The Villanelle

The Villanelle is an extremely strict and demanding poerty form with a complex structure - six stanzas, five of those are tersets (three lines) and the last, a quartet (four lines). The rhyme scheme for the five tersets would be an A B A and for the last quartet, an A B A A. The villanelle, for some reasons pertaining to its origin, has frequent repetitions. Loss, is mainly of the Villanelle's theme. My poetry class assigned me to make one. And I made a fairly stupid one right here:

Inevitable

Joshua Lagandaon

An inevitable - the parting of ways;
though journeyed from afar, an effort so vain.
O'er the gold-trodden mountains, nothing stays

Even through the golden dusk the sun ends days,
the hummingbird sleeps and the crow cries in pain.
An inevitable - the parting of ways.

The twilight splits. The midnight glistens rays
of rusted hope. Shine, rays, shine that I may gain
the memory of my love, her glorious face.

Beyond the ochre woods of sorrow will race
your Prince, your Duet, your Love. Though the rain
falls, a perilous journey I shall soon face.

The moon must part and the sun must shine. The days
must end and the nights must rise (infamous chain).
Sing to me, that I may hear your voice, your pace.

Though to journey I must, it is Destinys case,
tis he who decides if grief must remain.
An inevitable - the parting of ways.
But I wait, my love, if my love must race.

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Perpek Lab

Kanina nasa-FX ako, sa pinaka likod. Sa harapan ko dalawang matanda, babae at lalaki. Nakayakap yung lalaking matanda sa babaeng matanda. At yung babae naman hawak-hawak ang braso ng lalaki na tila sumisigaw ng, "Never let me go." Yung yakap nila parang pangtin-ejer. Nagulat ako kasi minsan lang ako makakita sa pinas ng mga matandang nagmamahalan na parang wala nang bukas. Buong biyahe ata nakangiti lang ako sa kanila. Gusto ko ganun din kami nang swerteng magiging asawa ko. Ang swit swit nila. Parang Perpek Lab.

Okay. Hear me out.

The most amazing but unusual thing happened to me. Nasa taxi ako pauwi.I think I had a bit too much wine to drink from a friend's house party that I had this strong desire to write something. I grabbed my journal and started scribbling stuff down on paper. I wasnt even looking. My hands were doing all the work while my mind drifted away along the heavily air polluted streets of Pasig. The taxi dropped me home and I forgot all about what I wrote until I read it again the next day. I was shocked. Cause what I wrote was about something that happened to me a long, long time ago. The thing is, this is my unconscious talking (or maybe the wine), NOT ME. So this is what came out:


The night was of peace, sorrow and destiny. The quiet street bristled with apathy yet all we heard was the symphony that dwelled within us - a duet of molded hearts. There we were, enjoying the air that was pure in every way. In that exact time our hearts were synchronized.

But it was inevitable - like our lives were already printed in history. We were there, beneath the star studded skies when your eyes radiated with innocence while mine of grief, regret, anger and confusion. I wanted what was mine so badly. And what faced you was nothing more than a past - a past that I wish you once deemed important.

No.

This is not love.

For love is something perpetual. It is everlasting. It does not wither. It never fails. It is designed by the hands of God. Its essence is weaved by the Omnipresent.

But what was it? Was this merely a bond? One that is created when beings converge and understand each other holistically? Was the pain caused by the lack of something that was once part of you and at the present is fondled by someones arms?

I wish not to know the whys or the hows. What I wish to discover is the cure that will alleviate the bruises that this foolishness has caused me; to wipe away what is left of my tears with a handkerchief that is no longer soaked.

Everyone knows im a creative writer. I have to conform to the norms of what a perfect writer is - a writer who writes with material, substance, coherence, a decent choice of words, blah, blah, blah. Everything that my hand jots down must be perfect, untainted, flawless and marvelous. Nothing should be of the ordinary. I must be unique. I must have my own style. I must be this, I must be that. Just like my blockmate Bea Celdran said in a writing workshop, "We carry the burden of our name. There is pressure in a creative writer because everything we write must be perfect. If we fail, we are judged."

But why is it that I took this course? Why is it that I chose to train under this art? Why is it that I branded myself with "creative writer" written all over me and in turn am punished by the pressure it exerts on me? But alas, I shouldnt be tormented by this situation at all. Why? Because I took this course so that I could learn about it. I am not perfect. Even now I believe that what Im writing isn't worthy of a Palanca Award, but soon though, it will be.