Lamentations

Guards we are of our country against its bastion
Limned in inexplicable doom. She who trades
Order for a rigmarole of riches, our souls for a
Ragbag of graces. We are ransacked again and again.
In this pitfall of shame, how are we to enliven our
Atrophied identities, now lame and lamenting?

Please repent, lambasted lady! The provinces and cities scream in
Abandonment, every wall and terrain grim with your name.
Several stories unfold as truths each day: an infant
Inconsolably taken by the claws of hunger, individuals
Strangely silenced in the shadows of the wild. In our land,
This turmoil spreads like an infestation. Wayward woman,
All of us drown in the religion of your dreams.

Placate us now before our very eyes. Doesn’t this
Anger unnerve the stance and feat of your harrowing
Highness? Listen to the sonic echo of rage
In our common language, the upheaval against your
Rapaciousness. Rightful reason has departed this country; you have
Already turned into the components of rust and stone.
Pardon our cohering fear for the future, lambasted lady, pardon our

Satiety for sins. The cracks of our lives
All crawl, serpentine-like, towards your abode. Prepare!

Mercy doesn’t cling to the wind now, nor is it carried through the
Adroitness of your words. Tenderness won’t be dutifully
Served. Look up, wayward woman, the talons of guilt hover
Above you. At last, even for once, we declare our revenge.

The Coffee of My Memory

Any cup of coffee can be a taste of pleasure. Take away the deep white cup, the small pack of powdered coffee, the steaming hot water, the granules of sugar, the powdery cream, what else is left for me in a night of hard research and review? Given the tons of work I am subjected to each passing day as a student, there really needs to be a reliable companion to this entire quandary. Time and again, it has always been said that a student’s life is both fun and taxing. Once exams, quizzes, and research works get into the picture, one can just expect to stay up in the stillness of the night, laboriously accomplishing all the work that need to be finished.

I am a self-confessed grade-conscious student. The idea of having high grades after every semester thrills me to no end. I am very willing to stay up late in the night, or go to the field for more extensive research, or hole myself up in a cold corner of the library just to get things done and over with. Needless to say, I really don’t mind skipping breakfast, lunch, merienda, or dinner just to fulfill whatever responsibility that needs to be achieved. Indeed, all for the good academic record!
But despite all these, I really don’t waver much since a cup of coffee can always be a reliable remedy to all these stress and gastronomic sacrifices.

Outside my favorite library in the University of the Philippines—Diliman, there is a coffee machine ready for any thirsty soul who yearns for a minute of comfort and satisfaction over a cute cup of warm coffee. One time in the library, in between an excruciating headache and a looming deadline for a subject I sincerely dreaded, I was having a hard time concentrating on the things that I then needed to do. So I first decided to step out of the library, head onto the Nescafe machine outside, and have my much-deserved coffee break.

Amidst fellow students who were also busy studying, I sat down on the library steps and contented myself with hearty sips from my cup. As I was finishing the brown mixture, I scanned my surrounding and looked up at the gunmetal sky, then turning indigo, gradually transforming into nighttime. It was around 6pm, and yet I was still there together with fellow harried students of my university.

Upon further scrutiny, I noticed that most of them were also holding cups of the famous coffee that we students always turn to before, during, or after our daily grind in school. Then it dawned on me that apart from being an individual thing, the habit of drinking coffee has also transcended into a social event which peers share with one another in either high or low times!

Ever since childhood, I have always been fascinated with coffee. I remember that during breakfast, before going to school, I would usually insist for a cup or two. In hindsight, this interest in coffee might really have been borne out of curiosity, since I would always see my parents concocting their own mixture (too sweet! too bitter! without sugar! without cream!), adjusting the taste based on their own personal liking.

During weekends, when my parents would be out of the house or inside their room, I would silently sneak into the kitchen, boil my own water on the stove, and carefully tear out a pack of coffee. Afterwards, I would excitedly rush back toward my room, onto my bed, with the flavorful cup tugged toward my chest.

