A Love Story for B

A Love Story for B

You say, “What is it? And no Greek

mumbo jumbo, okay?” I’ll try.

Philia.

In life, you will have

a few pegs to hold

down your tent.

Choose the ones

that will keep you

rooted in all kinds

of weather.

Eros.

Here is a poem

in a bottle.

There are a billion

of them floating

in the ocean,

each one fiery

and true.

We can drink

to them when I tell

you the story

of how I met

your father.

Agape.

Last of all,

here is a lamp

that you turn on

when all other

lights go out.

It is your very

own. No one

else can ignite it

or carry it

for you.

Sorry about the Greek,

Son. Here’s a kiss.

Love is a gift,

whatever shape

it takes. So,

take it when

you can, whether

it covers you,

stabs you,

holds you up,

knocks you

out, or lights

your way.

July 17, 2021

Image by Gadiel Lazcano of Unsplash

Blue Sheep & Other Mysteries

Blue Sheep & Other Mysteries

You teach me

the basics of

pusoy dos

(as I take

notes)

and, tonight,

you ask me to

watch Dawn of

the 16th with

you.

I don’t know

I’m out of

time

until I glance

back at you

and realize

we’re almost

shoulder to

shoulder.

I tie your

hair back in

a topknot

like when

you were

one

and count

out the

years.

I’ll listen to

unlimited

Derivakat, Bub.

Just save me

a seat by your

side.

Image: Screenshot of Blue Sheep on YT

April 28, 2021

#NaPoWriMo2021 No. 28

For B

Dear Son

Dear Son

I know you’re

not sorry about

breaking that glass

in anger,

but the dishes

don’t choose

you, nor does

the laundry,

the trash,

the broom,

the dust

pan. You

choose

them.

Maybe it’s

because, now,

you’re still

too young. But,

one day, you’ll

sneak in a

scrub of the

grout before

you shower, just

because you

can.

You’ll tell

her you love

her by the

number of

times you

rinse the

dishrag.

For now,

take a

breath.

Close your

eyes.

I make

no distinction

between you

and your

sister.

I’ll let

your heart

be the

arrow,

whatever

the mark

may be,

so you’ll never

have to keep

a record of

chores.

Image: Jacek Dylag of Unsplash

April 25, 2021

#NaPoWriMo2021 No. 25

1 Corinthians 13: 4-8

ModPo 2013 #35 The Sun, The Son and The Truth: On Brooks' "truth" and Knight's "The Sun Came"

Image from stickerupper.com.

truth
BY GWENDOLYN BROOKS
And if sun comes
How shall we greet him?
Shall we not dread him,
Shall we not fear him
After so lengthy a
Session with shade?

Though we have wept for him,
Though we have prayed
All through the night-years—
What if we wake one shimmering morning to
Hear the fierce hammering
Of his firm knuckles
Hard on the door?

Shall we not shudder?—
Shall we not flee
Into the shelter, the dear thick shelter
Of the familiar
Propitious haze?

Sweet is it, sweet is it
To sleep in the coolness
Of snug unawareness.

The dark hangs heavily
Over the eyes.

Gwendolyn Brooks, "truth" from Blacks. Copyright © 1987 by Gwendolyn Brooks.  Reprinted by consent of Brooks Permissions.

Source: Blacks (Third World Press, 1987)

--------------------------------------------

The Sun Came
BY ETHERIDGE KNIGHT
                                                        And if sun comes
                                                        How shall we greet him?
                                                                    —Gwen Brooks

The sun came, Miss Brooks,—
After all the night years.
He came spitting fire from his lips.
And we flipped—We goofed the whole thing.
It looks like our ears were not equipped
For the fierce hammering.

And now the Sun has gone, has bled red,
Weeping behind the hills.
Again the night shadows form.
But beneath the placid face a storm rages.
The rays of Red have pierced the deep, have struck
The core. We cannot sleep.
The shadows sing: Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm.
The darkness ain't like before.

The Sun came, Miss Brooks.
And we goofed the whole thing.
I think.
(Though ain't no vision visited my cell.)

