pour mon fils

thesis acknowledgements

2010-03-26T23:56:00.000-07:00

To the absence of condom sometime in July 2009, I owe everything in this thesis to you equipped with the rawest self I had.

We were gods. And all this is remembrance, and all this is desire.
But also it is love..
- Jose Garcia Villa, Poem Written Beneath a Blue Lampshade

To JESUS CHRIST, the pioneering poet who possibly wrote my life, thank you for adding the motherhood phase which has become the sole material of this thesis.

To all the mothers who are part of me being a mother, I salute you all.
To the fathers as well, I acknowledge your presence and connection, and that is all.

To my mother and grandmother, please be reminded of the unending apology for the disappointment I contribute to the family, part of which my being a college bitch and an early neophyte to the motherhood life.
To the financial support extended by my uncles and aunties (mother’s side only), without this family I would not be able to escape the poverty line passed on to me by my parents. Thank you for all the material things, the money, the luxury and the tolerable attitude you had given to me.
To my twin sister, I LOVE YOU. I hated you with the image of the UP sablay in comparison with me carrying my son; I appreciate your sensitivity during my post partum madness.

To Jasper Nikki dela Cruz, you are my muse in writing this thesis.
To Roselle and Jeffrey, thank you for the stars when there is nothing left in our skies, for the tambling-moments and rengga-like pastime after the rain.
To Allen, Loloi, Mershi, Marius and Clyde, I will forever keep the love we had, love for words, love for poems.
To Rigil, Van, Lyda, Joy and Krizza, thank you for being diligent in our literary class, I believe that you will all become wonderful mothers someday.
To Yas Ocampo, I am still having a space for the memories we had and for the place we visited where we once found peace and secrets between us.
To Ms. Evelyn Ayson, thank you for the room I stayed for two years and for the assumption if it was the place we used when we had the baby, (I hope you will not read this acknowledgment) but YES Maam, it was the sacred place.
To my live-in partners in Espinos: Yotch, Dy sisters, Marc, Yoyong, and Spartan boy I still crave for our durian, Spartan shot, Panadero washing-moments and Mintal Park tagay nights. I had failed almost all my subjects that semester but I had what they called satisfied intelligent madness.
To Kappa Epsilon Sorority and Fraternity, I discovered myself with you, thank you for spicing up my life.

To Professor Nino, thank you for understanding my poetry when I first took Poetry 1 until I reach this poetry collection.
To Professor Ricky, shame on me having this poetry collection and failing Poetry 2 under you, I wish to pass it, next time around with respect to you and to the musicality of your poems I adore.
To Professor Tim, your quotable quotes in writing will forever live in me.
To Professor Quintero, thank you for your kindness and sweetness, you really deserve to have an Ilonggo husband, someone who has the melody and music when he speaks.
To Sir John and Maam Claire, you are one of my strongest backbone in writing, I am dreaming to have this thesis again with the two of you as part of my panelists.
To my adviser, Professor Jhoanna, thank you for believing not just in my writing but most especially for believing in me. Thank you for accepting me as your advisee despite the fact that you exceeded the number of advisees that time. Thank you for the inspiration to write again and for the courage to expose not just my writing self but my totality as a mother— as an aspiring writer.
To my uncle, El Cid, thank you for helping me give a fair translation to my poetry, thank you for showing me what fathers should really be.

To my husband, I was the luckiest woman the moment I had our son. Forever is waiting ahead of us.
To Lord Josef Alexandroz Angelo Prias, my son, I hope that when you will be able to read this thesis, you will reach the unplumbed depth of motherhood, the one that I entered when I had you.

This is for the unborn poems that needed to be born; that needed to be mothered by me.

BUGHAT

2010-02-15T17:39:00.000-08:00

Her vision blackened—

like a mirror under the rain
her ears deafened
like a whispering seraphim

Her eyes blackened—

she is bathing her child in a basin
the water rises
overflowing in the basin
flooding the table, flooding the floor—
her entire universe

She holds her child’s neck
covering the ears with her thumb and index finger
at the back of its soft head
she crumples what is in her hand
she wrings, she squeezes
and slaps it in the basin of water
to the water’s unplumbed depth
not to drift
not to float
not to cry.

I WILL TEACH YOU HOW TO KNOT THE CONDOM WE USED LAST NIGHT

2010-02-15T17:37:00.004-08:00

I will teach you how to knot the condom we used last night:
It is as easy as taking off your socks.
Only that it is scented
-it is dotted.

