NaPoWriMo#29: Plot Lines For Sleep

Plot Lines For Sleep
By Justine C. Tajonera

Sleep is a precious commodity nowadays.
If people could buy it bottled, they would.
It used to be simpler, in the past. It involved
counting some sheep, counting the stars.
Then, there were prayers, memorized or
a litany of requests. Then, there was the
pursuit with candles and incense sticks.
First, it was release then it was reward.
At some point it was a choice, at another,
it was fate. No matter, the beginning, the
middle, the foreshadowing and the conflict,
like death, it comes in the end, a curtain
that falls in waves, over our eyes.

NaPoWriMo#25: Join Easter Jaunt, A Portrait

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.

Below is a short portrait poem that emerges out of the anagram that comes from my name.

Join Easter Jaunt, A Portrait
by Justine C. Tajonera

Inside my name is an invitation to a journey
on the road to resurrection. Everlasting life is heavy
stuff. So, why make the trip so solemn? A jaunt
sounds like a call in the morning: we're going off
to Sierra Madre, come quick, pack light. It's cramming
into a car and making stops at roadside restaurants
that you won't find in the city. We're going together,
that's what counts. Everlasting life is now, exactly
now, as I turn around to take a picture. It's the smile
that won't leave your lips because, there, around the
bend, there's a view of the light coming through
the clouds, making the mountainside golden. It's
the glory of your hand in mine as we get out of the
car with the children and stand in the wind.

NaPoWriMo#23: The Breath

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.

Below is an attempt at a triolet, an eight-line poem in iambic tetrameter with the rhyme scheme ABaAabAB. The first, fourth and seventh lines are identical and the poem begins and ends with the same couplet. Because it was very gong-like and I can't, for the life of me, write a playful satirical poem which is supposed to be one of the best contexts for a triolet (now let me work on that...) all I could think of were meditation gongs. So here it is... a meditation poem that sounds like a melodic mantra. 

The Breath

by Justine C. Tajonera

The breath begins the source of things,
it comes from deeply quiet song.
Faintly, you will hear that it sings.
The breath, it is the source of things.
At first you will not know it sings
but the sound is clear as a gong.
The breath begins the source of things,
it comes from deeply quiet song.

NaPoWriMo#21: Pistol

Pistol
By Justine C. Tajonera

It is my first time to see a .45 caliber
Para-Ordnance pistol, actually my first
time to see a pistol up close. It has a stainless
steel finish and a polymer grip. It has an
adjustable skeletonized trigger. I cannot
bring myself to handle it. I imagine it would
be like holding death, cold to the touch,
heavy with something more than its
actual weight. No one really looks into
the barrel of a gun to examine it. Only
a close range target would, and under
very different circumstances. I cannot find
a place for this weapon in my home, even if it
were locked in a steel case and hidden in the
highest shelf of a closet.

NaPoWriMo#20: Highway

Highway
By Justine C. Tajonera

I take over the driving after our stop
at the gas station. I squander my attention
on trucks and buses that overtake on clearly
marked "no trucks/ buses" lanes. Then,
emerging from a claustrophobic drive beneath
the Skyway overpass and two trucks on both
sides of the car, I see a curl of seaweed flash
by the window. For a moment, the highway is
underwater. I can almost smell the salt from
the ocean. It is an elusive moment, quickly gone,
Southern Luzon and Manila submerged.
By the time I've taken us to the EDSA Cubao lane
I am back in traffic-ridden reality, mindful now
of water, weather, wakefulness.

NaPoWriMo#18: Picture

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.

Picture
By Justine C. Tajonera

In the picture we look happy enough, like happy
families that are all alike. Broad grins, the light reflecting
on our hair. I look fat. That was the year you had me drink
nutritional supplements after several years of being
dangerously skinny. I like that picture. I don't know
where it is anymore, probably in a box because
you've always been such a pack rat. I shut out what
I don't like to remember. Better that way, perhaps.
Maybe you were taking the picture. I can't bring myself
to step over the line and cross to you. I only get the
news. I remember sitting on the marble sink, watching
you rubbing Pond's cold cream on your face. It was
one of those days when I could talk to you. I can't go
back there anymore. It's all frozen in the picture.

NaPoWriMo#16: Wedding Ring and Nature (Two Poems)

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.

Below are two poems in pantun, a traditional Malay poetry form.

