Hinggil sa malayang kalikasan ng mga bagay

by Ewong Martines

                                               Grabedad:
                         Kung paano lalong bumibigat
                                                                      Sa tuwing ito’y ating dinadalumat.
          Ang tánging tumatangis: isang gripo,
                                                                      Ngunit ang panaghoy, dinig sa buong bahay.
                                  Mainam na namumuhay: 
                                                                      Isang segundo,
Na lalamunin lang, lagi’t walang-humpay,
                                                                      Ng hayok na bibig ng orbito ng daigdig, 
 Wari’y sinusubukang bigyang-kahulugan 
                                                                      Yaong tinawag na walang hanggan. Ito ang katuturan
          Ng oras, wika mo: sa ere’y ‘di makita,
                                                                      Ngunit sa puso’y nakikintal:   
                                                        Isang musika.

                                                                     ‘Wag pigilin ang boses mula sa’yong loob,
          Sabi mo: isang munting ibong maya, 
                                                                      Lumalaya mula itlog ng kanyang ina, 
     Humihikab nang tila bukang-liwayway.
                                                                      At kung sakaling labis na ang ingay,
Pawalán na tulad ng lahar na rumaragasá
                                                                      Na siya rin namang lumilikha 
                     Ng magandang tanawi’t aplaya. 
                                                                      Naniwala ako sa’yong pahayag:
                                                        Probabilidad,
                                                                      Ating matalik na kaibigan,
                      Pinakamahusay na imbensyon 
                                                                      Ng Panginoon. Winika mo ito upang ako
         Ay manalig na sa ibabaw nitong koro
                                                                      Mga boses nati’y muling magtatagpo. 

                                                           At sa wakas, 
                                                                      Sa panahong ang isang bagay 
 Ay naging pakay, may dalawang akto 
                                                                      Ng pag-ibig patungong langit:  
                                   Tayo'y nang magkasala,
                                                                      Halina't umawit.

________________________________
*poem is translated from the English original.

Dog Day

by Ewong Martines
for Kat

                           moonlight
                                                                         fell
              a little too early on the back of my hand
                    because
           once more I forgot       to light up  
 the esperma                                           but now mother
                                  is on the verge
of waking
                    and so I must love her again
                    much like she loved me when   
sleeping              our dog speaks
                                                                  in a language that has
                       no word for madness
                                                                or magic
                                                                                   always
                                                                                               I wonder
                                                 how mother
had taught me how to read
                                                                                     letters and words
                                    but not between the lines formed
   by the tip
         of cheap candle
                                   I rubbed last night
on the dark                                      plywood wall
                   of our nipa shack
                                                                                  facing the escayola
of a balding saint with a sheep that looks   
                                                                            like our dog
                              outside
    now howling                                                like a dog 
                                                  I am
    still trying                  to decipher  
                                                                         my own
     handwriting:
the wick                       is between          my teeth
                       the flame                   is on
                                   the gray hair
     of a witch

artwork: "Hot Summer Day" by Gerry Baptist

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

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

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

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.
(translated)

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.

How do I dare me? Let me count the days

(This is not poetry)
but a declaration of

No smoking, no
alcohol, and no
sex for the next
eighty nine days.
And I'm up
for the challenge!

I wish i could say
this sacrifice
is for some great unrequited
love (that'd be too late now)
or the sort; but no, it's not.
It's for something much
more profound.
(But not impossible.)

Just little sacrifices, really
for some little favors. Oh God,
hear me out.

And so,
for the next three
months, chocolates
are not the only

temptation.

Trading Yesterday's "The Beauty and the Tragedy"

Another day, another sunrise
Washing over everything
In its time, love will be mine
The beauty and the tragedy

The Masseuse

by Ewong Martines

each night she yearns for someone
to end the coldness and tremble
of her hands, yet she would never
lament; the words no, not,
and don't have long died

in her throat. in the seedy room
she kisses the frozen breeze,
her tongue licking the dust
and salt of the passing minutes.
her slender nose can only smell

the surrounding darkness: the shy
flood of amber light washing over
this nest and all others occupied
by nocturnal strangers. her feet
barely move, but it is her mind

which wanders in the grocery halls;
there she happily fills her cart
with the most basic goods and
a pack of choco-peanut bars for
her little brother. her lean muscles

are tired, but the half-hour passed
strikes to declare that the man
with cigarette breath and musky
sweat needs more than her hands.
the drone of jeepneys from

what seems worlds away tells
it is time to make love again
without love. the flesh aching,
the spirit strained, and with that
lovely mouth of hers she longs

to cry, if only she could,
that even she needs a hand.