WELCOME TO PINOYPOETS!!!

ABOUT MR. ZALDY DANDAN

Mr. ZD is 37 and studied Broadcast Journalism. From 1990 to 1993, he wrote and edited for the Philippine Daily Globe and the Manila Standard. Before working abroad, he was a contributing writer of the Manila Times. In the Northern Marianas, he was managing editor of the Marianas Observer and later, editor-in-chief of the Marianas Variety. He now works for a consulting services company in the Northern Marianas. He was a fellow in the 1996 U.P. National Writers Workshop in Baguio, and in the 1998 Dumaguete National Writers Workshop. In 1996, he won first prize in the Panorama Literary Contest, and received an honorable mention in the Free Press Literary Competition. In the Northern Marianas, the Society of Professional Journalists awarded him first prize for Best Editorial Writing in 1995. In 2001, he was the recipient of the Northern Marianas Governor’s Humanities Award for Outstanding Contributions to Journalism and Media.

He is also currently one of the consultants of Pinoypoets.

PRESENTING THE ZDANDAN'S CHOICE BEST POEMS FOR 2004

A Lover's Pause by Marie Bismonte
Memento Mori ni ideasoup
Memory of the Unborn by confessional25

A LOVER'S PAUSE by Marie Bismonte

ZDandan's Choice Best Poem for 2004
Pinoypoets ZDandan's Choice First Place
August 2004 Batch I


i watch him cook
blonde down to his ears
in leather jacket & Levi’s jeans
too tall, small kitchen
one bulb glows
no heat

pasta boils
& obscures his face
a cigarette flicks
ashes fall, smoke rises
darkness burns

dinner
few words, long pauses
a piece of baguette
& Cheap Bordeaux
washes down the lump
night crammed by
quiet rain

my eyes savor him
a forkful of pasta
white sauce on red lips
a strand cuts across his face
let me remove the hair
palmed on your cheeks
& brush against the softness
one last time

(Paris c. 1995)

MEMENTO MORI ni ideasoup

ZDandan's Choice Best Poem for 2004
Pinoypoets ZDandan's Choice First Place
September 2004 Batch I




Lamay para sa araw na lumipas.
Paglubog ng araw ay inililimos
Ng abuloy ng mga paslit.
Na tusong ikinukulong ang liwanag
Sa mga nilikhang hugis sa buhangin.
Heto ang isang bulaklak, at heto naman,
Isang puso. Narito naman, isang kastilyo.
Sa agaw-dilim, mistulang sementeryo
Ang tabing dagat. Sumasayaw
Ang mga anino sa kanilang mga puntod
Na inukit sa buhangin.
At kapag laganap na ang gabi,
Bababa na ang luksa. Maaanod ang mga hugis
Pag-ahon ng dagat sa dalampasigan.
--sinulat isang dapit-hapon, sa Boracay, habang pinapanood
ang mga batang gumagawa ng "sand castles"

MEMORY OF THE UNBORN by confessional25

ZDandan's Choice Best Poem for 2004
Pinoypoets ZDandan's Choice First Place
August 2004 Batch II


Mother has given you
The memory of the unborn.
With her stories so intimate
You could imagine yourself
In the same bed.
You looked through her eyes,
Felt with her skin,
Used her fingers to surf
The imagined contours
Of her lover's form.

She conceived you in the womb
You vividly remember
From her stories.
You had grown too close to its darkness
That you could have embraced it
Long before you knew fondness.

Birth is not all pain and flesh.



You keep the memory of the unborn,
Make love under the same soft lights
As if you slept with men before.
You learned your lover's erogenous zones
Even before you knew lust –
A smile like wetness
Escaping from your lips
Imagining the first time
Mother had painted on the walls
Of your awakening.

In each encounter, you dream
Of stillborn babies.
Stillbirth after stillbirth –
Premonition of a hundred children
Deprived of all remembrance --

The only gift you can share
To some soul who could have been here
While you make love, yet make nothing.
Not even yourself –
Listening through your ears,
Tasting the saltiness of skin
With your tongue.
You wait, but never find signs of life
In a womb to which you had grown close.

Do you know the meaning of your birth?
Two persons have sinned
And you are their sole forgiveness.

PRESENTING THE WINNERS OF ZDANDAN'S CHOICE for November 2004 Batch II

First Place:

Paper Cut, Iris Bantegui
Grayscale, Mao dela Cruz

2) Lady in an Imaginary Painting, alexbarriosagena
3) Wanderlust, Iris Bantegui

PAPER CUT by Iris Bantegui

ZDandan's Choice First Place
November 2004 Batch II


We don't have to talk.
But you know I would waste the words on you,
writing you poems
about water, flight or distances
even when it was never spoken
in the circles you move in.

