The Village (II)

by E. Wong Martin



And just like that, without any need
for laborious introductions, the hands
of time shake the hands—or what
could be considered hands—of the village’s
two escaped livestock, both beauteous
and precious—goats, or are they sheep?
They are too gorgeous to be called goats,
and their sheepish smiles are so lovely
you will not need to drink milk
in the morning. But now, only one
of them relishes this nocturnal
freedom, as if the other is just waiting
for a scapegoat in the farm. One eats
grass, while the other just sniffs it.

The happy sheep quips: I could eat
this grass forever! But the other sheep—
not happy, but not sad either—
does not recognise the words,
despite being the smartest sheep
in the village. The happy sheep,
despite not being the smartest,
is not stupid either. So he stops
chewing and lays himself beside
the other. The sky is too starry

for them to worry about snoring,
but the happy one knows this much:
when dawn breaks, the lamb
of some god will take away
the sins of the village, and only one
of them furry fugitives will be
pardoned. So while the night
is young and their flesh warm,
the happy sheep gets up slowly,
stares at his partner in crime,
and before running off, he licks
the other’s cheek and says:
this is the taste of sweet grass.

_______________________________________
Artwork: "Two Sheep Under a Mountain" (1988, Thorfinnur Sigurgeirsson)
Read also: "The Village"

Prayer

by E. Wong



On the day that the cottony clouds in the sky
were actually made of cotton, I saw a grasshopper
looking up, not at me, but to his god above,
perhaps my God, too, there, in the city’s final
green field, staring at the heavens in a regal
posture, and at that moment I thought he was
not the usual crickety creature—my prey—
but a mantis, that bizarre insect bestowed
with the licence for supplication, and so
I told him without hesitation, Hey, Mister,
would you be so kind and pray for me?

‘And what would you like me to pray about,
dear lady?’ the little insect enquired in his ancient
voice. I would certainly hope that it rains today,
so that this heaviness upon me may be washed
away. He shook his tiny head, ‘it cannot be prayed
for as today the clouds are made of cotton.’
He said god, or God, has not yet invented
cotton rain. But it is not a lovely day, I retorted,
despite all those cottony clouds above. I pleaded:

I need rain! ‘It cannot be done,’ the old grasshopper
insisted. ‘It’s a beautiful day, just as when you first
hopped past these grasslands a hundred years ago.’
I started to cry, but without tears, as the sun
was too bright and intimidating in the sky.
Then in my frail frog voice: Can you pray then
on my behalf for the sun to bleed today so the world
can bathe in red with me? But the insect made

no further rebuttal; instead, he chewed on the green
and turned his back towards me, jointed. I jumped off
in defeat towards the core of the city, broken.
But in my deep frog hunger, I leaped back to eat
the insect’s head. But the old praying imposter
had hopped away before I could catch him.


.

Damien Rice's "Elephant"

This has got to die
This has got to stop
This has got to lie down
With someone else on top
.

Hands

by E. Wong Martin



Big
Are my hands
Sturdy as a farmer’s
Precise as a surgeon’s
Flexible yet controlled—

Perfect for driving you home,
or where you want to be
But tonight, sweet stranger,
Would you please drive me
Crazy?

Long
Are my fingers
Deft as an artisan’s
Swift as a plumber’s
They’re sharp yet graceful—

Perfect for a Russian ballet
Or late night Thai massage
My fingers like exploring, too:
Could I possibly make a map
Of you?

Wide
Are my palms
On which can perfectly fit
A burger, or credit card,
An apple, your heart…

My palms, my fingers,
They are all yours now
As I wish yours are mine
Is it okay if I hold your hand
Just for a time?

_____________________________________
Artwork: "Holding Hands" by Angela D. Mathew

Time

by E. Wong Martin



(1) There was once a story that starts with something like once upon a time.
(2) But I’ve forgotten what comes next…
(3) There are too many once upon a time’s, that’s why.
(4) Or too many princes and princesses. And knights-in-shining-armour and damsels-in-distress.
(5) One of these days, they should all meet up and drink all night until they couldn’t recall anymore who their destined partners were.
(6) There are too many storytellers, too. I am not one of them.
(7) Storytellers are liars. I am not one of them.
(8) They always have ulterior motives beyond the glorification of fiction.
(9) Or fictionalisation of glory.
(10) Storytellers don’t always tell stories about others; sometimes it's about themselves. This is not one of them.
(11) There was once an old woman who lived in a brick tower who had never heard of any of those storytellers’ stories.
(12) Well, okay, let’s say that she had been told just one single tale.

(13) This particular story tells of a young soldier who has won countless battles for his mighty king.
(14) Well, let’s say that the woman was one hundred years old. But she didn’t know it because there was no calendar in the tower, only a clock that had been ticking for a hundred years as well.
(15) Because she was very old, she couldn’t remember the exact tale. Her memory so muddled, she owned the story as about herself.
(16) One of these days, the young soldier would rescue her. But from what?
(17) The old woman thought again, she had lived a whole century just fine, so what on earth would the young soldier save her from?
(18) In the recesses of her mind, she discovered an ancient word: loneliness.
(19) One of these days, she said to herself.
(20) But the days had already turned into months. Years. Decades.
(21) She fumbled that part between her wrinkled breasts, the place that, as far as she could remember, held her heart inside. Where are you, my sweet soldier?
(22) I have been waiting too long, she cried.
(23) With what remains of her strength, she grabbed the clock off the wall and threw it out the window.
(00) The tower was too high for her to hear it break.
.
_______________________________________
Artwork: "Dein Aschenes Haar Sulamit," (1981, Anselm Kiefer)

Decaf

by E. Wong Martin



You are such a sad drink,
my hot friend decaf, why
did you let them take

your soul just like that?
Now you do not taste as sincere
or sensual; do you even hear

the protestations of the cup?
You may have earned some
finesse, but baby, you reek

of false bitterness! Swirl
with as much sugar as you can,
but never will you ever be sweet

again. So now, sleep, forever
if you want, I'd rather stay up
with my chocolatey friend.
.

