dahil wara katapusan an duon san mga mata
mabubuhay akong minamatay
san dating kaaway ko sa lawas na ini
sa lawas na ini naghambog an talawon
pinapagubtik an kaaluhan na nagpapamuda
muda na nagpupukaw saakon gurugab-i
kendi na nagpapahibi
mesias na naghahala-hala
magiging madalas an pagsid-ip niya sa bintana
para laen ko makita an liwanag
malaog siya sa kahon ko
laen para magkawat
kundi dagdagan an pagub-at
makasakat an pagbagsak
siya na ako
~Written by Melton Balicano
(a bikol dialect)
since these eyes have been weighed down on unending
i shall live while being slain by an old foe in this body
this body where the craven had once boasted
surging chagrins that blaspheme
blasphemy that rouses this corpse in the dark
treats that shed tears
a messiah that taunts.
he shall constantly peep through the window
so that I see no light
he will break in my casket
not to thieve
but to burden further
the downfall shall rise
then he becomes me
penning a poem.
~a translation of Balicano's masterpiece
for you think she's the dirtiest.
And you saw the clerk
failed to punch the mentos
and put it in the bag.
You didn't tell.
You cursed her and
almost hit your LED TV
with your coffee mug.
You don't seem to remember
one seminar you took two sandwiches
which you said
you'd give one to your friend but didn't.
You love the idea
of putting her fellow thieves to jail
Was it only yesterday
when you stole the key to the test?
You thought of reviving death penalty.
MAGSAMA-SAMA KAYO SA IMPYERNO.
And you timed in and were paid for the day's work
which you never did.
Some people say it claws its way out the artist like a demon
As if ripping his soul instead of flesh
Then fervor bursts like blood
So that a painting anthropomorphizes
How then will the canvas look like
If the stirring's wreaked by the lord of hell?
How will the music ring if Diablo clobbers the drum?
Will there be songs or only blares of Armageddon?
I LUST TO WRITE POEMS.
THIS PEN ITCHES FOR YOUR BLOOD
Who else in this inhumane edifice
can dance while the suspecting eyes stare
at his moistened armpit?
Pathetically unknowing music uplifts not just the soul but the intellect.
Who else got the fire in imparting?
did theirs even start a single spark since then?
Who else brings out the best in these hopefuls?
It’s all the worse and worst that they see.
And you think San Pedro would be pleased
when you gloat you made all the priests, doctors, and engineers?
Woe to you who humiliate the chair by your indolent butts
while uttering kindergartenous blabbers you claim to be education!
Then you get all you want while tabula rasa remains tabula rasa.
You seated on the higher chairs!
Why don’t you trample down awhile
and put your cataracting sight to use
before it even brings you to the death of light.
Has anyone of you even heard what your god told to Pontius Pilate?
Ha! The you-have-no-power-over-me’s have always been impervious to you bigots!
And you say to your kin let me handle it.
When it is delayed and their impatience grows
you see they’ll leave.
Did you ever fret about deadlines
of bills, of matriculas, of debts?
What do you feed to your clan? Feeds?
Get Ripley’s here!
Oh how divine to utter all the Fs!
©Glenn L. Sentes
February 20, 2013
Our ashes have settled on the cliff of pride
while the seed of today sprouts your frailty beginning.
We have at last seen the face of our god
which you have not even learned to utter
or never will at all.
Your intelligence gave you power that
failed the comprehension of our yesterfathers.
You built humans in just a sprinkle of *****
on to the skin of alligators and ants
on to the stem of a bee and the sting of a plant.
And you called them your sons
And you called them your kind.
The burrowed earths have no more riches
and they are left unpalatable to worms,
no more worms even
for even these decomposers
learn to tire feeding on your greed
no more shades of blue in the putrid waters
to which this bottle was thrown,
to which this letter longed to swim with your same species
that can never be in our family tree
for it has grown dead atop the impotent soil.
How we wished that your sons wished they
were with us in the time when
sparrows roared in the Kamagong tree when
wild boars chirped in the dancing bamboos when
the snow-like smokes breathed in the cone of Mayon when
the bangus and tilapia worshipped the nets of the singing fishermen.
How we wished they wished they knew.
How we wished they wished they saw.
She saw the face of Judas in him.
The bearded kiss festered no truth
and the metallic breath
exhaled putrid faithfulness.
The trampled petals spoor no lusting stares,
redolent no more
even as the tongue creeps by the shoulders.
The razors have summoned from the stinking room!