I imagine you would sit there
with your affair with paper
making them into boats, cranes or planes
adding creases
where the lines should be
turning them over
making the corners meet
folding it inward, outward
following the patterns we have learned
weighing it down with your thumb
carefully avoiding the sharp edges.

You angle your face
and return the same blank stare of a clean sheet
knowing that
all the meaning would travel to you
as soon as we both decide to settle our hands
and touch.

I'm probably way off here, but I read this poem as a mother's declaration of love for an autistic child. At any rate, this work's beauty and power are in its clean and delicate lines, particularly in the second stanza. The third stanza is amazing in its precision, understated emotion and simplicity: "You angle your face/ and return the same blank stare of a clean sheet/ knowing that/all the meaning would travel to you/ as soon as we both decide to settle our hands/ and touch." Bravo!

GRAYSCALE by Mao dela Cruz

ZDandan's Choice First Place
November 2004 Batch II


Lately,
you told me,
everything has been
blending into gray,
the pages where
you waged
your private wars,
the face you once
caught a glimpse of
and committed to memory,
the secrets you heard
in whispers
but never really knew.

Maybe that afternoon was also gray.
Maybe the placards and the
workers shouts
had all blended into
one pale oblivion.
They were all
talking about you
in the same dim shade
of scattered ashes
in which you wrote
everyday,
in which you lived
a half-starved life
trying to see beyond
the big gray blur
in the center of your
bathroom mirror.

I guess those pills
must also have been gray.
You tipped them out
of their small
gray bottle,
dubious angels
of salvation
from a foggy
heaven.

And it was as close to bliss
as gray could be,
as close to peace
as five-foot-one
could get while
trying to reach for eternity.

You found
your frustration
condensed in
a single speck of dust,
fleshed out
in muted tones,
some you could not
recognize.
Suddenly
your vision
seemed clearer.

Grayscale
was not as dark.
You wished
you could live out
your life in
monochrome
if that is what
you chose.
You would have
said no more,
had the world
not lived on
in flashy brights.

You would have
surrendered,
if not for the dancing
colors outside
your prism-window,
dazzling and
blinding your
failing eyes,
irresistible to senses
dulled by
so many shades
of light.

The first stanza immediately draws you into the poet's gray world. This is a more than competent poem. Clear and clean lines, superb imagery and language: "Maybe the placards and the/ workers' shouts/ had all blended into/ one pale oblivion./ They were all/ talking about you/ in the same dim shade/ of scattered ashes/ in which you wrote/ everyday,/ in which you liveda half-starved life/ trying to see beyond/ the big gray blur/ in the center of your bathroom mirror." "those pills…/ dubious angels/ of salvation/ from a foggy/ heaven." Galing!

LADY IN AN IMAGINARY PAINTING by alexbarriosagena

November 2004 Batch II


The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend.
-Henri Bergson


I. See Less, Knowing Less

Ah, the lures of you—
Red, cinnabar, the lips,
The necessity of kitsch.

We, who are dead-hungry
____ Scramble for scraps, snapshots
Of poses, spotlights in the dark,

Everlastings that make us spark,
____ (Re)iteration of your silly knots
We figure in your tapestry.

The necessity of kitsch.
Red, cinnabar, the lips.
Ah, the lures of you—

II. The Movement

Tentative, these dippings you have made,
As if curtsying gestures scooping, depth
In your wavering hands, a pretty fiasco.

Such trust or submission, when the slope
Down your spine feigns tension, the hurried
Thrusts of the master mimicking modesty.

As though in a dance, you seemed pleased
Enough to contort that face into a smile,
Looking nowhere and pleading nothing.

III. Wooing a Wall

What is to be ravaged but to simper, this stance
That negates loosening, supine on the brink of giving away
The whole of civility to defilement, to boundaries crossed

By a mere whimper, already thrown in the uncanny that can’t be
captured, the instance of shrieks and cries, the hysterics given away
To dances, fragments of order in water, in wetness, the risks stronger,

As to dissipate behind the oil and canvas? You are not too porous
If they think you will mix loosely with what art ruins. You gave away
What beasts hunger for, all that you are, everything to be devoured.

Because I am fearsome you decide to contain me forever.

