Feng Shui

Poetry by | May 22, 2016

2

I

Face the heavy wooden door from the old house
to the direction of the rising sun and move on
from what is done and cannot be undone. Mirrors

must reflect the morning light and outdoor plants
—not the stubs of candles from last year’s feasts,
the cardboard boxes filled with broken electronics

or the moss-worn garden statues, grey and ruined
by the incessant rains, these sad errors of saints,
the fear of what is new and terrifyingly unfamiliar.

There is no testing the future with one naked toe
into the cold measures of foreseeing. It all flows
and follows the path of the waxing crescent moon

the uncertain rise of curling smoke of an incense
burning as a bird calls on starless night.

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Prayer

Poetry by | January 20, 2013

What exactly did you see, Pablo, when–ripped 
–the sky opened and revealed to you its bowels
of planets and plantation? What precisely
did you find, Allen, the day it rained of sun
-flowers and Bill spoke to you of tigers burning 
and thundering? What was it like to stop
hearing Love’s voice, Villa, and wrestling 
with God head to head? To question accuracies
of visions, hallucinations, talking to the dead,
do words, their true grave, have the answers?
I went back to the basics of prayer: the bible,
a black book of verses fat with loosened leaves, 
sweet angels of Ramadan, an empty room save 
for a bed and a glass of water. Walter learned 
in the dark the secrets of atoms and of grass,
of love, of boys, and of marching drums. Am I
doing this right? Kneeling before rosary, 
saying my Hail Mary fifty times a day, six days 
in a week, asking her, hey, holy mother of god, 
is this prayer poetry, or every poetry a prayer?


Jeffrey Javier received his BA in English (Creative Writing) from UP Mindanao. He was a fellow for poetry at both the Silliman University National Writers Workshop and the Iligan Writers Workshop.

“We no longer need to know war…”

Poetry by | August 26, 2012

we no longer need to know war

1

“We no longer need to know war the way you learned it, sir,” I said to uncle as I wheeled him out to the graveled path on the front yard, to give him his monthly haircut, to suit him up in his old jacket. He grumbled and cursed, and chewed what was left of his gums, squishy noises they made with his tongue. He took out a photo from the breast pocket, the only photo he had of them three brothers. The only photo he knew.

2

Now with pasty skin, camphor smell, and milky eyes, uncle saw my father cry once. It was in the photo. They had fought at the front line during wartime in the south. Eldest among the three, my father bent over by the window. The morning sun slanted high—perhaps mirrored—to the ceiling. Sunlight or artificial light, either way, the light gave no warmth in the hospital room, only the starkness of shadows, the nakedness of the shiny floor. My uncle had just kissed their youngest brother in his deathbed and covered his still pliant body with cloth. A journalist caught the scene and the photo ran in the newspapers, in magazines, through international news agencies, through the wires, through the web. It reached the heavens, but God did not care. Abroad, it won an award, while back at home, my uncle lost everything.

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Medusa’s Garden

Poetry by | January 29, 2012

In solitude, she picks the pebbles one by one, big and small, round and edged, and stacks them in the middle of her garden. Not to build a tower and climb its circular stair; to raise a fountain into the sky is not to defy the gods but to honor them with air and water spiking and sprouting from the land. The stones swell up and the mound takes the shape of the layering years when the mosses have not yet reached the necks of her sculptures. She looks at them now and then squinting from the sun’s glare wondering how long it will take the merchants to be lost on her side of the island once more.

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Fishy

Fiction by | July 4, 2010


The day Doy left with his motorbike, our little white cat Fishy began mewling on the front yard. She had lost half of her weight and her eyes were always watery and flaky. She would not eat or drink and her breathing was getting heavier day after day. I didn’t know what happened to her. Had she eaten something? Did our tomcat Porky rape her? I didn’t know. All I knew was she was dying.

Doy found her five months ago together with Pating the day he showed up with his motorbike. They were in a box just out of the gate and he carried them up to my apartment. Doy had said before that he had a surprise for me. I thought it was the kittens, but it turned out to be the bike. He told me how he tricked his old man into buying him that shiny black bike. He promised me that he would take me anywhere with his bike, helmets off, from the beaches of Mati to the mountains of Cotabato. But I liked the cats better.

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Poem

Poetry by | January 31, 2010

I once wrote it like how I drop a stone on still water. The first word would splash and the lines thereafter ripple in and out of paper going back to the first words and out again to the margins, through the fibers and on the four corners on this thin crust of a paper, now shivering on the creases, waves rolling, tsunamis mounting, swallowing monuments and mountains, roaring and marching in and out the field, multiplying liquid soldiers, one ripple clashing against the other, creating more splashes and little spheres up on the air.

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Jonathan

Fiction by | June 28, 2009

Everybody has a boyfriend named Jonathan. Johnny, Jonas, Junjun, Nathan, Anthony, Tony, Wanwan, Tantan.

Skin glistening with sweat, Jonathans always talk rough, walk big, and hang out with their guys after a basketball game. They have clean haircuts, pressed shirts, big backpacks, and white rubber shoes. When they are with a girl, they hold doors, shake their shoulders and puff their chests like young roosters.

These Jonathans will have roses and chocolates, candlelit dinners for two, and quick kisses in dark movie houses. You practice your lips every Friday night for a date on Saturdays with Anthony.

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Empty Spot

Fiction by | June 7, 2009

I went back to her house and banged on the door. She opened it a little. She looked surprised.
“I’m a woman,” I said, lifting up my shirt and risking the catarrh.
She smiled.“I know.”
I didn’t go home.I stayed.

– Jeanette Winterson, “The Queen of Spades”, The Passion

Empty Spot

She finally came into my stall that first night of May, wanting her future to be foretold. She wore a soldier’s uniform, stolen from a man’s wardrobe, hiding the soft form of her body. When I revealed to her that she would meet a love she would regret, she reached for my mask and peered into my eyes.
“Green,” she said, “like turbulent body of water.” She walked away without paying.

When the fairground closed down, she was waiting outside the cobbled street. She didn’t mind the cold air. She followed me home, tailing distances behind me, hiding in dark alleyways. On my door, she knocked only once, twice. I opened it. I asked her to leave if she was only looking for fun.

“The carnival has ended,” she said.

That was when the real night began. She entered and she stayed.

But she won’t stay that long. Her body says so.

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To His Coy Seatmate

Poetry by | February 17, 2008

(After Cecille Laverne dela Cruz)

 |          |
 |          |
 |          |
 |          |
 A          B

Two parallel lines, fated never to meet in a two dimensional plane.
If you place line A
to compliment line B,
you’ll end up with a telephone pole.
Santa Claus flies to all children,
from North to South, good and bad to give
candies and charcoals – all around the magnetic pole.
If you’ll allow me,
let me talk you into a vision
where the world melts like chocolate
and every day will become Christmas day. Things
will fly that every concept is nothing but good and good.
I’ll even let you come to play in Santa’s factory.
Come, then.
I’ll talk my tongue onto your pole.

Boob Tube Monologue

Fiction by | October 14, 2007

My little brother returned home two days ago from Diliman for the vacation. Now, he sits beside me while I navigate the channels to check what television networks have in store for the summer.

Not a minute passes that David says, “I don’t like that they call our generation the Generation Y.”

I turn to look at David. Only eighteen years of age, a year younger than I, and having to spend two of those years in that university, and look now what he thinks the world is doing to him.

“It’s a slap to our face that we are named so because we have a predecessor that was labeled Generation X. It’s that structuralism thing. You are named this because you are after that. Blah…blah…blah…”

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