Come, old friend

I love poetry. Reading poems by Shakespeare (his sonnets), Pablo Neruda, Rabindranath Tagore, e.e. cummings, Langston Hughes, Sylvia Plath, Ben Jonson, etc., etc., can cause mental orgasmic throes in me.

In our house's basement, I came across a book I thought I'd lost. It was a gift from someone when I celebrated my 18th (hah!) birthday in 1995. He and I weren't particularly close, but he knew I loved reading fiction and poetry, so he gave me this book: Songs of Ourselves: Writings by Filipino Women in English, edited by Edna Zapanta Manlapaz. (Please take note that the correct term is Filipino [or Filipina] -- never Philippino!)

Coming across this book unexpectedly today was like saying a tearfully happy hello to a long-lost friend. Like I said, I love poetry. So I flipped the pages to read again the poem I loved most in this book. It's called "Invitation," and it was written by Lydia Arguilla-Salas, a former president of the Association of Women Writers of the Philippines. She studied at Columbia University in the U.S. and worked with the guerrillas in the Philippines against the Japanese during WWII.

This poem of hers enthralls me still.

INVITATION
(Lydia Arguilla-Salas, 1957)

It has taken so long to forget you.
It has taken too long. I kept in a box
Your letters, telegrams, cards--
Skulls and bones of dead love
in the tomb of remembering.

Come now to a ceremony. The tomb shall be
emptied, I shall burn in your presence
the letters, the cards, the box even,
for the mourning is ended, and the vigil also.

I have become never-yours finally.

Rejoice with me. I have received and given
Love again. His eyes have pierced my soul.
His kisses have entered my mouth and taken away
The bitter taste of you.

My pulses have leaped to meet the wild beating
of his heart. My body has opened (as never
to you) full, ripe and warm to receive him
entirely.

I am full to overflowing with the honey of his
love.
I am full to spilling over with loving-kindness
toward all. Including even you.

Come therefore. Quickly. Come without waste.
We can be friends at last.

Literary sextuplets

This is being pegged as a meme, but it's so much more damned seductive than your regular meme. I first read it on one of Turnbaby's posts last week (she got it from Miss Nancy Pants) and lots of other people have done it since then.

This is the nitty-gritty of the whole thing:

A writer's meme.

Ernest Hemingway said the best thing he ever wrote was a six-word story. It is this:

For sale--
Baby shoes.
Never used.

My challenge to you, Dear Readers and Writers, is to come up with your own six-word story. That's all. Six words. How hard could that be? It'll only take a minute.

Remember that the six words are supposed to make up a whole story. I think Hemingway was nuts; a genius, but nuts all the same. This is a lot harder than it seems to be. A story usually has to have a beginning, a middle, and an end.

I think what's fun about this writer's meme is the implied beginning, middle, and end. It isn't mental spoon-feeding; you know there's a story in there somewhere, and it's up to you to find out what it is. As with many short stories, remember that what's written is just the tip of the iceberg, that there are usually layers upon layers of meaning underneath it all. Meaning that is subject to each reader's thinking processes. The provocative, evocative parts lie dormant beneath the surface...to be kissed to a glorious awakening by a vibrant imagination.

So, here are the six-word "stories" I came up with:

I can still drive, okay? Cheers!

Need you ask? I'm all yours.

No, don't ask.
Just do it.

It wasn't funny, I know. Sorry.

Hi! How are you?
Oh.
Goodbye.

Game over.
Did I win?
Or lose?

I'm dream-weaving.
You're not in it.

Lipstick and blood -- which is which?

Karma chameleon time.
Dance, you bastard.

Ouch! You promised it wouldn't hurt.

Slowly, gently, please?
I'm still sore

Dawn's here.
Sleep, love.
You're exhausted.

Manic Monday #3

What is Manic Monday?
A multi-blogger meme, in the spirit of Wordless Wednesday, Thursday 13, Friday Feast, and Photo Hunters Saturday.

How to participate?
Visit Morgen's It's A Blog Eat Blog World any time after 4pm EST on Fridays to discover Monday's theme word. This will be a word with multiple definitions.