You, the unfailing moisture, must reason out with canvasses, must be
Squared in dry signs, portrayal in arid dimensions, cutting seams
And peripheries its drippings so that you would not fail, not wail high

To your divinities already devolved in token. If you have loved, it was the idea
Of you canvassed in being you, tamed away from Artemis, cut at the seams
Of wilderness, and by having you done in a pose as thus, you attested “freedom”.

Such a noble cause you thought by volunteering, made peace with the expanse
Of your time, the cramped space of your gestures and garments, cut seams
Bounded to pliancy— you do not throw the towel in lest you be ripped.


The act of taking me took an instance. You’re very wrong.


Subtle movements of brushes like tongues, did it tickle you? Did you see folds
As you stare inside and enjoy leakages, the seeming buoyancy of vision like oil
In the vast ocean of commands, stay puts, chin ups, and continual perfects?

Didn’t you want to run and scoop the sky, or chase the artist with shrieks and cries
Or dabble with easels yourself, engage in strokes, wheedle him with visions of oil
Dripping freely in your feet, perhaps drown him, or threaten him with mad colors?

You had your reasons. Living forever but living it hard, the deep thrusts of eyes
Impregnating your copies, held in larger pretenses, traded in vision and oils
In other canvasses, for what? For posterity’s sake, for god’s sake, but not yours.


Posing for posterity isn’t pointless. Now I possess you.

I admire the sheer energy of language in this furiously amorous poem: "You, the unfailing moisture, must reason out with canvasses, must be/ Squared in dry signs, portrayal in arid dimensions, cutting seams/ And peripheries its drippings so that you would not fail, not wail high/ To your divinities already devolved in token. If you have loved, it was the idea/ Of you canvassed in being you, tamed away from Artemis, cut at the seams/Of wilderness, and by having you done in a pose as thus, you attested `freedom.' " There are lines, however, whose meaning got lost in the vortex of confused and confusing imagery: "cutting seams/ And peripheries its drippings so that you would not fail"; "…your divinities already devolved in token"; "What is to be ravaged but to simper, this stance/ That negates loosening…." After praising and scolding this lady in an imaginary painting, the poet then tells her that all is well: "Now I possess you." We could better appreciate the audacity of this assertion if we remind ourselves that this lady, according to the title, exists only in a non-existent painting!

WANDERLUST by Iris Bantegui

November 2004 Batch II


There is no nostalgia for you.

Like the grass, my outreached palm attempts to touch
the ridges of your face and trace remnants of another’s hand
which has asked you to stay.

Your eyes have traveled distances in the dark
while your fingers graph the landscapes of curves
and sunk into the swollen wells
of a hundred secret spices
which you lick up.

Like a dog you mark tamed territory.
As you collect names for those
who have broken against your shores
constantly like waves
struggling to slowly eat you away
with only memories of salt to take
for looking back.

My hand pulls back hiding the paths on my palm
knowing that one can not quench the thirst of a nomad
when he is never home and will always be

lost
and leaving.

Excellent choice of title. The object of desire will not hold still to be desired, but desires only to keep moving on. I wonder though if the poet intended the ironic tone set by the first line. "There is no nostalgia for you," the poet announces before proceeding to describe his nostalgia in the succeeding lines. The beloved is a mountain range, a nomad, a dog, a coastline. He is always "lost and leaving," which is pretty. And so is this: "…you collect names for those/ who have broken against your shores/ constantly like waves/ struggling to slowly eat you away/ with only memories of salt to take/ for looking back."

PRESENTING THE WINNERS OF ZDANDAN'S CHOICE for November 2004 Batch I

First Place:

Thirty, confessional25
Sagot ng Batis sa Alay ng Bato, akoaygoth
Spaces, Marie Bismonte

2)
Unang Buhos, kathline
A Home Remembered, Marie Bismonte

3)
Pagpupugay, johntorralba
Ant - risngphoenix

4) I, Woman, Lover, Gracia Perdiguerra

5) Pisbols, krisberse

THIRTY by confessional25

ZDandan's Choice First Place
November 2004 Batch I


What is wrong in saying,
"for someone who grew up
in the farm, you speak well?"

When I'm told,
"you look younger for your age;"
sounding more like,
"you are stupid to be 30."
Let's not argue about this
on a November night.

For a man whose birth
almost didn't come that year,
falling a few weeks
before Christmas,
this season can be
twice as cold.

Fireworks, wired stars,
are dimmed by these thoughts:
What if I let you
pull my arms back
in the grove—
one walking out,
one just coming in?

Would you have
handed me your friendship
wrapped in leaves,
stopped me from ageing,
allowed me to hold your hands
shaped for rooting humility?

For a man who is turning 30,
brown and single,
unversed with the backlashes of love—
all that can be learned is
this journey called remembrance.

