About Our Handwriting.

Thus she opened my notebook and read
The first lines you ever wrote,
She nodded and she said, Oh love!
This is the story of his life and it is
Evident in the lines, hidden in the designs
The shivers that make up our spines,
Indeed, what does curve our straight lines,
but the atrocities of ourselves?
Our little worlds, our insides.

Yours go up, she said, flipping the pages
Pointing at me with her eyes, and yes,
I had to agree; my lines went up, oh why.
Slanted up like a reverse parachute, pointing.
It meant happiness till the skies.

Last page, I told her. Yesterday.
So she did turn to yesterday, a look
Of befuddlement crossing her face, as
Her fingers did graze the words going down
Down like the corners of our mouths.
So sad, she said, so sad. But why?

But why, I echoed, suddenly silent
I thought it was done, but the lines,
They don’t lie.

Ten-thirty tales at a table for two

It was nighttime. Equally excited, we settled our behinds on the long jeep-benches, sitting across one another. We were talking in chirpy, bright voices, and the jeep’s lone light bulb flickered like a candle, tinged our skin with yellow.

I peered outside, felt the cool air toss the troublesome bangs into my eyes.

“I think it’s here. Right?” I glanced at Reez for some affirmation, as navigation wasn’t one of my strongest traits.

“Hmmm…” her eyes flickered over the square forms, the passing shapes in the darkness. “No, I think it’s there pa.”

The jeep drove on.

A few minutes later, she tossed the driver a “Para ho.”, and we hopped off, fixed our eyes on the little restaurant built to resemble a tree, and the floating lights surrounding it. I pointed to it, said,

“There it is! Shall we trek through the jungle?”

Reez looked indecisive for a moment, and she put her hand to her chin. “No, I think there’s a way through here.”

We walked through another building’s ramp, which eventually led to the little tree-shaped restaurant. The lights were lovely, and several tables were vacant. A handful of people were having dinner, and a petite waitress approached us, menu in hand. Reez and I hesitated for a moment, as she turned to me.

“I don’t see a poetry night going on here.” I nodded, and she turned around to ask the waitress.

“Ay, na-move ata. Hindi sila natuloy.” A pained look must’ve crossed both our faces, as she smiled at us sympathetically, and went to the front desk to consult a little piece of paper taped behind the counter.

“March 20 ho. Na-move nga. Ito ba yung sa Underground?” I looked at Reez quizzically. She was the one with all the details, more or less. Reez nodded.

“Wow, that sucks.” I checked my phone for time time. “So. What now?”

—

Five minutes later, we were standing by the roadside, waiting for a jeep to rescue us. A lone streetlamp curtained us in yellow light once more, and Reez begain to sing.

“I know your eyes in the morning sun! I feel you touch me in the pouring rain! And the moment that you wander far from meeee, I wanna feel you in my arms agaaaain….”

The Bee Gees. At this point, I joined in, a little amused.

“And you come to me on a summer breeeeze, keep me warm in your love and then softly leave, and its me you need to shooow..HOW DEEP IS YOUR LOVE!”

Sadly, there are few things more magical and smile-provoking than two friends singing at the side of the road, with no where to go in particular. We both sounded sub par, but it didn’t matter. At all.

I really need to learn
cause were living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
When they all should let us be
We belong to you and me

Nine-thirty in the evening landed us at the McDonald’s in Katipunan, amidst a gaggle of screaming, talking, laughing students whose Friday nights were probably just beginning. We had dinner, and in situations like these, the ice cream must always be eaten first. Reez made her way to the bathroom, and I reached for the plastic spoon, scooped a bit of the white and brown into my mouth.

We sat there, and, it wasn’t a conscious effort, but we made our own poetry night right then; out of notebooks and the backs of Haruki Murakami printouts, out of screaming schoolgirls and big-eared, bespectacled janitors. Out of the cars passing by, painting trails of light in the blackness. Reez’s lines are italicized.

9:30 pm in McDo when you’re bored.

The street is filled with cars in caution
Denizens, brisk walking, always in a flurry
The world is a hive-
But here I am, eating spaghetti
With my eyes glued to glass windows
With my ears plugged into the blues
And I think I’m in deeper than a submarine
So I type the hours away on my laptop of doom
Thinking that the guy with the mop is lonely
So I put on this smile and say, “I’m the hot friend.”

It was pretty simple. We’d observe, write down words. A fat girl was wearing this T-shirt that said “I’m the hot friend”, another girl wore a Yellow Submarine shirt. The janitor mopped the floor beside us, and beyond the glass walls, cars. Easy, no?

The next poem was kind of weird and sad and funny all at once.

“MEMORIES” 8D

I can’t believe you lost me on a train
So I sat on the roof and watched
The sky explode instead.
So I’m drawing on my shoes
The things I hated about you
While someone on TV cried about
How she got Hepa-A from isaw.
I napped on you and
Dreamt about Flo-Rida and
We rolled like lumpiang shanghai
Down the grassy slopes of
The sunken garden (in the afternoon)
You know I can’t dance
But I hope you teach me
How to boogie so fast that
We can reach Jupiter today.
Running after the balut man,
cause we’d be tired and hungry
And gift him with Hershey
Kisses divine. (for he is just awesome.)

–

“Your phone’s vibrating.”

I lifted my pen, just about to continue one of Reez’s paragraph for a joint story, this time. It was 10:45. Dad was calling.