Back in our province, drinking coffee has been a custom among my family members. When I was a kid, my parents and other family members would usually gather around the dining room to share stories in between cups of coffee. I still remember how delightful it was to see the white china mugs and the old thermos alongside with the little packs of coffee, cream and sugar on top of our round Narra table. Furthermore, I have even stood witness to both my grandparents’ and my parents’ way of welcoming visitors with brewed coffee and oven-fresh buns of pandesal during summer afternoons.
As I entered high school, a big part of my student life was also spent during coffee sessions in houses of classmates, in cafes, or even in school. Before group meets or play rehearsals, I, together with my classmates or friends or both, would often go to the grocery store and buy packs of coffee for us to indulge in. Back then, we unanimously agreed that there was—and still is—something about coffee that energized our dampened emotions.

Until now, I personally believe that above anything else, coffee has that element which maintains relationships, smoothens rapport among friends, and elates the weary mood in times of pressure.

My mom has also gotten used to the right mixture of coffee that suits me. Whenever she learns that I need to accomplish several school requirements—all of which require me to stay up till the wee hours of the morning—she would surely go out of her way and wake up in the middle of the night and prepare the ingredients of my coffee drink. When the moment comes that I feel tired and drowsy, I would just go out of my room and go straight into the kitchen. There, I would prepare my own mixture and derive pleasure from the aromatic steam rising up in a paisley pattern from the cup’s brim.

As the irresistible aroma smothers my room, I would again feel rejuvenated and ready to face work. Inhaling the sweet scent and letting it settle on my veins is like going back to my childhood’s breakfast table, in the middle of an engaging conversation with my parents and siblings, embraced by the alluring steam of early morning coffee.

Now that I am in college—and at a tough university at that—I have proven more that coffee is not just a drink; it is a companion. Upon learning that coffee is rich in antioxidants and that having the right dosage everyday is beneficial to one’s health, I have even gotten more addicted to it, making sure that I can’t last a day without a cup or two. Moreover, I also make sure that each cup is a savor of quality and contentment. With the perfect brand, a cup of coffee can always be divine!

And now, as a student battling the daunting challenges of college life, I still find the old familiar relief in my favorite drink anytime, anywhere. It has aided me during sluggish mornings, in ravenous afternoons, and in languid nights. Certainly, it is one of the factors that fuel my efficiency as a student. There are times when it is very easy to just close my eyes and fall asleep in class; but because of the promise of coffee, the burden of non-sleep becomes so easy and manageable.

Indeed, the coffee of my memory will always be full of nostalgia and fondness. It will always be connected to my own notion of family and home, friends and school. Definitely it plays a vital role in my study habits, as it helps me sustain my impetus in staying up late without the fear of having a headache the following day. Moreover, it also never fails to give satisfaction for every group gathering that I have with friends. Then and now, coffee has surely been a source of joy.

Apart from being a family tradition, coffee—or the art of drinking it—also remains a personal favorite. In many ways than one, it is part of my student life, my personal life, and indeed, my humanity at large. Each flitting day, I wake up in the morning with that wonderful taste of coffee in mind. I rise up from my bed, rush down toward the dining table, and prepare my own cup of coffee. And for every careful sip of my own warm concoction, I still look up with delight as I savor the unique flavor of coffee that settles on my tongue and slowly trickles down my throat.
Once again, I am back to the landscape of my sweet old childhood.

From Flashing Panties to Reality TV: The Concerns and Comfort in Carljoe Javier’s And the Geek Shall Inherit the Earth

If there’s one thing impressive about the essays in Carljoe Javier’s And the Geek Shall Inherit the Earth, it is the swooping and ascending energy that trails and clings from page per geeky page. While reading these pieces, the senses are attuned to the explosive happenings and experiences that are about to unfold, such as the infectious viral outbreak in the world of computers, his ruminations regarding the divide between the rich and the poor, the pressing dilemma on peeing, among others. These are essays loaded with novelty and character, the types which comfort you while waiting for progress in the middle of a traffic jam, or maybe those kinds that keep you in company while having your daily bout inside the wash room. Indeed, these pieces bear the hilarity of a self-confessed geek and the reflections of a man steeped in the social ineptitudes of his time.

