POEM: Wine, Women and Song

I wrote this sometime in January 2015 for some jerk I needed to forget. Even typing this, I’m still cringing at the thought of falling for him, but I admire my utmost honesty to make an art so truthful—besides, at some point, the tragedy made me wiser that I know how they play the game. Four years later, this 2019, I have matured enough (or recoil in fear?) to make me doubtful of men’s intentions. Because, duh, chivalry is just a curtain of deception.

-------0o0o0-------

Wine, Women and Song

By: Danica Ann Niegas

To the man who wants to get away but never does.

It is the stares and gaze

With your demeanor you can amaze

With a crooked mind and a big ego

Making your name a sophisticated logo

That people can remember as you walk and go.

Accompanied with reds and blacks,

Enemies accumulated in stacks

I, too, was once a part of that

Pointed looks, words sharp as dart,

Demeaning attitudes and insulting remarks.

Cold air rested in my cheeks

An enemy is not what I seek

Betting my awful manners finally leaked

Fires that caused so much heat

From a spark, a bomb has been lit.

My own pound of flesh

Their tumultuous anger wants to leave me a mesh

Like a hunter found a prey so weak

He approached me and I shivered with fear,

I gasped with his soft eyes as he said, “My intentions are clear.”

Painstakingly waited for my doubts to pass,

Painstakingly waited for my walls to crash

Silly passes, bad quotes and clumsy lines

For years we laugh at our lame rhymes

Painstakingly, he longs to be mine.

But garnering a reputation so bad to hear

A faithless woman I turned out to be

Those silly passes, bad quotes and clumsy lines

He has practiced gazillion times

Unmasking a charming face, a monster I find.

Waiting for the proper timing to find a conversation

Revelations I cannot shun no longer

I watch him desperately pick the clutter

Seeing his hands bleed for the glass we shattered,

But for me, his poetry doesn’t matter anymore.

------

POEM: BLOCK

Sanay akong mapag-isa, aking mahal.

Hinubog ng panahon, pinatibay ng mundo

Tatahimik, uupo, ngunit ‘di masasakal

Bansot ang lipunan! Heto ako’t nakalundo.

Ako lang ang sariling kakampi—

Walang luha ang sayo’y dadampi.

Kaya ko pa, kaya ko pa, kaya ko pa!

Walang sandaling makikitang nalalampa.

Mahal, wag mong indahin

May pasa, may sugat, kirot sa ‘king dibdib.

Dadaan ang araw; wag mo nang dalhin—

ang sugat ng kahapo’y puspos at tigib.

Lilipas ang araw, lulubog ang buwan

makakalimutan mo rin kung ako’y nasaan.

Walang naging tayo, mahal.

“Umuwi ka nang malaya”, aking usal.

Patuloy akong tatakbo sa karimlan

Na parang wala lang ang tinamong sugat

hanapin mo man ako kung saan

Sorry try again, mahahanap mong sulat.

Butas-butas na istorya, iyong maririnig

Ngunit di mo masasagap aking tinig.

Facebook, Instagram, kahit gaano katagal—

Sanay akong mapag-isa, aking mahal.

05-25-2019

4:46 AM

Opo, it has ABABCCDD rhyme scheme. Masyadong pinaghirapan (kahit pangit haha!) para hindi i-post. Lame, lame poet.

The Tale of the Unknown

I control the information I share on any media. However, I hate those who makes a string of inaccurate stories about me just to fill the gaps they don't understand. They are not supposed to understand.

I'm starting to think everything can backfire on me any minute now. Where's my plan?

We cannot grow if we are not ready to be uncomfortable. Accept the chaos.

At the very least, I should have an idea what I'm doing—but I am running back to what I've started, trying a leap in a fake progress. Wrapping my head around a career building at the expense of crushing other people makes me feel substandard.

I'm human and I have a couple of morals. Please pretend to be surprised.

On Mocha Uson

Sabi nila, ang argument ng iba, somebody has to be given a second chance regardless of her past lifestyle, that we are all judgmental jerks and we should give Mocha another shot.

Pero dude, hindi nga sya exotic dancer, naging political prostitute naman sya. Bayaran pa rin. Never had a personal opinion; she will defend the administration whatever the cost of her twisted logic. GANUN PA RIN NAMAN. I have yet to see a Mocha blog entry that despises or criticizes the President. Ang bias diba? Hindi ba sila nagkakasala? Hindi ba nagkakamali ang bansang 'to?

Let’s end this once and for all: her present, actually, has no difference at all. Iba nga lang ng platform.

POEM: The Ladder

My eyes are starting to wander,
let my mind grow asunder!
I wear so much shame in my head.
but gods must've love to see me bled
or, I don't know.
maybe its a responsibility they bestowed.
( must I lay myself upon their Pantheons? )
I don't care anymore,
let thy name lose its reputation,
somebody should stop settling the score.
there's nothing really special up the ladder.


