Gravity, Woman and Trees

Gravity, Woman and Trees

Gravity” is a form of rebellion. I like to think that there is no conflict between science and art. Poetry is still science. A poet is a philosopher. She tends to understand the forms and meanings around her. As a poet, she is the maker of meaning and as a philosopher she enlightens it.

The poem “Gravity” is a story of defying gravity as a form of a woman’s escape from the horrors of being a woman. In this case, the only way to defy gravity is to climb a tree and never to fall down.

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Women get tired of being mothers. Women get tired of being wives. Women get tired of being women. And so they run away. They become like chameleons, hiding in the trees, in the trunks. Finally, they disappear.

I always have problems with the revision process. It worries me knowing I am rearranging the words because they might change the idea. But of course, the readers always have their own interpretation and it is their right.

And so here are my versions of “Gravity”:

 

The first draft:

Woman

 

Climb on a coconut tree

With no thought of gravity to pull you down

Let your feet cling to its body

Forget your children

crawling on the ground now

like hungry beasts waiting to be fed by your sagged breasts

Your skirt sails with the wind

[You would have wanted to let it strip you naked]

 

Continue climbing

And forget about gravity

While your long hair dances

with no gracefulness at all

Let your hands grip tightly

Until your every fingernail scratch the skin of the tree

And not his own skin

that has been scratched many times by different fingernails

 

Forget about gravity

Forget about falling down again

on his lies

on the horror of the little mouths sucking your now dark nipples

Climb higher

Forget about your clitoris

Forget about your breasts

There is no woman

only trees.

 

The final draft:

 

Gravity

 

Climb a tree

With no thought of gravity to pull you down

Let your feet grip tightly to its body

Forget your children

Crawling on the ground

Like beasts waiting to be fed on your sagging breasts

As your skirt calmly sways in the wind

 

Go on, climb

Forget about gravity

Let your long hair dance

Clasp the trunk tighter

Forget your fingernails you once clawed

On your husband’s skin

Every time he returns home

Scratched by different fingernails

By different sins

 

Think not of gravity

Of falling down again to his lies

And the horror of little mouths sucking

Your dark nipples raw

Climb higher

Forget about your hair

Forget about your skirt

Forget about your breasts

Forget about your clitoris

There is no woman

Only trees

 

“Gravity” was published last March 2008 in Dagmay, a literary journal of the Davao Writers Guild

http://dagmay.kom.ph/2008/03/09/gravity/

love and nicotine

 The_Kiss_by_NicotineDesire your shirts drenched with sweat

  you sat on the sand

  you felt holy wearing the nicotine on your shirt

  i felt holy wearing nothing but hate

  you reclaimed sanity with your words drifting in the waves

  i reclaimed sanity with this anger growing in my head

Eating Poetry

Eating Poetry

shoots_and_ladders_by_red_holly

A poet eats poetically. She eats pages of poems. She chews pages of poems. She burps poetically. Before she becomes a hardcore poet, she must purge her wastes and forget everything but poetry. Her body is scarred with words and signs and texts. She cannot buy poems in a convenience store so she cooks poems and have them for dinner. Sometimes, she eats them at breakfast. She is a hungry, fat poet. And poetry is poisoning her until she romantically vomits poems on the dining table.

Poetic Masturbation

Don__t_kill_yourself_Baby_by_HeadhittinOnce upon a time, a penis was born. He was a sad little penis and he could not talk nor snore. He could only write words on the sheets of his mind. But every time a white liquid bursts out of his body, [that he thought was just pure shit] he realized that thinking too much is too messy. Yeah, messy but it tempted him to do it all over again. He was a writer after all and he was not just a crazy little penis waiting to be just inserted in someone else’s hole. he was something else.

To be a writer is to masturbate. You cannot masturbate out of nothing, thus, you cannot write out of nothing at all. When I write, I stain lost pages, I drink the elixir of life. I understand deaths, half deaths, senseless deaths. I write pains because it is only in those sheets that they can get stained, and sooner they will no longer inhabit my head. I write based on how i see the world and how he world wanted me to see itself. I become a writer when there is enough reason for madness and temptations to hate and to love.

I practice masturbation. I practice writing in my mind and let them crawl in the tip of my fingernails. I form cobwebs in my papers. I do not want to write when i have positive feelings because they kill my pain to write. I listen to music, those songs that had images that reflect emotions.

And so most of my poems ejaculated out of rage and seductions of pain and bleeding heads. I am mesmerized by the idea of forming relationships and losing them at the same time. I want to understand how they die in their own beds, shirts, bellies and hands. Most of my speakers are ordinary women struggling in the world of their own relationships. I find my theme common and so in any possible way, I want to explore every fiber of a relationship to taste them fully in my own mouth.

And to that, may I live forever.

The Rape of Faith

your lips tasted god

or is it god?

whom you wanted to slay

strip him naked

and fuck him on the floor

where his blood trickles

arouse by its smell

you lick his every wounded skin

tasting ancient memories

of Pontius Pilate of Jews of your disciples

taste him raw

hear him moan like a priestess’ prayers

smell his holiness

his sweating armpits

his dirty feet

feel him inside

to purify the blackness of your soul

after all he is a god

-your very own religion