Hope is an illusion
A lie behind the blinds
It walks you into the wind—
Points you to distant bergs
Where refuge hides
Ask a child from Quneitra
Or the slums of Manila
And both will give you a laugh
For life has taught them what hope is
A vanishing mirage, not an oasis
No food, no water
Not a breath left for a dream
For a deserter trapped in the desert
Does hope even matter?
Does anybody cares?
Tilt those heads slightly
Perhaps, from a different angle, you’ll see
The lives of the lost, last, and least
Trampled down by privilege, indifference, and greed
A scene less click-worthy
Uninteresting for the media frenzy
Day 2 of NaPoWriMo and I am not feeling well. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually – I feel drained. Whenever I mull over something that strikes a chord within me, I experience a relapse of depressive episodes. Now, the obvious reason is the global pandemic COVID-19. And I am not only saddened by the number of deaths it brings but by the extent of hatred and greed it ignites. I need not zoom out because my country itself is thrown in disarray. It hurts. 💔
how many mouths must be starved
or epitaphs must be carved
for these blinded trolls to see
past this fractured democracy
this populist and his isms
his ideology of acquiescence
make cage ‘round free birds
and voices unheard—
trolls you’re trolled,
can’t you see?
In response to dVerse’s Quadrille hosted by Frank who challenges to put some TROLL with our poems today.
Here’s a short lament for the current state of the Philippines. Sigh.
you’ll probably say there is an error in that syntax
that i should find love from within, not the other way around
but that is not the case — at least not for me
believe me, i have milked courage for all its worth
but every time insecurity enters my room,
i was never brave enough to meet its gaze
some days it comes with keys,
knowing exactly how to open my vulnerabilities
some days it comes with hammer,
forcing its way to let in my anxieties
everyday i wake up a survivor
but truth is i never left the scene of the crime
so if there is love to be found from within
it is buried deep in a mass grave—
along with the what-ifs
and the could-have-beens
Perhaps love will find me one day — I once asked a friend if is she loves herself. This was her answer and I find it to be one of the saddest statement I have ever heard. </3
You know they lie
When headline reads, ‘Cops say he fought back’
You know it’s an execution—
a purge, a shortcut
To what you call a ‘better world’
In between sips of coffee
You convince yourself
of the new normal
of the new ‘right’
In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #74 hosted by Mish who challenges us to take the word “sip” beyond the obvious.
This one is inspired by a news article I read this morning. The Philippine government is still waging war on drugs. While this started with the right cause, it has veered into an unstoppable purge. And with the poor justice system in the country, the war has taken a toll on the poor. This one is for the dead who were summary executed and for living who shrug sympathy and justice away. These 44 words are not enough to save the country from further downfall, it needs the Filipino people to wake up and stand up against impunity.
The sun has sunk and risen
And past felt out of touch
Like the silence after a curtain call
Or the dying embers of a fire
I watched it for the last time
In retrospect—
Swinging from pain and joy,
Trance and frustration
Memories tumbling out in smiles
At times in tears.
A demon waltzed into my subconscious
Where the loneliest of the loneliness remains
It asked me with indifference:
Would I live it all again and again?
Lifetimes flashed before my ancient eyes
Days that lifted me up
And those that worn me down
Lulled to sleep by the thought of recurrence
I said I would—
Until I move on to another life.
In response to dVerse’s Poetics: Time and What If? hosted by Merril who challenges us to look at time backward, forward, inside, and out. Ponder it into a poem. Then wonder, what if?
I was supposed to write about this before 2018 ended. But life happened. So anyway…
Last December, I dived into the philosophy of Nietzsche which eventually led me to the idea of eternal recurrence. This thought experiment asks us not to take the idea as truth but rather asks us what we would do if the idea were true. As the year was coming to a close, I took a retrospect of my short two decades. It was far from being perfect and in its most pragmatic way, life has shown me the beauty and the ugly. If given the chance to live it again exactly as it was as Nietzsche posed, I would. Until the universe agrees that I’m ready for the next.
You who are probably wearing a little black dress or a loose shirt and skinny jeans or your grandmother’s overalls.
Yes, you.
I want you to know that you can spit them now. Your hatred, your frustration, your anger. You are not a refugee from the past. You are here, now – breathing, living.
When you happen to pass a dark alley and you hear the whistle of lust, it’s okay to fight your might. Do not allow that man to define you in fragments. Skin, neck, legs, breasts and thighs— as if you are a piece of meat that can be pulled apart. I will join you in particicution for we are more than the gates of heaven that opens in one thrust. We are capable of giving them hell.
But, remember, you are also free to take flight. It is not your fault to tremble and feel your body shake. When the outside world and your mind are in equal darkness, it’s okay to cry. This world is cruel and respect is nothing but an amputated speech. I understand your distrust.
I’ve heard it too, passed on to me in soundless words with their lips hardly moving. Yes, they do not touch us but their eyes take off our clothes faster than their hands do. They claim respect but they reduce our worth to the size of an hourglass, a number, a measurement, a color. A rape joke with a disclaimer “do not take it personal”.
You! Yes, you.
Spit it out, that acrid taste of misogyny and sexism. Be angry and be frustrated because this is not what you deserve. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.
This one’s inspired by Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, a harrowing story chronicling women’s struggle and survival set in a strict patriarchal society. The book is more that just a dystopian classic, it’s a warning to a not-so-distant future.
i love her but her hands—
from her graying hair to her calloused feet
my heart brims with love
but her hands bring me pain
hands the held our family together
hands that gathered woods to cook meals
hands that eased her son’s worry
hands that brushed her daughter’s hair
loving hands
selfless hands
working hands
praying hands
i love her but her hands
tell of stories that are too painful to read
veins detailing the days
she strained herself to fatigue
last night, i found another scar
from hands bearing the day’s hard work
she broke twenty extra coconut shells,
my mother said with pride
a look at those hands gave me pain
loving hands
selfless hands
working hands
praying hands
i never thought my mother’s hands were that small
some days they’re clasped forming a zipper of prayer
some days they’re clenched into a fist thrown in the air
a reminder of the empty promises of the present and past
i love her but her hands—
from her graying hair to her calloused feet
my heart brims with love
if only i could make those hands my own.