Use one of the definitions to inspire your Manic Monday Post = perhaps a photograph, a story, a joke, or a stream of consciousness paragraph inspired by the word. Be creative, and have fun with it.

************
yel·low

*a color like that of egg yolk, ripe lemons, etc.; the primary color between green and orange in the visible spectrum, an effect of light with a wavelength between 570 and 590 nm.
*cowardly.


Staring in the mirror
Unhappy
at still seeing the self she wants to hide
In spite of the adornments she rarely uses:

the low-cut little black dress
the strappy high-heeled shoes
the pearls in her ears
the perfume on her wrists
and between her breasts

Tools that women have been using
throughout the ages:
for strength
for courage
for deceit

The dark eyeliner on her lower lids,
does it hide the sadness in her eyes?
The warm glow of Guerlain Divinora,
does it mask the trembling of her lips
as she thinks about the words
that she must utter tonight?
Words that need to be said
Feelings that need to be expressed
However much they go against
what her heart is crying out for

She sighs
Turns out the light
And walks out into the dark
Hoping that her armor
is strong enough
to protect her
and him.

The two of them,
from themselves.

Fading Away

Her convictions are intact, her resolve as steely as those of the abs of the man from Krypton. Or so she keeps telling herself. "No," she thinks. "I most certainly will not. I will not give in. I am woman, hear me roar. I am, I do. I sure as hell AM."

Yet in these thoughts, herself almost despising (line somewhat stolen from a Shakespearean sonnet), haply...she finds herself in the wee hours of the morning striding purposefully to a convenience store that sports a red, white, and green marquee.

And the following dialogue ensues:

Female Sales Clerk: Good morning, ma'am.
Crazy Ass Woman: Morning.
FSC: (looks at the items on the counter) Will that be all?
CAW: Yep.

(FSC counts the brown bottles and rings up CAW's purchases.)

FSC: Pampatulog, ma'am? [to help you sleep, ma'am?]
CAW: (smiles sweetly at the bugger, but makes no response)
FSC: Wala kayo kagabi, medyo nagtaka ako. [You weren't here last night, I kind of wondered about that.]
CAW: (Blinks, blinks again, and smiles. She's clearly no expert when it comes to on-the-spot witty repartee. But she wonders what it says about her life when the convenience store clerk misses her and her purchases. For a couple of nights.)
FSC: (accepts payment and gives change). Salamat. Balik po kayo. [Thank you, please come back.]
CAW: Salamat din. [Thank you, too.]

CAW swings out the door, exhilarated but hating herself at the same time. Her mind is saying, "You pathetic wuss," yet it simultaneously finds exultant expectation in the weight being borne by her right arm and shoulder. Heaven and hell in little brown bottles clinking against each other in a white plastic bag. Where is intelligence, where is talent, just when they are needed most? Perhaps they weren't there at all in the first place?

Maybe everything--or at least the core of her--is just an illusion, and one that doesn't even come close to David Copperfield-esque or David Blaine-esque proportions at that, no matter how much she tries to drown coax it out via the ecstasy of liquid gold.

Ahh, strange and sad how minds can change, how the best-laid plans and intentions can be laid to waste. As beautiful but as impermanent as one's name scrawled in the sand.

Manic Monday #1

spike (verb)
a: to add an alcoholic beverage to (a drink) [spiked the punch]
b: to add a foreign substance to [spike the coffee with tranquilizers]
c: to add something highly reactive [as a radioactive tracer] to
d: to add vitality, zest, or spice to [spike the broth with peppers]
e: to liven [spiked the speech with humor]

High

She sits alone in a café, whiling away hours that need to be whiled away. Though her feet (tired from walking for hours) are planted firmly on the ground her mind is soaring way up high, here and there, buoyed by the sights around her, the sounds she can't help but overhear, the bite of the spicy noodles lingering on her tongue despite cup after cup of fragrant tea.

