Poetry : Soon

Soon

d. steine

We have spent

Day, moon, and starlight

Trading pieces of our lives,

To solve the puzzle, perhaps

Reveal our picture before

Infinity would claim us.

Our words become hollow, like echoes

Losing their form in the empty distance

As the light falls from the sky

So we lie, honestly:

To greet each other with a fragile silence

Broken by our t ouch that spawn tremors

Into the deep of our blood boiling like lava

Sending them to rage and break

The surface our skin, parting the twin countries

Of our lips where emerges the language of our desire

That speaks of everything, Past, Present and Future

Sharing the same consistency of now of now of Now

And though I am afraid of the Dark

Of her Mother who is deep and silent

My unseen smile is for you, my Sihaya

For there will be light, soon

From the explosion of stars

Beneath our eyes.

Still in Awe...

…of Women.

No, that’s not right.

A woman.

How do you do it, to be so silent for so long that I believe that the language we had between us was silence, pure silence…only to be proven wrong when I hear your voice again, a voice that echoes inside of me, stirring long dormant, almost-forgotten memories?

Why are you doing this?

I may never know everything about you and your kind, though I have devoted my life in knowing you, all of you, in all your forms and shape, in all your smell and taste, under sunlight, over starlight. And after all of this, I know I have the gift, among many other beautiful gifts, the gift to call for winter to reside inside of me, for ice to explode from my eyes, from my fingers until all that I see, until all that you and your kind will see is the winter of my solitude, the winter of my pain….

And I vowed that I would, as I have created Ice Queens in my errors and shame, I vowed that I would make the throne, and I would be your kind’s Ice King.

Your voice breaks me.

Your voice breaks everything cold and sad about me, and I feel warmth.

I guess I never wanted to be an Ice King.

I guess all I ever wanted was to be a man…

...so that I could have the chance

To be…

…again with you

…Woman.

Work in Progress...

I knew of no divinations

Nor ancient symbols to trace

On water, air or earth

I possess no potions

Nor scrolls or spells

Yet here I was

In walking or eating

Waking or sleeping,

A dream conjurer:

I conjure you,

Once my life

Now my dream.

You face comes to me in full

The light and shade is kind you

Your lips move

Parting the spaces

Between emptiness

And I hear you

Speak my name…

You smile turns

My sadness

Into supernovas

…my name

In your voice

Echoes

Like a teardrop

Sending ripples

Echo

Ech..

Ec..

You hold your silence

As only a former lover could

After stars

Go nova,

Black holes are born.

(w.i.p.)

Hauntings

In the darkest of rooms

Away from the light

Of prying eyes

From the fingers of cold,

I could touch you

Like the sun.

Taste you & feed you

Flavors red and yellow,

Sweet wet raindrops.

I can make stars

Explode within your eyes

Together we can go

Supernova.

I can show you how

Words are like clay

At times concrete

Yet all the same

Breakable,

As we can share

Conversations whose

Semantics, verbs,

Noun and adjectives

Are of silence,

With no need

For thesauruses,

Dictionaries

Nor translations.

Inside of you

I can plant the seed

Of the primal smile

Whose flowers and fruits

Would emerge

From your eyes and lips

From your words

From you fingertips.

I can share you life

Of its truth and beauty

With each moment

Of its death.

If only I can make you happy…

For I have never known

A girl, a lady

Or a woman

Who does not ask

Nor deserve

Devotion as complete

As day and night,

Of stars and moon skies

Constellations & galaxies

But I am only

Dying flesh,

My soul

A ghost.

Pain: Those Kind of Days

It’s that time of the year again. I should have seen it coming. I should have known better.

Over the years, I realize that I do deserve a break every year, even if only for a few hours, or perhaps a day.

I call it my “period”.

Later on, away from home and in the company of loneliness, it got more frequent: from once a year it became twice, till it became like the four seasons.

I should have had this last month, but there were distractions, and I did get distracted.

It was because of this that made me decide that I had to go back home and attend to matters left unfinished. And the last six months have been just that, working on a book that, as it is painful to write, also guarantees a certain respite, a sweetness of some kind.

98% done, and here it is, those kind of days.

It would be convenient if I could call these days my “crazy days,” but that would be a lie, considering I am not crazy, I am all too sane actually, feeling every ounce and inch of despair washing over me. I am never crazy during these days, though the feeling really makes me want to be one.

