"emilio" poems
Sa aking lupang tinubuan
Na sinakop ng mga dayuhan noon pa man
Ang una'y mga espanyol na mananakop
Dala daw nila'y kristiyanismo
Upang ipakilala sa ating mga katutubo
Ngunit ang tanging hangarin pala'y manakop at gawing kolonyanismo
Kaya ilang daan taon tayong hawak ng mga ito
Ating mga katutubo walang nagawa kundi ang sumunod at magsawalang-kibo
May ilan ding nagsisipag aklas upang makalaya
Ngunit sa kalauna'y sila'y bigo sapagkat pawang malalakas at makapangyarihan silang mga nilalang
Nariyang si Gat. Jose Rizal na kinulong at binaril sa bagong-bayan
Na tinatawag na natin ngayong (LUNETA/RIZAL PARK)
At si Gat. Andres Bonifacio na hanggang ngayo'y hindi alam kung sino ang pumatay
Ang tanging alam natin sa kanya'y siya ang "Ang Ama ng himagsikan"
Sa kabilang banda'y hindi nagpatinag ang ating mga katutubo
Nagbuo ng mga samahan upang mapag-aralan kung kailan ang tamang panahon para lumaban
Kaya nung dumating na ang tamang panahon upang sila'y magsipag-aklas
Marami ang sa kanila'y naghimaksik upang ang kalayaa'y makamtan
Kaya noong taong Hunyo labing dalawa, isang libo't walong daan, siyam na pu't walo
Nakamtan ng ating mga katutubo ang kalayaan na kanilang pinaglalaban
Sa bahay ni Hen. Emilio Aguinaldo sa Kawit, Kabite
Kanyang iwinagayway ang ating watawat
Sagisag ito ng ating kalayaan sa kamay ng mga mananakop na espanyol
Sa mga nakalipas na taon, tayo'y naging malaya na
Ngunit, ano ba ang kahulugan ng isang malaya?
''Ito ay ang pag-gawa sa isang partikular na bagay ng walang humahadlang o kumokontra sayo at may kakayahan kang kumilos batay sa kung ano ang iyong gusto o nais''
Oo nga't malaya kang gawin ang iyong gusto
Subalit, labag naman ito sa karapatang pantao
At nakapapanakit ka na ng kapwa mo
Marami ang sa ati'y nakakalimot na sa mga paglapastangang ginawa sa ating mga katutubo
Marapat nating pagkatandaan na ang ating kalayaa'y utang natin sa ating mga bayaning nakipaglaban
At ang kalayaa'y dapat igawad sa lahat
Magkaroon ng pantay-pantay na karapatan ang bawat nilalang
Mapa mayaman o mahirap man
Mapa babae o lalaki man
Mapa bata o matanda man
Maging tunay sanang malaya tayong mga pilipino
Hindi lamang sa salita, kundi sa isip at sa ating mga gawa.
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 5:48 AM UTC
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
the three of them frozen:
Enrique by the world of beds;
Emilio by the world of eyes and wounded hands;
Lorenzo by the world of roofless universities.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them burned:
Lorenzo by the world of leaves and billiard *****
Emilio by the world of blood and white pins;
Enrique by the world of the dead and abandoned newspapers.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them buried:
Lorenzo in one of Flora's *******
Emilio in the dead gin forgotten in the glass;
Enrique in the ant, the sea, and the empty eyes of birds.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three in my hands were
three Chinese mountains,
three shadows of a horse,
three landscapes of snow and a cabin of white lilies
by the pigeon coops where the moon lies flat under the rooster.
One
and one
and one,
the three of them mummified,
with the flies of winter,
with the inkwells the dog ****** and the thistle despises,
with the breeze that freezes theh eart of all the mothers,
by the white ruins of Jupiter where drunks snack on death.