(Danica Ann Niegas)

People and Choices

“Neither of those men realized your worth,

because you failed to value yourself highly enough.

A man does not know a woman’s value.

She is the one who determines her value.

The higher you price yourself,

the more he will realize what you are really worth…”

( Woman at point Zero, Nawal El Saadwi )

------- 0o0o0o0 ------

When people walks up to you, their first impressions of you will stick in them. Some may be satisfied by what they see, others not. Some lunatics might follow you around, know every corners of you and even chase who you are and why do you act as such. It doesn’t stop. The extent of a man’s determination to know your soul is both pitiful, charming, and impressive—all at the same time.

But there will be a time when you can’t hold the game anymore—that you need to put your foot down so the truth will eventually spit out. It’s not that you’re whining, nor demanding; not even in the slightest hint that you are being cruel. It’s just that in relationships, people must know where they stand. Who you are in their lives. Which parts are real and which are lies.

People without labels are only better off in their separate ways. At least, they can play their dangerous games without hurting each other so much. 

POEM: The November Jump

I have already said too much poetry

about you; cries and lies, all your glee;

How am I, in my humblest self,

to call upon your weariness, color your elf.

Ugly and broken, destitute you may appear,

hospital wars, and divorce papers you saw clear

the crib was made of straw

limp and weak you have grown

sour milk you have drawn

shouts you heard, your baby rattles

yet food was in silver platter.

As interesting as they can see;

you're still finding for your great leap.

- Danica Ann Niegas

(first published on facebook notes, dated July 27, 2015)

A Short Poem

I like how he stares at me.

I like how he stares.

And his ridiculous ways

And sensible paragraphs.

I like his back glances.

I like his proximity,

So close

That sometimes I can’t see nothing

But him. Alone. You and I.

BOOK REVIEW: Bright, Catholic, and Gay by Danton Remoto

Switch channels and change your tabloids—we are already tired of cold headlines and passive-aggressive remarks of public personalities. Media has been a way for different perspectives, including the miscued and over-the-top.

Luckily, we have something that oozes with brilliance and fresh ideas. A book with 21 essays, Bright, Catholic and Gay by Danton Remoto offers us witty, disturbing, and even provoking issues that keeps you intrigued until the last page.

Being known as a founder of Ladlad Partylist, the book focuses on LGBT about everything—political stands, successes, closet lives, and social “scarlet letters”. After reading this, conservative Filipinos will get the somehow full picture of LGBT life. What’s so unique about Remoto is his (or her, there’s no politically correct pronoun yet) narrative of how ordinary gayness is. Their love of God. Partners with risks of HIV.  Finding love. The harsh and unmoderated comments on the internet. Coming out and liberation. Everything.

Back cover

Aside from that, there are queer literature and erotic fiction featured, reviewed by Remoto himself. As if a beginner’s book, it propels the readers to dig deep into the life of pink warriors. Easy-read yet sensitive, it excites you have a leap of faith delving to the almost outcasts.

Personally, I don’t have a lot of gay/lesbian friends because I barely have friends at all (haha). My circle of networks are small and neat. However, the “pink community” amuses me a lot, and the book has become a way to understand them better. They have an equally colorful lives, maybe more. Fighting against the common stereotypes, they bravely shed denial, shame, guilt, and self-loathing. As a feminist (yes, you read it right), we are in the same page on sickening gender biases and our supposed “place” in the society.

(The Breakfast Club, 1985)

Gathering his stories from all walks of life, Bright, Catholic—and Gay is a fresh look on LGBT life… from shadows, out into the light.

Wanderlust

Do people sense this cyclic living?

We were raised that for shining, we are born

On and on, from corners of streets, we cling

Understand that human is for running,

Yet in flickers and flashes we all forlorn,

Do people sense this cycling living?

Lords of cosmos considers no weeping

Everyone abides as the gods implore

On and on, from corners of streets, we cling

Earn bruises and bumps and painful screeching

Like those planets that spheres around the core;

Do people sense this cycling living?

Sensing the individual voice calling

Ignore the warnings of sirens and horn

On and on, from corners of streets, we cling

Survival depends on those cunning

As the weak and frail shatters on the floor

Do people sense this cycling living?

On and on, from corners of streets, we cling

The Blurred Vision Disorder

        Ushering him outside the museum, she could almost feel his irritation. His anxiety like his emotions are now her clattered bones, as they both strut against the pale ample marbles beneath the soles of his shoes, her heels. Their footsteps jive with the hushes of people, whispering here and there, over the artworks, arguing and praising over sculptures and paintings, with a  companion or a mere stranger. The couple has always been this silent; and whenever they are not, they’ve been arguing.

            With sweaty palms and cold hands, she attempted to reach for his shoulder, like a child keeping up with her mommy, trying to apologize, while he hastened his steps against the col pavement. Yet, with the repulsiveness of both of their behavior, an amusing smile dashes across her perfect lips; because then, with the last remarks she heard, feigning anger is much harder to restrain.

