Darknesswater

a poem by Roger B Rueda

We were plunged into darknesswater.
The next day, cerulean skies.
Underneath, cobalt mire with sky in it.
In the clouds, the blue, so blue,
with its filth  out of sight,
sludge opening its ridges,
sludge slackening
the shatterproof suspicions,
to  clog up as if the whole thing
should be sky, turf ramparts
run, radices spread,
radices perished off, decolourised slurry,
and walls, slush,
and the brickwork filled with walls
that splits and raises, mud,
whole hillsides
of thin grey radices
visible,
all running downhill,
gleaming, waterlogged,
slipping their eased, interwoven
source, and the stems
were released,
and the verdant extensions
of root line, the moon’s
outmost transfigurations,
light’s green in-chatters with moon
now glazed-down forebodingly,
drawn down
over the newly-opened talus,
droopy, treacly,
as if the whole ecosphere
must run yet again,
scummy, sleek,
all the stubby rushing
of transformation now
crushed back
into one dark mottling, fusty,
all God's creatures  an abrupt maturing
over shock and then, in the flash, the realm.

Neighbours

a poem by Roger B Rueda

When I visit my neighbours, the mum is frying rice,

the older sister shredding Bisaya chicken 

for her wonderful salad. The father is sipping 

at his kape barako, taking his time 

and eating his lumpia roll made of leftover pancit,

small shrimps, and jackfruit, slowly,  inviting me 

in for a coffee. I am bringing them 

nice pancit-Molo soup

Mum has cooked, mixed in with

the cabbage and aubergine whose rotting quarters 

were scraped off. 

The brother is reading nursing

as the family has bought 

a new passenger jeepney, the couple 

having a mini-store across from our house.

Their pigs grunting at the backyard, 

the grandfather is cleaning 

the coops of their chickens, fresh eggs rolling.

Beggars

a poem by Roger B Rueda

I want to see them on the glossy paper
of the magazine.
Their shirts crumpled, untidy,
splashed with mud
seem pleasantly scented.
They don’t surround me,
begging for money,
their voices strangely calm.
I don’t feel a sudden tender pity
for them.
They are gazing at me
with a soft,
contented smile on their faces
discreetly concealed
by camera angles.
Their skin seems clear
and smooth,
their black hair like seaweeds
as they scavenge through garbage.
Flying raisins flew down on
their batchoy, fried chicken
inside paper boxes printed
with a happy bee mascot.
The journalist smiles
his elaborate charade
and hugs them
like a bit of a saint to put up with them.

Outing

an essay by Roger B Rueda

I see outing as completely case by case. Any gay reserves the right to change his mind or do whatever he thinks can give him a full advantage. So, I understand why Piolo, when we take it for granted that he is a gay, doesn’t want to come out of the closet. For one, he is an extremely handsome man with a plummy voice.  A hunk, he has an appealingly direct charm about him, and he’s got a nice smile. A great cheer goes up from the crowd whenever they catch sight of him. The electric atmosphere with Piolo thrills everyone wherever he goes. By now, Piolo is one of the Philippines TV’s top stars, being celebrated and wholesome, not to mention he’s a devout Christian. Throughout his career he has remained our masculine ideal: he is such an angel to put up with it.

We’ll sadly miss him, whenever he decides his gayness to be out in the open. We’ll be finding the show business lonesome when there is no more Piolo. And I think he is a lot happier to be who he is. He feels comfortable about what he does. If he lives at the incongruity of what we think he struggles with, it is his choice. Now, if he is not happy, it is his own doing, not ours. High on his agenda is perhaps to stay in the closet no matter how obscure it is and how despondent his life is in there. For one, what he thinks is more valuable is his image and his resolve to be a masculine ideal amongst us. He rather dies a closet gay than to live in shame and mortification.

Being gay is such a non-issue in the Philippines these days, so I think a gay who wants to stay in the closet has no one to blame when he dies unfortunate and dejected. People don’t care whether one is a gay or not. Our young people have always been very fair and broadminded. Modernism has opened our eyes to many things. Though homosexuality is done subtly, a lot of people these have forbearance about this now. They try to understand others and they try not to be disparaging. They do not act against other so long as these people respect them, too. Their opinion towards others is optimistic and unbiased.

A gay’s choice to be open about his sexuality must stem from the confidence that most people respect a gay for his professional skills and don't discriminate against him based on his personal life.

Coming out is hard to do. Most things worth doing are. The first step, being honest with oneself about one’s sexuality, is often the hardest. But once he does that, his closet's nature changes from denial to deception. And there are fewer and fewer excuses today for staying there.

It is embarrassing that many gay Filipinos still lie pointlessly about themselves to their friends, co-workers, and families. It's shameful that older gay men and women who have been closeted all their lives continue being closeted out of torpor, and it's sad that younger gay men and women create fake lives as opposed to embracing who they are.

