Little Tidibts

According to an ancient Indian definition, the beautiful is that which from moment to moment is always new.

Poem: Losing Sleep

I cull poetry like I would
a sheaf of wheat, not that
my hand has ever held a scythe.

This is a pause, heavy
with meaning, a raindrop hanging
at the tip of a leaf, sharply slipping.

Tell me how it feels to hold
a pen, a hand, an hour
and say that perhaps it is nothing.

Some days I wish that it would all
just vanish, and that you are just
a grain of sand, an amber fly in my palm.

Don't you realize that even the sky
is a prisoner? We all want a place
to escape. There are always windows.

Come. Lock the door. Close your eyes.
This is my life line, my heart line - traceries
my skin a web, a map of a life.

Pira-Piraso

Heto na naman po tayo,
naga-antayan, nagsusulat
ng linya sa daan, kapirasong
puti, porselas, palamuti
sa kalye. Pang-ilang
tapak na ito, yapak,
pakalat-kalat na parang
naghihintay na tamaan
nang 'sang dosenang
karayom or daliri dahil puro
ganito lang naman
ang ating hahantungan:
sinusundan ang turo
ng kamay ng orasan
papunta sa isa't kalahting
kawalan. Pinaglalaruan
lang naman natin ang boses,
salita, marangyang
pasigaw na sinasabi sa mundo,
"Heto! Andito ako!"

Poem: Shelter

Shelter

I would like to understand this side of raindrops,
how things seem wet and dry, and how in between

you seem to know what I want to say before I even
think of it. Words float like clouds in the blue sky

that separates us. The world is pregnant with rain,
an occassional thunderclap. You lie back and watch

lightning create patterns across the gray canopy,
while I am afraid that we will merely get wet.

(first draft?)

In Rapture - Part 1

She made the decision one Wednesday evening, just as the clock struck 10:34. She stood on the curb, her shadow lengthening on the sidewalk, caught between lamplight and concrete. She wrapped her jacket around her. It was hard to tell where she began and the sidewalk ended.

We never really understood why she hated mirrors. She never carried one with her, like a proper girl. She hated going to the bathroom. She would break mirrors. She would have cuts on her hands, her arms, thin bloodlines lifelines connections from one edge of her skin to another. She grew them like scales, like armor. Nobody would come near her. She was beautiful.

She smoked in the quad where it was forbidden to smoke. Silver lines, translucent in the cold January sunlight, curled around her like ghosts, the trail of ghosts. She would cup a whorl of smoke in her hands before in vanished, the same way little girls would play with bubbles during summer. Her fingers curved invitingly, ending with the sharp tips of her scarlet fingernails.

The store didn’t have a sign outside, just a rectangular window with the shades drawn and warm white light spilling from between the slats of the blinds. Regular exchanges of light and dark, the balance of the universe, stars hanging in the balance. It was humid for a January evening. She shuffled towards the door, glanced once at the sign that was flipped against the glass, and pushed it open.

Chimes tinkled, signaling her arrival.

She kept trinkets to remind her of the boys who loved her. Scented letters, a heart-shaped necklace, kisses. She had a box decorated with shells and glitter sitting on her dresser. It was only half-filled. One boy brought her flowers. A dozen roses. She plucked a petal from the bouquet every time he kissed her. Before midnight, her floor was covered with the blood of roses. In the morning, she swept them up and threw them out the window. Our street was almost like autumn for a week, rose petals gently swirling in the occasional gust of afternoon wind.

The entrance room was spare, quiet except for the hum of the airconditioning. A small desk was set in the far corner of the room, with a potted plant for company. A middle-aged woman in a plum-colored suit sat in front of a typewriting, click-clacking away as she filled up a stack of yellow cards. She didn’t look up when she entered.

Another door was set opposite the entrance. It was closed.

She cleared her throat. "Excuse me?"

Clack-clack-clack.

"Excuse me?"

Clack-clack-clack.

"EXCUSE ME?"

"You wanted something?" a mild voice inquired.

Another boy brought her a box of chocolates. They sat on the opposite ends of the sofa, each reaching towards the chocolates to take one into their mouths. Her lips were bright red, almost as if she bit them constantly. Plump and ripe and almost eager to be tasted.

They both reached for the last chocolate. His skin touched hers. His eyes widened as he saw the spiderweb of scars across her hand, her wrist, her arms. She met his eyes. They say he didn’t see his reflection in them.

Aren't your eyes the mirror to your soul?

The other door opened and a small man wearing a white lab coat entered the room. "You'll have to pardon my wife - she can't hear very well. Was there anything you wanted in particular, my dear?"

"Oh." The man was at least up to her shoulders. "I...I just wanted to take a look around..."

"Thinking of getting a tattoo?"

"Maybe. How much are they?"

"It depends on the size. Where do you want it to be?"

She touched the bare skin between her collarbone and her left breast. Smooth caramel skin, tasted like sugar and coffee and sunshine. "Here." Her fingers traced a small circle across the surface. "Somewhere here."

The little man smiled at her. "I have just the thing."

NaNoWriMo: Concerning an Old Newspaper Article

NEW TONDO - The body of heiress Rozario Alcala, 18, was found dead behind a row of potted marijuana with approximately 37 stab wounds around her body. She has been reported missing for two days. Alcala is the only daughter of Senator Dick Alcala and media mogul Jacqueline Matthias. The victim was last seen at the launch of her band The Lost Girls at VH1, a trendy bar in uptown Makari City, where she left the party after a heated argument with boyfriend J Kulas, 19.

Police are investigating the matter. No suspects have been apprehended.

- reported by Huli Angeles

(Page 6A, The Philippine Oracle, December 26, 2010)

Returning to My Roots

Okay, I'm back. It's been such a long time since I last wrote here that I'm not even sure people remember this little space. Ah well, it's all right, it doesn't really matter. It's nice to have such a quiet little retreat in the madness of the Internet.

So - this is the little "literary" space of The Sundial Girl. Vignettes, short stories, attempts at poetry, poems from poets I admire - all of them go here. Oh, and my attempt at NaNoWriMo also goes here. I'll build the place up as we go along. For the meantime, I just like the fact that it's quiet here. ^_^

Let's see how far along I can take this little niche for a ride.