She ran into the wood, laughing. The sound echoed small, tinkling bells, golden with life. Enchanted, he followed, pushing away branches and boughs that never seemed to touch the woman. They made way for her; she floated through them, the hem of her soft yellow dress trailing her back like the foam of a matte gold waterfall.
"Let us disappear and just be our names," she said, looking back at him, her eyes bright with sunlight.
There was a soundless clap--she turned into a butterfly. The man was overcome with lightness and joy. He had, at last, become his name.
13 June 2017
UP Diliman
The Trees at twilight
Sunday, June 18, 2017
Sunday, June 11, 2017
Variation on a Theme: Erato
A brief lustre in the distance, a gentle
splash made the man look
up from the sand
where he had lain
the objects in his pocket, to which
he had added a pebble.
The sky was spread out into the evening,
watching, as the man mouthed
the words: car key, pen, cigarettes,
pebble over and over
until the names lost their sense,
as repetition does what it does:
strip things of meaning.
The man had forgotten his name.
He did not know who he was. A voice
in a long-ago, forgotten figment
had called out to him--from a window,
from seafoam; it was loneliness
that made him come.
The slice of light caught his eyes,
igniting a memory--
the sea, a blowing wind, a woman
shrouded in moonlight, a strange song--
that could just as well have been a dream,
for the man did not believe
in things unseen;
still, he stood up and walked closer
to the water. The moon had risen
and so had his sadness,
sharper now that he was surrounded
by so much softness: wave,
breeze, starlight, song, a distant glimmer
which now grew nearer,
and he, caught in shadow,
lost certainty of movement:
Did he move closer, or
did the light?
He held back his tears, kept
the loveliness at bay, for men
from his world never cried.
But the shimmer soon shone
into long, spun locks,
streaming down a paleness--
shoulders, a face, eyes looking into
his, piercing his soul:
I see you, a voice spoke, though there
was no sound. You
summoned, and I came.
Transfixed, the man felt soft fingers
trailing his cheek and the tears fell,
bidden by touch, dear warmth
traversing his cold pathways,
awakening his slumbering soul.
Leaning close, she whispered his name
into his mouth. Stop searching
for me, for I am
always with you.
splash made the man look
up from the sand
where he had lain
the objects in his pocket, to which
he had added a pebble.
The sky was spread out into the evening,
watching, as the man mouthed
the words: car key, pen, cigarettes,
pebble over and over
until the names lost their sense,
as repetition does what it does:
strip things of meaning.
The man had forgotten his name.
He did not know who he was. A voice
in a long-ago, forgotten figment
had called out to him--from a window,
from seafoam; it was loneliness
that made him come.
The slice of light caught his eyes,
igniting a memory--
the sea, a blowing wind, a woman
shrouded in moonlight, a strange song--
that could just as well have been a dream,
for the man did not believe
in things unseen;
still, he stood up and walked closer
to the water. The moon had risen
and so had his sadness,
sharper now that he was surrounded
by so much softness: wave,
breeze, starlight, song, a distant glimmer
which now grew nearer,
and he, caught in shadow,
lost certainty of movement:
Did he move closer, or
did the light?
He held back his tears, kept
the loveliness at bay, for men
from his world never cried.
But the shimmer soon shone
into long, spun locks,
streaming down a paleness--
shoulders, a face, eyes looking into
his, piercing his soul:
I see you, a voice spoke, though there
was no sound. You
summoned, and I came.
Transfixed, the man felt soft fingers
trailing his cheek and the tears fell,
bidden by touch, dear warmth
traversing his cold pathways,
awakening his slumbering soul.
Leaning close, she whispered his name
into his mouth. Stop searching
for me, for I am
always with you.
Variation on a Theme: The Transformation of Psyche
It was pain that lifted her off the ground.