Courage is catching: I think every gay needs to come out, go out, and help make it better even though gayness has remained a mystery. For one, gayness a riddle that invites reflexion without set answers and ingenuousness to discovering awareness that we can’t envisage. What’s the purpose of gayness? What’s the point of being gay, if having a same-sex orientation is not mere peculiarity or random chance? Of course, it is a test of taking. A boosting of what we have for the better of our life. A recognition of God’s given gift, which appears to be a curse, yet it is the best gift that leads us to wonderful way of life.

Human nature teaches us about the nature of God. We include gay people and straight people. Gay people love in gay ways and straight people love in straight ways. We can try to express what human nature reveals about God with words, but only out of sorts. We could say, for instance: God is gay, God is not gay, God is straight, God is not straight. These are fine (but limited) ways of talking about God.

God is like a gay person and God is like a straight person. There is loveliness in gay people and in straight people, and God is so lovely that God’s loveliness includes all the loveliness of gays and straights. There is loveliness in gay ways of loving and in straight ways of loving, and God’s ways of loving are so lovely that they include all the loveliness of gay and straight ways of loving.

God made some men gay, as He made them in His spitting image. God made gay men to love in gay ways, as God loves in gay ways. The splendour of gay men reveals the splendour of God. The splendour of gay ways of loving reveals the splendour of God’s gay ways of loving. When someone fears and dislikes a gay, he or she fears and dislikes God. When someone pours scorn on, despises, abhors, and harms a gay, he or she pours scorn on, despises, abhors, and harms God.

Some people have bottled-up the truth about God’s gayness, because they have reviled and feared God. Some who have repressed the truth about God are straight and others are gay. The truth about God’s gayness has been revealed to those whose eyes are open.

I know one gay who I condemn for not coming out. Of course, I respect other gays of their decision not to, but in his case, I think his pretention is so grating. His theatrics are so obvious, but he keeps on pretending no one knows his gayness. Everybody knows as it were that he is save him. Whenever he sees a gay, he would glare at the gay. He treats him as if he had leprosy. He disdains gays as if they might harm him and waste his life lest he spends time on them or at least being kind to them. He is so trivial a closet gay. An illusionist. A casuist.

His actuation appears to be irksome. I think his existence in this world is of no use, a waste of vigour, because he doesn’t know who he really is, thus he doesn’t know his real purpose. He is a gay who negates his naturalness. He is an ambitious gay who wants to look like a real man despite his psychological horizon, and even physical. God has designed him to be a gay, yet he tries to repudiate this truth. He would create a life which is fake, just to make an impeccable image which is already so worn-out because his acting as a real man seems mediocre. So, I think he should stop now. He needs to come out in the open. He needs to be truthful at least to himself. And the most irritating is his anguish to gays, which can be seen in his eyes. He hates his gay students. His style is survival of the fittest, amongst his own sorts. He seems to be a communist trying to have an underground movement. He looks bitter all the time. Pitiful, right?

I love gays who love themselves, but there is no point in loving a gay who doesn’t know who he really is and who himself hates what he is and what God has made of him. He is a recalcitrant person who tries to dictate God despite the fact that he is just a mere human, in the lurch and feeble. He wants to define himself speciously. In the world of men, he is not Piolo; he is a monstrous, single-minded fantasist.

Outing is good. Outing is bad, but, hey Ricky, respect others and stop pretending that your sort is of Adam when you’re more bitchy than Eve.

Some Hiligaynon Sentences

an essay by Roger B Rueda

There are many advantages of learning Hiligaynon sentences. The main advantage of learning Hiligaynon sentences is to sound more conversational and personal. Learning simple vocabulary is important, but if you don't understand how to implement it into sentences and conversations, it may not do you much good in most situations. Be sure to spend time learning Hiligaynon phrases/sentences. When you take the time to learn one of the phrases/sentences, be sure to practise with a native speaker or somebody with a higher level than you so that you can sound more natural when using the Hiligaynon sentences.

Nagpasugot sia nga maglukso sa parakayda para sa buhat sa kaluoy.
She's agreed to do a parachute jump for charity.

Ipaábat ko siá sa kay Aldrin.
I shall send Aldrin after him.

Nagbúswang na ang íya hubág kag nagágay ang nánà.
His boil burst and the pus flowed out.

Hawóthawót iníng mga tápì sa salúg.
These planks are not sufficient to cover the floor.

Pahibóka iníng mán-og, kay tanawón ta kon napatáy na ukón walâ pa.
Stir this snake that we may see whether it is dead or not.

Ginakahidlawán siá sang íya nga ilóy.
His mother longs for him.

