Friday, April 18, 2008

On Poetry

Did anybody ever tell you that I dislike poetry?

I do. I hate it with all my heart. Because people turn to words, to satire, to reams of inutile academic discourse when they cannot act. Poetry, dear friends, is yet another manifestation of this kind of impotence: the writer feels so strongly about something that he cannot act, except to commit something to verse.

Maybe he gets lucky. Maybe the poem affects people who feel the same way but cannot articulate their feelings. Maybe the song becomes a hit and the writer becomes another Morrissey. Or maybe the writing is so potent that it helps kick-start the Civil Rights Movement. More often than not, the writer cannot taste any success beyond the personal "Hey, I got something written!"

Unfortunately, "Hey I got something written!" cannot by itself get you fed, clothed, housed, and (especially) laid. Your needs still drive you, and if you're as much a poet as I am, your automatic response is to write reams upon reams of (say it with me) useless poetry. I could have spent that writing time by actually getting me fed, clothed, housed and, yes, laid (Getting a better paying day job is often a step in that direction).

The awful truth is that nobody really reads, much less appreciates, poetry. Okay, some people do, but often, they're neither numerous nor rich enough to matter. The perception is that poetry is either--

  1. nothing special as any five-year-old can break a long coherent sentence into lines and call it poetry or
  2. it's so specialized that most people who have "jobs" and "real social lives" cannot relate to it.

Besides, it does not make us better people. Bin Laden is a poet. So was Hitler. A sensitive thug with literary leanings is still a thug, albeit a more sophisticated one. If you ask my ex, being a poet only makes people think of you as a smooth-talking snake oil salesman. Or a smooth-talking snake oil peddling thug.

(So before you run off with someone because he is an artiste do try to remember that the insensitive clod who's forgotten how to say "I love you" probably got that way acting --and not writing poetry-- to meet the needs of your belly and those of your kids.)

The point is, poetry sucks. When it isn't trumpeting your triumph to the world after the fact, poetry's like opium. It keeps you distracted writing when you could be taking action instead. When there is a venue for action, when one is empowered to realize his desires, there is much less poetry. I fear that there are quite a few of us who are lock-stepped into being nothing more than poets, forever writing about actions we will likely never take.

Still it's a beautiful activity, and one of the reasons why I write is that I am plugged into a higher power when I write my best poems, even when these are the most useless kind-- the interminable whining about aborted romantic liaisons.

The price I pay for loving poetry is that I hate it with a passion.

Friday, April 11, 2008

I am Engrish Teacha!


Teaching Englishee velee haard
It does to dlive-us away the baard
Especiary when styoo-dunt says eet best
that "praying sportsu relieves my stless"

You cannot-- cannot-- make to laugh
As teacha, must to do not make them cry
You must leally help your styoo-dunt learn
Even dough you feel like die

(Oh so solly Teacha, "Die-ying";
"Feel like dying")


The onry thingus keep you sane
When listuning Engrish cause you pain
are fact daht styoo-dunts are your fliends
and, daht "soon" is when bad rhyming ends

ESL is a priestly vocation and
you ain't alone in thinking this--
Us ESL teachers need a long vacation.


----------------------------

Poking fun at the job, okay? not my students.

Many of them are dedicated, disciplined professionals who want a better life in places where English is spoken as a language of power and commerce. And I do want to help them, with most of my heart.

Written for Poem a Day.

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

Poem a Day (7)

Women

They

march--
stride--
sashay--
rampmodelwalk
fresh off the dollhouse
conveyor belts:
semi-captive Stepford products
of a man's need
for lace, sweet next-door denim,
for black satin underneath the placid face
of a cotton smock
for nipple rings, leather and the lash
for sons, for sex, the photo-op for the joneses sake
so fitted to our molds,
is it a wonder that they cannot always find themselves?

it's a bigger mystery why i am so lost without them

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

What's a Renga?

A renga as I know it is essentially a piece of collaborative poetry. What makes it different is the fact that while each writer contributes a line or two to the piece, he doesn't get to see portions of the poem as it's being written. The result is an organic (because it grows, seemingly taking on a life of its own) piece of poetry that surprises in how it all seems to make some sort of sense at the end of the day.

Either that or it's a meandering piece of crap.


Still, it's a fun exercise and a good way to peer into Jungian things like Gestalt and Zeitgeist and Synchronicity.

Here's how ours works. Someone writes the first line. The next person writes a new line but covers the line before his. The poem is passed to the next writer and so on and so forth until it returns to the first writer. He looks over the whole poem (and bursts into fits of laughter or groans of disgust). He writes the final line that ties everything together.

Everyone reads and is assaulted by his contributions to his attempts at collaborative poetry.

Why not try it with a few friends? April is poetry month after all.

Monday, April 07, 2008

Poem a Day (4)

Stardust and Grains of Sand
(with Eline Santos & Strahd Lacanlale)

I get high
on stardust and grains of sand
gazing on shooting stars falling
like flowers, fading like roses.
Hope for your love dims--
I'd settle for a kiss
on the mango's cheek.
Dawson's creek is
a metaphor for my life.
Looking for sense and reason,
that faded river of truth,
washing the dust of memory
hanging our skeletons to dry
weeping our slow dirty tears
leaving tracks on the sand
washed away by tears of our sorrows
I'm high now.
And I miss you.

----------------

It's another entry for Poem a Day.

This is another renga. This time it was done with the able help of Strahd Lacanlale and Eline Santos. Lest you cast aspersions on the writing talents of my friends-- please know that that awful Dawson's Creek line-- and all the other lines that have to do with getting (naturally) high -- are mine.

Friday, April 04, 2008

Poem a Day (4)

Soma (1)

Biting into my I-pod
I taste the tang of
Richie Kotzen's lyrics,
the grease and honey of
his guitars help me swallow
the irony

then I look the way I feel
I'm a rock god I'm electric
writhing on the floor,
a worthy Christian speaking in
angelic gibberish

and all I say is
you are the world

Thursday, April 03, 2008

Poem a Day (3)

Waiting, waiting, waiting
Wanting, hoping for you
Miracle Malunggay Loaf
!

Love's labor's respite
Is chocolate mousse with secret spice
A recipe for love
Miracle Malunggay Loaf!

A fusion of wheat and kindness
Add a teaspoon of jealous yeast
To make the passion rise
And fingers flow

Miracle Malunggay Loaf!


--------------------------

Made (but not in April) with Eline at a cafe in Taguig which serves, yes, Miracle Malunggay Loaf.


Wednesday, April 02, 2008

Poem a Day (1)

There were no monuments
to our passionate months-dead couplet.
you did and didn't want them
and it made sense:
I, tail-end-Cold War-Montague
and you, Friends'-post-Starbucks-Capulet

Was there any other outcome due
When you looked for signs that I was true
and couldn't find them?

They were there, buried in how I burned for you--
--Darling, I still do--
And in how I was slowly burying
the other women too

All of them, dearest, finally,

for you.