Completely went over my head to share this here: Our chapbook, released last January. In a week's time, we will officially no longer be "The Silliman fellows." God, what a wonderful two weeks those were. I truly have nothing but happy memories of my time there. Here's the link to our batch's chapbook, via the Silliman University website:
http://su.edu.ph/academics/national-writers-workshop/.
About the title: During one of the sessions, J. Neil Garcia, ever the verbose diva (am saying this of course with much love), said, "This is so germane!" And 'round the room, you could feel eyes widen with amusement and almost hear laughs being stifled. There's your story.
And another thing: Yes, I was a fellow for fiction, so it was really great for me to have these two poems below critiqued by Krip Yuson during one of the one-on-one mentoring sessions. My comeback to poetry, as it were.
* * * * *
Nine
Nine meant bedtime,
but we were stuck to the screen,
as the second plane struck
steel and metal skeleton, and glass
and paper and misplaced lipstick
rained on cabs and clueless tourists.
The same clips in every channel:
paused, rewound, zoomed,
father chiming in, mother silent
beside me on the couch, her stitching
idle on the parquet. No flipping over
to cartoons, or racy music videos
my cousins shared in secret,
or animals photographed from safari trucks.
The next day bore the smell
of new memory, a shift in language and gait,
the image imprinted on every front page:
a pair of smoking towers, a burst of flame,
the shadow of a man suspended midair.
Father could be the man:
afternoon coffee, a beard, no religion,
a heart attack in nine years.
Or me: too young and feebleminded
to understand coffee or religion,
but smart enough to know
I'd break his heart in nine years,
bedtime with a nameless lover,
broke, unphotographed.
The next evening I slept soundly,
while my parents took their places
on the couch, reporters blaring
from the idle screen. The next evening,
they told me to join them;
the next evening, there was only the sound
of my growing hunger for photographs
thrust between size-nine text.
* * * * *
Wolves
"Here is the Ossorio that fascinated me most... his vanity ego, his 'Catolico Cerrado' guilt over his sexual preference, his desire to break free of his past and prevailing artistic convention... In his memoir of the Victorias period, Ossorio makes mention of young male assistants who helped him paint the ['Angry Christ'] mural."
--Floy Quintos on painter Alfonso Ossorio.
He believes there are wolves
in the woods of Victorias, howling
dissonant melodies late at night.
I tell him, there are no wolves
this side of the world, only lovers
flinching at the slightest creak of the door,
hands ready to pretend they are tired
from washing dishes all day.
Gazing at the outline of his lips,
the slight dip down his delicate nose,
I tell him, go back to sleep, go back
to dreams. His hands are cold
against mine, skin rubbing against skin,
musk mixing in the dark. I tell him,
tomorrow you will finish those hands
tired from days of shaping mountains,
sky, pasture, the perfect arc of man's rib.
Tomorrow, a kiss so quiet, a twirl
of dancing tongues, a song
of words long forgotten.
http://su.edu.ph/academics/national-writers-workshop/.
About the title: During one of the sessions, J. Neil Garcia, ever the verbose diva (am saying this of course with much love), said, "This is so germane!" And 'round the room, you could feel eyes widen with amusement and almost hear laughs being stifled. There's your story.
And another thing: Yes, I was a fellow for fiction, so it was really great for me to have these two poems below critiqued by Krip Yuson during one of the one-on-one mentoring sessions. My comeback to poetry, as it were.
* * * * *
Nine
Nine meant bedtime,
but we were stuck to the screen,
as the second plane struck
steel and metal skeleton, and glass
and paper and misplaced lipstick
rained on cabs and clueless tourists.
The same clips in every channel:
paused, rewound, zoomed,
father chiming in, mother silent
beside me on the couch, her stitching
idle on the parquet. No flipping over
to cartoons, or racy music videos
my cousins shared in secret,
or animals photographed from safari trucks.
The next day bore the smell
of new memory, a shift in language and gait,
the image imprinted on every front page:
a pair of smoking towers, a burst of flame,
the shadow of a man suspended midair.
Father could be the man:
afternoon coffee, a beard, no religion,
a heart attack in nine years.
Or me: too young and feebleminded
to understand coffee or religion,
but smart enough to know
I'd break his heart in nine years,
bedtime with a nameless lover,
broke, unphotographed.
The next evening I slept soundly,
while my parents took their places
on the couch, reporters blaring
from the idle screen. The next evening,
they told me to join them;
the next evening, there was only the sound
of my growing hunger for photographs
thrust between size-nine text.
* * * * *
Wolves
"Here is the Ossorio that fascinated me most... his vanity ego, his 'Catolico Cerrado' guilt over his sexual preference, his desire to break free of his past and prevailing artistic convention... In his memoir of the Victorias period, Ossorio makes mention of young male assistants who helped him paint the ['Angry Christ'] mural."
--Floy Quintos on painter Alfonso Ossorio.
He believes there are wolves
in the woods of Victorias, howling
dissonant melodies late at night.
I tell him, there are no wolves
this side of the world, only lovers
flinching at the slightest creak of the door,
hands ready to pretend they are tired
from washing dishes all day.
Gazing at the outline of his lips,
the slight dip down his delicate nose,
I tell him, go back to sleep, go back
to dreams. His hands are cold
against mine, skin rubbing against skin,
musk mixing in the dark. I tell him,
tomorrow you will finish those hands
tired from days of shaping mountains,
sky, pasture, the perfect arc of man's rib.
Tomorrow, a kiss so quiet, a twirl
of dancing tongues, a song
of words long forgotten.
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