PARTE DOS
I PLUCK 
i plucked your petals
like an old dream
that remained on my lola’s pockets;
pink and red
scattered like
filth.
hail the new queen!!!
YOUR CANDY
The million-ton-weight of my tummy
is way too lighter than
the saddle I have
long been pulling my exit way.
But one snap stands
maybe for a year or so.
And time can?t rope it out.
A long stare can make me
muse over the whole scene,
downsizing me?
You could have asked for it.
You could have told me.
I could have shed tears long before.
I could have flushed your
poetries and stares away before
my walls crash down.
But then, you needed
a dagger to make you bleed first?
And now what?
The scar is unstitchable.
A DO-SI-DO The time runs still Somewhat like of a rebirth And the clock still lingers, now filled with fluttering Standing here prolongs the anxiety. Waiting is the climax. But rapture’s the moment. 04/10 / 04/11/02
delaying this flash of
enticement.
A phoenix of some sort.
Maybe.
every touch of the
second hand holds back and
minutes fall under
the pit of my empty stomach,
yellow butterflies.
AN A FOR MR.B
Lightning hit me hard on
the floor and I was
about to cover his eyes.
Another bumble bee has gone by
with a winking smugness
I was ready to slap.
Talking about infidelity!
I stood like a stuffed turkey
feasted by succulent stares undressing
my confidence.
Now, how could I hide a proud specter?
05/04/02
BREAKING UP
I knew it,
an eyebrow shall raise and
soon,
this creamy craze will tumble
to its doom.
A tiny finger has finally spotted
a spot
to lay and rest,
shifting this inch to
nth-inch-fever into an
invisible
dot.
I feel an eye studying the hairs
on my back as I’m
nervously proving a
pointless
point.
Now, could this be my fault?
04/02/02
THE LAST SONATA
Do I think of it right, casting
myself as another depressed poet
stuck in a shallow pit
of swarming frustrations?
I’m a pathetic whiner.
Perhaps forcing my tears to flow
and somehow pushed by my
irrational point of view.
But I remain unmoved,
A vista stands steadily before
my very eye.
A mind-distracting scene.
I am wretched.
Cursed.
Distorted.
Or, am I?
02/24/02
KNEEL BEFORE ME
Whoever do I hear it from,
the God-forbidden laugh?
The insults, the stares,
a scheme, remnant to shed
loose ends.
For my joints quivered
in the accusing spells that
left me kneeling
under one honest sigh.
I froze with nothing but
an eyebrow raised;
faking an assault?
throwing a dagger?
against one scowling prey.
05/03/02
SCARRED KISSES
My heart screamed in deep
horror as you open
the drape
of your awe-inspiring past.
Bucket of dames brought a downfall
to my eye. It was
the midnight sky revealing;
your poetries swallowing
me whole.
From their sweet censored hums
to the sharp arrow
stuck in your
unbeating core; memories
will never be a
patch on
reality.
11/27/01 (sa sobrang pagkaselosa ko…)
LAST LAUGH
I bit the paleness of your lip until
its blood fell like a thick
black ink, continuously
dropping on the
white sheet.
It’s mark visible.
Nothing can stop the pain as I stab
the sharpest knife, hard on
your unbeaten core;
as deadly as my
eyes when I
stare at
you.
12/30/02
UNSCRIPTED
I have my very own twist
of story where fate clouded
every single line of it.
My leading man never
runs out of script and was
nearly crowned as the
director; but as I said,
fate clouded my story.
No need of recalling my
copy of shammed emotions for
reality is the plot of it;
no need to fake tears for
sweet arguments
is my touch of drama;
no need of scripted humor
for worn out boxer shorts and
lost underwear creates
laughter; and no need
to pretend a kiss
for it is when my
story started…
09/02/02
WISHFUL THINKING
As goose bumps remained unsurrendered,
weariness swept my face.
The cold wind won?t stop from haunting me;
I stood half alive.
Frozen.
Disgusted.