Make a circle of your thumb and index finger.
(its natural to be slimy because you have been into the spot)
Roll the opening half way downwards
pull the tip with timid care
and knot both ends like those of your shoelaces.

Do not spill our youngs.
for I will use them in my poems
after you knot them with silences.

WHEN SHE BECOMES A FATHER

2010-02-15T17:37:00.003-08:00

Her armpits wet and
tired while she’s drilling the screw—
sinking in her sweat.
She holds his pliers and fix
their young son’s ragged toy car.

HER ABSENCE IN THE YEARLY SINEWS

2010-02-15T17:37:00.001-08:00

She was once a star
in this stage, reading a poem
illuminated
with beauty and light, chasing—
shadows of pregnancy light.

WORLD PASSING HER BY (tanka)

2010-02-15T17:36:00.000-08:00

Dawn bridges daylight
rooster crows on our rooftop,
he chokes while snoring—
the cicada’s song fading,
our son’s smile keeps me awake.

BABAYI, WALA PAHAWAY (WOMAN NO REST)

2010-02-15T17:35:00.000-08:00

BABAYI, WALA PAHAWAY

Ginkapoy ya katre
kag ang iya tiil nagruluya
dungan sa paglampos kag paghampak
sang akon nga buli
sa ibabaw sang banig.
Nagnguyngoy siya sa amon kabug-at
kag nag-ungol upod sa kada pag-uyog
kag kada ragitnit sang iya nga mga tiil.
Asta nagmarala dulang ang akon tutunlan
sa paglagas sang ginhawa,
sa kabika,
sa kakapoy—
ya akon iya pinalangga nga bana,
manamit dun nga nagdamgu
kag ang iya dulamang nga huragok ang wala liwan nga mabatian
sa tunga sang kaagahon.
Kanami pa man tani maghuruhigda sa iya nga dughan
kung wala lamang naghaluk ang yab-ok sang aga sa akon nga panit
dungan sa aso sang akon batok nga tinig-ang.

TRANSLATION...

WOMAN NO REST

The bed was tired
and its legs weaken
with the slamming of my butt on the bed cover
it cried because of our heaviness
and moaned with every push
and every squeak.
While I was banged on the bed
and out of breath,
my beloved husband was far away with his dreams,
I only heard his snore in this muted dawn.
I wanted to lie in his chest,
but the morning dust kissed my skin
with the smoke of my overcooked rice.

PANYO (HANDKERCHIEF)

2010-02-15T17:34:00.001-08:00

PANYO

Ari ako—
Gatapis ka tu-alya
kag nagakuso sang mga lampin nga lagu
sa labador sang bula— ako nagduko
ginhulom ang mga kamut
kag ginbatyag ang imo panyo
panyo nga ginmalhan na
ka aton mga luha (sang nabal-an mo nga ginadala ko
ang iya bata
kag hindi iya imo)
mahapdus sa mata ining sabon
nagpisngo sa baho sang sabon
kag nagnguygoy sa nagriligad
ta nga kahapon.

TRANSLATION..

HANDKERCHIEF

There I was—
wrapped with a towel
while washing baby’s wet diaper,
I soaked my hands with soap
and felt your handkerchief
(that you once used to wipe your tears
when you found out that I was carrying his child
and not yours)
this soap stung my eyes
and a tear fell in the water basin
of our abandoned past.

ANG PAGBIYA SA SIGARILYO (A FAREWELL TO CIGARETTE)

2010-02-15T17:31:00.000-08:00

ANG PAGBIYA SA SIGARILYO

Nagapungko siya sa tumba-tumba
samtang nagabuga sang aso
pinaagi sa iya nga ilong.
kada tak-tak niya sang sigarilyo
ang upos ginatipon sa isa ka surudlan.

Ginpabay-an ko lang siya
manigarilyo sa gwa
samtang ginatan-as ta ikaw
nagatulog
sa imo nga kuna
kay bal-an ko
ang mga upos nga ginatipon niya
hindi na masundan pa.

TRANSLATION..

A FAREWELL TO CIGARETTE

She was sitting in a rocking chair
While making a train of smoke
Through her nostrils
When she was done with the cigarette
She kept the cigarette butt
In an ashtray.

I let her smoke outside
while I was watching you
sleeping
in your crib
for I know
that the cigarette butts
that she kept
will be her last ones.

VILLANELLE FOR A BUMPY RIDE

2010-02-15T17:30:00.000-08:00

All my mothers will hum your lullaby
Hold tight as we ride the habal-habal.
And they will all forgive when you first cry.

