Nothings

NOTHINGS

by
Patrick Albert Salaver

Self-published

Manila

Copyright © Patrick Albert Salaver, 2018

All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced
in any form or by any means
without the written permission
of the copyright owner and the publisher.

Published and exclusively distributed by
Patrick Albert Salaver, Author and Publisher
264 Jose Aranda St., Gatchalian Subd. Ph. 3, Las Piňas City
1705 Philippines
Any person who does any unauthorised act
in relation to this work will be liable to criminal
prosecution and civil claims for damages.

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ISBN 978-971-27-X-X

Published in the Philippines.

NOTES ON THE POEMS

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

These poems were written throughout the year of 2018 with initial
hopes of chronicling and conveying thoughts I failed to explain.
Admittedly, this is shorter than the 24 original planned poems, though
this is less because to keep secret than that they are unpolished,
unfinished works. This year had been unexpectedly problematic, to
say the very least, and I have been having doubts whether to include
the ​less enthusiastic o​ nes as I had done before in previous years. I
think it’s a bad gamble to take. Nevertheless, I did promise to tell you
and you’ll find most of them here.

Bear in mind that these poems are not sorted in any particular order so
that they may be read independent of the other. This does not attempt
to chronicle or make a point outside of its context. Although you may
find some of them written long before 2018, they had been revised
either in some form or fashion to reflect the musings and broodings of
my unstable mind.

As before, these poems are yours completely and you may do with
them as you wish. It would be appreciated, however, that some of
these are to be kept private. I trust your wisdom to know which and to
whom they ought to be kept secret to.

Lastly, as interest in these poems have palpably plummeted, this may
very well be the last and there are no plans for another one in the
coming year. Hopefully, this would be a more enjoyable read.

NOTHINGS

For Patwycja

Nothings

We trade words of witful wisdom
For “​ I want pizza today.”

What stands between us now is ellipsis.

.

On Love and Language

Love
lavishes and languishes
in the obscure language
of privy pleasures
and silent sorrows.

We Possess Our Own Big Bang
We possess our own Big Bang:

a cacophony of elusive echoes—
all at once, both

memory and mystery—
resonating thru complex variations

in the spectrum of glances and smiles
that thread the spaces between you and I.

Poem

the bed
was made
before the lover left,
hoping to cover the disarray
Love leaves when leaving.

Maagang Paglisan

sa iyong paglisan,
nabasag ang buwan.
at sa pira-pirasong
mukha nito
aking napagtanto
ang lungkot at lamig
ng bumabalot na Dilim

sinusuyo ang luhang
aking nililihim.

Disyerto

sa mga palad
ng aking isipan,
isinalok kita,

ang tanging tubig
ng mabuhanging mundo.

Making Sense

“Love does not have reason,” Anton remarked.
Of course, it does.
It’s somewhere
in the center
of a dim room
with a window the world
could peep into
and see the toddler tiles
and the pair of unmade beds.

It sits silent in the kitchen
as we whiff wafts
of fanciful wishing
while sipping soup
in sanguine satisfaction.

And it was there
when we waved goodbye
with joyous ardor
and woeful misery
like tragic heroes
of some Shakespearean play.

Departure

the bus door opened
the conductor invited me in

stale air hissing
impatiently

I have to go
so I leave

without knowing
why must it end

it just ends

Inert

I watch the conductor
walk past empty seats.
As the doors of the bus
unfold to close,

I stagger
to my feet

for a seat
at the back,

beside a window.

The streets are busy,
yet here I am in my seat,
waiting for the night to pass.

Mass for the Tuna

For the sake of my Mother,
and to be blunt,
this sorry spirit.
Let us eat.

Out of water, far from its brethren,
swallowed by the net;
the fish boats hum
‘til the day is done.
Our worth? As it is in its ocean.
Arms on the table,
We chew on this dead,
and keep shoveling the meat in
as we make-believe
that we could tell what it was.
Perhaps all the living can guess
that life and death is identical.

Save men.

Understanding

a state of mind achieved
by completely giving up

on investigating
some thing,

and rely instead
on your own

internal model.

How to Make a Mirror

Take a gram of opinion
and a gram of truth

in separate containers.

Dissolve them both
with contemplation,

then mix them together.

The black precipitate
of mind will form.

Add norms until it clears.

Add four years of education
and stir until that, too, dissolves.

Pour into paper your words.

Heat the solution,
but don’t let it boil

or it will tear your mind off.

Remember to do this
in an open space

or the fumes will poison you.

Soon it will turn to your ideal color—

that’s how you know it’s ready.

Now take your word; wipe off the excess.

Clean the surface
with more contemplation

Don’t take too long or obsession forms,

A dark idea
that decomposes rapidly—

explosively, to be more precise—

to an air
of offensive obduracy

and acrid bigotry.

Morning Routine

Disappointment crashes on the body
as the sea thrashes upon the shore:
the violent rapture that crumbles it
bit by tiniest bit—

Dragging its plunders to the mouth
of that gluttonous abyss
gaping wide open
to swallow the soul.

The body crumples and folds—
arms wrapping around knees
as if to gather the broken pieces,
desperate to taper them back—

Drowning in quiet panic
and wondering if—or hoping
that it is naught but a dream,
some nightmare

He could jolt himself awake from
with a jump
and a prayer.

Accomplice

it is neither narcissism
nor obverse obliviousness
to keep up a lie
for more than 15 years

it is malevolence of unusual cruelty.

On Cosmetics

"My mother does not trust
women without it.
What are they not hiding?​"
~Malech, Dora. ​Makeup

the skin hangs
on these bones like
cage curtains
of silken cloth
clipped to the insides:
creasing and draping down
to Time's
attentive touch.

there is no reason
to dress and frame
this sullen spirit
when it screams in sorrow
in helpless hope
to find freedom
from the conniving crowds
and their contrived
breathlessness.

so God,
forgive our grieving.
even the sea longs for the
earth's embrace,
pawing the shore
that sleeps in wait.