Three
and two
and one,
I saw them disappear, crying and singing
into a hen's egg,
into the night that showed its skeleton of tobacco,
into my sorrow full of faces and piercing bone splinters of moon,
into my happiness of whips and notched wheels,
into my breast troubled by pigeons,
into my deserted death with one mistaken wanderer.
I had killed the fifth moon
and the fans and the applause drank water from the fountains.
Hidden away, the warm milk of newborn girls,
shook the roses with a long white sorrow.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
Diana is hard,
but somtimes she has ******* of clouds.
The white stone can beat in the blood of a deer
and the deer can dream through the eyes of a horse.
When the pure forms sank
under the cri cri of daisies
I understood they had murdered me.
They searched the cafés and the graveyards and churches,
they opened the wine casks and wardrobes,
they destroyed three skeletons to pull out their gold teeth.
Still they couldn't fine me.
They couldn't?
No. They couldn't.
But they learned the sixth moon fled against the torrent,
and the sea remembered, suddenly,
the names of all her drowned.
20.5k
“Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today. Let us begin.”
― Mother Teresa
May mga panahon sa buhay ko na nasayang, may mga darating pa siguro pero baka hindi ko na maabutan, tanging ang ngayon ang tangan ko sa aking palad. Sisiguraduhin ko na hindi ito masasayang. Gagamitin ko at pagyayamanin ang ngayon ko sapagkat ito lang ang oras na hawak ko. Magsusulat ako ng mga salitang matulain kahit hindi nila ito tanggapin. Kahit ako lang ang tunay na aangkin sa aking simulain. Kahit malalim ang dagat na aking lulusungin kapos man ang bait ito’y aking gagamitin at titimbulanin.
Walang yumayaman sa pagsusulat ng tula at ang buhay ng isang makata sa panukat ng lipunan ay laging salat. Pero wala na akong magagawa napasubo na ako, matagal ko na itong nilimot at tinalikuran subalit para itong isang sumpang anino na laging nakasunod ayaw akong tantanan. Mabuti pa ang nag-uulat sa radyo at telebisyon dahil may nakikinig pero sa sumusulat ng tula bihira lang ang lumilingap. Putang-Ina bakit ba kasi ito pa ang nakahiligan ko?
Siguro dahil dito ako sumasaya, kasi nagagawa kong bigyang tinig ang tahimik kong isipan. Bakit kasi hindi na lang ako naging payak sa lahat ng bagay lalo na sa gawaing pag-iisip? Bakit kasi masyado akong mapagmasid, mausisa at malikhain sa pagsasalarawan ng mga bagay-bagay? Bakit ayaw magpahinga ng aking diwa?
Hindi naman ako magaling sa tugmaan at sa pagkatha ng mga kinakailangang sukat kaya kinalimutan ko na ito. Pero may ulol na bumulong sa akin “ok lang yan may free verse naman e kung hindi mo kaya ipahayag sa tugmaan gamitin mo ang malayang taludturan”. Kaya ito nanaginip na naman ako ng gising at tinatawag ang sarili ko na isang “makabagong makata”. Putang Ina makatang walang pera at laging nangungutang. Buti man lang sana kung makukuha ko kahit ang kalahati ng tagumpay nina Walt Whitman, Amado V. Hernandez, Jose Corazon De Jesus at Francisco Balagtas o kahit na si Emilio Mar Antonio na lang – e tiyak na hindi naman.
Kanina pa tumatakatak ang tiklado ng aking computer, ayaw ko nang magsulat pero may demonyo na tumutulak sa akin para gawin ito. Ayaw akong patahimikan ng putang-ina. Kaya’t heto ako at nagpupursige parin. Ang makabagong makata ay hindi na muling tatalikod sa tawag ng tulaan. Kahit walang pera magpapatuloy ako kasi dito ako masaya, masaya pero malungkot din. Ewan, madalas hindi ko maintindihan. Hindi ko na muling sasayangin ang natitirang oras ko.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 3:31 AM UTC
Every time people start to rise up, a whole buncha problematic mess gets thrown around regarding VIOLENCE.
