Mad Girl’s Love Song

This week has been shitty at best. The stress, the exhaustion, and the sadness have all become so unbearable — and it’s not even Friday yet. I will keep the details to myself, per usual, which of course leaves me with nothing to write about. Hayayayayay.

Mad Girl’s Love Song
Sylvia Plath

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The poem above — a villanelle — was written by one of my favorite dead ladies Sylvia Plath. The featured image is a photo I found in my media library. Random lang, if randomness even exists. 

bicol express, manhattan stop


The saddest line of the night, apologies to Neruda, is this: I don’t miss home anymore.

I think about home sometimes, usually during the ungodly hour of the night when souls are at their most fragile. And when I think of home, I think of the past, of memories lived and now cherished, of regrets nurtured but now tempered. I have learned to nod terms with my old self, apologies to Didion, and I am now at peace with my decision.

I don’t miss home anymore, but I still call it as it is — home, and always will be.

bicol express, manhattan stop
Marie Bismonte

no geographical coordinate can pinpoint
a word that embodies a concept:

home is not a location, remembered in distant lands.
nor is it a journey from the road to Mayon,

where all beginnings take root invoked in sepia,
nor an arrival of an express train to the Upper East Side

in Manhattan, people ask me what i am.
all answers lead nowhere

in my head, i am neither a citizen or a national
but a transient between memories, moving through

post-it-notes and found postcards
to forgetting what cannot be remembered.

home is not a word.
it is a language of the sense:

an approximation of ingredients
to create the right mnemonic

in the pan, bicol express simmers—
the steam of bagoong and gata rising

to a smell abhorred by neighbors
who call it too ethnic, but to me it is

decoding the landmarks of my past,
the sili burning tracks

on my esophagus, a combination of words
that defies expression—

my tongue incapable of speech
as it recalls the taste tugging at my throat:

the loss of what cannot be recovered in
each meal, the comfort that makes my eyes water.

The poem above was published in the the anthology Crowns and Oranges: Works by Young Philippine Poets (2009), edited by Cirilo F. Bautista and Ken Ishikawa.

The featured image is Cycles by Dawani de Leon

“And then we cowards”


We parted with a hug, a text message, a smiley face. I told you I will miss you, and you said same. No promises, nothing else — we remain slaves to silence, and that’s okay.

“And then we cowards”
by Cesare Pavese (translated by Geoffrey Brock)

And then we cowards
who loved the whispering
evening, the houses,
the paths by the river,
the dirty red lights
of those places, the sweet
soundless sorrow—
we reached our hands out
toward the living chain
in silence, but our heart
startled us with blood,
and no more sweetness then,
no more losing ourselves
on the path by the river—
no longer slaves, we knew
we were alone and alive.

The featured image is Julie Mehretu’s Dispersion.

Flying at Night

It’s 2am and I refuse to sleep. There’s nothing much to share, really, but here, a poem:

Flying at Night
Ted Kooser

Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations.
Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies
like a snowflake falling on water. Below us,
some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death,
snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn
back into the little system of his care.
All night, the cities, like shimmering novas,
tug with bright streets at lonely lights like

The featured image is Vincent Van Gogh’s The Starry Night.

Reckless Poem

Here, a Mary Oliver poem that I keep going back to and which I am sharing in the off chance that some other soul may find solace in it too


The featured image is a Mary Oliver photo lifted from Tate.

First Draft Poetry

The following poems are all serious attempts at poetry. Unlike “I Missed Supper”, “You Alone”, and the shitbits that I post on Twitter, these drafts were written to hopefully create something that would resemble even just a skeleton of a semi-decent piece.

Continue reading “First Draft Poetry”

You Alone

Gutom Lang

The poem above—assuming it is indeed a poem—is admittedly chaka and is also alternatively titled “Pizza”:

For I desire and I suffer —
                  and pizza and pizza alone
               could satisfy my hunger.

True ‘no?

But shitty poetry aside, I just got back from Panago after picking up a late-night order. It’s almost midnight and I should be sleeping but I once again skipped supper and boy am I hungry.

I have been eating only once a day. Stupid, I know. I am now 15 pounds underweight and my physique is slowly transitioning from pre boob job Kim Chiu to post heroin Kate Moss. Give me a few more days and I might just turn into the kalansay replica sulking in the corner of your science classroom.

I sure miss the karindirya. Fast food here isn’t cheap so preparing my own food is more budget-friendly. But budget isn’t even the issue; I’m just too lazy to cook. A semi-digression: my first brush with culture shock was discovering that KFC does not serve rice. Eating just two pieces of fried chicken felt like hearing half a joke, no punchline. Or reading a fragment.

Another digression (this time completely off-track): I vehemently disagree with the CA’s decision to reject Judy Taguiwalo as DSWD secretary. To borrow Sen. Ralph Recto’s words: “it is her work during the ‘unsalaried phase’ of her checkered career which is her biggest qualification in holding the DSWD portfolio.” Hay. Mabuhay ka, Ma’am Judy!

Anyways pardon the (bad) poetry, the first world problems, and the abominable attempt at coherence. Gutom na gutom na gutom lang talaga ako.