Singleness is
an un-mailed letter of excuse
for not ageing wiser,
just confused—
the city roads not made
for strolling.

I awaken every night
from a bad December dream,
shouting to myself,
"you have come back,
you have come back!"

But the doors
tell me you have not:
except you are like
a nightmare of hands
on my arms, pulling me back,
rooting me from the edge of December—
my birth almost not coming,
the grass-scented wind blowing.

This is a first-rate poem. An approaching birthday usually triggers our fear of getting older. For the poet, however, the occasion is also tied in with Christmas, which is about birth AND the approaching end of another year. The first two stanzas are very clever, and the third segues smoothly into the poet's revelation: that his own birth almost never happened, "snarled somewhere, a few weeks/ before Christmas." ("Snarled" with its multi-layered connotations is an excellent word choice.) Worse, and this is the poet's main beef, his birthday and the holiday season itself remind him of unrequited desire: "Fireworks, wired stars,/ are dimmed by these thoughts:/ what if I let you/ pull my arm back/ in the grove, our grove—/ one walking out,/ one just coming in?" And this imagery is brilliant in its simplicity and profundity: "…your hands…/ shaped for rooting humility,/ the simple." The poet is turning a year older, still nursing "remembrance" which he compares to a journey that leads him to "a nightmare of hands/ on my arms, pulling me back/ from the edge of December." A nightmare of hands! This blew me away. Now anyone can say that he would rather be unborn than not to be with the one he loves, but only an exceptional poet can do so in a poem as outstanding as "Thirty." Incidentally, "30" in publishing lingo indicates the end of a story or an article.

SAGOT NG BATIS SA ALAY NG BATO ni akoaygoth

ZDandan's Choice First Place
November 2004 Batch I


Nangahas ang batong
ibigay ang buwan sa batis
ngunit ang sabi ng kasintahan,
ang hawiin mo ako
ng iyong prinsipyo
ay sapat na.

Reading this poem reminds me of that look in the face of Bart Simpson after his sister Lisa asked him this famous Zen-type question: "If a tree falls in a forest and no one is near to hear it, does it make a sound?" I was floored. The audacity of the first two lines is breathtakingly impressive. And what follows is even more incredible: "ang hawiin mo ako/ ng iyong prinsipyo/ ay sapat na." The irresistible force praising the immovable object. Only a gifted poet can imagine a rock as the brook's lover. This poem is short, sweet, stunning. Bravo!

SPACES by Marie Bismonte

ZDandan's Choice First Place
November 2004 Batch I


i.

it is 6pm. i get on the bangkok bus at the soi behind
the guesthouse. alone. DMB's "the space between" is
on continuous play in my ears, then it rolls like a
projector in my mind -- the melody, the words, the
memories. i say a few farewells to the place. my
heart falls asleep to the lullaby of things
remembered, then lost. it's as if i am scared to
leave and more afraid to go back. i don't know where
i am. find me again. the end keeps playing until
there is no more but deliverance.

ii.

he shows up to meet her at the river cafe. a dance.
he says hi. she looks up, surprised. he stands
waiting. she waits too. both inching closer to
meet-halfway, they compromise. in the particular
space where anonymity is quickly losing face, they sit
together. the only narrative served is silence and
kiss, an anticipation.



iii.

we look so thoughtfully at the rodin sculpture. the
kiss. bodies interwined in a passionate lock. tell
me the story of paolo and francesca again, i ask. he
takes my hand and says nothing. we walk out of the
museum towards montparnasse. our footsteps follow a
light trail where the morning rain trickled. in the
crevices of the cobblestones, i hide my apprehension.
you are quiet, he says. we walk over to Le Jardin du
Luxembourg, then to Le Quartier Latin. we stop at St.
Michel to get our baguette sandwiches. let's walk
over to gare montparnasse and find out when your train
is leaving tonight, i suggest. he looks away saying,
we have plenty of time. i find the distant point
where his gaze rested. no we don't. the clock ticks,
devouring the emptiness of the now. the end ceases.
with the sun breaking the girl, a light bends upon
paolo and francesca.

iv.

we enter shangri-la. i open its gates and offer you
the regression of my age. here, we are absolute.
you. me. now. love is the medium of my art. in
another place parallel to us, sorrow reminds us that
our desire is misplaced. it's wrong. but hearts are
not housed in bodies, we both say as we look out of
the window. outside, the traffic creates a rapid
palpitation called noise. the people are in and out
of office buildings. oakwood is subdued. glorietta
is slowly waking up. we close the drapes.

