Thursday, February 25, 2010

Mama Gina's last night in Cubao

by Ewong Martines
            life begins     at 40,      they say
but Mama Gina says
fuck, I am too fucking old.
each year passed, on her skin
like weeds bloom these lines
too intricate to reveal some
fucking fortune. like her
her patrons aged but not
their appetites, and so Mama Gina
barely spend the nights with cash
in her hand or cock in her mouth. her joints
have started aching and shame
began crawling down her face
long immune to tears,
and so, tonight, and not in any other fucking night,
Mama Gina decides to retire.

with a dark homely man she enters
a room like all other rooms in the building
like all other buildings
on this filthy boulevard.
she lets the man consume every inch of her
except her mouth: for women like her
the mouth is for true love: some fucking
love which had not come for her
after all these fornicating years.
she moans and she screams:
Mama Gina mastered all these feigned feelings
of love with a stranger, of hope and happiness.
o how she perspires, but bleed she doesn’t,
for blood and herself had long
been estranged. the man hands her few bills:
no tip, no card, no hope, no happiness.
moments like this she feels
most lonely, but she’s too tired, too old now
to lament or understand.
then, as in those many years,
she goes to pee profusely:
it is, for all those years,
the weeping of her body.

a front cover of a Madame Bovary Penguin edition

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Damien Rice's "9 Crimes"

Leave me out with the waste
This is not what I do
It's the wrong kind of place
To be cheating on you

Monday, February 22, 2010

The Butterfly

by Ewong Martines

My father once told a story that had passed on from his father’s father and all the fathers before him: on the mystery of butterflies. According to him, butterflies don’t die natural deaths. Unless we crush them, or spray on them, or, God forbid, eat them, forever they will fly in the garden of melancholy.

The butterfly, he said, whispers its secrets to the flowers that never listen. It cuddles and caresses them, extolling their scents. But the stamens and pistils, he continued, are lovers who don’t believe the stories of a vagrant rainbow.

So the butterfly flutters away to other flowers that are heedless still. And forgetful. It wanders in the woods, in the rice fields, in the riverbanks, into the oblivious sky, until it reaches where the sun and sea kiss. By then, the butterfly is worn-out, but still beautiful.

And now that I’m flying away, the age-old secrets that I bear are too wonderful to declare.

*artwork by Tatiana Zank

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Version de chanson de "Lettre de George Sand à Alfred de Musset" par Céline Dion

There is this feeling that lingers...
so good, so pure and so soft.
For which I shall never feel the need to end.


Friday, February 12, 2010

Ang maikling kasaysayan ni Juan Chokolate: I

by Ewong Martines

"I (o, ang simula ay ang katapusan)"

Sa bawat pakikipagtalik na pinaigting
ng pinaghalong pawis at likidong katamisan,
panagimpan ni Juan Chokolate ang pagtakas
nila ni Maya.

Ang tansong tandang kanyang titiraduhin
bago pa man humudyat-awit upang sila’y pigilan.
Maligaya nilang tatahakin ang daan papalayo
sa Kasa Oskura.

Sa binabangungot nilang bayan. Maya-maya’y
tanaw na nila ang mga gusaling sumasayaw,
matatayog, at humahalik
sa kalangitan.

Manghang-mangha sa kakaibang mundo
ng libu-libong nagliliparang landas, sasakyan
at katauhan. Magkahawak-kamay,
sila’y magtatakbuhan.

Kahit sa panaginip lang, magkasama nilang
bubuuin ang kaluluwang nilusaw ng mga
hayok sa laman.

Nakatirik ang araw nang matamo nila
kanilang kalayaan.