POETRY: How to be Alone by Tanya Davis

Society has created a stigma that when you are alone, you are lonely. But there is a deeper sorrow in loneliness; and there is a more peaceful kind of happiness in being alone—if one is brave enough to discover the difference.

In her poem, Tanya Davis teaches us the joys of being alone and how to really embrace the solitude, defy convention and ultimately be happy with who you are.

The video is of Tanya Davis reciting her poem. Direction and post-animation are done by Andrea Dorfman.

How to be Alone by Tanya Davis

If you are at first lonely, be patient. If you’ve not been alone much, or if when you were, you weren’t okay with it, then just wait. You’ll find it’s fine to be alone once you’re embracing it.

We could start with the acceptable places, the bathroom, the coffee shop, the library. Where you can stall and read the paper, where you can get your caffeine fix and sit and stay there. Where you can browse the stacks and smell the books. You’re not supposed to talk much anyway so it’s safe there.

There’s also the gym. If you’re shy you could hang out with yourself in mirrors, you could put headphones in.

And there’s public transportation, because we all gotta go places.

And there’s prayer and meditation. No one will think less if you’re hanging with your breath seeking peace and salvation.

Start simple. Things you may have previously based on your “avoid being alone” principles.

The lunch counter. Where you will be surrounded by chow-downers. Employees who only have an hour and their spouses work across town and so they—like you—will be alone.

Resist the urge to hang out with your cell phone.

When you are comfortable with eat-lunch-and-run, take yourself out for dinner. A restaurant with linen and silverware. You’re no less intriguing a person when you’re eating solo dessert to cleaning the whipped cream from the dish with your finger. In fact, some people at full tables will wish they were where you were.

Go to the movies. Where it is dark and soothing. Alone in your seat amidst a fleeting community.

And then, take yourself out dancing to a club where no one knows you. Stand on the outside of the floor until the lights convince you more and more and the music shows you. Dance like no one’s watching…because, they’re probably not. And, if they are, assume it is with best of human intentions. The way bodies move genuinely to beats is, after all, gorgeous and affecting. Dance until you’re sweating, and beads of perspiration remind you of life’s best things, down your back like a brook of blessings.

Go to the woods alone, and the trees and squirrels will watch for you.

Go to an unfamiliar city, roam the streets, there’re always statues to talk to and benches made for sitting give strangers a shared existence if only for a minute and these moments can be so uplifting, and the conversations you get in by sitting alone on benches might’ve never happened had you not been there by yourself.

Society is afraid of alonedom, like lonely hearts are wasting away in basements, like people must have problems if, after a while, nobody is dating them. But lonely is a freedom that breathes easy and weightless, and lonely is healing if you make it.

You could stand, swathed by groups and mobs or hold hands with your partner, look both further and farther for the endless quest for company. But no one’s in your head and by the time you translate your thoughts, some essence of them may be lost or perhaps it is just kept.

Perhaps in the interest of loving oneself, perhaps all those sappy slogans from pre-school over to high school’s groaning were tokens for holding the lonely at bay. ‘Cause if you’re happy in your head, then solitude is blessed and alone is okay.

It’s okay if no one believes like you. All experience is unique, no one has the same synapses, can’t think like you, for this be relieved, keeps things interesting, life’s magic things in reach.

And it doesn’t mean you’re not connected, that community’s not present, just take the perspective you get from being one person in one head and feel the effects of it. Take silence and respect it. If you have an art that needs a practice, stop neglecting it. If your family doesn’t get you, or religious sect is not meant for you, don’t obsess about it.

You could be in an instant surrounded if you needed it

If your heart is bleeding make the best of it

There is heat in freezing, be a testament.

Poetry: Pag-Ibig Alinsunod sa Pakete ng Tide Ultra at Iba Pang Tula

April is National Poetry Month in the US and Canada. I’m not sure when ours is; Buwan ng Wika is probably the closest to Poetry Month we have. People on the other side of the world are celebrating poetry, so it may also be a good idea to share some here and have our own enjoyment. But since most of the previous posts have all been about music and movies from the US, today I’m featuring Philippine poetry.

These are four of my all-time favorite poems. These are quirky, full of puns, and definitely fun to read. Even non-poetry readers will enjoy these. We took up these poems back in college and whenever an opportunity arises when I can share these, I make sure I do.

As a matter of fact, during my short stint as a teacher and I was asked to decorate a bulletin board during Buwan ng Wika, I created an “artwork” for the poem Ang Pag-Ibig Alinsunod sa Pakete ng Tide Ultra. Aside from writing the poem in one big cartolina, I drew a lot of bubbles, the Tide logo, and other whatnot related to doing laundry. Students usually didn’t pay attention to bulletin boards, but when they saw the drawing for the Tide logo, a lot of students stopped to read the poem—and they were amused.