Javier’s concerns are diverse on the one hand and predictable on the other. Undeniably, there are fits of laughter and pleasure in store for the reader. “Hilarious essays on diverse topics” promises the publisher on the back cover. No contest with that. There are times, however, when one can just cringe and drop the book for a while, to mull over whether one’s still on the right track, guided by the sharp humor of the author or blinded by the sheer comfort of the texts. From being a certified geek to flashing panties of celebrities to teaching at a school for girls where “residents turn to their own sex of titillation” to rock bands and regurgitated adobo in toilet bowls—the range seems wide in scope and varied in humor. But despite the variety, one cannot just be alienated from the experiences; after all, these essays know its readers, speak to them, and somehow share their concerns.

The danger with these personal essays though—and I am quite sure that in our habitual shores they are many—is how they end up like decadent confessions on the page. To use Cristina Nehring’s words, in her essay Our Essays, Ourselves: In defense of the Big Idea: “A frenzy for cozy, complacent, and oddly insular self-revelation.” These are essays that usually recount the firsts (first year in college, first sexual experience, etc.) and other whatnots in a writer’s life. These are pieces that lack that punch and pull, stir and shake— ideas that attempt to challenge one’s perceptions and beliefs toward particular certainties. Ultimately, these are works that look at themselves inwardly, indulging in their own immensity, and contenting themselves with the plain activity of navel-gazing.

Though the essays in Geek are personal—often cute, sometimes jarring—these are works that question and provide situations open for pondering and interpretation. As one flips the final page of the book, several inquiries and realizations race to the fore. Concerns regarding the society, one’s self, and even the mode of literary production in the country linger, albeit in mute hints. To be sure, this book is not just for certified geeks but also for people who suspect on the possibility of being one. And for those who in their lifetime have never dared to question nor seek answers of whether they belong to the whole shebang that is the Geekdom, now is the chance to negate or confirm that unidentified self.

Writing the Truth, Writing the Personal

The writing process has never been easy to me, given that I consider myself as a relatively incompetent writer and a late-bloomer as far as literary concerns are involved. Being a probinsyano, I really didn’t have the exposure to books that are considered literature. Except for the various textbooks that we have had back in elementary and high school and the other children’s books at home, there was no excitement in my mode of reading. Needless to say, my appreciation for such books was also equally boring. Most of the time, our teachers would teach a poem or a story in terms of the morals and values one could gain from it. During English month, we were even obligated to memorize lengthy poems by William Wordsworth or Alexander Pope. But, on hindsight, my teachers didn’t really give much time in explaining and letting us experience the pieces.

It is with this background in which I have molded and transformed the way I currently write my works. A huge chunk of my time goes to reading, arguing, and opening myself up to other literary pieces available within reach. Indeed I am still swinging myself from both sides of the spectrum just to keep up. However, it is this ineptitude that has challenged me to push myself to the limits, however slowly or rudely, if only to pursue and hone my craft as a writer.

Now, after almost two years of being part of a writing organization in UP and having the chance to be a fellow for poetry in the 10th UST National Writers’ Workshop this year, I can say that I have somehow decided on the general manner in which I write. Most of the time, it starts right after a cool bath at night. This surely needs to be part of the routine, since a day’s dust and smoke makes me feel irritated and, therefore, easily distracted. So my writing process occurs during the maturity of the night, when the lights are low and the bed is inviting for a comforting sleep. Nighttime offers a certain calmness, which is a prerequisite before I start to write.

As a young writer who is sometimes ambitious but always struggling, I admit that the range of my topics isn’t still that diverse. Mostly (and this I know by intuition and self-assessment) the themes of my poems revolve around my personal experiences and observations. From time to time, they are products of my wild and often bizarre imagination. Moreover, I often choose my topics based on their nearness to me; the closer the experience, the more possible for me to write it down. Usually my poems touch on the subjects of memory, city living, childhood joys, family, lost loves, etcetera. Indeed there’s homogeneity, and this, in the long run, could turn out as a drawback for me.