She bends her head over her notebook, trying to record her impressions of this new city but for some reason she is finding it hard to write. The opening bars of a song from a musical keeps playing in her head, distracting her, almost making her giggle at times. A woman at the next table signals to the waitress that she wants another beer. She toys with the idea of having a beer herself but finally decides against it; after all, she still has miles to go before she sleeps.

She notices the sunlight becoming more mellow, turning into a softer shade of gold that she knows will soon become even balmier. Instead of the usual lethargy that she feels with the coming of dusk she finds herself feeling more energetic, more on edge (but in a good way, similar to the excitement that she feels when she's surrounded by books in the library or bookstore--multiplied a hundredfold). Her spirit, she realizes, is not at all like the motes of dust she notices floating lazily in the fading light. Her senses are sharper; every second that passes is savored, every sensation is burned into her memory.

Her dancing eyes fall upon her tea. Did the kitchen staff spike it with happy pills? she wonders. She tries (and fails) to stifle the smile that rises to her lips at the thought as she puts away her notebook and signals for the bill, which is brought to her immediately.

A man carrying what seems to be a suitcase comes up to her. He opens it and she sees a whole array of (presumably fake) Zippo lighters. He smiles at her. She smiles back.

"You buy lighter?" he asks in a singsong voice. She shakes her head no, graciously, taking a sip of her tea.

Without missing a beat and in the same tone of voice he segues into his next offer. "Marijuana?"

She nearly spits out her tea. "No, thank you," she sputters. But still smiling, still gracious. He nods his head, closes his case, turns and walks away. She feels a mad desire to shout after him, "I don't need it! I'm already high!" This time she makes no effort to suppress her grin.

She stands up, turning to thank the waitress and to bid her adieu. She wonders if the mirth in her eyes and her inability to stop her mouth from turning up at the corners seem strange to the other woman. No matter. She is happy and it shows.

The waitress's final view of this strange guest is of her walking out into the burgeoning twilight, a spring in every step, her face upturned--as if to receive the kiss of the early-morning sun...or that of a lover's.

**********
What is Manic Monday?
A multi-blogger meme, in the spirit of Wordless Wednesday, Thursday 13, Friday Feast, and Photo Hunters Saturday.

How to participate?
Visit Morgen's It's A Blog Eat Blog World any time after 4pm EST on Fridays to discover Monday's theme word. This will be a word with multiple definitions.

Use one of the definitions to inspire your Manic Monday Post = perhaps a photograph, a story, a joke, or a stream of consciousness paragraph inspired by the word. Be creative, and have fun with it.

Melancholic catharsis

Waking up from restless sleep, from dreams that I know were strange but which I can’t quite remember fully when consciousness sets in – these are things that I find disquieting. I lie hapless in bed, trying desperately to recall where my mind went to during those hours of heavy slumber, to no avail. I can only recall momentary images, snatches of sensation. They’re like wisps of smoke that tantalize my brain, making me feel a tad melancholic.

What to do when melancholia sets in? Why, feed it, of course! Sometimes I find that giving in to it, giving it free rein and not suppressing it can be comforting. Listening to sad music, watching a sad movie, reading bleak poetry – these can be cathartic for me.

Take this poem, for example, from one of my favorite poets, Anne Sexton (she committed suicide, by the way. Isn’t that depressing?)

HER KIND

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

Listening to poets like the suicidal Anne reading their own poetry aloud is even better. There’s something seductive about the experience of knowing that the words I’m hearing are being uttered by the very same person whose mind gave birth to them. If you feel like it, you can go to the poets.org site and hear some of the other poems that I like to listen to from time to time – read aloud by the authors themselves. There’s Thom Gunn reading his Death’s Door, Dylan Thomas reading his Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Robert Frost reading his The Road Not Taken, and several others.

Odd how voices of melancholy can be so soothing.

On slowing down

SLOW DANCE

Have you ever watched kids
On a merry-go-round?

Or listened to the rain
Slapping on the ground?

Ever followed a butterfly's erratic flight?
Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?

You better slow down

Don't dance so fast.

Time is short.

The music won't last.