So, what is "violence" really?... It's the use of force. Plain and simple.
What makes folks uncomfortable (who are otherwise comfortable in this system) is that UPRISING IS A SOMETIMES VIOLENT (read: forceful) REACTION TO SYSTEMATIC VIOLENCE: Yes, just like the Hunger Games...
Thus, there are many types of violence...
The fact that we are paying taxes that are funding the genocide and ****** of people of color (here and abroad) is violence.
People with guns (former slave patrols and overseers, now cops) who come from outside our community and treat our folks as criminals on the daily is violence.
Capitalism, i.e. wage/property/ecology-based exploitation in the name of profit is violence.
The fact that LA County spends more $$ than anywhere in the world on prisons and police is violence.
The fact that the US locks up more of its own people than any other country on record is violence.
US aiding/funding the genocide of Palestinians at the hands of Israel is genocidal violence.
From Congress, to the boardrooms, to the classrooms, from the gaze, to the unwanted touching, to the **** to the pay, Patriarchy everyday, is violence.
A few people jacking some **** at Walmart or breaking a window is really minimal violence in comparison.
A couple people throwing **** at armed cops is not serious violence.
The idea of owning property that other must rent to live is violent.
Systemic, chronic, global insecurity in the form of material poverty is violence.
Wage slavery is violence.
Gentrification is violence.
The War On Youth, i.e. the School-to-Prison pipeline, and, thus the War-on-Drugs with its attending 76% recidivism rate in the prison-industrial complex, whose populations are disproportionately black males, is violence.
The fact that people can't go to the doctor and dentist, or eat food every day is violence.
Deportations are violence.
Homophobia is violence.
The world's largest global military that vaporizes people without due process in dozens of countries violating their biophysical and national sovereignty is violence.
The United States government sanctioning the ****** of non-white, but especially Muslim bodies across the world... is violence.
So, when you condemn violence, do you mean resistance?
Because there is a whole lot of violence you should be condemning instead.
Adapted from Emilio Lacques-Zapien
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
It was warm in Emilio’s backyard,
The site of their game of explorer.
Emilio cleared the overgrowth;
Michael complained.
He was bent over, trying
To have a conversation with the blood lilies,
But he couldn’t hear them
Above the soft sliding hiss sent up by
The passing snake herd.
(Past the Huano palms, Emilio could see them,
Moving like a fleshy woven mattress)
Both boys noticed
The glut of termites
Crawling over their sneakers.
Michael complained more.
How could he explore
Amid so many noisy distractions?
This was when Emilio went inside
To get his father’s gun.
Michael watched as he fired
Three shots
Into the clouds threading the sky.
Both explorers presumed it was the shots
That punctured the clouds and caused the snow;
In the surprising silence of snowfall,
The two boys trotted across the yard,
Catching flakes in their butterfly nets.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 8:33 PM UTC
Ganito s'ya ipinakilala ng Supremo:
Mga kapatid
narito ang isang binata
estudyante ng Letran at Sto. Tomas
magaling na manunulat
makisig at walang takot
isang tunay na Tagalog
na umiibig ng tapat sa Inang Bayan.
Ngayong gabi
sa ating pagpupulong
s'ya ay ating tatanggapin bilang kasapi
at hihirangin na maging isang kalihim.
S'ya ang susulat
ng mga dokumento ng kilusan
magiging aking kanang kamay
at utak ng katipunan.
simulan ang ritwal at ang sanduguan.
Kapatid na Emilio
binabati ka ng lahat ng katipun
mula ngayon hindi kana tatawagin na Jacinto
kundi Pingkian na
yan ang rebolusyunaryong sagisag mo sa kilusan.
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 10:59 PM UTC
Love has no boundaries,
When it comes to you and me,
I’d rather break more limbs together
Than to climb the highest tree,
Without you.