Dirty flowers were scattered on the floor.
Droplets of rain were no use.
I saw you lying with them;
petals of filth.
One blink and then you vanished.
I opened my eyes to touch the thin air.
My tears won the battle.
12/31/02
POETRY???anyone?
HAIL THY MAJESTIC POET…uhm, that’z me. And it’s hot. Hahaha!!! Read my masterpieces and see if you can relate to the crap. Tata!
Here goes the first half (I’m telling you,it’s quite a loader):
HOMECOMING
It was nearly dusk when the
ground I’ve been treading on almost
gave up and folded.
His footsteps could have taken
years to reach me, as if
some director played it in slow
motion to portray
the best romantic scene.
With a few twisted smiles, crossed
fingers and batted eyelashes;
a messy room stole the show.
Glued in the middle
of unwashed clothes and piles
of dirty socks, is one
amused couple swaying along
with the most infectious voice
that have been my stalker ever since.
”Lover come home…”
How fateful the words
sounded to me.
07/01/02 (i summarized our love story and how we started dating thru this poem…true to life yan na ngyari..kinikilig pa ako pag narerecall ko yun…it’s so dreamy e…homecominh by the way is the title of the Rico Blanco’s slow song na sinayawan namin…the song’s really sweet and memorable for me)
LOVELY PINK
Last summer, pink bloomed
lovelier while remote controls were
nearly smashed in a
hand-pit, slapping over late-night
shows. Departures
made blues and talks
became heaven-far.
Every scene was a finger-inch
to perfection.
Wedding songs and
marriage touch were but waiting?
Only then, I saw pink
jumped crimson.
Red burnt finer
and pink faded?
06/28/02 ( a love poem again for me and my significant other)
UNREQUITED LOVE
And my eyes are about
to boom like a bazooka
from his sarcastic
snap.
A fluid trace of pride
struggles against my mouth;
but like how my brain sank,
courage was diverted
to hot, flowing tears.
BITTER AKO. hehe
DOOMSDAY
There’s no way I could come to terms
with death;
I lay night after night
in a perplexed terror
trying to see in my mind’s eye
if death is perpetual hours of darkness
or an abyss of blaze
I have to leap over
for me to reach the golden
fields on the
far side. Or an orb, like
the inside of a colossal balloon
full of soaring choirs
and light-attenuated
through boundless
stained-glass window.
FIGURE IT OUT, BITCH!
I shared her my favorite French kiss
with edge-knife tongues
drooling for retort.
What an uptight assurance.
that I would cheerfully
die as soon
as she gets a bloated tummy.
But not until I
ponder over some of
my deadliest mischief on her
favorite escort/s.
Now condone me.
Oh, condone me.
THE GREAT SAGA I get back to the world where the And if faith is But for the first time True: 12/09/01
electric light-switch rules.
Where the moon mightily snaps
its rays overhead.
Simply unnoticed.
nine-tenths of power,
I had certainly
proved myself formidable.
For I fear even not
my words.
I am meeting my own self
on its ground,
adult ground that is.
Living in a sin is
a lot better that turning
your coat
inside
out.
SKIMMED THROUGH
A fake.
Nothing ignites my suffused
Wacky morale but a
Fraud.
My nail’s neatly polished
And my searing nose is killing me.
You’re killing me!
I have done everything a
Subdued being would possibly
Cast upon her nemesis
And now I’m throwing these
Frisky-yet-pleasant
Words on her face…
And you’re calling me rude!?
ONE GLANCE IS ENOUGH
A slight move and my head turns.
You might hear my stares
trying to define muteness.
And see my loud shouts.
You prefer to look at the stars.
Pointless. Defying.
Your back says it all:
I got nothing.
02/08/02
Uncategorized | Comment (0)CUPID IS STUPID
Let me get a little cheesy here and give you some post-Valentine mushiness (blech!). I dug this up in an old memory box, this was supposed to be for Ahmad but I was too shy to give it to him…yes, this is Djai talking. Harhar!