I am no masochist, but a little pain is good for my penance, for all the crazy things I have done, for all the tears I called forth from all those burning eyes that loved me.

Pain

Without Love

Pain

I can’t get enough

Pain

I like it rough

Cause I’d rather have pain

Than nothing at all…

-- “Pain” by Three Days Grace, from the album “X”

I Am...

Everyone is telling me

Never to speak

Last words

Never to proclaim,

With a smile on my lips,

Of how I would

Never regret

My solitary life

They tell me

She will come

A moment before

My soul speaks

Farewell

If only they knew

You have arrived

The twin continent

Of your eyes my refuge

Your smile

Is my sun

My moon

My stars

In daylight or dark

But they do

Not know this

Nor do you

I am damon

I am nomad.

Work in Progress : Poetry : After The Affair

After The Affair
d. steine


It is morning
The sun is out
Warm, soft, supple--

--like her lips…

Everything flurries
Memory becomes a book
Pages leafed over
To the beginning

Everything becomes
A snapshot
Freeze frame
One memory
After another
Unfolding
In slow motion

In full color
In total silence

Noon
It is hot
As slivering tongues
And eager fingers
Follow the rhythm
Of a song as old
As the first mortals

Rain falls
In the afternoon
And away from prying eyes,
Cold clean tears,
Bodies retreat to shelter
Seeking heat
In corners
Below rooftops
Between pillows
Twirled arms and legs

Light falls

Until everything
Falls
To the deep of sleep
To the silence
Of dreams
Or unspoken
Farewells

It is
Mourning

The sun is out
Warm, soft, supple--

--like her lips…

Like her lips.

My Mortal Beloveds

Love and Loved by women, it was only fitting that I would love them in return, on my own.

I confess I am a women’s man (no, not the usual archetype who have all the right moves and lines that unhooks bras and loosens panties, though I must confess I have had my share of long shots in that department, but that is another story), but in all honesty, and to the best of my abilities, I have, am, and will always, till my last moment, love women. One of the reasons why throughout the years I found myself with more sisters than what may be considered normal.

They all started out as friends, they started calling me “kuya” (geez, I am old and growing more so) and to my honor, they accepted me as a brother as I love and care for them.

A brotherhood and sisterhood bound without blood, yet thicker than blood, I should say.

But of course, it would be improper if I do not start at the beginning, and there is a beginning.

It starts with my sister.

We call each other “Ja”. Of course, she is “baby ja.”

I remember my mom was washing the plates when all of a sudden other people in the house were scampering off into emergency mode. They took my mom to the hospital, and after a few hours, she came back. This time, she held a small bundle in her arms. My sister.

I started my training in household duties early (one of the things I am grateful my mothers instilled in me because later on I found out that women dig a man who knows his way around the house) and one of my first was actually in washing the “lampin” of my sister. I remember they were usually green, thanks to the veggies, they smelled not that bad but I remember feeling icky about its gel-like texture.

I always tease my sister about how one day, while mother was preparing her milk, Duchess, our beloved Doberwoman (Doberman sounds so sexist and chauvinistic) went into the room and tended to my sister, and it worked, for my mom found my sister silent after getting licked like a lonely pup.

I remember how my sister developed her loved for mangoes. There is an old photograph, I guess she was two years old (and I was younger too) that my mother took of the two of us peeling ripe mangoes with our teeth, dripping juices and all.

My sister, baby that she was, always loved to be carried around, and one of her favorites was when I carried her on my back while I make helicopter sounds. Though I must confess that sometimes, I would stand up before she could reach my back, and she would show her dissatisfaction by crying.

Thinking about all of these old memories as I am writing this, I realize that I and my sister have never had a fight in our lives. I have seen my friends act indifferent and sometimes outright cold to their little sisters, which always bothered me every time I witnessed it.

I had to live with one of my other moms (I have four), and though we were separated, it was only by a few kilometers. Later on, we shared the same roof.

My mothers love me, but its my sisters who knew me the best. Somehow I found it easy to confide with her, especially with my dealings with the partner sex (I find labeling women as the “opposite sex” offensive, they are not enemies, but rightful and fair partners in life, agree?), and through the years, I imparted my experiences as tips and lessons on how to avoid the jackals who come in the shape of men, most of whom she was successful in avoiding (for the rest that made her cry, I am still to eat them up, though my sister, kind and caring as she is, did prevent me from doing so on the first jackal) She loved me as her brother amidst the crazy and sad things I did to women.