Full disclosure: I am partial to Dave Matthews Band, and their song mentioned in this poem ("The Space Between") has tip-top lyrics. But even without that reference to DMB this poem carries itself admirably. "…my/ heart falls asleep to the lullaby of things/ remembered, then lost. it's as if i am scared to/ leave and more afraid to go back." Beautiful. The second stanza resonates with the muted yet simmering passion the poet evokes with singular skill: "in the particular/ space where anonymity is quickly losing face, they sit/ together. the only narrative served is silence and/ kiss, an anticipation." Clean and simple. Walang ka-"OA"-yan. I also appreciated the reference to those ill-starred lovers, Paolo and Francesca. They were Dante's contemporaries and their tragic story was included in his "Inferno." And then there are the paintings by William Dyce and Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres. In any case, these sad, delicate lines bowled me over: "he looks away saying,/ we have plenty of time. i find the distant point/ where his gaze rested. no we don't. the clock ticks,/ devouring the emptiness of the now. the end ceases./ with the sun breaking the girl, a light bends upon/ paolo and francesca." Whoa. And there is wisdom in the final stanza: "…in/ another place parallel to us, sorrow reminds us that/ our desire is misplaced. It's wrong. but hearts are/ not housed in bodies, we both say as we look out of/the window." The final four lines are glorious. And now I will stand up to clap my hands.

________
Photo: The Kiss by Auguste Rodin

UNANG BUHOS ni kathline

November 2004 Batch I


hubad
nakatayo
nakayuko't
halos mamaluktot

sa iyong harapan

matagal kang tinititigan
kulang na lang ay dasalan
hindi pa nga nagsisimula
lama'y nanginginig na

ayaw pakawalan ng titig
ang kamay na marahang
bumaba
tangan ang tabong pula
sumalok ng tubig
sa malalim na timba

hinahanda ang sarili

sa rituwal ng pagsuko
sa unang buhos

nanigas ang katawan
sa hagupit ng tubig-yelo
biglang ginaw
sumuot hanggang buto

ang simula ang
siyang katapusan
ng pangamba

This is a wonderful poem, and anyone who has ever tried "showering" with a dipper ("tabo") early in the morning back home where most bathrooms have no hot water will be astonished by how vividly and accurately the poet "re-enacted" in verse this so-Third World experience. The final three lines—so wise, so apt—are a splendid finale to this superb poem.

A HOME REMEMBERED by Marie Bismonte

November 2004 Batch I


maybe i don't know how to
love, my voice ruptures
trailing wires connecting you
to me, the telephone is a splinter
in my ear, you call me by my name
______ then silence

in the groove of my memory
you are a remembered country
i often visit
______ home is pain
we created, promises lost
in the constellation of the ceiling
i chart our story, fading with each glow
you speak in tongues
i don't recognize
______ you
are a foreigner, shaming my city into
a cry, you are the load
i carry, a rapid staccato in my chest

you conquer peace and claim
you want surrender
rest easy, i say
it's over, lay down your arms
you are
home
now.

What an exquisite poem. The first stanza is brilliant and these are terrific lines: "in the groove of my memory/ you are a remembered country/ i often visit, home/ is pain we created, promises/ lost in the constellation of the ceiling." These, too: "you are the load/ i carry, a rapid staccato in my chest." And I like the mystery of the final stanza.

PAGPUPUGAY ni johntorralba

November 2004 Batch I


Tulad ng lahat ng sinaunang kasaysayan,
Nagsimula ang aking hininga sa matris
Ng mga bundok at pinitak,
Inaaruga ng amihan at pasyok,
Pinasususo sa sumusulak na bukal,
Ipinaghehele ng alon at habagat.

Walang kahulugan ang kalupitan
Noong panahon ng mga musmos na labi
At maruruming talampakan.
Hindi ako huminto sa paglalaro
Kahit naging saksi sa paglalagas
Ng punong sinigwelas.
Kahit batid ang lupit ng tag-araw,
Naghinhintay pa rin sa pagsisiwalat
Ng matang-tubig
At lumilikha ang aking hintuturo
Ng kilapsaw sa leeg at tiyan.
Walang pagkabahala kung aking tuntunin
Ang mga pilapil at tarundon,
Kahit may amorsekong nakaamba,
Sapagkat may tigmamanukin
Na aampat sa sugat sa binti at bisig.
Kung tumaga man ang kidlat,
Saglit lamang ang aking pagkatakot
Dahil may apoy itong handog
Sa mga talahib, sanga at dahon,
Init na dulot sa humahaplit na bagyo.

