You asked me to write a lyrical poem,what do I have to assume?Is it meant to be read or to be sung?No choice, I have to finish this soon.I haven’t composed in a whilewords slated to bring out a smile.Writing with measurehas been a failure.No, I chose not to,for it reminds me of days without you –of lengths and distance,an unfinished sentence,of gaps of our breathas we dive and sleep into the ocean’s depth.It reminds me of our lost time,of your then verticals I wish were mine.I’m bad at math,I really suck at.But time, space, and measurehas always been a leisure.Wonders of how far, how deep, how long,these were my fascination all along.But I haven’t thought of it in a while,cause who cares about an inch, a meter, a mile,if I have you and you have me,and if together we shall always be.
This is an image taken by Jenno, my latest addition to my “Favorite People” list, during our random trip to Intramuros one bipolar-weathered afternoon.
I would be lying if I say this is not of utter beauty, sans the bias that it’s my boyfriend and I in the portrait. I did not actually think our picture would turn out this way since we never planned of taking nice photos anyway. We just wanted a trip to the National Museum, an Intramuros walking tour, and an illegal tag along of Carlos Celdran’s tour.
I would say this image is too beautiful for me to judge aka apply art/photography criticism to. But as far as resonance and wonder is concerned, I would give a million words for a praise.
I found this photo rather dear to me. It reminded me of photographs found in Rolando Carbonell’s Beyond Forgetting. It’s one of the earliest poetry books I’ve read. My grandfather gave it to me in grade school because of my penchant with novels and poetry as early as then. It was about love – found and lost. It was about waiting – its toils and pains and triumph. It was about our souls – torn, broken, crashed. It was about emotions – kept and subdued, professed and demonstrated. The images spoke the same. They breathed every printed word. They pierced thoughts, induced thinking, leading to reverie. Even an innocent 10-year old’s heart was tugged. I might even consider this one of the foundations of my tendency to romanticize. (Mark this entry as Exhibit A)
Later on I found out, the author was my grandfather’s high school friend. It felt like I actually met him.
The book is still with me as to the moment I write. I browsed through the pages after seeing image above. The book may have aged, leaves brown and crisp. But its words are still intact, its images radiated as before.
For Women Who Are Difficult to Love
written and performed by Warsan Shire
You are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.
Because the apprentice of the sun yearns for warmth while sailing in a sea of snow,
and its absence in this icy world makes words glow.