Almusal

ni Miguel Paolo Celestial

Umuusok ang kape at may ngiting arnibal
ang pankeyk sa plato. Maliliit ang aking hiwa
sa mala-únang pisngi ng gatas, itlog, at arina.
Tumutulo ang pulut-pukyutan mula sa tinidor.

Sinasabayan ko ng kagat sa longganisang
mamantika't maalat ang bawat kimpal ng lamán.
Pinapahiran ng krema habang pinagmamasdan
ang mga bagong gising at pawisang nagjo-jogging.

Lumamlam na ang langit, kulay krim. Singgusot
ng kumot at kubrekama pagbangon natin kanina.
Pinagpag nang pinagpag ang telang may pinong burda
hanggang mawala ang lúkot ng pagkakayakap.

Pinulot ang biglang pinandirihang buhok sa punda.
Pagsintas mo ng sapatos, tinitigan ko ang kámang
unti-unting sinigâan ng araw. Ubos na ang sariwang-
pigâng dalanghita ngunit di nababawasan ang uhaw.

Ako at Ikaw

Ni Miguel Paolo Celestial

Binabaan mo ako ng telepono, sa pagkukunwari sa katabi mong nobyo na hindi ako ako. Na kaibigan ako ng kapatid mo, na dati akong bisita sa bahay ninyo. Iba ang iyong sinambit sa naisingit mong mga bulong: May tao dito... Binuksan at ibinagsak mo pa nga ang pinto para tanungin ang natutulog mong kapatid. Kahit ako akala ko ibang tao na rin ako. Nakisakay at ibinaba ang telepono sa ikalawa kong tawag. Nakisama sa mga anino sa aking kuwartong pinid ang bibig dahil walang nauunawaan, hindi alam kung paano sila naging anino, kung bakit pagbukas ng ilaw, bigla silang naglalaho.


Lumabas sa High Chair Poetry Journal, 2008

Orka

Ni Miguel Paolo Celestial

Salin ng 'Killer Whales' na nilapatan ng tugma at sukat


Baybayin ng ningning ang itim na balat
ng nagsisilundag na karnerong-dagat.
Sa paltik ng buntot, nanalsik ang kislap.
Sa likot ng biyas: kutitap ng alat.

Malinaw ang araw, sumiya sa alon.
Walang giya'ng ulap na nagsisigulong.
Sa pampang, espuma'y di malikom-likom.
Sa laot nagpusod ang dal'wang daluyong.

Ang tubig sa tadyang, dagling sumagitsit.
Mga bula'y biglang pumutok sa bagsik.
Hiniwa ang dagat ng sundang-palikpik
ng mga balyenang may pokang pinuslit.

Nukol sa kawalan, ang tuta'y dinakmal
pagtalon ng orkang pinigta ng kinang.
Ang hiyaw-tilandoy ay muling humimlay.
Kumampay ang taghoy, nawalay sa langkay.

Ngumanga ang dagat, dambuhalang silà
ng gutom na orkang lumapa sa tuta.
Gapi't piping dugo'y dumanak, humupa.
Sumayaw ang araw. Humulaw ang nasa.

Nagpinid ang tubig. Sumaliw ang hangin
sa pintig ng dagat. Hawan ang tanawin.
Binura ng alon ang bakas-buhangin.
Layon ng baybayi'y humayo't humimpil.

Anino'y bumaling. Namusyaw, tumulin.


Inilathala sa 'Latay sa Isipan: Mga Bagong Tulang Filipino', 2007

Kay Lola Maring

Ni Miguel Paolo Celestial

Salin at rebisyon ng 'Scrabble' na nilapatan ng tugma at sukat


Naglilimayon sa lupalop ng hapon
ang 'yong gunita: sa kaluskos ng dahon,
ligaw na simoy; sa sigabo, ang bulong
ng pumapalos na sinag ng panahon.

Tangay ng hangi'y lagas na alaala:
pangala't pook, mukhang di mapagsiya.
Ang alikabok-larawa'y pasumala;
ang malikmata'y saglit kung sumagila.

Awit ng maya'y umaandap na liyab.
Nakaraan mo'y lumilipas na ulap,
pakpak ng tubig at bakas ng liwanag.
Limot mo'y lilim, hawlang langit ang lawak.


Inilathala sa Heights magazine, 2004

Pasada

Ni Miguel Paolo Celestial

Salin ng 'Transit' na nilapatan ng tugma at sukat


Kami'y bumalik matapos maghapunan
sa humihilik na kalungsuran. Tangan
ang pananabik, sa trambiya lumulan;
hangad ang halik ng muling pananahan.

Ako'y sumandal at dumungaw sa hamba.
Tila nakintal ang ilaw ng bumbilya
sa nangangatal na dilim ng kalsada.
Walang dumatal sa aking alaala.

Napansin kitang ang mukha'y nakahilig;
ang mga mata'y taimtim ang pagtitig
itinarangka ng hanging walang kabig,
mga lamparang puyat na nananalig.