Etheridge Knight, "The Sun Came" from The Essential Etheridge Knight. Copyright © 1986 by Etheridge Knight. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260.  Used by permission of University of Pittsburgh Press.

Source: The Essential Etheridge Knight (University of Pittsburgh Press, 1986)
-------------------------------------------------------

I can't read Brooks without the response of Knight. Ignorance is bliss, ignorance is paradise (just ask Adam and Eve). The truth is cruel (how can it not be with "firm knuckles/ Hard on the door?"). This is essentially what Brooks states in her poem. Knight dispels this by claiming that the truth did come, the sun did come... in the form of Malcolm X but his poem ends on a sad note, a regretful note.

Brooks' poem is in iambic pentameter, using a traditional form which Knight answers without the regularity of a traditional form but with his own musicality, like in the repeating words of: Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm. I appreciated the audio discussion because it pointed out the meanings of "flipped" (a betrayal) and "goofed" (foolish mistake) as prison terms, situating Knight in his cell (which he mentions in parenthesis at the end of his poem). It's ironic that Knight talks of Malcolm in messianic/ Christian terms: Sun/ Son, the sacrifice of the Sun/ Son while Malcolm was actually Islamic. Nevertheless, it was pointed out during the discussion that Knight's poem was a reflection of the mood among those in prison at the time Malcolm was assassinated. I can imagine the guilt and the regret of Malcolm's message of black pride being cut short by his death.

I try to see this poem conversation as well in terms of my experience. The truth is relative. The truth sometimes depends on who is telling the story. The truth is I come from a mixed race where nothing is truly "pure." The truth is: freedom comes with its own price. And even in the Philippines, supposedly a free country, we are still reeling from centuries of patronage and time again we have "flipped" (we were also called "flips" once, as a derogatory term, by Americans) and "goofed" with our opportunities, earning our label of the "sick man of Asia."

In our islands we have more than our fair share of an unblinking sun. And not only that, we have had centuries of "the Son." And still, the dark continually hangs heavy on our eyes. I do not doubt, though, that we will have our day for answering the hammering at our doors. We've done enough flipping and goofing among ourselves, at some point we will meet the light completely.

Bread

Bread
by Justine C. Tajonera

My son asks me if we can visit a bakery
so we can see how bread is made.
"There are other kinds of bread, Mama, right?"
I assure him that there are. There are deliciously
heavy breads like brioche, baked with lots of
eggs and butter. There are grainy breads and
there are breads that are flat for a lack of yeast.
And I remember dismantling the word "bread."
I was on the way to an aunt's home, not much
older than my own son. I took apart the word,
saying it over and over again, marveling at how
it only stood for the thing that I ate, that left
crumbs on the plate. How could this be separate
and yet one with the thing of sustenance?
And who chose that it start with a "b" and end
with a "d?" And why does the "r" sound and feel
like the texture of the bread? At some point I felt
I did not understand the word.
And then time intervened.

So, today, for a few moments, I glimpsed
once again, how the words are the promises and
the things themselves, how the words are the story,
and the remembrance, and the life itself.

NaPoWriMo#2: Easter Eggs

Easter Eggs
by Justine C. Tajonera

We hid eighty-four eggs in the park, yesterday
and waited an hour and a half for everyone to show up.
Eighty-three eggs were found in thirty minutes, one was unaccounted for.
Inside the eggs were pieces of paper with Easter quotes
about eternal life and temples and resurrection and God's
only begotten son. I had hoped some of the children would
read them before turning them over for the prizes of marshmallows
and star jelly candies and chocolates and lollipops.
Some of them did. But what I remember most was how hot
the afternoon light was. How cooling the breeze.
How peaceful it was with only the two of us looking for
unlikely places for children to find treats among the trees.
We rested on the wooden bench together, exhausted, smiling.
We counted all those eggs. We worked on them with our son,
our daughter. We had twelve big eggs with five small candies
in them. We had twelve small, fancy eggs with designs on them and
sixty regular eggs, each with three small candies in them. Sixty
out of the eight-four eggs had carefully folded pieces of paper.
Easter bunnies have nothing to do with Jesus Christ, I know,
but there was something in the work of that afternoon that was
the resurrection and the life.