So here are the four poems. I hope these make you smile as well. :)

Pag-Ibig Alinsunod sa Pakete ng Tide Ultra ni Gilbert M. Sape

sabi ko
ayaw kong maglaba sa gabi
hindi ko alam kung bakit

siguro’y ayaw kong makitang
nakasungaw ang bituin sa ulap
at pinapanood ang bawat kong kusot

pero hindi kagabi—
ang totoo
naglaba ako

sinamantala ko ang pangungulimlim
ng bituin sa nangingilid na ulap

at natitiyak ko
maputi ang aking nilabhan
sinunod ko yata ang bawat instruksyon
sa likod ng pakete ng tide ultra:

1. kunin sa timba ang damdaming
matagal nang ibinabad

2. kusutin nang mabuti
pabulain
pabulain upang matiyak na
natatakpan na ng bula
ang mga salitang noon pa sana sinabi

3. at dahil nahuli na sa sikat ng araw
na siyang pagkukulahan,
lagyan na lamang ng clorox
upang kumupas at walang makakita
sa mantsa ni Eros

4. banlawan
maraming banlaw
at tiyaking maisama sa tubig
ang mga sentimiyento
at panghihinayang

5. ibuhos sa kanal ang tubig
upang makapagtago sa burak
ang mga pagsinta

6. isampay sa mahanging lugar
ang nilabhang damdamin
pabayaan itong makahinga
matagal na rin namang
naikubli ito sa baul

Pagmumuni pagkatapos…

napigaan ko na ang damit
mariin
nakalimutan ko nga lamang
pigaan ang tubig sa aking mata

paalam muna
samantala’y magpapatuyo muna ako—
ng damit
ng mata

sana’y walang makakita

salamat sa pakete ng tide ultra

###

Pagkain ng Hinog na Mangga ni Edilberto N. Alegre

Kurutin mo ang tulis na dulo
At hubaran ang palibot nito
Pero huwag mong balatan nang tuwiran
Yung tama lang para mayroon kang makagat
Lasapin mo ang lahat ng nakalantad na laman
Piho, may aagos na katas, agapan mo
Kasi baka tumulo sa kamay mo
Ang pinakamahusay nga’y dilaan mo na ito.
Sumige ka lang, kahit na puro katas
Ang nguso mo’t baba—masarap naman
At kapag nangalahati ka na hubaran mong
Dahan-dahan ang natitira’t kagatin
Mula sa taas, mula sa tagiliran
Sa pagkatas nito, kahit na pahalik ka’t pasipsip na

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Valediction sa Hillcrest ni Rolando Tinio

Pagkacollect ng Railway Express sa aking things
(Derecho na iyon sa barko while I take the plane),
Inakyat kong muli ang N-311 at dahil dead of winter,
Nakatopcoat at galoshes akong
Nagright turn sa N wing ng mahabang dilim
(Tunnel yatang aabot hanggang Tondo.
Kinapa ko ang switch sa hall.
Sa isang pitik, nagshrink ang imaginary tunnel,
Nagparang ataol.

Or catacomb,
Strangely absolute ang impression
Ng hilera ng mga pintong nagpuprusisyon:
Individual identification, parang mummy causes,
De-nameplate, de-numero, de-hometown address.
Antiseptic ang atmosphere, streamlined yet/
E filing cabinet.

Filing, hindi naman deaths, ha.
Remembrances, oo. Yung medyo malapot
Dahil, alam mo na I’m quitting the place
After two and a half years.
After two and a half years,
Di man nagkatiyempong mag-ugat, ika nga,
Siyempre’y naging attached, parang morning glory’ng
Mahirap mapaknit sa alambreng trellis.

At pagkabukas ko sa kuwarto
Hubo’t hubad na ang mattresses,
Wala nang kutson sa easy chair.
Mga drawer ng bureau’y nakanganga,
Sabay-sabay nag-ooration,
Nagkahiyaan, nabara.

Of course, tuloy ang radiator sa paggaralgal:
Nasa New York na si Bob and the two Allans,
Yung mga quarterbacks across the hall
Pihadong panay sa Des Moines.
Don and Constance aren’t coming back at all.
Gusto ko mang magpaalam—
to whom?
The drapes? the washbowl? sa double-decker
Na pinaikot-ikot namin ni Kandaswamy
To create space, hopeless, talagang impossible.
Of course, tuloy ang radiator sa paglagutok.
And the above silence,
nakakaiyak kung sumagot.)

Bueno, let’s get it over with.
It’s a long walk to the depot.
Tama na ang sophistication- sophistication.

