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.

Friday, March 26, 2010

thesis acknowledgements

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.
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