Enough

by Justine C. Tajonera

One more push,
one more step.
The shadows fade
and there is only a point of light
left in the horizon.

That is enough.

There is a mole on my son's back.
It is on the back of his neck, on the right side,
just below his ear.
The hair on his nape follows a pattern
down to his back.
When he is playing,
intent, focused, unflappable,
I need only to see that mole.

It is enough.


Image from milkywaymusings.tumblr.com

Entering the Light

by Justine C. Tajonera

There are days when
I have time to study
the shadow of a leaf
at the edge of a wading pool
or glimpse the reddish
tint of dawn before
my alarm clock rings.

There are days when
I can watch my son sleep
and wait for him to slowly
awaken with a smile on his face
or the slightly puzzled look
of someone just emerging
from a dream.

These are the days that are
enough,
when time is not a measure
but a great expanse,
a canvas of possibilities.

I know because there are
also days, in equal or greater
number,
when there is just not
enough:
a chasing of hours
into the exhaustion of
evenings,
a blur or repetition
of motions.

In the quiet palm
of good days
I rest my questioning,
my drive to
finish what needs
to be finished

and hold the flickering
light and comfort
of solitude and
happiness where they
can shine
in their immeasurable
brightness.


October 5, 2010
Image from http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/337143

Little Gifts

by Justine C. Tajonera

There was one morning
I discovered your socks in my bag
at work.
I started to cry, not yet knowing
if I was sad at the thought of you
waking up without me
or happy that I had something
of yours to hold me
together for the rest
of the day.

The other day, you were
already asleep
when I got back home
and I saw your slippers
outside your room
and again, I started to cry
not knowing if I was happy
that you were getting enough rest
or sad to have missed
tucking you
in bed with me.

These little things
string along in my mind
and break open my
heart.

I cannot yet
find the words
to describe why
each little thing
that you do
and leave
for me
to find

are lovely
little gifts
that throw open
all the windows
in my
life.

For Badger
Sept. 14, 2010

Image from madelinetosh.typepad.com

Fitting Together

by Justine C. Tajonera

The world shifts
with different eyes.
When time is running out
the color of the sky
is a blur.

There are days
when all I see is your face,
your hands,
how your limbs
have grown.
There was a time
your whole fist
would fit
in my palm.

Your sibling grows
quietly inside me now.
Your tone is apprehensive
with the talk of this new intruder,
your fingers pointing,
curious,
at my growing
belly.

Will my heart fit
the two of you
as snugly and as as surely
as your arms
around my
neck?

I've learned that love
can fit the tiniest
grain of hope
and the heaviest
burden of
regret
like the arms
of a
mother.

For Badger
(May 17, 2010)
Image from http://www.rudecactus.com/archives/DSC04178.edit.html

Holding On

by Justine C. Tajonera

There is time
in abundance
when the clock ceases
to tick
and you hold each moment
in the palm
of your hand.

I heard someone say
that it all depends
on how tightly you hold on
to the moment.

Hold it loosely
and it trickles
through your fingers.

Hold it tightly
and it makes your
hands and arms
ache.

Hold it firmly
and it stays
where it is.

I hold my son's hand
the same way
when I can.

(May 5, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/pinksherbet/470038257/

Paradise Village

by Justine C. Tajonera

I want to step backwards
and retrace the lawn
in my childhood home
in Cebu.

There was an orange swing
at the back
and the street where we lived
was named Mango.

I used to bathe
in an inflatable pool
that we used to take
to the beach.

We buried our white
Pekinese dog named
White King
in the yard.

I have a hundred pictures
of my life before
my mother died
and now I am older
than she would
ever be.

There must have been
a time
that I would wake up
in the middle of the night,
looking for her,
the way my son
sometimes does
when I am home
late.

But I don't remember
that
anymore.