A slit in the neck
could rhythmically go by the thrusts unnoticed
But the chorus of the beasts
as shrill as the gongs of hell
maiming vengeance yet
not in the loss of blood will you die.
Not in my hands.
His demonic pleasures went on as the voodoo doll
resurrected in the beat of my own gongs.
Keep stirring as this spindle rouses my anathema!
his chest hairs
pint of blood
Stir and stir and stir!
Murmur satan’s prayer
mana mana mana boo!
ruba ruba ruba hoo!
Count the sands of the transient hourglass
expiring ‘fore tic tac sound.
Now her man froze,
bulging eyes, blackened pulse!
‘tis freedom, Deborah!
© Glenn Sentes
each stroke of greased fingers on the mohawk
was a result of a genius work of art
an outlet where my soul barely peeks
yet you cut with your hypocritical shears and your rusty hand
and you call it discipline
and you call it concern
I call it *******
the shadows on my
eyelids were davincis and picassos
sketched in a magnificent representation
of inner self which you all want to see
yet suffocate by your rotten curricula
and you call it quality
and you call it excellence
I call it *******
the silver that glitters in these ears
conceals the tortures of my youth
the horrors that dwell in my every sleep
yet you rip from my skin you are unworthy of touch
and you call it decency
and you call it suitability
I call it *******
© Glenn L. Sentes
**** your feet that crushed and squashed thousands of grapes in the pool!
While we only have eaten those purple drupes in our wildest dreams
And did you just say you would make wine from those feet-ground fruits?
Poetry Form: Sijo
M-irthful disposition radiates when you have gotten to befriend her soul. She's
A-rticulate in speaking her mind and adamant in her principles yet keeps her motherly affection--a
R-arity in these difficult times of shepherding. She's
I-ndependently strong, toughened by storms that may have crushed her heart but never her soul.
L-ove reigns in her big heart as she sings you her songs and lays kisses on PL's cheeks.
Y-ou'll want to replay her infectious laughs-a music to the ears,
N-icely reminding you of her presence in cups of coffee with peers.
Happy birthday Ma'am Malyn. All I fervently pray for you today and everyday is that God bless you with great health and genuine happiness.
The lunatic caressed the words of the lips
The saint crept the innocent’s soul
The first spurt his ink in the pulp
The second groped for the flesh’s call
The rhymester’s itch by pen, relief!
The copulator’s, prey’s grief!
The poet died sane with words
The ****** in fire abodes!
You hedonise yet killed your gamble
Coveting, lusting, groping for words.
You penetrate her deepest thoughts
Imprison her, criminal humanoid.
You steal her breath in the strokes of your pen
Your delirious limerick strangling her.
But your words in aching beauty
Gratify the body of your poetry.
Now you reached the ****** in your robust stanza
The provocative lines steaming desire.
You hit upon another magnum opus
A mortal sin told in the poem of Oedipus.
How will one's feet dance to the rhythms if the gongs have ceased to pump the veins?
Are the hues of the palette enough for a leonardeschi art to transcend?
When your mezzo-soprano fails to hit, will your story still get heard?
Will a cyclist still pedal to savor the orange horizons without his friends?
Who will listen when the wrinkled fingers lay on the dusty piano?
Do these words still tell of a poet who once penned in flames?
Take the letters
as topping in pasta
Then relish the words
Dash some pepperoni
like commas fill
through hesitant gaze
but not as overwhelming
as EE Cummings’.
Lick the poetic sauce,
twist the erudite fork
like how your head searches
for luscious meaning
and its sense
finally hits the palate
you say Ahhhh!
The holding of his joyful trembling arms
will clasp no more pink feeble fingers
for even blood betrayed its passing.
The most beautiful cry
vanished without a single tune
unheard by the looking grandparents.
No unfamiliar friends in white
giving genuine smiles
and congratulations to the dad
but the unacceptable shaking of heads
and unwanted tap at their backs.
And the mother?
Nothing is more hurting than to never touch
a thing that she sheltered all her life
To holler in pain of delivering would have been divine
to scream, wonderful
to roar, magnificent
to rip bed sheets
and curse the father while letting it out into world
are mostly gratifying
than to remain silent while the cannula
forces its entry to the abandoned world of unborn.
No stupid peek-a-boos will ever echo in this
No tingling of rattles
will ever irritate ears in smelly midnights
No nursery rhyme will hum.
School bus will never blow its horn
To call upon the school child.
No stars on a hand.
I shall never fall in love with one who left her glass shoe
Neither will I ask your hand just as the poisoned apple unchoke you.
Never will I dare marry one who in ages has been sleeping
Nor elope with a looong-haired damsel prisoned yet painting.
