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    introBert is the alter ego of someone living in Manila. This is his version of his city, or the city's version of him, the sometimes with words

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2 Tula para pasimula

To continue a tradition, although technically 3rd post na, I’d like to start a new blog with poetry.

Hindi ako superstitious, pero this poem’s written about just a month ago. And we all know what recently happened here in the Philippines. (Foresight? Nah, hehe. But what a coincidence!) This one’s yet to undergo many revisions but I wanted it to mark this blog because its theme is somehow related to what prompted me to start this new one.


“Whenever people talk to me about the weather, I always feel quite
certain that they mean something else.”
‐On the Importance of Being Earnest, Oscar Wilde

Today I will not refute, will not deny
your divinity. Gratitude is easy on sunlit weekends,

time for washing.

I could believe how old ancestors searched
for your wrath and found ample rumble of earth,
swell of rivers, found the bounty of rain and good harvest
for your merry. From here you remain that distant highland,
almost mountain, yet not quite, across the shadowed lake

given to bursts of breeze,

and once again, the firmament can be trusted
to manage its own apocalypse, or deliver us
hurt and insist on fulfilling the promise of death
maybe on family, even on new introductions.
Easy, really, that all required of ourselves
is to arrange all that can be reached; cut the grass;


peel potatoes and align the spouts to the gutter.
Work on the pump; then maybe polish the shoes;
the darkened lines on our hands and faces.

Hurry, now

scamper to the clotheslines, gather the laundry,
the clear day is breaking into random rain.
On other days of drought we’ll have proper novenas for rain.

Summon all

the ruins, all scales of loss, what mouthful’s the body
and the imagined soul to weather—

everything is simply climate.

And another poem which I really, really dig currently. Nasa “darkness” phase din kasi ang mga tema ko ngayon.  I remember waking (or dreaming of waking) one night with the poem’s first lines on my head after which I started to cry. Hindi ko alam kung totoo bang nangyari yun. I seem to be getting sappier with age.

Sorry Siken, I couldn’t get the original formatting. Nevertheless, this has got to be on my “best” list.

Richard Siken

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
we’re inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.


One Response

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