            Amused and entertained, she tried to keep the private joke to herself—because at least, she knew a secret that finally, cannot fathom his sharp senses.

-------- 0o0o0o0 -------

            The sizzle from the ignited match always revived the same memory.

            James, 36, has been living with stiff ethical values. Before he lived with his family, with a wife and two kids, he lived in a voiceless, sanitized apartment with his solitude, commandeering his television set and cold furnitures. No pet greets him. He had no friend across the neighbor. No exchange of pleasantries. Always busy with his thoughts, he walks like a zombie, with glazed eyes and a mumbling mouth. James dashes himself into the corporate society every day, as his tie dangles around his neck like a noose, strangling him into an exhausting day, making himself a guinea pig in a tiresome treadmill. A taxi has always been waiting at the footsteps of the building, catering him and the rest of the high-salaried slaves of the city.

            He is always aware of his own legacy, his own name. He claims, that the confined spaces of his own workplace is the only thing worthy of his aesthetic, imaginative viewpoints.

            On a tiring Monday of December 2002, while the wind pass upon their puffy cheeks, as he lit a matchstick to puff an air to his cigarette, his wife finally pose a concern she’s itching to ask for months.

“Museum?”

“Yes, museum.”

“BAH! Why do I need to?”

“Nothing. Just trying to make you flesh and blood.”

-------- 0o0o0o0 -------

          He forgot his eyeglasses.

            Stomping around the halls, James entertained no colors and figures around the museum gallery. With a grumpy face, he stalls, stares and walks away with the slightest mumble of discontent. I shouldn’t be here, he thought, while he keeps track of tomorrow’s list of mundane paperworks.

            He regrets forgetting his eyeglasses. He continues to cry the imperfections of the place, condemning and criticizing each artwork, not even dared to glance at the constellation of architectures at the ceiling; thinking, at his discretion, that the whole museum was an apparent misuse of money, space, vacant lots and Boysen inks.

            Finally, with an air of superiority against the hues around him, he stopped at a frame then finally complained to his wife, “Look at this painting! The work doesn’t clearly resemble any imaginative talents! The subject is boring, and meaningless! The focus of the painter is at the wrong spatial perspective, and his subject is wrinkly, boned to death, and had a poor stance!”

           

            An amusing smile dashes across his woman’s perfect lips. Amused and entertained, she tried to keep the private joke to himself. If only he knew, that the last thing he tried to demean, and that he loathe most, considering as the worst work of art, was a huge mirror showing his own reflection.

An Ode to Trash Bin

I always find you beautiful.

The prefect shape of your hollow stomach

Ready to be filled

With stenches you find wonderful

The curves of your mouth

Open to stories of past things

The people turned into waste

Exploit and overuse

Consumed and misused

You were always there

To embrace them

Welcome them

Envelop

Let them find a place

A sanctuary

A shelter

For all the rotten things

Which people had exploit on using.

Now they found your arms

And make it their home.

All of them who stench,

Full of grime,

Out of rhyme,

That is why you are so beautiful.

Worth-beholding.

I envy you, trash bin.

You were always there,

Never waiting for a compliment,

Up against the wall,

Sacrificing your glory

All for the wasted things

Enveloping the ruins

The mud and grime

All for your charitable hands

These garbages, they found safe lands.

I envy you, trash bin.

For I’d rather have your beauty—

Tucked on one corner

Than to have this “gift”,

Nothing but a

DISPLAY.

I wish someday to be like you,

With all your cracks,

Scratches

Stenches

And dents and odor

Because being a home,

A safe haven,

A mother,

Is the only gift

And blessing

And power

I consider.

I'm tired being a woman.

I'm tired being a woman.

But I am born with a vagina, so I have to deal with it.

I hate the way they assume you like boys at the tender age of TWELVE. OR NINE. MAYBE YOUNGER.

I don't like the pressure of being pretty, of wearing petty make-up, or being graceful. I constantly rant at the futility of it all as I read Miss Temptation by Kurt Vonnegut or Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. We are aiming for beauty, yet we know that we are judged for it. I am intensely against the petty "girl clothes" and "tight pants" while at the same time, embracing the "Don't judge me" rationale in our heads. The living irony of modern feminism is getting questionable, even suspicious.

The inexplicable theories of "Why He Doesn't Call" or "Why Do Men Cheat" on magazines and dumb newspapers makes me feel that my vagina is just worth a penny... maybe cheaper. The vicious cycle of bigotry and sexism is making me gag. Not to mention, being a woman means you have to keep up with "dating strategies" and "blah blah talks" of arrogant men, if you want to call them one.

I'm tired being a woman. It is a moral and social responsibility. It was never easy.

HOW CAN BEAUTY BE A CURSE? https://www.quora.com/How-can-beauty-be-a-curse/answer/Mable-Clark?srid=htASM