Wedding Ring
by Justine C. Tajonera

The wedding ring sat quietly atop some books.
It quietly disappeared that same afternoon.
Between us, there have never been more than looks,
no proofs of love required, no vows under the moon.

Nature
by Justine C. Tajonera

I watched our pet hamster, Mindy, devour
two of her newborn pups one afternoon.
I ask if war and hunger and poverty are
things we inflict on children who are least immune.

NaPoWriMo#15: Yama

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.

Yama

by Justine C. Tajonera

I'm not grim nor wrathful, contrary to popular belief.
I don't welcome ferrying you to the other side.
In your history and through your brief lives
I've relished least a massive flooding
at my door. I prefer peace and a moment-at-
a-time. I enjoy the stories on the boat.
When you come all at once, I don't quite hear
anything. And that's why I hate war just as much
as you. Walk with me. I'll take you to the other side.
Don't come running. And don't shun me, either.
I promise that I hold your children, bright with trust
and curious about my hands and hair, with care.
I love the most those who take my hands in theirs.
Walk with me. There are worse things to fear.
I am not one of them. I am not the end.

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#13: Lipstick

Lipstick
By Justine C. Tajonera

I don't know why it matters so much,
pink, cherry-flavored moisturizing pigment.
Just can't live without it. Ingrained like don't
sit with your legs apart and shave. It comes
with the foundation and the blush and the heels
and the smile. It comes with the hint of lavender
or orange blossom on the wrists, the pierced ears
at birth or at nine, later on there's the ring on the
left ring finger preferably with a stone. It doesn't
matter what my greatest work could be. I need some
child-bearing flushed lips and cheeks, I need the
perfect cut for my rump, I need a glow like I'm hot
but not with menopause. Aphrodite, remind me, when
I do not recognize myself anymore, of Shiva and Gaea.

NaPoWriMo#12: Nothing

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.

Nothing
By Justine C. Tajonera

I am not accustomed to asking
for nothing. There is always a list of things
to be requested, acquired, sorted. Even
gratitude has its lists.

Nothing borders my life, creates the
edges, the breath between the hungers,
the immersion in the delightful noise.

I chase after the last note of the bell.
There are two breaths in between the end
of the sound and the beginning.

I forget that the end of the sound makes
the sound. One and the other are no
different and separate. If I lose you,
If I lose you, I will remember this truth.

NaPWriMo#11: Resurrection

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.

Resurrection
By Justine C. Tajonera

From nowhere, from sleep, from darkness
there will be a light, a bright source.
I refuse a never ending darkness and
forgetfulness. I cannot say that I am right.
It is not for me to claim or to prove.
It will not do anything for me now.
But it is a comfort. The bindings left
on the stone. The hush of the moment
after oblivion. It is a fiction worth repeating
to children afraid of the dark, afraid of being
left behind to fend for themselves.
It was a story I was told as a child.
"She is safe. She is in heaven. She is
waiting for you." And I have believed it.
It has never had to be true.

NaPoWriMo#10: Undone

Undone
By Justine C. Tajonera

The heat has stolen my words.
At noon, the air is still and humid and presses
against me as I leave the building. I shield myself with
an umbrella but my head has already started to pound.
Last Tuesday I heard in the news that the temperature
in Quezon City was the same as a slight fever.
Last summer was the hottest on record.
It may just be eclipsed.
I try to remember days as hot as these. I cannot.
Another thirty days like this is unbearable.
In the poles, I imagine ice shelves sliding into the sea.
I can almost see the arms of coral reefs bleaching
in agony. I have something to do with this
that cannot be undone. Forgiveness will not soothe
the earth, the air, the oceans. But it is forgiveness
that I ask for in this enveloping, inescapable
hell of heat.

NaPoWriMo#9: Reparation

Reparation
By Justine C. Tajonera

I crawled into bed after having chased you
in the mall. My white shirt was the worst choice
for spaghetti and pizza. All I want is nothing
after a morning filled with you. Gratitude is
something that hasn't occurred to me yet.
Your shrill cries are still ringing in my ears.

I crawl out of bed looking for you,
Looking for reparation. There will be a day
when all I want is for you to shout at the
top of your lungs, "Mommy, Mommy!"
There will be a day when I will want those little
hands around my neck even with spaghetti sauce.