But I believe that this indulgence in personal matters is a natural problem among beginning writers. While there is that ambition to cobble up something “new”, I still find it difficult to escape from the confessional mode, mainly because of its ability to devour my incompetent self, letting it sink in in the comfortable crevices of nostalgia. Nonetheless I am optimistic that there is more to come and more to achieve as I go on in writing.

Writing has always been pleasure to me. I am the type who finds bliss in seeing a poem take shape on the page. But while others enjoy the sheer sight of ink blooming on the whiteness (or yellowness) of paper, with each swoop and ascend and curl of the letters adding delight in the writing process, I prefer not to write in longhand. There’s something in it that stresses my mind and therefore, derails my train of thought. Especially when my emotions are too strong to handle, writing a poem on paper, with the additional effort of dragging a pen across the page, seems to disrupt the impetus. So I use my laptop instead in encoding my works. For me, it is more convenient (and environmental) to go digital in terms of writing. Also, it is easier to correct one’s work when using a computer. By just pressing the backspace or the enter button, the intended effects of those enjambments and gaps can immediately be seen and assessed. No more confusion in scribbling words, or any ambivalence of how my poem would look exactly, once finished, on the page.

After writing a poem, I make sure that I neither publish it on my blog nor let my writer-friends read it right away. From the moment of typing the last word of the piece, I usually save the file first and incubate it for a day or two. It is during incubation that I mull over the things going on in the poem. Questions regarding the images, the luminosity of lines, and the compactness of the whole piece come to mind, often leading me to uncertainty toward the unfinished work. However, it is with these unsure thoughts that I find enlightenment on how to better the work—form and content wise.

Moreover, getting back on the work after the incubation period would be like confronting the hard reality that I am indeed a sordid writer of poems. Here I usually frown at those buckling words, hackneyed images, loose lines, and cluttered ideas. Mostly it is also at this stage where the dilemma of whether to revise the poem or to completely forget about it confounds me. Fortunately, I often choose the former since I still consider my work, no matter how ugly it is, a work of art. I often ask myself: Wouldn’t annihilating the whole poem in just one blow be so rude? And despite the self-confessed lack of skill, shouldn’t I still be my own number one fan?

In my own writing process, I consider my poem “sharable” once I have already concretized what I want to say. Furthermore, being able to understand the internal messages and the theme of the poem is also essential. However, I also make sure that my poem, to some extent, still contains its mystic. As the writer, I want my work to possess parts where even I feel unsure about. I believe that a poem needs not to be filtered into perfection; for me, a little nuance and grit makes it more communicative, more emotionally appealing. After all, a poem is a mode of expression rather than impression.

I also understand that the writing process does not end in publication. But one needs to publish his works in order to move on to the next project in mind. Like a parent who needs to set free of his child once it reaches full maturity, writers must also let go of their works and allow them to be seen and read on the page, virtually (through the Internet) or physically (through books, magazines, etc.), ready for the scathing eye of their readers or critics or both.

In conclusion, writing is learning and exploring both at the same time. It is a search for what has not yet been said or what cannot be contained in ordinary speech. It is both an attitude and a discipline, where the main motive is to look at things in a different and refreshing light, transforming them into well-wrought, meaningful art. Giving life and essence to the written word—isn’t this the writing process is all about?

This Hour of Understanding

If anything, it is these shifting and curving words
that bind us still. When I flip the final page
of this book, the unencumbered thoughts and letters
seeping in, I witness how patches of your history

catches its own movement: parents separated
by the blue basin of the Pacific, an illegible name
tattooed on your wrist, the ebb and surge of a weep
behind a locked door. Now collected and bound,

your words breathe out several versions of anguish,
the inevitable game of restraint. Dear Poet, you live
in a faint earth—sometimes cruel, sometimes kind—
where the distance from your aches to mine is reached

through a single heartbeat. Once, we talked about
the memories that needed to fade away in the recesses
of the mind, and should be carefully handed down
to art, if only to permit one’s self to persevere. Here

you disclose the secrets of desire, and how, as one
grows old, it could possibly turn into a lie. Ours
is one of those lies, dear Poet, and you have failed
to record it here. But I gradually comprehend your pain,

the weight of disdain now waning on my fingertips.
If there’s one thing sure in this gap that we inhabit,
it is this: I will write in the same tone like you do.
Do you know what does this string of words mean?

