Tulaan Sa Tren

Si alguna vez la vida te maltrata / Kung sakaling malupit sa iyo ang kapalaran
Acuerdate de mi / Alalahanin mo ako
Que no puede cansarse de esperar / Dahil hindi mapapagod sa paghihintay
Aquel que no se cansa de mirarte / Itong walang sawang tumitingin sa iyo.

Luis Garcia Montero (Granada, 1961- )

Masikip ang tren ngayong umaga, tulad ng ibang mga umagang kailangang bagtasin. Sa kagustuhang ibaling ang atensiyon mula sa nakasasakal na dami ng tao sa loob, naisip kong basahin ang mga tulang nakapaskil sa ibabaw ng mga bintana ng tren.

Ito ang unang tumambad sa akin. Hindi na ako nagbasa ng iba pa pagkatapos ng ikaapat na taludtod nito.

This City

Journeyman, you know where you’re going to—
You know the city you wish to live in.

The streets are lined with colorful cars you’ve imagined in your youth,
lampposts that lit your daydreams.

The asphalt and concrete cradled your dreams at night.

And slowly you reached here – roads were uncertain on your way here,
Twisting, turning, twisting – but you’re here,

And the mornings should’ve been beautiful in this city.

But think again, Journeyman, this house that you sleep in.
These walls that should keep you warm,
This roof that should keep you safe,

They are stained and tainted, filthy and impure.
Their cracks and crevices hide rats most vile
That nibble at your best shoes
And defecate in your teacups.

They lay their furless young in your rice bin!

Journeyman, you know the city you wish to live in;
It is not perfect, and you knew it before.

When will you realize this house is not a house
But a grave?

The city’s lights will be faded through its windows,
The city’s sounds muffled through its barricades.

You've arrived in the city.
Do not settle for its broken neighborhoods.

The Table, The Chair

One of my favorite poets - and one whom I consider a mentor (and to whom I am forever indebted to, for rekindling my love for poetry) - introduced me to this website called unphotographable. It's a collection of short descriptions of scenes and images that a person wasn't able to photograph. To challenge my writing, I'll be trying to do something similar - hopefully the guys at unphotographable won't mind. :)



~


Inside Gateway mall, at the far end of Figaro's line of other chairs and other tables outside their cafe, there is an Empty Chair and an Empty Table. There are no ashes in the tray at the center of its cold marble tabletop; no crumpled sheets of napkin, no cups and saucers stained with cappuccino. It is where my uncle always used to sit to speak with his friends -- writers, actors, journalists -- before he passed away.

Bubblegum

Loneliness is like bubble gum.

It sticks to your sole
without you knowing;

until you notice a disturbance in your step

so you look under your shoe
and find an icky blob of dirt and grime
and strands of hair,

glued on to a chewed-up-and-spat-out pulp
of something

that used to be sweet.

Midnight Disturbances

I fell asleep at 10 and woke up at 12:30, after a funny dream was impolite and roused me from slumber.

I cannot remember what it was.

---

Love me like that moment

of perfect waking;

not trembling

out of dreams

but gliding slowly into

consciousness.

As the morning breeze

holds dew in her bosom,

Inhale me as you would

her cold calm air,

a quiet kind of hunger

stirring in your sinews.

Adore me as the golden sun

adores your skin, your eyes,

sparkling and alive

for another day,

yet for another day.

---

'Til tomorrow! Monday.

Tonight the Bedroom, Tomorrow the World

It's the witchcraft of rain;

a deep familiar craving, a hunger,

a longing for the damp earth of fields in the future

in exchange of the gray mold in the corners

of this room.

My sleep and wakefulness is shrouded in metaphors and pictographs:

Words and colors and words and colors and words--

They are merciless and hold me by the neck,

and I submit with fear, but without question.

Tonight, my bedroom is a battlefield of dreams;

Tomorrow, the world is my prize.