May mga panahong ang aguy-oy ay umuugoy
Habang ako'y naglalambitin sa mga baging.
O kaya'y ang agak ay nagbibigay-babala
Sa tuwing nakamasid ang panganib.
Kung nakapulupot ang inip sa dibdib at isip,
Ang agang ay sumasaliw sa tinig
Habang binibigyan ko ng pangalan
Ang mga hayop at halaman.
Kung minsan naman, ang alangaang
Ay sumusuyo sa aking mga paa
Habang namumulot ng mga kuhol.
At kapag ang lamig
Ay umaalampay sa balikat,
Pinipisil ng alangay
Ang giniginaw kong mga kamay.

Magulang ko ang lupa.

The poem started out well and by the end of the magnificent second stanza we know we are in the midst of a remarkable paean to Mother Nature. These are killer lines: "Walang kahulugan ang kalupitan/ Noong panahon ng mga musmos na labi/ At maruruming talampakan." These, too: "Kung tumaga man ang kidlat,/ Saglit lamang ang aking pagkatakot/ Dahil may apoy itong handog/ Sa mga talahib, sanga at dahon,/ Init na dulot sa humahaplit na bagyo." Mahusay!

ANT by risingphoenix

November 2004 Batch I


There is an ant
Searching.
Crawling.
Following
The sugar trail
On the skin
Of a
Bitter man.

An insignificant insect coveting the specks of sweetness on a bitter man. How about that for a Zen moment. Hanep! This poem has eight short lines and 17 words. Like all excellent verse, it says a lot by saying less—and saying it well.

I, WOMAN, LOVER by Gracia Perdiguerra

November 2004 Batch I


I came and you were surprised with my distance.
Words unuttered clattered like broken disk in my head,
a piece of silence separated us to an inch forever.
Turning your back while I kissed you hair,
I told you I am back – chic, nothing too impressive.
I felt the tremors inside your abdomen, you put my hands away
far from where I could embrace desire of welcoming me back;
like amoeba gnawing every bit of fiber in your system;
draining what is left. Stubborn as the organism,
that clawed into your confines; the threat razed me down.
What's destroying us? What's eating us?
Pale, Spiritless, Insipid,
Cold and Indisposed; I let your silence churn me
from the inside, defenseless, helpless.

It took three days before one is convinced that something is wrong.
From bed to stretcher, from home to doctor's call,
reflexes fashioned a sense of optimism; survival –

Medication has restored interest in the Living.
I am every bitter pill you swallowed;
every prick from the intravenous needle;
it connected me to you; to bring back existence,
cool you down as fever dissipates.

You said you are tired being sick,
weak, unaided.
You feel alone.
Abandoned.
Dehydrated.
Why did I not care?

I said you are sick,
weak and unaided.
You feel alone.
Abandoned.
Dehydrated.

I was there.
Silently,
a blanket, a pill, a needle,
the water that you drink.
You never noticed.

I didn't care.
I lived in you never wanting to be noticed.
I silently healed that which we destroyed;
that which we consumed.
The tremors inside your heart I felt
as you continually cleanse.
I remained a part of pain, flushed.
I remained a part of joy, gained.

Why, I didn't care?
I stayed.
Lover.

An uneven work but it has lines that are utterly divine: "I felt the tremors inside your abdomen, you put my hands away/ far from where I could embrace desire of welcoming me back"; "I let your silence churn me/ from the inside"; "reflexes fashioned a sense of optimism; survival"; "Medication has restored interest in the Living"; "I am every bitter pill you swallowed;/ every prick from the intravenous needle;/ it connected me to you; to bring back existence,/ cool you down as fever dissipates"; "I was there./ Silently,/ a blanket, a pill, a needle,/ the water that you drink/ You never noticed." But this is a poem you cannot NOT notice.

PISBOLS ni krisberse

November 2004 Batch I


Lagi at laging
Mainit ang ngiting
Pinansasalubong mo
Sa kumikislot kong puson;
Paano'y malayo pa man
Naririnig mo na
Ang paghahabulan
Ng aking mga paa
Patungo sa ating tagpi-
Tagping tagpuan.

Tandang-tanda ko pa
Ang huli nating pagkikita:
Hubad kang nakatambad,
Nagpapawis-mantika,
Sa aking nangangatal
Na sikmura;
Kaya walang dilidili,
Dali-dali, habol-
Usok kong tinusok
Ang iyong namumula-
Mutlang pag-aari.
Ay, nauulinig ko pa halos
Ang impit mong pag-aray
Habang tinutuhog
Ng aking pagkagutom
Ang iyong kalamnang
Nangingisay
Sa kiliti ng kawali.