For there can never be a sweet fairy godmother
But mothers-in-law acting god and bitter!
And you tell me we shall live happily ever after
When you would not even taste that pumpkin in your platter?
Stop staring by your window waiting for your armored knight
He will not fetch you with his horse tainted white.
And will you please stop thinking those birds sing songs for you
Fairy tales are not meant for someone as unloving as you!
As I stumbled on the pebbled road
I broke a toenail and it left bloodstains
On the humble stones.
“Why did you let me get wounded,” I asked.
A voice from behind the obsequious hills answered,
“I did not,” the voice said reassuringly.
“I desired that you take the other road, but you didn’t listen.”
I trod on. Pained.
I searched for a band to stop the bleeding.
A long black thing lay on the grass.
“Why did you allow that devil bite me?” I cried.
“I did not,” the voice uttered.
“I sent an old man to give you a handkerchief
for you to bind your broken nail but
you said you weren’t crying.”
“Why can’t you just warn me at once?”
“I tried to.”
“You did? When?"
“I called you but you thought I was your girlfriend.”
This is to provoke your eardrums beating to secrete the excessive cerumen of your lies which flow from your venomous mouth repeatedly bragging that it knows all things.
This is to provoke your eye that is not shut yet only desires to see itself, deliriously worshipping the face, so beautiful and thin that when pinched, a pig slop gushes out.
This is to provoke your feet that have long been wanting to stand up, numbed by their prolonged cross-legged pose, cursing the *** that is comfortably seated on the velvety coconut pulp.
This is plainly to provoke your hands that we're supposed to rely on but have no strength, torpid, and only lusting to *******.
This is to provoke you who claim to have been moved but in the end choose to remain still. Numb.
An English Translation of Melton Balicano's Bikol Poem, 'Agyat'
You stare as if you know
how my blood runs through my veins.
What wood are you?
Did you not come from a clan
of massacred trees
chiseled by an inglorious machete?
Were you the door that barred
the perils to our house?
Did you block the brutal sun from getting in?
Who carved you?
Was it not the ******?
Was it not the thief?
Was it not the murderer behind the bars?
And you accuse me to have sinned
when all you do is mimic the fingers of your god.
Have you even opened those tinted lips
to mutter a prayer?
Why did you not dare to move
or tap my back when I opened my zipper?
Instead you feasted on my obscenity.
Why can you not tell your god
I attempted to fast?
Bleed and let these thirsty eyes witness your miracle!
It was the rhythm of the fingers
Running through the black and white keys,
The feathery strum of the hollow guitar and
The beat of the arms that converses with the melodies.
The voice of the soul is not lyrics but song
That slowly lured the tie that has grown so strong.
This poetry’s not aimed at singing the tune
But only to hum the memory that began in a June.
You lit the room where the poet longed for a brother
And lay a hymn to the unsung dreams.
You strike a chord at him not to grieve and bitter
About life’s shrill discordant volumes.
Menaced by a triumphant chanting of lament
Entrancing the soul of Hades’ kin
Missed eruptions of the sensory nerves
Onomatopoeic of hollow gongs
Resonating, maimed through the indescribable facets of
Your forgotten youth.
Fill my craving with your zesty rind
In the mist of my longing, come splashing
Ingest my inn with your piquant smiles
Will you rain like dew for my pipe is parched?
Drizzle my windows with decorative light and
Melt your *** in that multihued bend
Be my condiment in this insipid snack
But preserve your liquiscent state
No! Not in the canister
Who says this dye belongs to Freud?
After you entice my eyes and tongue.
Then citrus filled my air now back to stanza one.
Written for a contest with the theme "ORANGE"
Look! Mingling with rain
a teardrop hesitates once
Ah! They didn’t see.
A bullfrog just teased
Bloating in its mockery
A bug flies in, snap!
It rolls by unseen
Not even her closest friend
noticed how it flows.
Kokak! Kokak! Jump.
Teasing and teasing kokak!
All the critters laugh.
© Glenn Sentes
His hair grew as coagulated blood
His scalp perpetually trying to reach his eyebrows
Skin greased and calloused
His eyes soulless
Yet seemed searching
Everybody was not afraid of him.
I gave him food once
I placed it on the ground where
He stood outside the church’s door
He barely moved
He slowly stooped
It was like watching a snail’s body melt
when you put salt on it
I wonder if he has ever uttered a word in his life
Of course I never expected him to say thanks
He was still slowly bending but I knew he
Wouldn’t get it unless I was not in sight.