With each that she suffered, she found
she was shedding off just a little more
skin, flesh, bone,
and all the weight they came with;
mind and more mind, she shut out,
and less and less they became
until her body mirrored glass--
clear and solid, ready
for reflection, to break
into pieces, into fragments
of likenesses, shrapnels of soul,
to shatter into
possibility.
Yet in resembling glass--
and parallels are limitless--
she only resembled glass;
for it is true what the gods say: nothing
is as it is. Fragile, she was strong;
and she was strong only as far
as she allowed herself to break.
This, Psyche understood, to the heart
alone does the soul succumb;
and in understanding, she shattered,
shattering into all that she could become--
hard surface and quiet stream,
air, dream, a pair of butterfly wings.
She brushed past distances,
erasing them; she flowed into healing tears,
became sky, abyss, vastness;
she refracted light and shadow,
catching glimpses of the self coccooned
in self;
she began to comprehend
disappearance; she discovered
weightlessness. Lightness
and light started tapping
at her edges, her edges giving
way and giving way to let
the light in, gentle ripples, sliver, golden;
mysteries, translucent, small
until felt;
wisp-like miracles, silent
until known.
Later, standing near the water
in trance, trembling, transformed,
she grew porous with brilliance
and became the word
Luminous.
Sunday, June 4, 2017
Variation on a Theme: Psyche
Three tasks, she had fulfilled,
and with the last triumph she felt weakest,
because mortal, slight and barefoot;
yet about to earn what the books
henceforth called her--the Goddess
of the Soul.
The first of her burdens:
after loss, to look upon a mountain of the seeds of the everyday,
difficult tomorrows to be sifted through and lived,
while time goes with agonizing slowness,
fatal for the lonely;
to gather, and with a clear eye, for
one mistake leads back to the beginning,
back to despair.
But she does as she must:
she rearranges her broken life and
lifts it to the sky,
"I have gathered the grains into neat, perfect piles."
Unfazed, Aphrodite demands the golden fleece
and Psyche trembles, terrified
of the wrath of the rams.
But Zeus, hearing her prayers,
sends forth the mighty eagle of perspective which,
with its gift of perfect sight, guides Psyche to triumph:
Anger dims once the sun sets, she whispers again and again
while, with patience borne only of love, she awaits twilight
for the rams to graze by the tranquil river,
and she gathers the precious thread.
Golden fleece offered with trembling hands,
Psyche is next commanded to bring a flask
from the Waters of Forgetfulness--
but how, she cries, how does one forget?
Forgiving alone was difficult enough.
Yet she sets to task, battling with her sorrows, listening
to the voices she had once drowned
and now letting them flow into wisdom;
she confronts a montage of pain,
finally seeing what they had to teach--
until she had filled the flask,
until she had forgotten.
But now, the last test of courage:
to brave death and return alive.
"I have done enough," was her woeful cry,
but the brave will brave love, and so we find
Psyche in Hades' realm, aided by the knowledge
offered by the compassionate:
"Coins for Charon to row you through The River Styx,
bread for three-headed Cerberus".
Curbing fear into her fist, Psyche plunges the impossible:
to be human and face the harrowing depths of death,
to draw wisdom from one's solitude
and shine a light of hope--however little, however flickering
between faith and despair--
in the darkness of a wretched life,
to grasp the hands of grace.
She emerges from a death-like sleep
and there, Eros waits,
home to all the dreams she had woven
as child, girl, woman.
"Awaken, My Love."
Four tasks, Psyche had fulfilled,
and the prize was immortality:
For love gifts us with the wings of courage,
placing the sky within reach.
and with the last triumph she felt weakest,
because mortal, slight and barefoot;
yet about to earn what the books
henceforth called her--the Goddess
of the Soul.
The first of her burdens:
after loss, to look upon a mountain of the seeds of the everyday,
difficult tomorrows to be sifted through and lived,
while time goes with agonizing slowness,
fatal for the lonely;
to gather, and with a clear eye, for
one mistake leads back to the beginning,
back to despair.