Ang mánghud amó ang nahigugmaán gid sang íya amáy.
The youngest son is very much loved by his father.

Tadlungá ang hiláy nga halígi.
Straighten the leaning post.

Ang maáyo nga mga bátà amó ang himáyà sang mga ginikánan.
Good children are the glory of their parents.

Himuláti ang pagkúhà sináng búnga sa sináng matáas nga sangá sang páhò.
Try to get hold of that fruit on that high branch of the mango-tree.

Nagahinurungán gid ang íla sugilánon nga walâ silá makabatî sang panóktok sa ganháan.
Their conversation was so animated that they did not hear the knock at the door.

Ang kinitáan sang mga mamumugón mapúslan sang búg-os nga bánwa.
The earnings of the working population are of advantage to the whole commonwealth.

Nagakúbay ang mga baláy sa siníng báryo sa toó kag sa walá sang dálan.
The houses in this village form rows (are in rows) to right and left of the road.

Indì ka magkúghad.
Don’t hawk (spit) with unseemly efforts.

Nagkúpus na ang hubág mo?
Has your swelling (boil) gone down?

Indì akó magbakál sing mahál sang ímo mga páhò, kay madámù sa íla ang kuyapíd.
I won’t pay a high price for your mangoes, because many of them are shrunk (or below normal size).

Naglabád siá sa ákon baláy nga dáw hángin.
He passed by my house like the wind.

Ladladí akó sing baníg.
Spread a sleeping mat for me.

Laghapí akó sing bulúng.
Try to find or get some medicine for me.

Indì mo pagpalagpokón ang tápì.
Don’t slam the board down.

Naglampingásan na ang madámù nga mga táo, kay walâ silá pagtóo kag walâ pagsapák sang mga sógò sang Díos.
Many men have become very wicked, because they have no faith and pay no heed to God’s commandments.

Ang mga lanúbò sing panuigón.
Those of tender years.

Ginlaukán níla nga duhá ang baláding nga tubâ kag nagkalahubúg (nagkabalúng) silá.
Both of them took large draughts of toddy from the pail and got drunk.

Lidgirí akó sing napúlò ka bílog nga maís.
Shell me ten corn-cobs.

Indì mo paglingásan ang bátà.
Don’t be so distracted as to forget the baby (your charge).

Nagalininggóhot gid lang ang mga táo sa atubángan sang simbáhan sa ádlaw sang piésta.
The people are moving about in crowds (or jostling each other) in front of the church on the day of the feast.

Iníng lánsang índì makasíbò; dálhi akó sing dakû.
This nail won’t do; bring me a large one.

Nagsigábung ang bató sa pagtupâ sa busáy.
The stone landed at the bottom of the precipice with a loud thump (or crash).

Ginasikâsikâ gid lámang ang mga ímol sang madámù nga mga manggaránon.
Many rich people turn away in disgust from the poor (or treat the poor with contempt).

Magsinalayó kamó sing matárung.
Live together honestly.

Writing 3 & 4 December

a poem by Roger B Rueda

My hand limp, or my thoughts.
The words sluggish,
or my heart of hearts.
The squash lianas,
some mammoth upright green
leaves cupped
towards the fog-veiled sun
no longer hide
the under-story, thinning
yellowing.
A few army ants moving back.
Lupines
in their protected corner
a patch near the warm brick
of the house
still purple as prayer,
salmon as a day.
A bee hovers as if in tune,
then flies on.
I pull out the shrivelled flower heads,
my thumb and forefinger, ooh,
how sticky
with the sweet-scented residue
of bloom.
Without washing it away,
can I break and scramble
eggs for elevenses,
spread toast thick
with guava jam?
I do not get up, do not move
drink in these moments
when words satisfy like grubs.

First Light

a poem by Roger B Rueda

However virtuous the light is,
all have sleep
in its discernments.
Nature seems held
in what wants to bounce
or sigh.
Reveries grow reedy,
see-through, as the sun goes
through with a fine-tooth comb
into a new day.
There is labour to do.
Lushness
must change the sun
into saccharinity;
every cell must generate another
of its kind; insects
and their kin
must search for drops of dew,
drink them before they fade
into thin air. Breakfast becomes
the first order of the day.
Those who browse
and those who search
move amongst those who draw in
minerals to meet their needs.
All are in danger.
After some time
there should be fewer mouths
to suckle — but it won’t come about
that way. Life will come
from loss
and the living
will replace those
the world lost in less
than a season.
And just now — it all holds its fire to begin.

December

a poem by Roger B Rueda

December comes with its green palette.
The wind
is all over delightful.
I can hear it
sprinkle through
the trees calling them
to new magic.
I’ve been out dancing
in this wind since dawn.
It called my name.
It was full of names.
The bushes know.
Even the mulches
and thirsty twigs have sensed it.