“Dad?” I rose from our table and glanced outside. “Yeah. Okay, I’m coming.”

I gathered up my things, and gave Reez a hug. “Are you SURE you’ll be ok?” She smiled at me, “Yeaaaah, I’ll text you when they pick me up.” Her parents were somewhere along EDSA at the moment. “Alright. I’ll see you on Wednesday!” I walked towards the door and looked back at her. She waved a bit, I think. “Bye Hammie!”

Heh. Friday ended awesomely, and in the most unexpected way.

—

We like our fun and we never fight
You can’t dance and stay uptight
It’s a supernatural delight
Everybody was dancin’ in the moonlight

The Five Minute Poem

SPIDER SPIDER

It has eight legs and you take away one and

It’s still alive, but there’s less life to spin

Thus, The girl stands alone on a cobalt blue sea, thinking

Of spiders,

She’d wish she was one

Even if there were only seven legs and less life,

Lines of lightning across her lips,

She bites, and pretends

That the fish-kisses are him,

And so the legless spider flings itself

Singing,

Eloquently, the song of a less life

And it’s fragile body crashes

Into a canvas.

Ice and water,

Cobalt blue and ultramarine pastel fish.

She shatters, and quietly,

Opens her palm,

She’d rather be a spider.

Old Maid Walking Down the City Street

The week ahead;

I report on this poem (old maid walking down..)come Friday, CW10. I haven’t begun and am  most probably going to cram.

Maniac Magee. The legend of the boy from Two Mills who ran. I must bring this book tomorrow to a budding Jerry Spinelli fan.

And, what exactly lies within the library of Romulo Hall? Our block handlers said it looked like the Hogwarts library, and I’d like to see for myself.

I haven’t tasted the mythical Isaw of UP yet. What do chicken intestines taste like? Rubber? Salt? Chicken meat? All three combined?

Runaways 26. The continuation of the story of the children who woke up and decided to escape. But with cool super powers and a dinosaur named Old Lace. I neeeeed!~

More importantly. I need to know that tomorrow, I will be able to introduce myself in sign language to a classroom of people who aren’t deaf, as well as a prof who seems to be fascinated with the male anatomy.

—-

Something to roll over in bed about:

Erik: think of this
Erik: gawa saan an
Erik: rainbow?
hannah Portugal: droplets.
Erik: yeah
Erik: and
Erik: other than rain
Erik: saan pa
hannah Portugal: hanging in the air. reflecting. light.
Erik: nagkakaroon ng other droplets?
Erik: other source ng droplets
hannah Portugal: tears?
Erik: yeah
Erik: which means?
hannah Portugal: after you cry, there will be a rainbow?
Erik: yeah
Erik: 

—

Poetry;
You bump the shore again and climb out; and see nothing but the sky and the sand, and behind, you, as always, the ocean. The yellow pod is bobbing in the salt water, and hermit crabs are climbing over the grains of sand, scavenging. Pick one up. It’s shell is black and white; like a zebra’s. Name it Tiger.

Tiger grabs at the skin on your fingers. Put it down and look around.

You will see nothing but miles of white sand.

This is a strange island, with not a tree or a creature guarding it from the sun and the sky. One gigantic sandbar. Vast and empty and barren. The wind blows from behind you, and something cracks the sky in half.

Scream.

But make it a quiet scream, it’s only lightning, after all. A roll of thunder follows next, and your heart plays out in staccato notes. Soon after, the clouds will begin their gradual weeping: first, soft tears raining on the white hot sand, and then a drumline of cold, splashing water, nailing down on your skin and your clothes and your cheeks.

Look at your yellow pod with wide, uncertain eyes. The ocean is trembling, the ocean is beginning to churn. And then, turn your head swiftly back to the island.

You will find a shelter that wasn’t there before.

It’s only a cave, hidden under the surf and the sand, dry and warm and safe from the rain.

Look back to the sky– it has changed. From white to black. Your skin is cold.

And your yellow pod that has kept you safe from the beginning–the one with your book and blanket and your hope inside it, is being carried away by the ocean’s hands, slowly at first, but later it will be snatched away from you just as hippos swallow fish.

Look back to the shore–shelter and a home and safety from the rain.

Look back to the sea–a churning, angry storm, chanting drown, drown, drown in it’s silky siren voices, while your yellow pod waits.

Hesitate for a fraction of a moment. Just the slightest bit of time, before deciding;

Go.

Run.

Run towards what really matters, and for that fraction of a moment forget the storm and the lighting. But it isn’t wrong to dismiss the thought of impending suicide. It can’t be helped really.

And if you mean it, hop in.

Despite the fact that the ocean will swallow you, hop in. Maybe, because, for now, finishing what you began is more important than whether you will survive or not. It’s not a matter of YOU. Just a matter of doing what you were meant to.

So even if you know you might die, hop in.

And curl your pale fingers around the hatch, shut it tight and hold your blanket to your chest. When you look out at the window, you will see that old, comforting cave, hiding out from the noise and the rain bullets. It is warm, safe, and might have an ancient TV set that could work for a little while.

The pod jerks to the left, suddenly.

You are rammed against the metal walls.

And, as your vision dims, clutch your hope and your blanket and your book to your chest.

It’s worth the risk, really, it is.

It isn’t about you– it’s about what you’re supposed to finish..