Sa steep incline, pababa sa highway
Where all things level, sabi nga,
There’s a flurry, ang gentle- gentle.
Pagwhoosh-whoosh ng paa ko,
The snow melts right under:

Nagtutubig, parang asukal,
Humuhulas,
Nagsesentimental.

###

Sa Poetry ni Rolando Tinio

Sa poetry, you let things take shape,
Para bang nagpapatulo ng isperma sa tubig.
You start siyempre with memories,
‘Yung medyo malagkit, kahit mais
Na mais: love lost, dead dreams,
Rotten silences, and all
Manner of mourning basta’t murder.

Papatak ‘yan sa papel, ano. Parang pait,
Kakagat ang typewriter keys.
You sit up like the mother of anxieties.
Worried na worried hanggang magsalakip
Ang odds and ends ng inamag mong pag-ibig.

Jigsaw puzzle. Kung minsan, everything fits.
Pero sige ang pasada ng images
Hanggang makuha perfectly ang trick.
At parang amateur magician kang bilib
Sa sleight-of-hand na pinapraktis:
Nagsilid ng hangin sa buslo, dumukot,
By golly, see what you’ve got—
Bouquet of African daisies,
Kabit-kabit na kerchief,
Kung suwerte pa, a couple of pigeons,
Huhulagpos, be-blend sa katernong horizon,
You can’t say na kung saan hahapon.

POETRY: Poetry for me is…

Poetry is how you feel when it suddenly starts raining after wishing it silently for the past two hours. It is waking up in the morning with a smile on your face and the smell of pancakes filling the entire house. Poetry is the first ten seconds of your heart beating so fast because he’s talking to you. It is looking at things all around you in colors that don’t exist. It is looking up at the night sky and feeling like you have everything because you know, at that moment, you are loved.

Poetry is when you smile for no reason other than you want to and you can. It is looking someone straight in the eyes and saying the words “I love you”. It is both the birth and death of something—an idea, a belief, love. But whether it is about death or love, poetry is always beautiful.

“I know this much is all,” Franny said. “If you’re a poet, you do something beautiful. I mean you’re supposed to leave something beautiful after you get off the page and everything.”

-Franny and Zooey

###

Don’t go through life not reading poetry. Life is poetry.

Fantastic reads: 

Under One Small Star by Wislawa Szymborska
Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda
Having a Coke with You by Frank O’Hara

POETRY: Bihirang Maisulat ang Kaligayahan – Rebecca Añonuevo

Source:  Anonuevo, Rebecca T.  ”Bihirang Maisulat ang Kaligayahan.” Pananahan. Makati City: Talingdao, 1999.

LITERATURE: Poetry for Non-Poetry Readers – If I Should Have a Daughter by Sarah Kay

Many people aren’t too crazy about poetry because, unlike prose, it’s more enigmatic. An entire novel could mean a hundred different things; a haiku could mean a thousand for different people. But poetry is not about how vague you can get using twenty difficult words in four lines (although sometimes that’s how it looks).

I’m not a big fan of poetry myself, although I appreciate an occasional Neruda. But when I discovered slam poetry, and a friend directed me to Sarah Kay’s If I Should Have a Daughter, I fell in love with this particular genre immediately. It reads like prose, but it flows smoothly and blooms like a poem.

I you feel down and you need to smile, read the transcript. If you want more than a smile–if you need to feel a warm glow inside your heart, listen to Sarah Kay recite the poem. :)

###

If I should have a daughter, instead of Mom, she’s gonna call me Point B, because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me.
And I’m going to paint solar systems on the backs of her hands, so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say, “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.”
And she’s going to learn that this life will hit you hard in the face, wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach.
But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.
There is hurt here that cannot be fixed by Band-Aids or poetry.
So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself.
Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal.
Believe me, I’ve tried. “And, baby,” I’ll tell her, don’t keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick; I’ve done it a million times. You’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place, to see if you can change him.”
But I know she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby, because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix.
Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks that chocolate can’t fix.
But that’s what the rain boots are for.
Because rain will wash away everything, if you let it.
I want her to look at the world through the underside of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind, because that’s the way my mom taught me.
That there’ll be days like this.
♫ There’ll be days like this, my momma said. ♫
When you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises; when you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape; when your boots will fill with rain, and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment.
And those are the very days you have all the more reason to say thank you.
Because there’s nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it’s swept away.
You will put the wind in winsome, lose some.
You will put the star in starting over, and over.
And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute, be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.
And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty damn naive.
But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar.
It can crumble so easily, but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.
“Baby,” I’ll tell her, “remember, your mama is a worrier, and your papa is a warrior, and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.”
Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things.
And always apologize when you’ve done something wrong.
But don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.
Your voice is small, but don’t ever stop singing.
And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.