Monthly Archives: December 2011

Sendong

Yapos ko ang siyang tumuldok
Sa kwentong luha ang punla
Sinadya ang katimogang sulok
Sa hudyat ng pananalasa

Hindi mabilang na patak
… ng luhang mula sinapupunan
… ng dugong naghatid sa libingan
… ng buhay na naging kabayaran

Bugso ng hangin at damdamin
Tubig na kumot sa pag-idlip
Ulang kumitl sa bawat pangarapin
Bahang lumunod sa bawat panaginip

Alam kong aking idinulot
… nabaling bagwis ng mga anghel
… di maibsang sakit at kirot
… puso at kinabukasang durog

Sa puting telang bumalot sa lupa
Pulang mantsa ay naipinta
Putik ang yumakap sa kanila
Mga taong pantay na ang paa

Lilisan at mamamaalam ako
Nahugasan ang ibabaw na mundo
Pasakit at pagkitil ng buhay
Dahilan ng paghahawak-kamay

Bahaghari’t araw matatanaw pa
Sa Maylikha tanging tumingala
Ulitin pa hindi ang kasalanan
Pagtibag niyo sa alay Niyang tahanan

 

 

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F-Perfect

I write this column under the tantrums of the sky. The clouds cry. The tears won’t seem get dry. And even if how I try to make the most poetic rhymes, this isn’t a mere Shakespearean piece delivered to a heart deserted by bliss.

This column is not mine. The words are, but the emotions are not. This column hears the silent sob amidst the deafening, despising laughter. The weak is always devoured by the mockery of the strong; faces humiliation and being pushed to the graves of condemnation. They are the rotten apples of the scrutinizing eyes – abnormal, unheard, and bullied.

With couples of eruptions in his face, James conceals the hurt inside. He blames it to the hormones that never met equilibrium. They blame it to his parents for breeding an “ugly species.” They thought everything was fine with how big his smiles were. The pain is concealed. A clown with a tomato nose also knows how to cry – with teardrops a lot copious than his pimples and people’s curses. James’ life is more than what’s written on his face. His story reveals more than the laughter he hears from people with pretty faces but crooked hearts. He also falls in love and gets rejected by the girl who always wishes for Sam Milby. And he is ugly but that doesn’t mean he isn’t beautiful. He is the boy you laugh at because he never fits to what the world considers handsome. He is the boy who had just lost the faith to himself because you made him feel so. He is bullied. And this column is his.

She is the laughing stock of the entire class. With her size, it would not be hard for one to notice her. Sadly, she considers herself to be the biggest loser, with a capital L. And Sharon Cuneta would never change others’ treatment towards her. People would always think of her eating even the plates. The kitchen is her supposed hideout. But no matter how huge she may be her heart is still frail. Insensitive fire-breathing individuals always break it. Size does not always equal strength for her pounds do not make her heart tough. She is Betsy – the fat girl you laugh at because she’s as big as the earth. She is Betsy – the big girl who had just lost the faith to herself because you made her feel so. She is bullied. And this column is hers.

He would hear them shouting he’s a child born out of soot. With a pair of ruined rubber shoes, patched faded pants, and literally holed pockets – he is so rich with people’s judgmental, swearing words. He is being looked-down by people he looks up. If poverty was a crime, he surely is behind the bars now. Loloy is being considered an outcast because he was never born with a silver spoon on his mouth. He’s impoverished and he never denies that. Being financially poor is never a sin. A poor treatment to them is. He is being looked down because he works to just finance his studies. But he never is ashamed of that. Being a working student does not make one less than being a human. And he may never had lived in a castle, but what’s inside his heart is much precious than the thousand bars of gold. He believes that no one is in higher position than anyone. After all, every one of us was born naked. That, at least, makes us all equal. He is Loloy – the boy you laughed at for having an empty pocket. He is the boy who had just lost the faith to himself because you made him feel so. He is bullied. And this column is his.

James, Betsy and Loloy have their pieces of their own stories. Sadly, we choose to cover our ears and give them not the chance of being heard, seen or felt. Our prejudices dictate they are not part of this world. And yes they are, because we let them be. People tend to just look out the garish panorama inside the rotten exterior. We are too blind to see and too numb to feel them. Everyone has his own imperfections. Our narrow minds fail to understand these.

