Breather

It’s rare that I try to write a poem. I don’t think I can do meter and rhyme. It’s so rare that I was only able to muster one poem, if it can even be called that.  I wrote this back in college. Poets surrounded me that time. Ophelia Dimalanta’s work awed me. I wanted to try it. I wanted to give it a shot. I didnt’ know where to start, though. Poems are tough to do. so I decided to sit down and write about something I was terribly good at. 

Breather
by Samir

Air seeping in and out.
breathing becomes heavier, breath warmer
I can’t help but let go of a low moan,
the subtle sounds of my kept fury.
Passion becomes wilder, desire hotter.
I open my eyes.
Seeing you so close heightens my pleasure.
I close my eyes, ready to explore.
Positioning slightly sideways for a better angle,
I extend my probing tool.

Entering.
I can feel your wetness. Can you feel mine?
Sensation unmatched as you reciprocate.
Such a glorious feeling this stolen intimacy of ours.
Kissing is indeed the most intimate human activity.
There is control and there is submission.
I am now sure that the tongue has a far more nobler purpose.

ii
Remembrance. Reminiscence.
To you whom I last kissed.
I want you to know that,
the sweetness of your mouth is still on mine,
the contours of your lips are still imprinted.
but memory is such a cruel refuge.
Wanted or not it creeps in,
good and bad mix forming unfathomable blends,
One glimpse as evanescent as the next,
alas, it is as fleeting as it is enduring.

ii
Back to the moment.
Bi-directional winds push our bodies together.
Our lips brush.
By some force of nature the openings part,
giving warm breath a chance to escape.
Our mouths form a wonderful fit.
Such a silky sensation as our lips gracefully glide.
And like a good kiss, ours have rhythm.
It travels on slopes, rides on beats.
It’s agile one moment and leisurely the next,
relishing then caressing.

In the whirlwind of our fancy,
as we explore the carnal and the divine,
it is somehow lucid
that we have become solitary.
Something more than my fluid flows through you.

but alas we have to depart from each other.
Time must move forth and this stolen interlude
of ours now expires.
We smile as we disentangle.

Here’s hoping we are just taking a breather.

———————————————-

Footnote: I remember I wanted to show this to Dean Dimalanta then. I didn’t want to embarass myself with its mediocrity, so I just folded it and kept it.

Poetic

My daughter, my second child, was born 2:05PM on June 30. I was there, in the birthing room, from start to finish, from contractions to crowning. To call that occasion magnificent is an understatement. To call it miraculous is probably an overstatement. It’s definitely somewhere in between. My first child’s birth, being first, was teeming with apprehension. This one was pure anticipation. It’s a wonderful feeling to have a boy and a girl now. Possibly picture perfect.

There was something about the day that seemed wrong, though. It bothered me at first. Of all the days in the year, why does this have to happen this particular day? Faye’s estimated due date was July 3^rd.  Kareena could have waited until then. On the morning of June 30, while we were on the way to the hospital, I had this uneasiness. After two false alarms, I felt that this was going to be it.  Again, I was a bit bothered. What will my family feel? How would I feel? How can I celebrate my daughter’s birthday on the day my beloved mommy was murdered?

June 30, 1998. That was seven years ago. I still try to deny it.  I still try to erase and shake off the events leading to that and the events after that. I cringe, uncontrollably, at the mere thought of it all. I still haven’t forgiven life for being so cruelly unfair.  It was an effed up world and I just couldn’t believe the world, and life for that matter, can eff me up like that.

That day at the funeral, I told my mom that in my heart I had forgiven the bastards that did this to her and I was sincere about that. I felt that’s what I had to do so that she can be free from this world. I had to tell her that her bunso would be OK. I had to tell her not to worry about me, that I would be well. There shouldn’t be anything that would keep her from her destination, her home.

And so I continued on, living life day to day.  I concentrated on my work, my wife and my son. I was doing well, I think, and I know she was proud. I have thought about her, about my youth, about our family and every time I do so I feel my chest tighten. And so I try to shake it off. She did not die, I tell myself. She’s just there. I just haven’t seen her yet, that’s all. When I look at Rakesh, knowing how he can gain so much from her love as I have, I feel my chest tighten. And so I try to shake it off. She’s not dead, I tell myself. I’m just in another country. I just haven’t seen her in a while, that’s all.

Darn, this is not an easy piece to write.

On the way to the hospital on that morning of June 30, as I had both feelings of excitement and apprehension, I had an epiphany of sorts. It was like the miasma suddenly cleared. It was like my mom talking to me. It was her asking me to move on, asking me to celebrate the day. It was her telling me that she’ll love me another way and I could very well reciprocate by loving her granddaughter. 

And so Kareena was born healthy. I even cut her cord. It was wonderful. I had my wife, my daughter and my mom in that room. Kareena was born at around 2PM. Mommy left this world at around 2PM, seven years ago.  I waited so long for mommy to communicate to me. I’m glad she finally did. 

Life, even death, can be amazingly poetic sometimes.

———————————————————————

Hush now, don’t you cry
Wipe away the teardrop from your eye
You’re lying safe in bed
It was all a bad dream
Spinning in your head
Your mind tricked you to feel the pain
Of someone close to you
Leaving the game…of life
So here it is, another chance
Wide awake you face the day
Your dream is over…or has it just begun…

There’s a place I like to hide
A doorway that I run through in the night
Relax child, you were there
But only didn’t realize and you were scared
It’s a place where you will learn
To face your fears, retrace the years
And ride the whims of your mind
Commanding in another world
Suddenly…you hear and see
This magic new dimension

I…will be watching over you
I…am gonna help you see it through
I…will protect you in the night
I’m smiling next to you…in silent lucidity…

1990 Queensryche. Silent Lucidity

Blank

Oh the weblog. I saw this phenomenon creeping up some time ago and I did not see myself riding this wave. First, I felt old and this blogging exercise seemed relevant only for today’s youth. Second, I felt that I was not a writer anymore. I haven’t written anything in years. Worse, I was actually afraid of picking up the pen and putting it to proper use. When I was a younger, writing was a natural outcome of inspiration and despair. And they were as plentiful as testosterone in those days. Writing was done during moments of sanity and lucidity. And those moments were so darn frequent those days.

After college, writing became a profession, albeit it was mostly devoid of self-expression. Still, it was fulfilling. It fulfilled a basic conceit – that the work will be read and that the reader will be moved by the work. The material was not a problem. There were so many things to write about, there was a paper to write on, there was a powerful medium and there was an audience.

That was five years ago. I’ve written mostly nothing since then. Rust has taken over. Reality has taken over. Writing, for whatever purpose, personal or professional, is kept in a luggage in the closet. Heck, I wasn’t really good at it anyway so it sure wasn’t missed. And besides I am now happy and comfortable with computers and technology. They are my world now. The youth can talk and write and blog all they want. They have all the time in the world and I’m busy.

Or maybe not. Maybe I can shake the cobwebs off. Maybe I can re-discover this and maybe I can feel young again. Maybe its time to give this blogging a try – not to find a reader but to find the writer. That’s the beauty of web logging, I guess. Everyone is a biographer, a journalist, a propagandist, an essayist, a communicator. It’s raw, unadulterated, immediate, cathartic and free. Yeah, maybe it’s time to bring out my friends Strunk and White.

So what should I write about? Something substantial or whimsical? Maybe I should blog about nothing. Maybe that’s it. Start from a blank slate. Well, here it goes…..