To the Perfect One (well, at least I believe so…)
Cupid is losing his touch. He needs extra practice to get those Love arrows aiming right. He seems too slow for you. Or maybe you’re just too numb to feel it…or am I just cursed? I don’t know.
Wherever this may be going, fate must have something to do with it. My friends won’t agree though, they said you’re way above my league. They keep on knocking on my forehead with the ever famous line, “Dream on!” But whatever reality checks they snap at me, I still stand by my word…fate must have something to do with it…Like how would you explain those unsuspected moments when our eyes would clash for a second that we would withdraw only to clash again within minutes…or the incident at the Phelan Walk where I caught you whistling the song that I have planned to use in my fantasy wedding…or those times when you would pass by our boarding house late at night taking a sudden glimpse in my direction only to catch me staring airily above? And the funny thing is, it was you who I was wistfully thinking of. These might be plain coincidences to those who don’t dwell in love but I say it is how destiny plays around.
But I do know I can only nag you in verses, scribbling the reveries amidst the torments of my self-righteous drama, witnessed only by my newspaper wall then secretly filed in my computer’s hard disk…like “how you’ll sweep me off in a whirlwind invitation to a whirlwind conversation then a whirlwind dance to a whirlwind kiss in a room that is perfectly designed to shelter a whirlwind romance. “
You might think I’m a nutcase.
Maybe I am.
Retardation is just a relative term to this state I have been going through. Thinking about you does take its toll. My notebook is not spared from this suffering. Your name is etched beautifully on all of its pages like a black mantra of some sort. My sisters are getting dire sick of listening to my sweet complains of how extraordinary your eyes are and what pensive expressions you’ve got, luring me even more on your way. A bundle of contradiction you are. That rebel within your sweet, serene eyes entices me to delve deeper on this sickening throbs my heart suffers from. Even your flaws are terribly addictive.
Come to think of it, my friends may be right in some way. This may be another case of a Soap Opera Plot in-the-making of a Nobody like me, agonizing unrequited love for a Perfect Somebody like you. Stories like these have been passed hundreds of moons ago and half of those who suffered made their way home but the other half remained nostalgic. And I’m darn scared clinging to this thought. Cupid might be just wandering around, on the loose shooting arrows on those who don’t even need one…So please do show yourself to him…
Damn, this is getting us nowhere…
But fate, yes…fate will not disappoint those who wait. This letter will serve as a sign to give tomorrow a slight push. You might know or understand…but patience is a beautiful gift. It’s all I can afford for you…for us.
The Most Imperfect One
—-
The author claims to have had those tiny, cartoony hearts in her eyes and over her head while writing this article.
MEET THE PARENTS 1
Part 1
Guess what? It’s not Ahmad’s fans club that are the only flock of creatures on this planet who hates me. My parents-in-law despisED
me as well. Ain’t that swell? But mind you guys, I am emphasizing
the ED here ‘coz I have this li’l bit of a feeling that they’re starting
to like me na (feeling lang ha?he he).
I have been considered as Ahmad’s girlfriend (Yoko Ono) for about two years without even officially meeting his parents. Not that I would love that idea though. Na-ah! Firstly, they are Moslems (I’ve been watching too much CNN I guess…). Second and lastly, they’re his parents. Just the mere thought of greeting them spooked me. Never in our 2-year relationship did I demand such dreadful scenario - him introducing me to his folks. Because as expected by everybody, I knew they would never like me (note: they never liked any of their children’s boos). No parents would like me. Except for my parents (I guess?). In the first place, I am not girlfriend material. I am more of a fling material (physically speaking) with the infamous rotten image and a bad ass aura (gosh, am I cute or what?!). Maybe I should blame it on my sultry, cheap porn star, delinquent façade that make me look as if I’m about to steal somebody else’s son anytime I feel like it! Oh, well…I…Uh, gee…I guess I did, huh? Heehee.