Perhaps it means that bliss was once greatly shared,
or that sufferance wasn’t spared from a writer’s palms.
And while your work rests on the stillness of a shelf,
I shall come out of this world and redeem your loss

The Rally

This is how the streets recover the speech
of what has been lost and found: you
marching towards the landmark
of this raging expression, while I, a first-timer,
attempting to join this realized cause.

Flocked by this rampage of dissent, we furtively pause
for these private uncertainties: a conversation that ended
on a bitter note, a question that registered
like an obscure order. How years ago

we understood that we did not have a choice,
and that whatever lasted on our tongues
was an accusation that we needed
to confront. Who can forget how resonance
had masked itself once like conviction? The suspension
of an illusion.

But who are we to insist on our own,
who are we to dismiss the confluence of our lives?

Already we are plucked out from that reverie.
Because we are here, attentive to the happenings
outside the confines of our body, our senses
attune to the shattering narratives that unwrap
each day. Around us, this crowd’s clamor
tightens like a fist. Above us, the skyline limns
a red flag of fury, a gathering of confetti
unfurls in the wind.

For the promise
of such place is this: if we let the sentiments
break out from our mouths, it listens.

Amidst these we cannot contest
with our internal protests, the grit and grace
in the memory, the epiphanies racing
to the fore. Now we are convinced:
It is the truth that we wanted,
it is the real that we shared.

Enough of this armchair silence.

Five Connectors

I. Despite

Many nights now I try
to distinguish this want
from that desire. It’s easy to tire
from this indecision but I pry
all the options, if only to exhaust
one flitting emotion to the next.
Despite the mouth’s captivity
in the language of perplexity,
the body, however weary, is ready
to take risks and jump into untested
conclusions. What comes after
these questions, unhinged
and frenzied, but more clue-
lessness on how to ferry across
this pursuit to your heart. But never
mind what comes back
to the self, almost looming
with emptiness, because it’s this need
that matters, what should be articulated.

Meanwhile you are loved
in many ways, my dear,
and this is enough to hear you
knocking on my door to answer
my necessity for sheer consolation.

II. Unless

Somewhere in the streets,
I find myself shifting my glare
from one busy corner to the next.
In this city that cradles lies,
there are truthful things that still remain:
the whoosh of a train during rush hours,
the peregrination of birds in the sky,
a blank paper flapping on a windy
afternoon. Indeed there are honesties
that stay. But I opt to simplify
the large picture into this: you,
in one room, pressing a pen
on a book’s page, my name
scribbled like a marginal note,
your own writing blooming
in black tint.

III. Instead

When I close my eyes
And imagine your existence
In deep silence, would this

Certify that your presence
Is now for me to receive? Indeed
This becomes the connection

Between our distant worlds:
Darkness. It is there where I see
you temporally taking shape,

Named and owned,
In the sketchy hints
Of luminescence.

IV. Because

I hear a resonating wail
of a child. The innocence
in that fact. That precision.
But unlike the oblivious kid,
there is a guilt that lasts. The malice
in the words that sleep in the roof
of my mouth. Many effects
that just hover but are left
unclaimed. My tongue contents
itself with the things unidentified,
unable to own the clamoring clues
of assurance: the creaks of doors
in an impious hour of day, flashes
of two shadows amidst a flicking
candlelight. I wonder how these things
rover from day to night. What’s sure
are these passing meanings
that possess me: light
in a vacant room, a cry
in an open space.

V. Therefore

When I tire out from sketching
your name on my skin,
this skin the sheet of this one-
sided story, when
you barely reply anymore,
when you sound uninterested,
the messages
sent are coated
with the consonants
of resentment, and the image of your face
now in haze, the places of memory
slowly flaking,
when the weep is a tear
is a moan is a whimper,
I will not obstruct (not once again)
this body to disrupt
this chronology. The attempts
to be happy; the real that unreels:
the measure of a smile,
the gesture of goodbye.