimes funny, sometimes sad though.
* to read "dear me" letters from random people and to encourage them to write one.
* to smile at the grumpiest person in a bus/jeepney/foodcourt/line in front of the atm machine/anywhere
* to say something profound or profane when the situation calls for it/when urge pees
* to keep my family and circle of beloveds in defiant strings.
* to love more than the usual/the necessary.
* to swallow every moment of sunset, sunrise, nightsky, gentle rain, spontaneous collisions of beauty and madness.
* to see the world from puddles than from human-sized mirrors.
* to fetch the colors of culture and splash hues whenever i stay for a while, melt for a while and fade for a while.
* to immerse in the poetic corner where souls need not write poetry to be poets.
* to share more because i have much more to give.
* to swim against the tempting current of materialism, titles, the superficial & the boastful.
* to lick every feeling & thought at its rawest-- create art, music or new tiny passions from each
* to beg for Explosions in the Sky to have a picnic concert in front of me ;)
* to throw a big party if our rooster Tagay becomes a Dad.
*
