Pwet-ry

“Poetry is what you find
in the dirt, in the corner
overheard on the bus, God
in the details, the only way
to get from here to there”
Elizabeth Alexander

In Grade II, a teacher made an error in choosing me to represent the class in an oral declamation contest. The piece was entitled “The Owl and the Pussycat”. I was such a pussy, I lost. But that defeat didn’t scar me to be scared of poetry.

I can’t exactly remember when I made a sanctuary out of poetry. My imaginary shrink didn’t recommend it, it just found me somehow.

In college, the activist circle would organize the traditional “Bladed Verses,” a poetry-reading interspersed with musical production every September to commemorate Martial Law. My dear friend Joma took the helm of poem-selection, script-writing, directing, name it. I was just there because I could not be anywhere else.

Years later, Mana Vangie who hoists the banner of decency and moral principle in UPTC and I were tasked to organize a poetry-reading we called “Revolt against (Hy)Men.” We still banked on J's support.

Most of the time, I cannot fully understand poetry. Maybe that’s part and parcel the charm it holds for me. I keep on returning to it in the hope of nourishing a hunger. Momentarily nourished, I saunter off with a spring in my steps to perform tasks ensuring my survival. Then after a while, I don’t know if it’s me feeling homesick for its comfort or it’s poetry beckoning me to reconcile with myself but I just end up savoring something that leaves me hungrier everytime.

When the mood strikes, I sometimes dabble into it for what I pass off as poetry. I am not any good at writing poems so I find contentment just reading them. People like Sir Dave, my Lit-professor who can recite poems from the top of their heads and insert them in casual conversations – they rock this world.

I have no particular favorite poet. I have a few sentimental favorites. I am a fan of my friends’ and friends of friends’ poetry. I’m like a kid on Christmas when somebody shares a poem.

Once I had a PolSci student who gifted me her set of poetry, complete with a heartfelt dedication. Tears welled in my eyes. I felt so cherished and humbled. Shout-out to Uwan!

What does it take for us proletariat to have our imagined charmed life pulse into reality amidst abject poverty, the allure of self-pity, and the sweet promise of suicide?

Poetry, brother. It is the oxygen by which we breath and the glimmering ray of hope for a better world that never comes.