Quietness falling, not failing the skies
Hold tight as we bump along the rough road.
All my mothers will hum your lullaby.

I will not pass the Abortion Road and die,
Daddy will drive us home before midnight
And they will all forgive when you first cry.

Stars blink and sing, and so do I
Listening to your heartbeat with my heartbeat
All my mothers will hum your lullaby.

I pray and am blessed; these tears will dry
You’ll breathe in all the poems that I will write,
They will all forgive when you first cry.

Grip tighter, for darkness will say goodbye,
Just sleep inside, my sweetest mistake
All my mothers will hum your lullaby,
And they will all forgive when you first cry.

HER COMPLAINING VAGINA

2010-02-15T17:28:00.000-08:00

The stretch feels like a mouth,
an angry screaming mouth
it stretches in both ends
and sag in crumpled edges
it moans and loss
its rhythm,
and its orgasmic symphony.

It shouts with every push,
and every hammering—
of a husband to his wife
with each tiring night
her chores ending
only after
he falls asleep.

A LIST TO FALSE IDEAL

2010-02-15T17:27:00.000-08:00

She never used the TV as a baby sitter
but she turned it on
then she co-watched Baby Einstein,
narrating for her child in the silences.
She gave up on feeling sexy—
her body was her child’s, so were possessions:
the squeezy feel of a chubby bottom,
and the silky softness of the baby’s head.
She slept with her child (because she read that
It extended quality time to “interact” with the baby even in sleep)
Beyond her back pain and sleep-deprivation delirium,
she felt the sweet glow of virtue.
She bought the Phonics Bus and read
Big Book of Colors, Shapes and Numbers.
She breastfed for at least a year
if she worked, she pumped milk:
seated on the lid of the toilet
humiliating noises rising from her stall while her friends ate lunch
because she believed that her milk would cost six additional IQ points.
She never split domestic tasks with him—
not because he couldn’t, exactly,
or he wouldn’t, exactly,
but because, just because
men and women are different that way.
And that is okay.
Because she needs to be ideal.
Like a poet aiming to be poetic
And ending up with just list of words.

REWRITING MY BODY

2010-02-15T16:45:00.000-08:00

I’ve been to the hole of madness and sanity.
They say it’s a mad woman’s quicksand
it swallows all it smells
every genital and
sagging breasts and
silken legs and
twisted fingernails and
and cracked lips and
fetus—
I stepped out of its mouth
with my dancing feet and
laughing hips and
screaming thighs
and
egg yolk and
saliva all over me—

There after,
I awoke
in the bed of poetry
to re-write my own body.

I. NOBLE SENTIMENT

2009-07-17T03:06:00.000-07:00

I became a familiar stranger to myself since you came.
who is being cocooned in the house
being enslaved by another , absorbed.

Who is immersed by your smell, your feedings, your needs
and I remembered my life before you came
as if it were a dream
as if it belonged to some other person
I knew only vaguely.

I lost myself within the tiny coil,
the perfect comma,
of your body.

La Mère Dans Moi

2009-05-20T19:04:00.000-07:00

Je suis Jermafe Kae Angelo. Je prends l'Écriture Créatrice dans l'Université du Philippines. Mes camarades de classe et amis m'appellent Kaeos, parce qu'ils ont cru que je suis chaotique. Ils m'appellent par ce nom peut-être parce que je suis loquace. J'ai deux tatouages déjà. J'ai commencé à fumer quand j'avais 15 ans.
J'aime écrire des poèmes de l'avortement, la mort et la dépression. Mais maintenant que je suis sur le point de donner naissance à mon enfant, je veux écrire des histoires pour les enfants. Je ne suis pas bon en forme écrite et je suis toujours déprimé quand mon critique d'enseignant mes travaux. Mais maintenant que je suis loin de l'école et loin de mes enseignants et camarades de classe, je peux dire qu'il est mieux d'être critiqué qu'être considéré comme allant de soi.
Je connais maintenant beaucoup de changements dans moi. Je suis forcé à quitter le tabagisme à cause de la grossesse. Auparavant, je pensais juste à moi et m'amusais. Maintenant, ma conviction d'être une mère est renforcée. Je ferai tout pour mon enfant. Et je suis disposé à sacrifier tous juste pour lui.

C'est tout de moi, étant un étudiant et une future maman.

(french 11 removal hahaha)

Bitter

2009-03-30T18:11:00.000-07:00

Her skin is the shore of your oceanic eyes
her hair, the silk on your bed
her kiss is the fire and roses falling over your soul
her eyes, your universe
her lips, her smile- your eternal sky
another you, she is owned by another you
but you are still hers
and never will be mine while
I am, floating
again and again
on the endless sea and far
faraway love.