Okay, zip it! Why not proceed to the exact meet-the-parents festival? Let us skip the Ahmad’s-parents-had-gone-berserk-that-his-mom-actually-fell-off-the-stairs-upon-knowing-I-have-their-son-all-hooked-up-on-me-because-I-was-pregnant episode. Believe me, I felt sorry when I heard the news about her tumbling down their 11 flights of solid-rock stairs.
It was a nerve-wrecking moment. The day Ahmad finally decided to have me as his “pasalubong” to his dad (his mom works abroad so his dad got to bear with me first). It was not like my first encounter with him though. I have seen him around Ateneo a couple of times before whenever he paid a visit to our department office to check on Ahmad’s class standing and grades (see, terror talaga!). But it’s not that he’ll recognize me because as far as I can remember, I tend to scanter away every time I realized that the well-built, Bin Laden-looking Arabian walking at the same hall I was threading on was my boyfriend’s dad *cringe*. Anyway, going back to that bloodcurdling picture …I was quite alarmed (in a good way I must admit) when I learned that his dad exerted this Herculean effort to the extent of borrowing a car just to give us a red carpet treatment for our arrival in Iriga. He wanted to fetch us with the borrowed car in the terminal. It was surprising for me considering the fact that they did not even bother to attend our wedding (their son’s wedding for God’s sake!) and Dylan’s christening. I was somehow wondering if the red carpet treatment was necessary or if it was superfluous.
But the moment I stepped down the bus and saw Dadi Abu’s sincere, heart warming smile (I was used to his kunot-noo face in Ateneo akin to a marching terrorist), I immediately got rid of my hang-ups and hesitations and then…”mano po..err..daddy(?).” There. As simple as that. He then snatched Dylan away from Ahmad’s arms like an excited, freaking lion and cuddled her granddaughter as if they’ve
had a bonding already. He was beaming with pride and joy (I’m a psychologist, I’m supposed to see it in his eyes…) as he told us that Dylan looked exactly like Ahmad as a baby (I didn’t know if he was too happy that Dylan did not take after my cuteness…hmmm…).
The whole Christmas break that we spent with the Tanji family (no Lola and mother-in-law at that time) turned out to be the opposite of what I was expecting. It was not a disaster after all…
Uncategorized | Comment (0)MEET THE PARENTS 2
Have you seen those marching soldiers flashing black and white on our TV screens to give us a further depiction of the Martial Law period? Well, if Ahmad’s dad represents those soldiers, his mom would be the leader.
My husband knows how his mom makes my stomach clutch its intestines in an uncomfortable grip. Definitely a not-so-Djai state of condition that I can associate with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Free-Floating Anxiety or maybe Acute Post-Traumatic Disorder (was I studying Abnormal Psychology while writing this?). Almost all of the Tanji children have this perturbed and ill at ease feeling toward their mother that might have rooted from how they
were raised as kids. I am not trying to psychologize them or something because Ahmad is way more capable than I am to solve his family issues on his own. Ahmad and I have long analyzed his mom’s issues and laid out her patterns of behavior but I am not planning to consume this whole article with my psychological assessment of her.
It was in August 2004 when Ahmad brought home the news that I was finally to meet his mom. I thought of just saying No Thanks but found myself accepting her invitation for me and Dylan to come over her house, her territory.
The moment I entered their gate with my mom beside me and Dylan in my arms, The Mother-in-Law wasn’t even smiling. Maybe to Dylan and mama she was but definitely not to me. But oh well, I still managed to snatch her hand clumsily to make mano while she gave me a semi-annoyed quick half-smile in return. I also caught her disapproving look as she gazed at me from head to foot, stopping especially in the butt and boobs area for a checkpoint. (If she only knew, the outfit I had that day was the least oppressive, most wholesome I could find in my closet just for me to meet her idea of the decent, mayuming Filipina she thought her son deserved.)
I couldn’t wait for the moment to be over.
