NaPoWriMo#28: Golden Sunday

NaPoWriMo or National Poetry Writing Month, is an annual project in which participating poets attempt to write a poem a day for the month of April.

Golden Sunday
By Justine C. Tajonera

We went down the road not knowing where
exactly it would lead. We made a left looking
for the Sta. Ines waterfall and faced nine kilometers
of dirt road. The sunlight shone through the downpour
and we crossed shallow streams. We could see the
striated stones beneath the clear, shallow water.
When, finally, there was no road at all, we waded
into a stream, perhaps part of a larger river towards
the northeast. We swam for less than an hour. The
downpour had stopped and the emerald water was
warm and inviting. We left at sunset, the horizon
was buttery and tinged with peach. In the evening,
the waning moon was a large honeyed topaz
guiding us home.

April 28, 2013
Tanay, Rizal

NaPoWriMo#22: Summer

Summer
By Justine C. Tajonera

It is one of the hottest summers I remember,
though the yellow blooms of April Showers have
arrived as expected. Growing up so close to the sea,
I yearn for the beach this season. But I've been warned
off one of our islands: Escherichia coli in the water. I think
of the summers left for my children. Can we plant enough
trees for them to cover mountain sides and hills
that have given way to landslides? Even in my lifetime
I have never seen a clean river in the city. Will they be
forever escaping their homes to get a breath of air?
We pick strawberries as tourists on the mountain up North.
Will they ever know a life close to the earth, close to
the water? What I remember are third quarter storms
that flood cities and sweep away children from their
mothers. We wait out this summer heat, expecting
drought, not knowing if the coming rains will be worse
this year. I imagine the engines ceasing, silence falling
over the streets, seeds sprouting beneath ruins. Children
are playing by a river in Pasig and families play music
with bamboo and brass instruments, eating feasts from
their gardens, meditating on new stories of the summer.

NaPoWriMo#14: Smell of Rain

Smell of Rain

By Justine C. Tajonera

The sirens from fire trucks have been ringing
for days. The heat makes me think of July two
decades ago when we knew that the rain would
come. First, I could feel it in the air and then
I could smell it as if the ground was coming up
to meet the condensation from the clouds. It came
with grass and snails and fallen leaves. And
afterwards I would read by the window.
I always wondered why school needed to start
during the wet season. I'll sleep remembering
the rain tonight, curled up like a ball of seed
waiting to unfold.

NaPoWriMo#6: Baguio

Baguio
By Justine C. Tajonera

I've forgotten how the road had made
us dizzy with its zigzags. I point out to the children
that there are hardly any waterfalls anymore
echoing my parents who pointed out the waterfalls,
decades ago, noting how there were less of them.
We watch the mountain reveal itself. It has ugly
scars of gravel, the remnants of landslides. We
whisper quietly, between us, that we will never travel
here in the rainy season. The mountainsides are
perilously close to the roads, there is nothing much
to hold them back. We enter the city and we are
surprised (but we shouldn't be) that whole mountains
are pocked with houses, sandwiched one on top
of the other. I see the familiar poem on fading signboards
about how only God can make a tree. Us fools,
us fools, we snake into the heart of the city,
traffic already building up at nine in the morning.

Al Gore's Poem

I had to write about this. It's rare to find an environmentalist who was a former politician who now expresses himself through poetry. In his book, Our Choice, Al Gore, of An Inconvenient Truth fame, wrote a  poem which appears on page 28 of the book. It's actually quite haunting in its imagery. He takes the time to choose words carefully, like "Neptune's bones" and one of my favorite lines is constructed, thus: "Ice fathers flood for a season." And the line that follows brings to mind Ondoy: "A hard rain comes quickly."

Poetry truly is the only way to distill anything complicated in our lives.

One thin September soon
A floating continent disappears
In midnight sun

Vapors rise as
Fever settles on an acid sea
Neptune's bones dissolve

Snow glides from the mountain
Ice fathers floods for a season
A hard rain comes quickly

Then dirt is parched
Kindling is placed in the forest
For the lightning's celebration

Unknown creatures
Take their leave, unmourned
Horsemen ready their stirrups

Passion seeks heroes and friends
The bell of the city
On the hill is rung
 
The shepherd cries
The hour of choosing has arrived
Here are your tools 


Image is the cover of Al Gore's book, Our Choice

The Day After The Storm

Justine C. Tajonera

The streets are littered
with strange debris:
clothes, furniture,
the remnants of a wall,
the most intimate
of possessions
and the most
mundane of fixtures,
side by side.
The grief of loss
and the gratitude
for life
move together
over the receding
waters,
as hands sift
through what
is left.
Wrung, dried out,
and weary,
love joins hope,
emerging from
the bottom
of the muddy
river.

(Sept. 27, 2009)

I'd like to acknowledge the source of the photo here. The photo was inspired by another poem about tragedy, Sylvia Plath's "Aftermath." The poem is included in the flickr post.

Saying Grace at Palaisdaan

By Justine C. Tajonera

Before we leave
Quezon,
we have a meal
of grilled tilapia and shrimps
and hito stewed in
coconut milk
and pineapples.
We walk along
the floating
bamboo bridges
over the koi
and tilapia
pond,
looking for
our nook.
We find the
perfect spot
behind a stone
fish fountain
and a wheel.
We perch on a
wooden swing,
contemplating
the wind
sweeping over
rice terraces
that seem to reach
until the base
of Mt. Banahaw.
Life could not
be sweeter than
this.

Floating on Batis Aramin

By Justine C. Tajonera

The pond is
quiet
except for
the birds.
A tree extends
its arms
across the
water.
We watch leaves
fall
slowly
as we row
from one end
of a bank
to another.
We have nothing
but time and
the promise of
grilled fish and
a kilo of sweet
rambutan.

Rambutan - Nephelium lappaceum, is a fruit considered exotic to people outside of its native range. To people of Malaysia, Thailand, the Phillippines, Vietnam, Borneo, and other countries of this region, the rambutan is a relatively common fruit the same way an apple is common to many people in cooler climates.

(Batis Aramin, Lucban, Quezon Province, Philippines)