Vagina, vagina

2009-03-16T19:38:00.000-07:00

I spread these legs and the kissing lips mourn,
as if they are on a face,
as if both ends reaches the ears.
You know no woman’s lower body with ears, right?
Now that’s awkward. Now that’s tasteless.
And so let’s put thighs rather than ears.
Undressed lips stretched through my thighs.
The stretch feels like a virgin. It’s scrumptiously painful.
(A non-virgin forcedly abstained to be virgin.)
Now that’s appropriate. The vagina is now dignified.

My vagina isn’t a mouth,
but it chokes.
My clitoris isn’t a lip,
but it swells after a hungry summer’s kiss.
My vagina can’t talk,
but a man understands if its thirsty or cold.

after visiting a lord's blog

2009-03-01T18:33:00.000-08:00

...you were a falling star who once caressed my night sky

when this line was on my mind about a minute ago, i remembered a college close friend (super close jud dorm-mate-batch-mate-tribal-outfit-mate) and decided to post an entry for her instead.

mind you, this is not an attempt to a pseudodrama entry (as I have been used to).

going on, she was a demure girl (a virgin of course). we were open to exs, as in ex-crushes, ex-lovers, xxx. i had the sorority first, the smoking and drinking sessions with some bullshit persons roaming inside the campus, plus the sexES.. I would assume that these fucktors separate us. I was into the self-exile (after singing praises to the lord in some shitstreets of the city) when i noticed that my friend was turning into my fucktors (except for the sex, i guess).

that was two or so years ago... i will be having a son now, and i heard lots of things about her. lots.of.things. lets put a sad smile thereafter.

i just need to talk with her. she has no ym no friendster no facebook, no cyberlife. i lost the chance to communicate with her. p.s if you know her, tell her to reach me.

*praying to lord ydel after posting it.

The Irony of Baking Thoughts

2009-02-22T00:59:00.000-08:00

While waiting for my son’s arrival, I attended a commercial cooking short term course in my family’s school for more than two months now.

Just this morning, while I was making a meringue for the heart cakes, an unknown intrusion passes through my mind...

The baking pan seemed to be battling with the spatula and the noise was a shotgun to my ears. The sound coming from the electric mixer was grinding my teeth. If it’s not for my desire to bake my first cake, I would definitely leave the kitchen room.
But since I have so much interest with different colors of sugars and sweets, I go with the noise’s flow and wait until a toothpick became clear enough signaling that my cakes were done.

I never imagined myself wearing a chef’s uniform neither holding a cooking pan in front of the gas range. Two months were gone and I have learned the essential element of having a kitchen (which will be part of my new role, being a mother). *char

The irony behind all this is that the water inside my womb is more than half of that of my son’s, and so, my ob restricted me from eating sweets. Too much sugar can poison my son. Even fruits are not allowed to be part of my meal. My carbohydrate intake was trimmed down to ¾ cup per meal. I could only eat unflavored crackers for my merienda. One more reason why I was given a strict diet is that my son is too big to pass through my cervix diagnosing to a positive cesarean operation.

All my butterscotch, brownies, tarts, cakes and durian candies seemed to be so far away even they were just right in front of me.

When things seemed to be so unfair in my part, I just look at my son’s ultrasound photos and I can taste the sweetest thing called motherly sacrifice.

I Miss Being Naked

2009-02-17T01:16:00.000-08:00

I am left out. Bored. And have nothing to do but plant a chin on my palm the whole day while thinking of what lies ahead. I don't have any photocopied stories from a literature class now. I don’t have papers lined to be submitted the following morning. I don’t have to stay up late reading the assigned notes from Pop Literature. I don’t have to squeeze my brain to come up with story ideas or wait for a divine intervention. I don’t have my kind of body clock and mind setting. What I only have is a bulgy stomach and a child breathing inside of it. I am 53 kilos now. And that is 11 kilos heavier before I filed a Leave of Absence. I cannot even recognize myself in the mirror. What I see in front of me is a fat woman with big nose, sagging breasts, dark underarms and stretch marks. Well in physical consolation, my hair grows now--- shoulder length, that’s from a one-inch cut. I may sound pathetic but I don’t intend to project this way. I just want my previous body. My previous body. The body which I can show to anyone, even it’s not a Deviance Day. I miss being naked in front of somebody without having the shame of ugliness.