Creativity you are,
In its highest prospective,
You are a ball player,
Somehow love has connected,
In our play time.
I’m sure you remember,
Scratching each other’s back,
We got so tired of each other,
The sunlight would dim,
Until our eyelids showed black.
Your laughter,
A joy it, brings to my soul.
Once it was annoying,
But annoyance turned into,
Memories that would be told.
You are a human being,
I’ve seen you shed a tear,
As your older sibling,
It only pushed me to be stronger,
So that I can show you how much I care.
I believe in you,
Your struggles and your efforts,
To overcome,
You are an inspiration to me,
Remembering you are God’s Son.
Positivity will never fall behind,
In a trail that you blaze,
Your footsteps will be the next mark,
Of the followers,
That you will raise.
It takes two to tango,
You handle us three very well,
You me and Miah,
A bond that no other three,
Will ever share.
So to you my kind-hearted,
Little "Big" brother,
Remember to love,
Because you are the product,
That was sent from above.
Love your “Little” big sister.
© Robyn Neymour
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
And leave it to Turturro
To steal the movie again,
A tour-de-force in a single character,
Repeatedly, consistently . . .
Except maybe one time.
"Raging Bull" 1980:
Turturro was "Man at Table,"
Uncredited, of course,
A man of no words,
A role difficult, constraining for any
Would-be Richard Burton,
Some shrew-taming Petruchio,
Over the top & out of a job,
Again.
Ask any director who
Directed in the 1950s and 60s?
"Difficult to handle," says Unanimous,
Auteurs & Schlock Filmmakers,
Alike.
Turturro too, needs special handling,
Or Jesus Quintana will chew up the scenery,
Emilio Lopez will be sneaky-sneaky-sneaky,
Materializing without warning over & over
Again.
Turturro: veteran of 60+ films,
*Barton Fink, Miller's Crossing,
Fading ****** The Color of Money,
Do the Right Thing,
O Brother, Where Art Thou?*
Turturro TV: Frazier, Monk & Miami Vice.
And others.
Turturro: a Brooklyn boy, Italian,
Roman-Catholic, the son of Katherine,
An amateur jazz singer who worked in a
Navy yard during World War II, &
Nicholas Turturro, a carpenter &
Construction worker who fought as a
Navy sailor on D-Day.
Turturro: attended the State University of
New York at New Paltz, completed his
MFA at the Yale School of Drama.
A life most worthy, capped off with
Amedeo & Diego, his two sons.
So, I'd like to thank The Academy,
In advance yet decades overdue:
A Lifetime Achievement Award, Johnny.
Recognition over the long haul.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
Poetry give a voice to a prison inmate
he show emotions
Poetry is evolution of man capabilities
to see beyond the clouds
Poetry is art with kaleidoscope images
With the eyes
of an double-edge sword
That dug deeper into ones soul
Poetry is a purge for a dark soul
That clog ones’ artery
Poetry is fighting words against
An ill manner society
Poetry is an untimely wave
It never ceases to amaze us
Poetry is a stage plays: plays out
and became a big part in the court room drama
While the defense lawyers demonstrated
Their incompetence in many ways
If the gloves don't fit,
you must acquit.
Poetry is the flags we wave during
An uprising, as we protest again Apartheid
Poetry is the language that every poet
Want to translate into categories
Poetry is a threat to the man in higher power
As he sit upon his thrones
Poetry is the pacifier to a baby
As the lullabies and nursery rhyme soothe him to sleep
Poetry is the key to a romance
as the relationship loses its flavor
Poetry is an sale pitch
Its sell itself throughout history
Poetry is an eye opener it can break you
Or make you repeat tongue twisting words
Poetry is proverbs, Psalms and Eulogies
As it release ones souls into the unknown
Poetry is the key that bring us together
As we fall apart
Poetry is what held the slaves together
Through a time of injustice
Poetry is looking at the sun, the moon
And the stars, as we say silly words
“How lovely the moon looks tonight”
If only I could touch the stars, I would place one
In your lovely hair as we gaze into each other eyes.