In response to dVerse’s Poetics: Beauty in Ugliness hosted by Mish who challenges us to find the beauty in the ugly. Image by @nate_dumlao.
As I struggle to find a topic for a poem, an image kept on poking in my head. It was my mother’s hands. Aging as they are… and tired. I was raised by a family of farmers, generations deeply rooted in agriculture. Although I was not of much help in the rice field (if playing scarecrow as a child counts), I was exposed to copra making. I remember the sweat. The late nights spent working. I remember my parent’s tired eyes.
This piece, aside from finding beauty in the ugly, is a tribute to the coconut farmers in my country. In the face of politics and empty promises, I hope they find justice to their plight.
i try to bury the pain and blink.
with eyes moving from tab after tab, ears focused on the mechanical tapping of keyboards, i try to forget their names.
The first tab led me to 9gag. A GIF of a “normal night” in an english pub flashed before my eyes. Drunken men fighting each other, brawling for fun. It was supposed to make me laugh— but it didn’t. The images of bodies thrown on burning houses played at the back of my mind. Blood flows to the river banks as the women of Rohingya shout in pain.
blink.
I clicked the second tab that led me to Bored Panda. A list of surprisingly simultaneous historical events that will change the way you think of history caught my eye. I couldn’t get past after the odds of Prisoners Arriving At Auschwitz Just Days After Mcdonald’s Was Founded were mentioned. I felt my stomach flipped at the thought of death camp. My mind traveled back to Syria. What are the odds of living for the displaced refugees? Then to indonesia, will they be handed their rights?
blink.
On a desparate attempt to shun the looming gloom in my head, I tried the last tab. The literature page, my second virtual haven next to my blog. The poetry section listed Edgar Allan Poe’s A Dream Within a Dream on the top. His words pierced me with added force and I plunged into the depths of helplessness head first. Is this life just one big false awakening? Are the endless murders and tortures just part of a nightmare?
i try to bury the pain and blink.
closing the tabs, unplugging the chords, i stared at the black screen
hoping to forget their names.
I wrote this a month ago, on one afternoon I immersed myself in the world news. I did not publish it because I was disheartend with what was happening. Still is. But back then the pain was too raw for me to share it in this blog. The cynic and existentialist in me has taken over my head, asking questions that could not be answered. Or perhaps I just do not accept.
I was not at the wrong place at the wrong time. Their eyes followed me with a laugh— or perhaps a mock— as I sit on the stand. My anguish did not mean a thing and I only reaped what I have sown.
I was asking for it.
When my shaking hands pointed at man across the room, I saw them smirk. My giggles the other night begged to differ the word I am trying to utter, R A P E.
I was asking for it.
Before the judge, the defense flashed a picture of my girlfriends and I. Hands holding a glass of vodka, laughing with our heads thrown back, the neon lights flashed before our tight miniskirts. I felt dirty with shame as I buried my face in my palms.
I was asking for it.
I should have known better the moment I slipped into my short skirts and high heels. I should have known the danger and the danger I bring. You see where this is going, right? When a man twice your age stops you with a leering face, it is your fault. Men will be men, and we are but a single piece plucked from their ribcage that they need to reclaim. It has always been their birthright.
I was to blame when his groin pressed down on me as his tongue slithered all over my skin. My shouts were that of ecstasy. My tears were that of joy, they say. I fucking liked it because my breath quickened with every thrust!
I was asking for it.
He showed the marks on his back with pride. That night, I buried my fingernails deep into his skin. God, I wished they were knives. Each night, the bare wall in my bedroom echoes his moans. His groans. The sound of slap from an unrecognizable monster plays on repeat. No anti-depressant or pill can help me sleep.
I wish they were knives.
I wish to be guilty of murder.
I wish I had killed that man.
I was never told being a woman is an open invitation to be fucked. That I am a platter of legs, thighs, breasts, and neck served for hungry beasts to devour. And when the meat is handed free, what kind of animal would dare to scowl?
I was asking for it, wasn’t I?
“Duterte, in a speech in Mandaue City, joked that his hometown of Davao City has a high number of reported rape cases because it has many beautiful women. Those who attended the President’s engagement laughed at the joke.” –GMA News
This is Philippines. Where a president jokes of pardons for soldiers who rape. Offers Filipino ‘virgins’ to foreigners with purchasing power. And orders soldiers to shoot women rebels in the vagina, so they become ‘useless.’ This is not the first time and it will not be the last.
This morning, through a friend’s post, I read a circulating issue regarding one Angkas driver here in Cebu. Angkas, a motorcycle ride-hailing service accessed through a mobile booking app, has been one of our reliable mode of transportation for quite some time. It appears that he was pressing the lady passenger to come with him to a motel.
This afternoon, in a sports warehouse, a man kept on stealing a gaze. As I was checking out shoes, he brushed his hands to mine “by accident”.
Tonight, as I get out of work, I do not want to go home. I assessed I have gotten used to it but the thought of men giving you catcalls and ogle as you pass by them is equal parts disturbing and tiring.
No harm done, they say. But what of the seconds we spent holding our breaths? What of the palms curled into a fist, just in case? What of the trembling knees? What of the fear as we breathe? Don’t these count?
DoodleScribbles 