To make things worse, our tension of the opposites (I told you I was reading a Psych book while writing this) was so apparent that I was sure she could see me crumbling to pieces while sitting in front of her. I must admit she has a really beautiful and aristokrata face (that probably explains why she loathes me) akin to that of Imelda Marcos, the lunatic. Plus, she exudes the confidence and poise of a true heiress while I was trying so hard to calm myself down I felt like one of those haggard little guinea pigs being manipulated in a laboratory cage. Not even those sweet almonds she topped on the maja blanca she had served for our snacks could add taste to my mouth.
So I have heard a lot about her juicy comments of me, like my being too childish for Ahmad and Dylan. And snide ones like my being too ugly or not good enough to be her son’s wife. All the stuff we see in biyenan vs. asawa movies, I’ve been there. It would’ve have been
a complete and utterly painful disaster had my sisters-in-law (who are on the same level of kabalahuraan as I am) not been there. Had it not been for them, I would’ve ended up counting all those little pebbles on their mansion’s steps. As the old saying goes, birds of the same feather flock together. We spent the whole day playing with Dylan and making chismis (synonym to making libak) about the people we know in common (like their mom? Hehe).During the whole weekend, everybody was like cramming for nothing (nothing for me are household chores like doing the laundry, mapping their marmol floor, sweeping the dust off their Arabian decorative, etc). And luckily, I’ve been so good in excusing myself. It was good that I had Dylan as a reason to get away from the chores being screamed in command by ever dearest mommy.
But in all fairness to my mother-in-law, she was really very maasikaso in a motherly, so-Filipina way which is exactly the opposite of me. Hmmm, come to think of it, maybe Ahmad’s mom could be right in some aspects, I am still too immature and so not ready to face the life I have right now (but at least I’m trying di ba?). I was not exactly trained to be the typical housewife-mom and neither do I want to be one anyway. I am the exact opposite of her. I guess the only thing I have in common with her was her love for shorts when she was younger which was quite evident in her old photo albums. But somehow, I saw her efforts to accept me as her daughter-in-law although I knew that meant eating up her huge pride. And surprisingly on my part, I had exerted all efforts to be as courteous as possible and maybe, it worked in a way because the next thing I knew, she was handing me some pasalubong. Especially bought for me. And I must admit, for all its worth, I kinda like the silver lady’s watch she gave me. And the Kikay strapless bra.
I may not be as comfortable with her as I am with Dadi Abu but at least I knew we’re both working on the liking-each-other part. It’s a long process (that includes some stabbing behind our backs here and there) and I know, considering that she’s worse than the typical mom-in-law we see on Filipino movies who hates her cutest son’s girl but at least I have stories like this to tell. That’s one of the perks I guess.
—–
The author could only hope that that her mother-in-law does not have the computer skills and does not harbor any interest in browsing web magazines like this. Else, she is so dead.
CHRYSALIS
CHRYSALIS by: Ahmadjai
SUNDAY CAME HOME LATE.
Slowly, thoughts from beyond soar,
NOT ANOTHER NOVEMBER SICK CALL.
then flowers wither. SMOKING
ITS ASHES IN MARLEY?S MORNING REGGAE,
Its beauty unfolds like a Utopian dream.
I MUMBLED BLASPHEMIES INTO THE BLUE.
Yet, your haven bleeds?
FOR TOMORROW SPELLS A DEJE?VU SO LENNONISH,
Were you once a prey of ire
THAT BLESSES THE PISCES IN ME TO FLUTTER ITS WINGS.
heeding mirthly to yield for darkness?
NOW, IT ENTOMBS A DOWNFALL LIKE A THIRD-WORLD VODKA HANGOVER,
But as your fate echoes, it was a whirling void of emptiness.
COCOONED IN MY DEEPEST ENTITY.
Butterflies are dead.
YET, I WAS ALIVE…
Alive.
(***a poem by ahmad and moi, one lazy sunday afternoon in my apartment….words in capslock,by Ahmad. mine yung hinde) 12/12/01
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