It was the iambus or the five-dimensional
hair of this type of ancient Greek poetry,
which includes, among others, modern
models of five meters that identify
the denomination of Demeter
and Dionisio. This type appeared
in offensive and inappropriate
language, sometimes called "guilt
of guilt". But for the editors
of Alexandria, Imbus symbolizes
all the hair intended for formal
entertainment, and it seems that
it was done in similar cases for
Eliga despite the lack of pride.
The most famous Greek poets,
Archilou, Samonidis and Hibonax
were among its first fans.
The Turkish poet Kallimachos
wrote the "idiotic" songs of modern
scholars, gathered in line 1000,
including the fragments of poem
thirteen. He influenced Roman
poets, such as Catulus, who installed
the satirical puzzles that produced
the swallam language.
The epics, but most of the tradition
of Horace Artz'ilocos, as is the case
of the Greek poet, received the words
condemnation are forms of private
revenge and social condemnation
of criminals. Originally it was the label
"Imba" which marked the type of hair,
especially the content, and only in the
second place means a metric term.
This is evidenced, for example, by
the fact that Archibox, a famous Ibalian
poet, has been criticized for being too
"ambitious". It seems that this type
has arisen from the worship of Demeter,
which in celebrations usually appears
as offensive language offensive,
aischrologia. A character called "IMVU"
is still mentioned in the hymn of Demeter
Homer, and the employer in such an attack,
and instead, they forget their sadness
and laughter. The misuse of the deity
is also common in other names
as a cynical measure of piety: "The
physical condition is reinforced
by an inverse test." A common element
in any iambus is to blame,
call attention to serious
or inappropriate behaviors.
It is aimed at an audience
of common values ​​and customs,
represented as a threat,
as a group of citizens or friends.
Whatever,
the real band, the audience
votes in the role of mutual friends
and friendship, news or Latin Latin
extracts in various ways: the poet,
speaking of the face, not for those
who are visiting directly,
if he was a member of the Group
and if from the outside it can
be. A poet can assume the role
of guilty of inappropriate
behavior by condemning himself
in his own words. A poet can tell
a story that combines "one's
own categories" with a narrative
description of inappropriate
behavior. There was the feeling
of guilt between the comical
voices of friends and the ruthless
attacks on strangers.
The old literary theorists,
the lime chloride in front
of the hair are considered
less, partly because m Aimbiki,
the simplest form of expression,
the closest word, but also
its content is respected. It is not
clear what was the role of Archilocus
in the development of this type
at the beginning of the 7th century.
Dimitra was a great god from
the house of his island, Paros,
but it is not clear in his poetry.

He may have been involved
in the worship of Dionysus.
It seems that this cult association
with Ambus seems to be a distinct
poetic form associated
with Baldaonneram, a term
that seems to have the same root
as "Aaambos". Diitirmbim
was at the beginning of the "wild
subject" at that time, and it was obvious
the controversial development
of Artz'ilocos of the cult of Dionysus
at Paros, and perhaps in relation
to the ******* ceremonies. There is no
clear proof of the original place to feel
and dislike, but perhaps the main event
was a drinking ceremony,
or a seminar and ritual festival.

Nor do we clearly know the role
played by Javanese poetry in ancient
society. It was certainly complicated.
He seems to have found his voice
in times of social change and political
polemic when the poet felt empowered
or authorized to declare and condemn.
He wrote seminars, perhaps
in the middle of the seventh century,
a verse on the subject of the tendencies
of Imbi, but without Hamas Archilochos.
After hundreds of years, Artz'ilocos,
Hifonks Choliambs consists of emitting
a critical class of deliberate iodine
that symbolizes the virtues and defects
of man, but the iambus seems
to be mainly entertaining understanding
his work, but it can vary a lot
when exposed to fractures and
little more have not been evaluated
by the religious and moral nature
of this type of honor, perhaps,
the poet Valerie Pindar
of the fifth century,
argued that Artz'ilocos
was a "sharp tongue"
and was thickened by the harsh
words of hate, but the brand
The archer Aimbos is still Julius
to find him.

Here I scatter the ashes of our Wednesdays
and throw dirt on our names because we fell into a stupor of unsaid goodbyes and insincere apologies.

I take my time trying to unclench my fist,
after all, release is only sweet when you feel suffocated.

I always made sure to adjust my grasp to your comfort,
present my entirety as if you owned more than a half of what I used to be.
I remember you in things that have no heartbeat, but a pulse of regret and anger that devours it, and to think you swore you would keep me alive.

In Binondo, you taught me how to eat street foods, walk in the crowded places, sit still on taxi rides,
and feel beautiful even when you kept your eyes off me.
You believed in slow motion, and the magic of lugaw at 12AM,
I watched you in a fascinated haze.
Too unsure of the light.