Ako'y gumiwang sa bigla mong pagharap.
Mistulang siwang ang 'binaling mong sulyap,
ngumangang kawang sa hapunang naganap;
sa pagdiriwang, tila iyong natatap

na nang nagbawa ang tugtugin ng sayaw
galing taberna, sa ilalim ng tanglaw
ng 'sang bumbilya: dagli akong namanglaw
at nangulila. Sa'yo umalingawngaw

ang pagnanasa. Ngunit nang inusisa
ay tumunganga sa labas ng bintana.


Inilathala sa Heights magazine, 2004

Scrabble

By Miguel Paolo Celestial

You were younger then.

Holding a dictionary,
you taught me how to form words
from sets of seven letters.

Patiently you gave words
to fill my head and to slide on my tongue.
Now, as I let them slide from my heart to my hands,
you are bound and struck by silence.

I see you stare blankly in the kitchen.
I know you recall the faces of people,
the textures of places.

I try to avoid your eyes
knowing the colors I will see
swim with words
that speak not of this time.

Displaced, no words can keep you
in this time and this space.


Published in Heights magazine (2001) and the Likhaan anthology of poetry (2001)
Revised and translated into Filipino as 'Kay Lola Maring', set to rhyme and meter

Three Nights in Venice

By Miguel Paolo Celestial

The people clear the piazza
as the drizzle breaks into steady rain.
Huddled into the ferry
I watch the waves heave, turn
with the approaching shadows of dusk.

Earlier I was at the cathedral
gazing at an immense relief of Byzantine saints,
their garments encrusted with jewels.
The gems gleamed as if newly unearthed
blunt with a light faint
and floundering in the darkness.

The wind passes by me as I return to the hotel
the rain still drizzling
the buildings on the street stoop damp and reticent.

The lampshade soothes the light in the room
but the silence laid like a weight on pillows
and twisted tight under sheets simmers.
There is a tremor buried in the breathing.

After lunch we brought back soup
from a restaurant down the street.
My father was propped up on the bed
and slowly, as I picture my mother raise the spoon
my head sinks into the pillow.
I return through the ripples of the bright emerald canals
to a few days before: a hotel room in Florence,
raised voices, and a diamond ring flung.

Yesterday I came from the island of Murano.
Standing in front of the furnace I felt the heat
flush to my cheeks as the molten glass
emerged from the kiln.
From the glowing mass
the limbs of a horse were plied,
braced at mid-gallop.
Hewn by the light
the glass danced with the hint of jewels.

Its flanks were tensed with the sound of crashing hooves.


Published in the Sunday Inquirer Magazine, 2003

Killer Whales

By Miguel Paolo Celestial

The coat of seal pups is sleek with salt sheen
their hair shines newly oiled
as they play on the shore flipping their tails.
The arch of the sun bends on their young backs.
Their trust tethers them to safety.

The day is clear, the hour guileless and without wit.
The water rolls with the clouds.
Like an idea, purpose crests with a wave
a black blister moving like hot kelp.

The pups frolic on the stretch.
The tide laps their flanks. The foam
suddenly hisses.
The mother cows are heavy with attention.

The whales rise like bubbles.
The sea opens with fin knives.
A pup is carried away like a cub:
teeth on the loose flesh of the nape.

Death is far away.
The whale flings the pup into the air
and catches it,
belly and tail splashing.

Its cries fly flockless.

A pup that has disappeared
is brought back.
It resurfaces as if borne by the sea
and now discovers land.
Its mother still waits on the quiet sand.

The sea closes. Clouds rush with the tide.
The day is unconcealed.
Shadows turn and are gone.


Published in the Sunday Inquirer Magazine, 2001
Translated into Filipino as 'Orka', set to rhyme and meter

Nadine Gordimer: Writers and responsibility

"The writer is eternally in search of entelechy in his relation to his society. Everywhere in the world, he needs to be left alone and at the same time to have a vital connection with others; needs artistic freedom and knows it cannot exist without its wider context; feels the two presences within - creative self-absorption and conscionable awareness - and must resolve whether these are locked in death-struggle, or are really foetuses in a twinship of fecundity. Will the world let him, and will he know how to be the ideal of the writer as a social being, Walter Benjamin’s storyteller, the one ‘who could let the wick of his life be consumed completely by the gentle flame of his story’?"


Read the entire lecture: 'The Essential Gesture: Writers and Responsibility' (October, 1984) by Nadine Gordimer

Transit

By Miguel Paolo Celestial

It was after supper
when our family rode the tram
back to the city — to the streets
and the lights and to sleep.
I was at the window seat
pressing my head against the glass
as I usually did to look outside.

I saw you leaning against your window
your seat facing us
on your side of the tram.
You were gazing outside
the lights zooming past your eyes
stilled as if by the speed of the wind
and the blankness of uninterrupted light.
Then you looked at me
like a gaping hole

as if you understood
that after supper
walking out of the tavern
with music trailing our stride
under lamplights
I felt as empty as the streets.

And I wondered how much of it you saw
but you turned back to your window
and stared through the darkness.

The streetlamps stood still.


Published in Heights magazine, 2000
Translated into Filipino as 'Pasada', set to rhyme and meter