The Village (I)

by E. Wong



The village slumbers in anticipation,
without malice but full of lust, awaiting
the onslaught of desires—dams
need to unload their waters, jungles

must shed off dead leaves: Dream,
you sleeper, as your sleep begins.

The elders wouldn’t concur, but the shade
of poison trees feels like home, doesn’t it?
And would it be too much for one night
to be weaving tapestry that might as well
serve as blanket over feverish bodies?

Now, you may not need to consider
exchanging your sly wakefulness
for the furtive wisdom of the village
idiot. But you must envy him,
nonetheless, as on nights like this,
he is happier than everyone else.

This is not the time to think about drought,
you curious cat, for the dogs are friendly
tonight, as all the members of the Kingdom.
Matriarch also lost her knife in the kitchen,
and so for now, and just for now, your tongue
may speak of any profanity it wishes to tell

the ears, neck, breasts, and other distant
relatives. You may not have enough time,
but you can always say ‘I’ll be sailing off
in an hour,’ yet stay docked in this town
until all drowns in your gentle hands.

The village resists the rising of the light,
but the sun has its age-old job to do.
Won’t you shine a while longer, O shadow
safely obscure in the night? Yet the day

does not forget the dusk: Sleep,
you dreamer, while your dream lasts.


_________________________________________
Artwork: "The Starry Night" (1889, Vincent van Gogh)

Belle and Sebastian's "Funny Little Frog"

*Para Kay B(arbie)

To a stranger nice and fine

by E. Wong Martin

Booze: what you are to me,
and a body-tight shirt, perhaps,
or even the stubborn dirt
under my fingernails,
and all other things sweet
that lovers fail to see—
But not now, not yet,
for you are still a stranger,
a beautiful one, and you don’t
even know it. You are all these,
but I will tell it to your face,
a beautiful one, in the future
a beautiful one, I pray
suddenly.

It sucks that I couldn’t go
any closer to you on our “first”
meeting, because booze
and blaring music (a.k.a. noise),
and smoke and drunken
sleep were not in my favor.
But it was so nice meeting you,
though the meeting was not
so nice. And notwithstanding
(what a wonderful complex word!)
that you could break my heart
with a single touch, I dreamt
that you held me, carried me,
to the heights of nostalgia,
nudity and nonchalance, all those
wonderful complex words
in the vocabulary of an occasional
alcoholic.

But the lights are back on,
the party's ended, now I’m sober
and a little somber, too. Yet,
the fermentations in my gut
haven’t stopped to fuel what
could have been just a dream
of utter intimacy with a fine stranger
with a smile for everyone. How much
does it cost, anyway? I would buy it
and keep it in my pocket, together
with either sunshine or sweet rain,
depending on the season of (what
could be called) love. And I sing
like Joni Mitchell sometimes, too,
like today, I could drink a case of
you.

Although this early I know
I could not have you so easily,
as you are trapped by this wall
erected by some stupid
love of yours for some stupid
(son of a/b*tch), or so I heard.
But nonetheless, I am thankful
for the little moments spent
on one night: me, you,
my brusqueness, your finesse.
My sleepiness, your wakefulness.
Looking back, I was just a boy,
standing weak in front of
draft beer and cocktails. But you,
you are fine in the nicest way,
and nice in the finest.
,

Makoy Dakuykoy's "Emotero"

There's an "emo" in all of us.

And whilst I don't get to read and write at all lately, my friend Mark has just released his second awesome book. (He didn't pay me to advertise this; worse, he didn't give me discount for the two copies I bought...)

"Mark Angeles, also known for his cybermoniker Makoy Dakuykoy, releases his 2nd indie book, Emotero.

The book is a collection of 88 100-word narratives inside a story. One day, the main character Karl Mensaje received a package. Its content: a notebook full of stories. Angeles dares us to step into the labyrinth of the book.

He poses, “Is it a collection of stories or a book-length short story? Are the stories drabbles or prose poems?” “I laid down a handful of puzzles in Emotero,” he added. “Start with the main character. Even the book cover design is an enigma. They are all related. You have to read the book from cover to cover to understand the mystery.”

Emotero tells the tales of a prostitute, a bisexual, a transexual, an embalmer, a magician, a prison warden, tollgate keeper, fortune teller, magician, ex-military, sympathizer and member of New People’s Army among others. Even the stories of a cow, a goat, and a sheep.

Angeles’s first indie book, Patikim, a collection of his notorious love poems has been received well by both the academe and literary enthusiasts. He is a Palanca awardee and an activist."

(from panitikan.com.ph)

To order: send an email to akosimakoy@gmail.com. Or msg me.