Until when are we going to deem them as the “unfortunate” ones? When are we going to stop bullying them?

That girl you laughed at because of his mispronunciations and grammatical mistakes also try her best to be understood. That man you badly stare because of his cut legs had long struggle to walk and continue his life’s journey. That black-skinned gal with curly hair is also finding the beauty within her. The mute has something to say. Those frustrated musicians you wish you’d thrown with rotten tomatoes still have the rights to sing their hearts out. She can still write even when she lost an arm. He can still paint using his mouth. The cowardice is a soldier of his own battle. The gays are not aliens. The toothless brings the sweetest smiles. You call him stupid but he’s never an idiot. She’s just a banana cue vendor but she deserves respect. Too skinny individuals suffer from illnesses we never cared to know. They are unheeded. They’re mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood. And you never have to become Pink just to appreciate them and know they’re fucking perfect. They are all bullied. And this column is theirs.

We do not have the rights to judge them, they are not books. And Melanie Marquez may never have the eloquence and may have broken the grammatical rules. But she still made a message cross, I believe we all understand.

I have started writing this column on a starless night – when it rained cats and dogs. I started writing this with much hopes of being understood. And prayed the readers would learn a lot from this. I end this now, on a sunny morning with the same prayers and hopes. I wish that somehow through this, the clouds insides the people’s minds and the rain from the eyes of those who own this column would prevail no more. I hope to see them smiling, respected and understood even when the sun decides to set to the west.

For this column is never mine. And like the bullied individuals, this column wishes to be heard.

***

Note: This article was first published on my column “Sighed Views” @ the first semester issue of the Mindanao Varsitarian, A.Y. 2011-12.

Empty

I want to write something.Something new. Something not about you.

Patak

(Nang hapong iniwan mo ako sa gitna ng ulan…)

 

Nilabong muli ng mumunting butil ng tubig

ang matagal nang malabong paningin

Katulad nang dinulot ng pag-ibig

na bumulag sa damdamin

 

Pinigil  ang pagtulo ng luha

Habang patuloy pang nilalakbay

ang daang pinangarap lakbayin

Nang may kahawak ang kamay

 

Ngunit di kayang ikubli ng ulan

Dinaramang kalungkutan

Tulad nang nalantang dahon,

ang puno’y binitawan

 

Kailangan ko’y hindi payong

Upang ako’y may masilungan

Hiling ko sana’y mapunan

Ang puwang na sa puso’y naiwan

 

Patuloy pang pumatak ang ulan

Damdami’y patuloy pa ring nasasaktan

Kung kaya lang sanang burahin ng ulan

Pag-ibig na sa iyo’y nakalaan

 

Sana sa susunod na umiyak ang langit,

ay sumikat na ang araw sa dibdib

Sana’y di na madama ang sakit

Nang pag-ibig na di kayang maipabatid.

 

*piraso ng katotohanan,

dulot ng patak ng ulan.

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Demise

He sat there trembling. He held a pen. And his hands were shaking.

He stared at the blank piece of paper. He couldn’t start a word. He remained clueless for a minute. Then the words abruptly sank through his mind. He was then certain what was happening – the start of an end.

He wrote without pausing. Emotions.Thoughts.Pains.

He wrote the last letter of his life.

He wrote for her – the girl he had secretly loved for years now. The primordial source of his every depression, she broke his heart without her knowing.

He wrote for them – the folks who had brought him up to this messy world. They love him but he feels strangled. He loves them and this he had long struggled to prove.

He wrote for himself – the weary ego who couldn’t seem to understand things too clear. The questions are still hanging. So he wished he is.

He folded the paper and left it to the desk, leaving things unclear and unanswered.

The gallows are waiting, he thought. He climbed up the stool. He stood still. The rope hung.

He placed his head inside the knot. He cried.

He thought of her. Her smiles were in a sudden flashback. He cried with phantasmagoria of her.

He thought of them. Their dreams of a better son shall remain a dream. I want to breathe, he uttered. I want freedom. I want to leave.

He thought of the laughter. He thought how his best friends would cry. He grinned while tears ran down his cheeks. He thought of the memories.

They love you, a voice within him argued.

I know. They’ll understandd. He answered.

He stood still on the stool. And prayed, forgive me.
He cried. He sobbed.

And in that last second of his life, he kicked the stool.

The questions hung. Also he.

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