Variation on a Theme: Mariang Makiling

When the moon was a certain shape,
when its light was a pale shade of gold
when its beams fell in gentle wisps
along the outlines of the mountain,
when the brooks slivered silver across the verdure brightening
the soil, patches
of life in sundry stages of growth,
when the moon showed no signs
of the waning that was to come--
the townsfolk would preen through windows,
would turn the knobs of doors
and step out, but gingerly
lest the budding blooms woke, for flowers
were sacred, as all beautiful things were,
and so they had been taught. Treading softly,
they would look up the mountain,
their eyes wistful and misting with the memory of old loves, of lost loves, their
minds wandering the pathways of erstwhile forgotten sadnesses, scattering around
as the browning petals that slip away
from the grips of calyxes, relieved from the burden
of dead desires, the pull away from prison
doors that chained and choked hearts to their deaths.
Love knew what it was not, the same way it knew
what it was. And they sighed
at this knowledge, grateful
in knowing.

Silence hung, wafting with a vagrant breeze
and they waited.
For a trail of skirt, a white foot, white hands,
that beautiful face that haunted
their sleep, more haunting now
because elusive, as a hurt heart hides
within itself, making a coccoon
of its pain. An owl hooted, the crickets
grew silent. The night
wore on and the folk grew restless--
were they ever to see her again,
the goddess of the mountain, giver
of gifts that sustained their bodies,
bearer of smiles and wordless wisdom
that kept their souls aflame
with life, keeper of the secrets
that raised those who loved beyond
the grasping hands of those bound
by earth. Maria, the vanished--
they grew sadder as the darkness deepened.

Many moons ago, they began missing
the rustle of her long, white skirt, the scent
of the dama de noche that grew gentler
as she walked by, the overpowering
sense of peace and light when she would scatter
the mist of enchantment
across the mountain and the plains
around it. Ah, Maria. They blamed the stranger
who had boldly trekked the uncleared shadows,
who had pushed away the big rocks
so he could go higher up the mountain
where the air grew sharper with each turn.
I am on a search, he had said, the man
whose eyes were a little brighter,
whose stature a little straighter
than any they had seen, tall and sure
and arrogant. They had turned their backs,
shaking their heads. But he had plodded on. And when he returned, days later,
his hands bleeding, his face scratched
and his shoes torn, all he said was,
I will come back, and the town did not
dare ask if he had found
what he was looking for.

And he did come back, each time
clearing the path a little farther, his hands bleeding
just a little more, his face growing harder
when they told him to give up.
Their wise old woman said he was Leander,
crossing the sea each night to see Hero.
Who were they? She was asked.
He was someone who loved, and she was
someone who loved back.
This man, she said, was searching for the diwata. But he will fail, she said.
And the town agreed.

One night, he was seen for the last time.
He did not descend, though the folk
waited and waited to catch a glimpse
of his dark shape. The old woman bowed her head.
He has found her, she said. He is mortal,
they protested. Ah, but his bleeding hands
have turned him into a god.
A love like that, they frowned.
Does it still exist? And the wind
blew gentler, as if in reply.

Tonight, they could feel their hearts about to burst
with longing. Oh, but to see the beautiful one
once more. Their jealousy, once cruel,
had mellowed into questions and wistfulness.
Very soon, from the far heights of the looming mountain
echoed a woman's laugh, tinkling
with the happiness they all looked for.
And they lay their heads on their pillows,
dreaming of hands that touched
and that did not let go.


September 23, 2017
Mt. Makiling

For Kian--who is every woman's son

This is not the time
for restraint. This is not the time
for speaking in whispers, murmurs,
for silence. Sound
the gong of outrage,
magnify the echoes of woe,
shatter indifference
with the lamentation in dying voices,
let ears split from the cries
of mourning--mother to her son,
oh, bring out the Pieta--
mother, son,
why my son?
Let eyes burn with tears
unshed, let all eyes shed tears--
play a montage
of all that this boy could have been,
paint the sky
with the blood of this child,
this blood splattering the asphalt,
let it not stay confined
to that particular square of street,
consigned to oblivion,
muted by shadow.
Let this child's blood loom
the sight of every man,
let the scarlet spark dead angers.
Let the dead speak.
Let this dead child speak.

Colors, II

Amethyst, I saw first--
rich as to be almost opaque
except for tiny rivulets of Turkish Rose
running through velveteen
violet, shreds of moon
hinting at forgotten lights,
remembered textures: the slate gray softness of sorrow,
the russet rough of bliss, tender billows,
stones merging beneath a teal waterfall.
You, the staunch magnificence in Blue.

I line up Alabaster, Amaranth, Amber, Ambivalence:
lavender and lilac at war, crawling
without stealth, shamelessly creeping
over a helpless bower, your laughter,
golden, echoing across the loveliness
above you, and I, lost
in the suddenness of this discovery--
it is possible to melt and remain whole.

I gather this garden into a bud of colors,
calyx of memory holding up
sheen, shimmer, soul,
the sharpness of remembering,
hovering as the roll of your name
against my tongue:
startling staccatos of starlight
wrap an evening painted sapphire,
and I say: Carmine, Carnelian, Copper, Coral, Crimson
I and my (here, I insert
Obsidian)obession with words
that hardly ever achieves clarity except
in the onyx of your eyes--

Your eyes, my inexhaustible well of color,
story upon story of magic,
submerging my alertness into aquamarine waters.
Here, I swim to the surface,
in my hands:

Verdigris, Vermilion, Viridian.

Variation on a Theme: Psyche and Eros

The lamp is lit--
A glowing paleness, incandescent fire
tamed to obedience by the hand
of its bearer. Love,
I gasp in the swirl of my own
swooning, swale
to steeple, spire,
sky to sky--

you stir.
Breath held, I behold
your sleeping figure, angles and edges
sculpted into soft lines, marking the ends
that flow into more: hard lines, slanting, certain.
Hence limned, you glow brighter
than this lamp.

Your eyes slowly open
and I wait for your wings to flap and bear you away
once more. Instead, you pull me in
and we turn into the lock that we had always been,
that no despair or distance can break,
the unified field
where soul and heart meet.

A Spell of Names

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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--

Variation on a Theme: Eros

Faceless, you arrive. Breathless from your journey--through mountains and pain, across sorrow, a sea--you arrive. It is evening and the moon stands watch, beautiful and indifferent.

Underneath the bower of violet wisteria, I stand in silence, listening to your footsteps. Heavy, at first, then lighter, and lighter. The echoes of night fade upward, to the stars. I hold my breath--let nothing disrupt the sound of your arrival--and look toward your direction. Light, my love, so much light there is.

Faceless, you have arrived. I become Psyche, with neither lamp, nor doubts.