But she does as she must:
she rearranges her broken life and
lifts it to the sky,
"I have gathered the grains into neat, perfect piles."
Unfazed, Aphrodite demands the golden fleece
and Psyche trembles, terrified
of the wrath of the rams.
But Zeus, hearing her prayers,
sends forth the mighty eagle of perspective which,
with its gift of perfect sight, guides Psyche to triumph:
Anger dims once the sun sets, she whispers again and again
while, with patience borne only of love, she awaits twilight
for the rams to graze by the tranquil river,
and she gathers the precious thread.
Golden fleece offered with trembling hands,
Psyche is next commanded to bring a flask
from the Waters of Forgetfulness--
but how, she cries, how does one forget?
Forgiving alone was difficult enough.
Yet she sets to task, battling with her sorrows, listening
to the voices she had once drowned
and now letting them flow into wisdom;
she confronts a montage of pain,
finally seeing what they had to teach--
until she had filled the flask,
until she had forgotten.
But now, the last test of courage:
to brave death and return alive.
"I have done enough," was her woeful cry,
but the brave will brave love, and so we find
Psyche in Hades' realm, aided by the knowledge
offered by the compassionate:
"Coins for Charon to row you through The River Styx,
bread for three-headed Cerberus".
Curbing fear into her fist, Psyche plunges the impossible:
to be human and face the harrowing depths of death,
to draw wisdom from one's solitude
and shine a light of hope--however little, however flickering
between faith and despair--
in the darkness of a wretched life,
to grasp the hands of grace.
She emerges from a death-like sleep
and there, Eros waits,
home to all the dreams she had woven
as child, girl, woman.
"Awaken, My Love."
Four tasks, Psyche had fulfilled,
and the prize was immortality:
For love gifts us with the wings of courage,
placing the sky within reach.
Piano Sonata in C# Minor, "Moonlight", Ludvig Van Beethoven
It
must be night, else I must be dreaming.
So, it is night. So, it is that the moon illuminates our loneliness and propels them round and round, brushing our arms and touching our cheeks, one living being to another. Our plights take flight and descend, sighing, into our ears, sending ripples of sadness across all that we do, all that we hold in our empty hands--hovering above half-finished coffee cups, grazing past barely-buried regrets, lightly touching the jagged tear in an unread letter, crossing a lamplit room teeming with stasis, swooping into hearts that plunge the unfathomable depths of suffering, echoing the unasked questions, moving past the boundaries of what can be known, swirling gloriously, unheeding of conclusions, yet, shining a light upon them.
If only we had eyes to see.
Souls tremble in containment, reaching for edges of moonlight, never rising quite enough to touch.
So, it is night. So, it is that the moon illuminates our loneliness and propels them round and round, brushing our arms and touching our cheeks, one living being to another. Our plights take flight and descend, sighing, into our ears, sending ripples of sadness across all that we do, all that we hold in our empty hands--hovering above half-finished coffee cups, grazing past barely-buried regrets, lightly touching the jagged tear in an unread letter, crossing a lamplit room teeming with stasis, swooping into hearts that plunge the unfathomable depths of suffering, echoing the unasked questions, moving past the boundaries of what can be known, swirling gloriously, unheeding of conclusions, yet, shining a light upon them.
If only we had eyes to see.
Souls tremble in containment, reaching for edges of moonlight, never rising quite enough to touch.
Wine Glass
long-stemmed--your
neck, my eyes
graze, as you take a sip
from a corner
of the wine's mouth
and something spills
inside me:
sobriety, perhaps,
melting, a rivulet
trickling down,
and all around, the world dews
into haze, fluid
crystal
I turn
into that glass--
neck, my eyes
graze, as you take a sip
from a corner
of the wine's mouth
and something spills
inside me:
sobriety, perhaps,
melting, a rivulet
trickling down,
and all around, the world dews
into haze, fluid
crystal
I turn
into that glass--
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