Poetry is the recall of a poet bad romance
That gone sour
Poetry is the seasons of poems as it rolls with
The elements of the weather
Poetry is the voice of a mute poet
Who perform in silence while the
audience read his mind
The Poem was inspired by Emilio Villa
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
I thought you were my prince charming
The one that would save me from myself
The one person that would listen to me
And think that I was normal and great
It started off amazing and normal
As I marveled your Emilio Estevez smile
And got lost in your deep blue eyes
But for some reason you always covered them
With those sunglasses that made you look so cool
Just your smile gave me chills
I wish things could have stayed like that
But fate had its own destiny for us
And now we are thousand miles apart
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
my church is a lake
the great big rippling dark green its hall
and the tree on the other side
(the big one with the slit in its trunk,
for the sun (God) to shine through)
is its altar
and I can hear Him speak as
the wind that rustles the leaves
a thousand brilliant-green leaves
shaking in His gentle breath
the branches studded with angels
His children that dance as spots of sunlight
on the leaves, on the water, on my head
and Emilio in the freckles on my shoulders
the lake is my church
I float in the water and pray
to God with my arms wide open, I pray
for you
to drift into my embrace
so I will never let you go;
I will never let you go.
Jun 24, 2020
Jun 24, 2020 at 12:44 PM UTC
Inabot lamang ay sekondarya
Subalit naging heneral mula kapitan
Itinatag pinakaunang republika
Sinagupa dalawang lahing dayuhan.
-12/16/2014
(Dumarao)
*Pinuno Namin sa Panahong Tanso Collection
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 10:24 PM UTC
I lost my virginity looking at an art
though my innocence remains in its meaning
You told me stories and how you love art so much
I asked you "Why don't you love yourself?"
Fragments, broken shards, i'm a fractured bone
but to my surprise, 'twas still blending, exhibiting symmetry
could you imagine how quickly a rupture may turn to rapture
A chocolate misshapen ; melting, dripping into a mess
Its impenetrability is what amazes me
No matter how sharp I became
I just can't get past its protective bubble
If i plead, would you let me in?
I swear, just one look, a glance maybe
and expect me to make a thousand poetries
Perhaps, can I make it my home?
And I'll sleep my remaining days away
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC
I thought,
There could be nothing more awkward
than two half naked middle-school girls
fighting in the middle of a locker room
the imaginative and ingenious verbal warfare of ***** and “Perra”
bouncing off the tall cold grey concrete walls of the showers
combined with the energetic and exaggerated use of hand gestures and physical intimidation
could not be ignored
though I tried, even as the others spectated and incited the two opponents
Because mi guela always says Las mujercitas no se meten donde no la quieran
(Little ladies don’t intervene)
I thought there could be nothing more awkward
Than hiding my face inside a gym locker
With two half-naked middle school girls arguing behind me
Until I heard one of them say “Stop acting like a Mexican”
Mujercita o no I could not remain silent
“What’s that supposed to mean? I asked her, “You know I am Mexican too?”
I thought there could be nothing more awkward
Than two half naked middle school girls fighting
Until I saw both their eyes appraising me
Then shifting between each other
with their brows raise in agreement they said to me
“Mariza you know you’re white” “An Oreo when it comes down to it”
I didn’t know that the name of my favorite cookie could hurt so much
When said with a strange mixture of disinterest and certainty
And I didn’t even know what it meant
But I knew that it was an evaluation of my Mexicanness of my identity
All the mujercitas slowly poured out of that locker room
Not a one making an objection or even feigning interest in what was said to me
It did not matter that I spoke Spanish
It didn’t matter I grew up able to quote every Maria Silvestre movie line
It didn’t matter how much I idolized Vicente Guerro and Emilio Zapata
It didn’t matter how I saw myself
The mujercitas agreed I was dark on the outside, white on the inside
For years, I tried my hardest to prove I was Mexican
But it seems that the standards changed every year
No one was ever convinced
No one wanted to be associated with me
No one believed that I truly cared about the Mexican community
To this day I am trying
What does it mean to be Mexican?