NaPoWriMo#8: Balanga, Bataan

Balanga, Bataan
By Justine C. Tajonera

My last trip there was for a funeral.
There was a brass band playing and it
was very hot. We went back to the old
house for pancit and coke. There were
framed pictures on the walls of graduates in togas,
this one became a doctor and now lives in
San Francisco, that one lives in Las Vegas.
In the bathroom there are Bath & Bodyworks
liquid soaps from children long gone.
Our family is from here, this dusty town,
the birthplace of my grandfather who
died when I was a child.
We visit the land that has yet to be parceled
out. It is green and flat and will be sold.
We say goodbye and prepare for the
long journey back to Manila. Decades ago,
a lifetime ago, soldiers died on the march here during
The war. Now, it is a place I have left behind.

NaPoWriMo#7: Breasts

Breasts
By Justine C. Tajonera

They titillate and arouse,
they sell cars, beer, and tuna.

They give life, they give children
a valley of comfort and soothe their cries.

I imagine kings, popes, presidents and prime
ministers once helpless children in their
mothers' arms, cradled at midnight,
rocked in warm embraces.

They are covered up obsessively
or strategically displayed.

They are painful, bloated, turgid
until they are suckled by a hungry child.

I remember my son with a high fever,
his tiny body wracked with vomiting,
still seeking my breasts even with eyes
closed, even in pain.

There is a language for breasts that
make them fruits or puppies or things.

There is a language for breasts that only
children speak and it is sacred.

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.

NaPoWriMo#5: Faithfully Erudite Insurgent

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.

Faithfully Erudite Insurgent
by Justine C. Tajonera

After Iain M. Banks' oddly named spaceships. 

We rotate in dizzying cycles in space,
a lucky entity not yet obliterated
by passing asteroids (only near misses).
We turn and turn and turn
with the sun. Sometimes we don't
know why. We just do. We contradict
ourselves, we destroy, we build,
we nurture, we fathom and transform,
and kill ourselves, but the planet first.
Faithfully, faithfully, we err or
get it monumentally right in bursts
of glory. We hold each other desperately,
desperately pursuing happiness
or something like it like consumption
or power or relief. We glimpse it in our children.
We know. We know what tenderness is
but we disown it one time or another.
We hurtle on, unmindful. But in the
early morning, sometimes, we look beyond.
We see visions of utopia, an illusion
like the rising of the sun. Or is it real? Is this
finally the point? And then we move on, we
follow the merciless clocks that come in analog
or digital. So erudite, so right, so wrong,
so dangerous, so sublime. We hurtle on,
machines unmanned, discovering, asleep, a few
brief moments, rebellious, awake.

NaPoWriMo#4: Tremors

Tremors
by Justine C. Tajonera

I felt a tremor at ten thirty this morning.
It was only a few seconds. I thought I had
just imagined it, feeling silly after having blurted, "Earthquake!"
at no one in particular, just acknowledging the swaying
of my desk, until I saw the news feeds on my computer.
I had a headache at the time. My mind was whirling
with war and product testing and dizzying changes
and my children and the merciless, pounding heat
of this summer and climate change that we attempted
to teach to our son.
I am standing at the edge of something.
I remember waking up at midnight on the 21st of December
2012 and looking out the window. It was hot for
December and I was wondering about the end of the world.
Perhaps it doesn't happen in one day.
I survive these little tremors every day, waiting for
the tsunami that doesn't come. But when it does,
I cannot yet imagine my grief much less picking up
pieces from what is left.
So I drink a glass of water and reach out to
the blankness of peace. I steady myself and breathe
and breathe and give thanks and breathe.

NaPoWriMo#3: Running After C

Running After C
by Justine C. Tajonera

You move so quickly,
you won't stay still, not for pictures,
not even when I plead and offer you cookies.
I wash your hair and wrap you in a towel
and off you go, somewhere else, humming.
You used to scramble to pick up my jogging shoes
and put them on the shoe shelf but now you
only smile and say no and attempt to climb
up a shelf to get at your biscuits.
I want to capture your laugh, your smile,
all teeth and cheek.
I run to keep up with you and make
poor copies of you with my camera
(how will it ever come with the scent
of your nape?)
I want to keep discovering you, I want
to be surprised. I want this world to be yours,
little girl. I don't want you to be saved.
I want you to do the saving.