Kung alam mo lang
Kung gaano ko pinandidirihan
Ang pagdampi ng aking labi
Sa iyong katawan,
Baka duraan mo ako
Ng mga katagang
Hininga ay sili
At laway ay suka.

The poet tried too hard to sex up this ode to one of our favorite "hepa foods" back home. The first eight lines are quite a stretch; didn't convince me. But this is very good: "sa ating tagpi-/Tagping tagpuan." And the final stanza rescues the poem from the pit of silliness. My advice to the poet: tone down the strained references to lust: "kumikislot kong puson"; "pag-aari." But retain the poem's sensual sentiment. I also suggest that you read Neruda's odes to see how it's done.

PRESENTING THE WINNERS OF ZDANDAN'S CHOICE for October 2004 Batch II

First Place:

Alanganin, akoaygoth
Wings, bingomarble
Softness is the Language of Orphans, confessional25

ALANGANIN ni akoaygoth

ZDandan's Choice First Place
October 2004 Batch II


Isang tutubi
sa bibig ng lalaki
aking nahuli.

The best Pinoypoets haiku ever. The title puzzles and intrigues us. The connotations of the word "alanganin" are so multi-layered that they include an "erotic" reading. And like all good haikus, the poet allows us to see a chiseled image of a Zen-moment. In "Alanganin," what we see astonishes us. Bravo!

ABOUT AKOAYGOTH: OCTOBER II ZDANDAN'S CHOICE WINNER

Mark Angeles (akoaygoth)

It doesn’t always require long stanzas and abstruse lines to come up with sensible poetry. Often times few words invokes depth and profundity, as attested by the Haiku “Alanganin”, this season’s Critic’s Choice Awardee.

Akoaygoth, the author, is Mark Angeles one of the very few Pinoypoet who dabbles in Haiku. As complex the poetic form itself, Mark exhibits a Haiku-like personality that paints vivid pictures but invites diverse elucidation. He is a Goth, a Professional writer and a techie all in one, a very rare species indeed.

His personality arouses astuteness that cannot be captured in one gaze; appositely his Haiku opens the paint can so feel free interpret the picture for yourself as he pour out his lexis in a canvass for us to view.

Congratulations, akoaygoth your haiku “Alanganin” won Mr. Z.Dandan’s nod as Critic’s Choice for this season, what are your thoughts on this?

Truth is I am puzzled because “Alanganin” was just a play of words that I created even before haiku was discussed in the group. I tried to experiment in that style and having appreciated my work, I am very grateful.

May we know more about the man who claimed that he is a Goth (akoaygoth)? How is he in the corporate world and in the poetic realm?

Akoaygoth is a concept I had thought of years ago. It was my first yahoo account. Ako ay goth simply means “I am gothic” which gives us a clue of how you can describe my not-so-pleasing personality. I harbor the danger of being neurotic. In my blogpage profile http://www.tabulas.com/~soulfly/. I described myself as gothic and surreal. Minsan pa-cute, minsan mahalay, minsan tahimik, minsan malungkot, minsan mapagmahal.

I can be your gentlest flock but I can also be your worst “Socratic midwife” (hearty laughters)

I hate routine but then again, having stuck here in a call center supporting Americans who don’t understand basic English instruction, I can say that I masochistically stagnate myself. Because I long to be free, I accepted Tyler Durden (Fight Club) as my messiah. Now I am waiting to get suspended because of my absenteeism. Self-destruction is the key to capitalist enslavement.

..And so is a Maoist revolution.

In a haiku manner, can you describe yourself for us?

Not quite much but,

Itong si Makoy
Nang manibak ng kahoy
Naging pitutoy

Have you been writing professionally? When and how did you discover your ability to write poetry any particular influence and inspiration?

I started writing back in highschool (literary editor ako sa campus paper namin). I was a regular contributor for FILMAG and Liwayway since 4th year highschool. Had published personal essays, features, poems, and short stories in different journals and newspapers including Sunday Inquirer Magazine and CPP Ani. Literary Journal.

Basic training ko sa LIRA Poetry clinic ni Rio Alma.

In College, I became the associate editor of PUP Sta. Mesa’s The Catalyst, and the next year became the Contributing Editor and eventually Editor-In-Chief of College of Mass Communication’s The Communicator. I was elected Vice President for Luzon of College Editors Guild of the Philippines, the widest national alliance of tertiary publications in the country.

