To have written it down

Wrote this during a conference, right after my phone died from over-usage and during a talk that was boring me to tears:

I'm thinking about all the calls and texts I'm missing right now (on top of the e-mails that I'm missing by not being in the office). Those calls and texts and e-mails will never end.

I'm thinking about everything else in life. How I suddenly had a flash of inspiration this morning, while driving in traffic. I mentally wrote a few lines of poetry:

On Being Filipino

An accident of birth
a bittersweet heritage
of slavery and independence
An unbreakable net of
hope, rising across
the earth
a hope as persistent
as the smell of
bagoong
a hope as sharp with
longing as
green mangoes
in summer.

How this came into my head, I don't know. You begin hearing it somehow. Even in the midst of traffic, without pen or paper. The poem begins to be heard by you. You have no choice. You must write it down because it is your life. It would be a betrayal of sorts not to have written it down.

Tending to yourself

It's been a while since my last post. I guess I've been that busy with work and wedding preparations.

My first thought this morning, after several snooze buttons in the car, was: I owe myself a nice cup of coffee and an unhurried breakfast. I do.

At least I walked with V last night (actually, the past two nights) and it's been very therapeutic for me.

I need more calm and more focus. Without little rewards like a fresh cup of coffee in the morning or a moonlit (brisk!) walk with a loved one there would be no way I could have that calm and focus.

So there. Take time to tend to yourself.

Poems from Europe

I never bothered to type out my poems from my travel journal last year. It was opportune that I recently received a call for poetry and I was forced to finally encode them.

That trip changed my life. I think I can survive anywhere now. I walked in wonder along the streets of Paris with my sister. I visited my two maternal aunts in Nice, one in the quaint countryside of Valbonne and one in the chic district of Cote d'Azur. I marvelled at the magic of misty Venice with my sister. And finally, I was in sepia Florence and grand Rome all by myself in the heart of winter, listening to my voice, my accents, longing for home and yet at the same time enjoying the old occidental world immensely.

I think I wrote around a dozen poems there. Here are some of the more memorable ones.

At the Rue de la Bucherie

The man I asked for directions did not know how
to explain it to me
but he smiled, took my hand
and showed me the way.
Voila! He said, when we got there.
I saw an unexpected view of the Notre Dame.
Entering the bookstore I was looking for,
a moment of bewilderment.
But only for a moment.
The books did not weigh me down or
give me flight.
A few titles illuminated.
Only one or two.
And I knew my journey was complete.
If you know what you are looking for,
the alleys, shelves and strangers
will take your hand and
lead the way.
Everything affirms,
you only need to
decide.

Champs Elysee, November 18, 2003

Picking up a white feather at Valbonne

I've sloughed off parts of myself on
this trip:
two shirts in Saint Paul du Roule
a pair of boots in Nice
and maybe a raincoat or a
sweater in Florence?
My aunt asks if I see Europe
as one big les poubelles.
No, its only peeling
myself to an
indestructible core,
that part that can live
anywhere
and be satisfied,
that part that no
sun or wind
can defeat,
that part that knows
always
what to take
and what
to leave behind.

Valbonne, Nov. 26, 2003

A Shout from the Heart of the Square

The Lion of St. Mark's
soars above the piazza
canopied by a blue winter sky.
And I,
down here among the din
of shopkeepers and tourists
and snooty café waiters,
am roaring with my youth
and my solitude
and the pure joy
of anonymity
and fiery
freedom.

St. Mark's Square, Venice, Nov. 29, 2003

I Have Met Rome

I have met Rome both as beggar
on the street
and king on the throne,
as old man fumbling with words
and young, fearless man
with golden hair and
jubilant voice.

I have met myself in Rome
as woman without
a language,
at a loss for words when,
gripped with emotion
and tears going down
my face at the
site of the Pope,
I realized that no one
translated his words
in any Asian language
despite a hoard
of Japanese pilgrims.

I have met myself as Rome,
victor and defeated,
slave and conqueror.

December 3, 2003