There is a rarely spoken but family-acknowledged joke (truth actually) that it is enough to have one of the family breathing art, for all the craziness that I have exhibited is more than enough for the family to handle. Life is not easy, and so am I. Though I did try to belong, I was an outcast in some sorts, the family star who was hoped to shine and stay bright, but I had other plans, and I went supernova.

Through all of this, my baby ja was there for me.

It was my sister, sensing the invisible turmoil and despair boiling inside of me who gave up her vacation plans so that I could use the money to have the vacation myself. This was during my crazy years, when love and life all came falling down, drawing me closer to self oblivion. Her gift that Christmas season proved to be the cure I needed to clear things out in my head.

It was my sister who came to know of my sadness, of my despair, of my struggle and newfound vision that led me to be finally home to finish the first book (finished) and to work on the others that are to come. When I told her of my plight in the city that I gave to working for the cause (women) I love, her reply was simple.

“Come home na, and rest here.”

I have been home for the past seven months. And I am happy. Ok, working on my craft, finishing the book is not easy, it helps to be around the women who love me before I knew what love was, who have loved me and will always love me.

I have always said this, and will always say this, that amidst the former flames that left me, I have been loved like no other man that I know of (except perhaps Pablo Neruda, but he is my father, so I’m cool with that.)

It’s going to be 26 years since I first saw my sister.

For someone who deals with words, I must confess I could not find the right words on how to thank my sister, and I believe I never will, but I am happy with this.

Baby ja, on the dawn of your new year, Happy Birthday. May I live long to witness and share in your travels on this place of life.

Love yah, always.

Big bro ja

with you

we had been

trading

with words

synonyms

of our desires

tucked

between

pages of books

from our library

of secret

shared lives

my mouth

turns dry

from turning

my pages

and so

i tell you

of how

the light

is kind

as it plays

with

your eyes

Your reply

is a smile

followed by

your eyes

burrowing

into my own

an attempt

to decipher

the truth

in some lies

or otherwise

…

we

have been

trading

with glances

and

the light

is saying

goodbye.

Confession of a Vagina Warrior : Vagina Monologues in Zamboanga?!

for nearly three years, i worked for the people i always claimed i loved through my poetry, and since it's one thing to write it and another to be doing it, i had no hesitation of taking on the challenge, even though it meant being a stranger in a new city, away from family, friends and enemies.

As i said, i did it for the people i have, still, and will always love: Women.

Gender Issues & Violence, Feminism, Empowerment, Equality. I have been aware of these issues, and have alway advocated for them. But being a member of the race that has been responsible for all the wars in this world, working for the other side was fulfilling, and something i took on like a religion (hmmm, somehow i made women my religion ever since i threw the last one, which was a good thing since i had no say in choosing it in the first place.)

It was not easy. but i love women..and so...

but there was one hitch about working far away from my beloved city: i was away from my beloved city-mother. If only i was back home, i thought then, though i have to confess that even now, zamboanga is still to give the issues the attention they deserve.

which gets me to what this blog is all about. for the last two years, i also had the experience of participating in the international celebration of womenhood, of their joy and continued struggle. last year, i was able to organize the first ever local production and performance of The Vagina Monologues in that far away city that never loved me.

my former theater group tried to do so in mother-city, but the project did not go through. and i was hoping i could do it right when i finally get home.

i have been home for the past 6 months, and March is just a few months away...

blame it on my father, Pablo Neruda. he thought me how to love things like never before, and like a dutiful son i did just as he taught me: the city, the people, life, women..and women..and some women...and some more women...and more women...you get the picture.

i have loved many women of zamboanga, as some of them have loved me back. all those years away from this city, i never stopped doing so, believing that it is worth it.

but it still remains to be seen if the women i love are ready to liberate themselves...

...it would be beautiful if my beloved could help me stage The Vagina Monologues for the first time...

...and prove that they have been worthy of my worship, that they are not their own worst enemies....

but liberation or not...i am a Vagina Warrior.

Damn proud of it.


p.s.


anyone who wants to stage the play, message me, just got the rights for the play...

Someone Shot Our Neighbor...

I got the message while i was out fixing one of my brother's pc, my baby sister ja asking me where i was, telling me to crash at my aunt's house because our neighbor got shot.

Seriously.

And i found out earlier that 3 bullets were too much for him to handle.