I’ve been inspired by the sensibilities and metaphors of Neruda, Anne Rice, e.e.cummings. Most of my influences were social realists.

If we are to look in your bookshelves what will we find and what will particularly shock us?

You’ll be surprised to see different Bible translations, Holy Quran, Necronomicon among my pile of literary and underground political books and journals.

Haiku is kind of complex poem and Alanganin vividly painted a picture in our minds. From your own canvass, can you tell us what the true picture behind that Haiku is?

Batay sa natutunan ko, ang complexities ng haiku ay nasa talinhaga at kung paano ipe-present ang talinhaga sa 3 lines, 17 syllables, kung hindi inaawitan ang balance in nature (or the lack of it) it shouldn’t be called haiku at all, kaya me pagka-Zen ang mga tulang ganito.

I make fake haikus (hearty laughters). Pinaglaruan ko lang ung salita. Pag gumagawa ka ng tula na may tugma’t sukat mas maganda sanayin mo muna magbilang sa daliri mo sa simula at dapat na I-watch out din ang rhyme. It’s just a spur of the moment. I just used the concept of “tutubi” as my basis. It is about the truth hanging sa mouth ng tao, Freudan ang concept ko, kung magpapalawig ka pa, lets say the unconscious is trying to make itself recognized by the conscious. And since man’s thoughts are suppressed, we ended up having a Freudan slip or parapraxes, “Nahuhuli sa bibig ang tutubi.”. Lalim no? (hearty laughters)

Is there a creative process behind Mark Angeles’ poem? How is it?

I assumed the character of Makoy Dakuykoy when I started writing on my blog. If there’s such a Makoy Dakuykoy poem it will be the ‘bersyong walang aray’ series.. two of which were posted in pinoypoets and on my blog: http://www.tabulas.com/~soulfly/541752.html and http://www.tabulas.com/~soulfly/487598.html

The inspiration of a Mark Angeles poem perhaps is the search for the meaning of life. I had been a vagabond. Now I found my worth in writing not only personal poems that people can identify with but encourages social consciousness.

No formal creative process. I believe that poems are eternal and can be edited a thousand times. That was Chairman Mao’s idea. What we need, aside from emotional surges, is political will. Some people call it drive or motivation.

Please inspire the group some more.

I don’t want to inspire you. I’m not dead yet. (hearty laughters). But if there’s something that I want you to learn from my poetry it should be how I value the people’s struggle. I write poems that lack aesthetical value but I think about how I can improve my writing. Sentimentalism is a no-no in poetry but it has been our favorite pastime to write sentimental poems na nanggigitata sa kaasiman ng love. I admit I write love poems, but there are other ideas that we can write about.

WINGS by bingomarble

ZDandan's Choice First Place
October 2004 Batch II


the
earth
shook
and
buildings
fell
like
a
house
of cards
standing on
a jukebox

rivers
torn
open
like
liquid vaginas
giving
birth
to
a
7.8
richter scale
baby

leaving wet
sand and
green
rocks

exposing
fish

with
mouths
wide open

gasping

nothing else
they could
do but
suck
in
air

and
Carp
and
Bass
and
Trout
all in the
same
kettle

dead.

with insects
buzzing
up
and
around them

untouched
by
the shift
of plates

the
television
still
works
and
I read about
all of
this
in the paper

human loss
beyond
understanding

babies
and elderly

priests
and rapists

gone.
smashed.
dead.

forever.

my candles
wick is
still standing
straight
though

brave to the
end

so

I light
it
and stare
at the wall
in silence

I think about
the fish

the picture of
the fish

with mouths
wide open

gone

and I realize
that
God
loves
us
all the
same

but looks
after
those with
wings
just a tad
bit
more

Incredible poetry, horrible line breaks. I cannot see any justification for these distracting line breaks. You cannot read this poem out loud without sounding like someone is slapping your nape so you can spit out the words, word for word. We must always remember that a line break signifies a short pause, thus giving more weight to the last word of the line. The first stanza of this poem could be easily improved by more judicious line breaks. Like this, for example: "the earth shook/ and buildings fell/ like a house/ of cards standing/ on a jukebox." But don't get me wrong. This is an amazing poem. "rivers/ torn/ open/like/ liquid vaginas/ giving/ birth/ to/ a/ 7.8/ richter scale/ baby." "human loss/ beyond/ understanding/ babies/ and elderly/ priests/ and rapist/ gone./ smashed./ dead./ forever." And these are divine: "I realize/ that/ God/ loves/ us/ all the/ same/ but looks/ after/ those with/ wings/ just a tad/ bit more." Poet, take a bow.