(April 26, 2010)
Image of a Pekinese dog from http://www.flickr.com/photos/c_pedersen/3830232275/

Morning Sun

by Justine C. Tajonera

This morning, I watched you
wake up.
Your eyelids were flickering
with a dream,
your long lashes wavering.

And then you yawned,
a wide open pink mouth
and white teeth
in the sunlight,
your arms stretching slowly,
your back arching
with no hurry,
no worries.

There was no reason
for you to wake up,
no job to go to,
no school work
to begin.

That is the privilege
of being
three.

But you woke up,
nevertheless,
bound by some inner
clock of happiness
and wonder.

And then you looked at
me and smiled.
We heard a plane overhead
and you said,
"Airplane!" like a great
discovery, the headlines
of the news.

You headed straight
for the refrigerator
and drank your
soy milk
with a straw,
already weaned
and independent.

What I would give
to not say goodbye
to you
this wonderful,
sun filled
morning.

For Badger
(April 26, 2010)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/87807550@N00/126164015/

Six Coins

by Justine C. Tajonera

Lived or spent?
The line seems so slim
as I plod through my days.

This morning, as we scrounged
for spare change
for my morning commute
we looked at each other
and laughed.

We are walking
in some dire straits
but at least we still
get to eat
our pancakes
in the morning. 

I kiss our son
and walk out
the door
keeping our laughter
warm
in my hands,
together
with the six
coins
that we
put together.

For Vier and Badger
(April 7, 2010)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/68089733@N00/457624284

Goodbyes

By Justine C. Tajonera

He says goodbye
with a smile
and I catch myself
saying come back
okay?

And I think of mothers
and fathers in Haiti
and Chile and how
those words would sound
in their mouths.

Or the children
who heard those words
for the last
time.

I kiss my son
with all my heart
and watch him dance.
I want nothing more
and need nothing else
except now and now
and now
is heaven
happening in my
heart.

March 1, 2010

All That is Sacred

by Justine C. Tajonera

Could there be
inspiration in all
this world's weariness
and disenchantment?

Could there be
a lyrical song in all
this discordant
noise?

I look at my son
and I remember those
first dark days
after his birth.

Love is not always
shining or magical
or blooming
but there is one thing
I know it is
and it is
sacred.

(Feb. 23, 2010)

Glass of Water

by Justine C. Tajonera

In the middle of the night,
my son opens the door
to our room
looking for
me.

His head and neck are hot
from a fever
but he doesn't cry.
He lies down beside me,
content to be close by.

After an hour,
he turns to me
and makes a request,
"Water please."

My heart breaks over
his politeness.

Dear one, I would bring
rivers into this room
if you asked me.
I would haul the moon
with strings and
make the stars dance
to ease your fevered
sleep.

If my embrace and a glass
of water
is all you want,
here is my heart too
and a kiss
goodnight.

For Badger
(Feb. 20, 2010)


Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/bergius/77596187/

Tabula Rasa

by Justine C. Tajonera

When the clearing emerges
I see more things
come into
view.

I sweep away the clutter
and realize that there
is a beautiful picture
of my son
on the shelf.

When I hear the wind
and the sound of
my breathing
I create a listening
that opens not just
my ears
but my
heart.

The blankness of
serenity
is nothing like
despair,
it is a canvas
for majestic
actions
and rich tapestries
of all that is cherished
and rare.

(Jan. 19. 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/tortipede/3735937671/

Dancing in the Morning

By Justine C. Tajonera

I had no idea that
I would dance
today.

I woke up,
struggling,
sleepily pulling myself
together
to take my
morning swim.

When I sat down
to breakfast,
my son rushes to me,
with a swing CD
in his hands.

We play it

and the world is
transformed.
Something in me
wants to twirl
and laugh
and not care
about anything
but the joy
in his face.

When you play
the music,
you set yourself up
for dancing.

(Jan. 14, 2010)
Image of a turntable from http://xdem.free.fr/uploaded_images/DJShadow_MidnightInAPerfectWorldVideo-769866.jpg