About two months ago, this very neighbor had a couple of piglets, and being the kind of neighbors that he was, he let the piglets go free, thinking perhaps that our flowers and plants were something for his juicy piglet to chew on.

But our dogs, being such good dogs as they are, agreed with us and disagreed with our neighbor, and made their statement in the ways that dogs do best.

Our dogs must have thought it was fun to run after, brandishing poles at them while they played a game of tag with the little piglet between their jaws.

But what made me remember this neighbor was the event that happened after we retrieved the piglet. There he was, brandishing a long pole, and after receiving the bloody piglet from us, he made a comment that it would be beautiful to kill our dogs, and the owners as well.

One of my moms (i got four) who was there with me got started up, but i held her down, telling her to calm down. I have to confess i was the one who got so pumped up that i wished there and then that the neighbor would take a step or two into our property so i would have reasonable cause to play with him, using the piece of wood that i used earlier on the dogs. and i would not mind to let the dogs play tag with him too.

yeah, i get violent at times, friend used to say that the only times they remember of my Moro heritage was when they saw me go postal, which only has happened twice so far.

i remember that on that same day, i wanted to go postal in some calculated and cold way against our neighbor. a molotov cocktail perhaps.

but he is dead now.

what do i feel about dying? i really don't know. friends who know me are divided into two groups, ones who do not want to face the truth of how comfortable i am with the whole death and dying business, and the others who accept it but hates the part in me that actively sought it a few years back.

i don't know.

Innocence

Innocence

Your innocence

as fine as silk

I ripped off

from your fragile soul

Rape I guess

And I basked as I violated you

grinning every inch away

but as I found

and left your core

I was blind

I did not see

the flicker of your darkness

i became a prisoner of freedom

i guess, i should have

Never

violated you

in any manner

My fault, i guess

that your womb is afraid

to conceive love

for me.

Fair Lady

Fair Lady

Fair Lady

The wind dances in your curly locks

And trapped with them are fragments of my dreams

You look into the world

Like a baby,

Innocent that you have captured me

I lay nets of my soul around you

Hoping to catch your eyes

And yet my own eyes see

the same barren landscape of only

moments ago

That always seem like eternities

Perhaps you only watch me when I don't

Save perhaps for that first instant

When my innocence of you was lost.

Fair Lady

I know that I do not love you

Not yet, perhaps never

But I find you complementing the darkness

Like doves that find the wind like Mother's caress

Or like the Oceans that finds the shore

That it slaps and smothers as home

I have spent so many nights on arms of others

Only to find myself alone

Like the moon, or like the stars

All too present, all too distant, and all to silent

Remembering, sometimes wishing to forget

Fair Lady

And so I shall stay in the distance

All too present, all too distant, and all too silent

Happy, that before the arrival of my sunset

I have traveled over your fields

Like the sun I have watched, and embraced you

Though I was only a shadow in your horizon

Memoirs of an Exile

And I am no longer a citizen in your republic

As if total pitch-black darkness has descended

And I am no longer afforded the protection of the warmth

Of your affection

My residence has been revoked

And I have been forfeited of my belongings

I who was once the general in your army

Is now court-martialed and stripped of rank

I was once your great beloved poet

But now my pages are empty, the ink has dried

And my hands are cuffed in chains of despair

The days when I was free to sing my songs to you are now gone

I still sing, but you could not hear them

In your sound proof soul

I am an exile, destined to be a foreigner

Till the end of my days in your kingdom

For even as you have loved me as you never had

It was your own love that exiled me to be away.

A Sucker for Smiles and Surprises...

I met a woman...

...you know how it is.

You don't?! ok, let me explain a bit.

She made me smile. And i found myself wanting to go out into the outside, not just to see what has been going on but to become one of the many...

Then it hits me, the memories. Memories of emptiness torn apart by the simple act of two separate hands touching each other, and from the dark and cold warmth and light is born unlike anything seen before.

I remember life.

But before the arrival of its death i remember the process of dying, of how glances can show so much more, of how silence can be so loud that it pierces you in secret places you never thought you had inside you, piercing and staying there inside, screaming, eating you up over and over and over and over...

I remember my sins, of my pride and shame. I remember how i failed, each one detailed and catalogued snapshots of their faces between my eyes and my mind...

She loved me.. I love her still... or perhaps we are both lying...

I remember how long a goodbye could be.

It's too fucking long.

But then, there can never be a goodbye for lips that never said hello...