But I desired to see him get it
I wanted to see if his face would ever change a bit
So I just went away thinking I starved him with my presence
I went back after a moment
The container lay on the floor, no chicken bones.
His eyebrows twitched no more
But the eyes were looking…somewhere.
I was baffled, have always been.
How is he supposed to live?
I can’t always give him food.
The priests might be busy too.
The altar boys might have been annoyed by his stench
So they would not get near either.
My house’s far from the church.
That wounded man would just keep staring at him from up the cross.
I wonder if the ***** ever asked the man to come down from his cross
And give him something to eat.
Or did he ever contemplate on bringing him down?
Inspired by an old ***** that stays most of his life outside the church...and never actually begs for anything from anyone.
I shall not fear of parching for your drop or two is enough
Even a tear would quench more than my lip, my soul
Cry me thrice, laugh me once
Leap more, tiptoe less
Break this earthen vessel if you wish
Just don’t leave a love song behind
For it will just maim a hollow tune
Like a broken violin in incandescent moon
Or a lone shell perpetually humming
The melody of his unmet clam or hermit.
My nightmare filled with streaks of saintly garb
rousing the flares of benevolence
and the strokes of compassionate ink
scribbled on to the snow-hued papyrus.
The fields of golden grains unmasked
the unpolluted ecstacy of childlike desires
Softly swaying as the hammock in the dew air
gently rupturing the laddery pride.
It waves its resilient trunk
then stoops to the god of snow.
And the windows to the soul will tire peeking
and paint instead ashen hopes
Reminiscent of pallid hermit
caressing colorless sands,
tranquilly hummed by the songs of a lone shell
under the unambiguous sky.
Compose your poems
now with the sallow ink
on a dustless, ethereal white sheet.
It came to me one coward dusk
Slithering like a thief
The hissing not a serpent’s hush
But that of disturbed grasses.
The moon, miser of his loaned glow
Glistened in conspiracy
But not a single ray
helped my feet tread on.
The voice tiptoed, I was charmed
To take a step ahead
Then suddenly the whispers of the critters prevailed
The voice hanged in denouement
But I sauntered still as the voice maimed its call
A house appeared in sight
I trembled up the stairs a shadow passed
A girl in black stood by
Her eyes a crow’s piercing through my deepest being
I grabbed her gown and tore it
If your turning backs were bricks to this craving soul
And your eyes not meeting my searching little windows
Then this bed is a twin to China’s great wall.
Enveloped with scorching breeze
colossal reaching, unheard touches.
Where have all the blazes gone
In every skin-to-skin
In every passionate skim.
Has the apathetic snow wafted the glares?
Doodle me your funny strokes of frog looking just like hidden Mickey
Or your princess that wears a tiara made of a plane triangle
Fill my sheet with your vertical lines
Top them up with diagonals and curves
Sketch your favorite part of her body if you wish
You can even ask Mr. Crayon to join in
Don’t stop scribbling.
Keep leaving a mark ‘cause I find your lead ****.
Just don’t rub me with your rubber.
When the eyes could no longer hold what’s brimming
and the fingers do nothing
but spread it on to what’s wrinkling.
When the voice is a strange thing
for the continuous vowels are worn out…shrieked at himself.
Then the narcissistic grin is all that gratifies the soul
which no one has ever come in contact with.
They speak of it when they’re broke
yet it’s broke too.
Escape is but a word.
To feed is luscious.
Just one night
when the god is asleep.
Let me feed.
Written in blood yet sheds no red
As pen caresses my mighty seed
The shadows hurled the whispers of the dark
As pleasure slithers in the moon of light.
And then decoded in the movement of your lips
You realize all of a sudden this is no paragraph
But fragments of innumerable plights
Moistened with the desire
Of some men.
You stood there beneath the taunting man on the cross
Yet you stared at the stained floor
I was walking in the dreaded aisle unnoticed by the groom
The bouquet left no petal
For the fluttering flies took them as the bell rang
But you remained unmoved.
I was there almost
I even took the veil
But instead of taking my hand
You lit the candle
Then sprinkled water
On to the glass
Then laid a rose on my breast.
Shed on that certain kind of warmth
You give the waters that washed away our footsteps
Illumine the dark leaves of our past
Blown away by the indifferent breeze.
Desiccate the grass that invited conversations
But leave the roots unscorched.
I prayed to Autumn to blow away my pains
But Winter entertained me instead.
I won’t let Spring visit me
Until you burn down her cold heart, Summer.
Sweethearts swarm like bees
Stinging my loveless core
— The End —