Sinusuyo ng mga luntiang
dahong palay

ang kabagutan na hatid
ng sariling layunin

na maaliw nila ang nagnanais
sa kanilang mga butil.

Sila’y umaalinsunod sa awit
ng mapangharot na hangin, habang

ang mamang may mga matang
mapagpasensiya’y palinga-linga

na para bang hinahanap sa kahabaan
ng oras na pumipitik sa katahimikan

ang ulan na gigising
sa nakakwadradong nitong pangarap.

Ah, para itong isang pintor
walang sawang minamasid

ang sariling talambuhay
na ipininta sa lona ng pag-iisa!

Muli kong naramdamang ako ay
ako sa aking bolpen at papel,
at ang katauhan ko’y muling nagbukang liwayway
na may bangong kasinghalimuyak ng isang maharlikang
bulaklak na namumukadkad.

Natuto akong tumawa
sa aking kalayaan ng may panibagong kagalakan,
at natuto rin akong umiyak ng mga taludtod
na pang Maalala Mo Kaya.

Kailan ko lang napagtanto
nang napakabangong wikang dumadaloy sa aking ugat
ay ipinunla sa aking kaibuturan ng aking mga ninuno
na umanib sa kaluluwa ng kapaligiran, upang sa akin ito’y yumakap
at ako’y igabay sa aking pagbabaybay
sa lupamg hinirang.

Hmm, kaysarap damhin
ang aking wika
at nakakabighaning dinggin
ang bawat pantig nito na sumasabay sa kislot
ng aking nangangayayat na puso.

Sarili’y aking tinanong,
saan nga bang mundo dumapo ang aking anino
at itong sariling kayamanan ay
di ko pansin noon?

Ah, maaaring ako lang ay naging
mapanibughong mangmang na nagnanais
na maangkin ang hindi sa akin,
at maaari nga sa tinagal
tagal ng panahon ako’y nalulong sa kislap

…ng pagiging isang expat.

Narinig ko
inaaliw

ng isang tulang may landi
ang nabalisawsaw kong utak
para sa gayon daw eh,
ako ay muling umusbong

na parang tag-sibol.

Dismaya ang malimit
kong makita
(Kailan kaya ito titigil sa kabubuntot sa akin?)
kahit saan ko man ibaling
itong anino kong takot

sa kaharasan ng araw.

Damang-dama ko
kung ano ang damdamin
ng isang naghihinayang
nang aking ibasura sa kalawakan

itong mapaglikhang ako.

Kaya ngayon, di na ako
nag-atubiling sundin ang pangungusap ng aking dismaya
na “Life’s not over, move on!”
at maging parang isang

tulang
may landi.

© 2011 Ernesto P. Santiago

pages of my life-
the great concoction of love
in 69 acts

there were
words

painting images
at the back of my head
and everyday

I plucked them out
to share, yet
I couldn’t find you

neither your shadow
that I departed for the desert
and took refuge

in the shivers
of my sandals

My dream, I live it
in a paper
coated with crème caramel.

I frolic in words
of my shadow
with the seas, the skies and the lands
and tread the dunes
of time, touching all the things around me;
then settle down over a midnight coffee
in the silence of night.

Oh, I do attend the Sunday mass
but don’t know why I always find myself
skipping the communion–
perhaps, to end the raging war
‘tween the “I” and “Me” in my thoughts
for them not to walk alone.

*shortlisted, The Asian Writer New Writing Competition 2009

I am not sure, if
Neruda did ask the birds
how to fly and curbed the sky
with his tutored hands,
so poetic like swallows.
This, true or not– still, I’d thought
for years about it –
doing the same, oh asking
the birds how to fly, for me
to conquer the sky!
And I did, but my wings were
being pinned down by prowlers
and they keeled my strength
with nicotine of lust that
I, skipper of communion,
became like a dust
that never moves from its place,
unless the cold wind blows it.
I found no glory
and triumph seeing myself
in the vicious pangs of such
harsh reality,
but in my dreams within dreams
I oft lay my bare body
on the bed of trust,
listening to the music
of my gaped fingers, as I
wait for you, dear God,
to come out from the tip of
my pen, to dance with my soul.

* XXV PREMIO INTERNAZIONALE DI POESIA NOSSIDE 2009 MENZIONATI

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You watched me closely
when I took my steps, compelled
by train of thoughts, eagerness
and will, taking this
maiden trip, alone, to school.
Your smile, an epitome of
elegance under
pressure, leading my way and
I adored you, not for your
warm, glancing touches
you have etched on my forehead,
but for hosting me in your
rose womb, where each bead
of your sweat molded my breath,
making me perceive birthing
is a painful task
of women; in the old town
of my dad, thanking is art.