Do you run through each day
On the fly?

When you ask "How are you?"
Do you hear the reply?

When the day is done
Do you lie in your bed
With the next hundred chores
Running through your head?

You'd better slow down

Don't dance so fast.

Time is short.

The music won't last.

Ever told your child,
"We'll do it tomorrow?"
And in your haste,
Not see his sorrow?

Ever lost touch,
Let a good friendship die
Cause you never had time
To call and say,"Hi"?

You'd better slow down.

Don't dance so fast.

Time is short.

The music won't last.

When you run so fast to get somewhere
You miss half the fun of getting there.

When you worry and hurry through your day,
It is like an unopened gift....
Thrown away.

Life is not a race.

Do take it slower

Hear the music

Before the song is over.

This poem was forwarded to me by a buddy of mine (thanks, IM!). She in turn got it from who knows where. :-) It was allegedly written by a teenager with cancer.

Well, the message of the poem rings true, doesn't it? It seems like the world is moving at a faster pace nowadays and many of us find ourselves having to run faster just to stay in the same place. The demands of work, family, other people -- the circumstances of life in general -- can be harrowing. Sometimes it seems that we've forgotten how to pause, take a deep breath, smile, and just slow down. In our determination not to allow life to pass us by, it seems we're letting it do just that.

Fly here! Run there! Move faster! Life's theme these days seems to revolve around hurrying and acting fast. Sure, quickies are good, but taking it slow...man, that's so sweet. Dancing energetically is a great way to pass the time, but then, so is being held in someone's arms and holding him in yours as you dance slowly...just savoring the here-and-now.

Take the time to dance slowly more often. In other words...chill, dude.

Sniffles - A Limerick*

Lizza's cold makes it hard for her to blog
In addition, it makes her sound like a frog
Dammit, shit, fuck!
The sniffles sure suck!
She longs for the day when her nose will unclog

*Inspired by Odat's flu verse.

prelude to a (much-needed) kiss

friday night
torrential rain
cold, cold wind...
a ripple of anticipation caresses me
as the warmth of my lips meets the cold of his,
unflinchingly,
eagerly,
longingly...

we are as two lovers sharing the deepest, sweetest, most passionate kiss

the familiar heat spreads down
around me
through me
inside me
as i drink from him
and savor the taste
that is his alone

a taste of heaven in a little brown bottle

cheers!
(LOL)

So Cold

His summer's just begun
But mine is already over
In more ways than one
For in my heart it is winter.
The Snow Queen drew me to her
When he released his hold.
Oh God, this emptiness is so cold

No more the warmth of our laughter
No more the dreams of happy-ever-after
No more the words that held and caressed
my heart. The pain in my breast
pulses with every hot tear and groan
As I stumble in this cold, without him, alone

He looks at me with pity. I can't stand it
He tells me he's sorry. But I don't need it
Inside, I am slowly dying
And I'm so damn tired of crying

He should've just slashed my wrists --
the ones he used to kiss (does he remember?)
as we moved in slow and rhythmic love together --
Instead of dooming me to this cold and lonely hell
When the dance was over
and his eyes whispered "farewell!"

come, old friend

darkness, my old friend
so you haven't forgotten me.
here you are... again.
somehow, I knew you'd come
to take me into your bitter embrace once more

how familiar you are, how so much a part of me
you have become.
you touch every corner of my being.

like a stealthy lover,
you steal up unnoticed
and gather me in your arms;
needing not my permission --
or even my awareness --
to enter me
to fill me
until I cry out
from the unbearable emptiness that you bring

darkness, you old friend
you familiar fiend
I hate you
for taking away my light.
the bright red flower of my smile, my laughter, my joy!
takes on the hue of blood
under your shadow...
a dark color as rich and deep
as my pain

you thief. you intruder. you murderer
of my gladness, my very soul...
I abhor you.
yet I turn to you now
and welcome your intimate embrace.

come, old friend.
come closer, you bastard.
closer.
I need you
to bring your cold lips to my face.
let me feel them
kissing away
these hot tears