In Fairview, I told you that I cry during movies and laughed at the way you spun me around in the theater. Hand on my waist for good measure. I showed you claw machines and photobooths,
at least remember me.
I held your hand the first time, bled on
a piece of paper you read on the way to Quiapo, and all the long rides have made me feel empty ever since.

In Ilocos, I gave you a warm kisses on your cheeks when you took me
to church the first time, head spun just at the right angle for when
I walk down the aisle in a dress with you waiting at the end of it,
not knowing that in 4 years, I’d come back at someone
else’s wedding, begging on my knees at silent altars to keep you
even with my faith hanging from my fingertips. You still left.

In Intramuros, I see you in every nook and crevice,
in the holes, in the walls with Lechon Kawali, in quiet places we
claimed are for ourselves. In street vendors, ATM machines,
and pedestrian lanes too dangerous to walk on. Nowadays,
I shut my eyes in the backseat, afraid to see a shadow of who
I thought you were whenever I am near.

In Pasay there are people to see and places to walk
through to cover the tracks of almost lovers, a pair of shoes
to buy, impatience on my throat, and kisses on cheek as a cure
for my silence and satiation for the hunger below your navel.

In EDSA, we locked more than just lips, ate street Palitaw,
knocked three times on wooden doors, even lit candles to be sure,
that we would keep each other for good. Someone must have
knocked harder, the wind must have swept our fire out,
and we were fools to think promises were as simple as padlocks
that rust and break in the rain. How I never told you that I pictured
us in a million other bus rides that night. The road could never
have been shorter than the infinite one you promised.

In Pandacan, you wanted a life with me  
with nights in bed, the sickening kind of happiness harrowing
the peace we always knew we had. You held me close
and by the early hours of the morning you swore you’d meet me
again when the clock strikes twelve on a different year. I think
you left your love for me in that two-bedroom suite, and
wouldn’t it be wise if I left mine right next to yours, folded
and hung before the stain of resentment covered it whole?

In between the hurt and madness, memories of us
unfolding without grace on the table, I loved you.

You knew what you were doing when you let go of me to hold
onto someone else that was never as sure as I was of you,
and I wake up in sweat at 3AM thinking I never really knew.

Now we are in places we’ve never been, and I dry
swallow the hurt that swells even when I no longer touch it.
There are spaces I no longer need to be filled because I got used to being hollow
even when I was next to you
and now that I don’t have to be there anymore
it makes it easier to forget you ever happened, and I will tiptoe my way out of these places until I no longer feel you everywhere.

you will know she is a poetess
if she likes to wear long-sleeves
long-sleeves that hide the scars
long-sleeves that hold her bruised arms together
long-sleeves with a slit near the shoulder
where she tried to wear her heart
(but poured it out in ink instead)

she will have long hair
or walk like she does
because hair is memory
cutting it is like erasing yesterday's you
restyling it is like recreating you.
her hair will have leaves in it
and leftover twine
from the flower crown she wears
or if she is the daring kind
her hair will have silverdust
(proof of how close her words
got her to the moon)

if she smiles and laughs
and never shows pain
she is a poetess
because a poetess writes her hurt down
in free verses and half-finished sonnets
and she cries not on a boy's shoulder
but on paper where her tears are caught by
the swooping syllables and dauntless denotations
making her words come alive
(because where there is water, there is life)

if you meet a person and assume she is a poetess
check first her palms
(if she will show them to you)
they must show no sign of ink
(for a poetess is sometimes secretive)
no, you must be able to trace the constellations
along the creases of her palm
smell the rocket smoke
and see the nebulae dotting her flesh
where she managed to catch stars.
congratulate her
and maybe, she will lift the hem
of her long pearl blue skirt
and show you the wings on her ankles
and if you're lucky, she will tell you story
upon story
upon story.

if you are able to tell a poetess from a person
and you find her,
keep her.
keep her close to where
the drums of your soul beat from
keep her next to your dreams of sailing and pink seas
keep her in the mental list you keep
of people you will never, ever leave
(and she will keep you, too)

when she dies,
wrap her body in a white Ilocos blanket.
use no coffin.
let the earth swallow her up
(but don't let it swallow her words)
tend to the fire she left you
plan to set out on a quest
to look
for other word-weavers
because it is impossible to live without
these storytellers
then go back to her writing desk
touch the last thing she held
and look for a hole
a false drawer
a hidden key
anything that keeps.
and i promise you,
you will find
more poems.
and if you spread each page out on the floor
its letters will rearrange
and form your name
and point you to a poem hidden
in a pocket she sewed inside her coat
and the first line will read,


"how to tell if she is a poetess"