To write is to put yourself in war against a blank page, against your own self, adjacent to your belief, your orgasm fantasies, your being a man or a woman. When you write, you lose your sexuality and rediscover yourself. It is of losing what is not there. You lose the emptiness in you and you put in words not necessarily to form poetry or memoir. You write without necessarily knowing what you are writing and what writing is really all about. The process will let you know what writing is; who is the persona in you writing it; who you are and where your writing would bring you.

I chose Poetry because I thought it was the easiest genre. It can be short, but it can’t be easy at all. There was no easy way or short way or right way. There is only try. You tried to incorporate your life experiences together with your imagination into the lines of poetry.

Poetry needed to be born. You needed to be pregnant with words. You have to have sex with your mind. You have to have sex with yourself. You have to have sex with words. You craved for Sylvia Plath and Kate Choppin in the middle of the night. And when you had them inside your mouth, you feed them to the hungry little poetry inside your womb, inside your mind, in-side of you. You have eaten too much of them. You vomit; it’s not called morning sickness because you are not really pregnant. You just hoped you are. You just imagined being pregnant. You vomit everything on top of the paper. “Its not poetry”, your critic said. It’s still not poetry. Nothing was left in your stomach; remember that you vomited Sylvia Plath and Kate Choppin. Nothing was left inside your stomach; remember that there was really nothing in it. Nothing creative. Nothing poetic. But you kept on vomiting words. Words on the paper. Words on your table, on your floor. Words like these. Words like these.

What really is Poetry? “Poetry gud, kanang nay rhyme-rhyme, poetry na”, being exposed to elementary and high school publication, we have had pseudo poems published by proud pseudo writers. These poems spoke of young love all the time, being drunk with too much emotion, forgetting and failing home works. That was poetry. Not until I read Poetics in CL 121. By then I knew that there should be a certain distance between the work of art. We called it aesthetic distance. Poetry is not always all about strong emotions on top of the paper. It is not always all about unrequited love or juvenile shit. It can be about a cup of coffee, a cigarette butt, a fly buzzing around you. What is important is how the fluidity of your language transcends into a startling insight. Catharsis must be there, but catharsis can only be achieved if we see something that is both recognizable and distant. And for that, I hated to talk about poetry. I hated to write what I thought was poetry. And for that, I failed de Ungria’s Poetry 2. Writing this preface is having is too much courage to defend a thesis of poetry without retaking a failed poetry class. Not knowing what lies ahead.

I wanted to abort poetry ideas in my mind. If only cortal tablets can abort the desire to write poetry, I would probably overdose myself. Part of my journey in writing is the intimidation to write. I was intimidated by my own writing, and so, as always, I would end up abandoning what I thought was poetry. Words may have failed me, but I still had them. As with any emotion that feels unspeakable, I turned to poetry.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

I Miss Being Naked

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.
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5 comments:

  1. KONQUERFebruary 17, 2009 at 8:25 PM

    hi kaeotic..

    beauty is only skin-deep, you are much prettier because of your love and courage..naks..

    KILL!

    ReplyDelete
  2. kaeosFebruary 18, 2009 at 2:19 AM

    hello KONQUERS...

    RE: beauty is only skin-deep, you are much prettier because of your love and courage..naks..

    i wish we have the same mind in that sense.

    KILL!

    ReplyDelete
  3. NikkiboyFebruary 18, 2009 at 6:15 PM

    Tita oi, Kadrama ba! Ok lang na teh! Normal lang na sa buntis ang ma-insecure. Relax, tita.

    ReplyDelete
  4. KONQUERFebruary 22, 2009 at 10:41 AM

    youre on my blogroll kae!

    ReplyDelete
  5. mershiMarch 3, 2009 at 11:33 AM

    i miss reading photocopies too.

    kung magbasa ko ug libro, lahi ra jud sa magbasa ko ug photocopy.

    amping. haha

    ReplyDelete

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