Kawasan Falls, Matutinao, Badian, Cebu, Philippines It was a sleepless night. I was reading this poem in the wee hours of the morning at McDonald’s Mango while waiting for Mara, the PR consultant of Terra Manna Camping and Resort. I didn’t know that we would visit the river that kept on flowing in my memory. Rivers are ardent travelers and drifters. Rivers are lives not lived.
Jo’s Fajita Salad | P107.14* “Manglibre ka, ron, te? (Will you treat us out, te?)” Virhenia asked. “It’s not my birthday! But let’s eat out!” It’s thirty past midnight. I told Jo, Judy, Ellen, and Sachi to go ahead because I had to drop by my place to get the camera. When the cab was about to pull over, I remembered I left the memory card at work. After getting the camera, Virhenia and I had to go back to the office to get it.
Water Vendor | Taal Volcano, Batangas Perhaps Brandi Carlile had this kind of face on mind while writing the first stanza of “The Story.” All of these lines across my face / Tell you the story of who I am / So many stories of where I’ve been / And how I got to where I am Those wrinkles, like small rivers trailing on her face, are storied. Laughter may have caused the line crawling on her cheek. Or tears. Or time. Life.
P, Poetry is the sincerest gift I could think of. For your birthday, a day shy from a leap day, I read a Wislawa Szymborska. Perhaps a sensitive soul like Szymborska can understand why I have to do some tweaks to make the poem more particular and intimate: changes like teacup to mug, Swift to Oliver. Love, Your Z P.Z. Yes, I’ll introduce my beloved river to you soon. Soon.