I’m still trying to figure that out
It must be more than a facha, a look
It must be more than music, celebrations, a shared Language, And an Experience
It must be but
No body has ever told me what it is
Only what it is not
Which is Me
an Oreo
And all that it implies
A pocha, a race-traitor, a sell out
Dark on the outside white on the inside
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC
Masses flooding
running, gushing
in sclerotic streets
from Heliopolis to downtown Cairo
and from the great pyramid
to the stone lions
of Pre-colonial royalty
over the river Nile
lost in the way for country heart
me, my soul, and couple of my friends
whom I lead to end arteries
of the city hemorrhagic
were shot by snipers
of Victorian
national police
and some years later,
I want to write a poem
let´s say cosmic
or universal
about that trio human
dream, death and deception
"Emilio, Lorenzo, Enrique
Fueron los tres en mis manos"
a cancer larynx revolution,
of bad alcohol and tobacco?
two holy hands of fate,
and one of eternal ************
and a bored Lenin setting behind a screen?
(the algorithm will do the masses
when the masses are ready to run )
but time as God
is a lazy surgeon
forgot a scalpel in my throat
and I am being cured of every thing
even the nasty hollow
of my tired voice.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 9:58 AM UTC
We dream of electric shocks,
data, meetings and dirt roads
away from the pavement.
Sunday, sun people, indiscriminate leisure.
Papers, the dog that smiles.
This gymnastics makes us better people.
We make up words that sound good. poems
and fruit salads. who would suspect that
is a pompadour a hairstyle? Or what to see
Defense and Justice would be a real pleasure?
I think it would be good to play a Pablo Emilio for
define this situation.
Pablo Emilio is a card game: four cards are dealt
to each player on the table. The idea is that they form a
Square -two above and two below.
Players can see once the cards.
Just once and memorize them. Almost like spying
through an ajar door. The two above are unknown:
Based on that then we will build
our game. The goal is to score the least amount of points
possible by swapping cards with the deck.
There are wildcards; 7, 8 and 9 allow you to make special movements.
And the jack of spades is worth zero.
That's important to remember
because all the other jacks are worth eleven - in a distraction you can
miss this card by changing it with a lower-scoring one-
The hands are played fast and everyone has their method. Sometimes they come to
complete one or two hands and you're done. Remembering the ones below and without knowing the ones
from above we are seeing what to assemble. If we put two or three of the same together, we throw them away
rigged. If not, we are methodically changing one for the other looking for
something.
Pablo Emilio is won when someone sings Pablo Emilio.
And whoever has the lowest score wins.
Naturally.
The important thing in this game is memory, some lights in
certain moments and taken chances.
We could study the repeal of the name Pablo Emilio
or start thinking about the possibility of assembling a low
scoring game.
We could think about what the other has or how he played his previous hand.
But first remember what we have.
Kind of that's the key, but I don't know whether to mention it now
in this short poem.
Contemplate the noise. Comply with chaos even on times of unavoidable crisis.
Or with the secret-warm-love watermarks on those photos that are only ours.
Blood and silence of dirt streets
that lead us away from the pavement. Electricity.
Everything is in ebullition. So do you.
Nov 13, 2022
Nov 13, 2022 at 6:21 AM UTC
I am aware
that I sometimes
write rambling
senseless
words with strange
spacing and indentation
and it's overall not very
good poetry
but it's a really
good way of cataloging
the thoughts that flutter in for a
moment or two like:
Whatever happened to
Emilio Estevez?
I could Google it, but I'm happier with
the mystery.
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 1:12 AM UTC