I hope you’re taking care and finding peace during these scary, violent times. Take care of your loved ones. Protect your community. It is especially during these times that we must lean on each other.

I’ve been preparing for my upcoming writing residency (my penultimate residency for my master’s program), and I submitted the two poems for my primary genre, poetry, workshop.

This poem was born during a reflection. Steinian syntax, as created by Gertrude Stein, was introduced. And my not being familiar with her work, looked up exactly what composed ‘steinian syntax.’ This is explored more in depth in a previous post here.

I hope to write more poems in this style (and perhaps read some of Stein’s work in between!)

all multilingual speakers use steinian syntax di ba

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It’s raining in the Bay Area. The downpour comes and goes, rising and falling like crescendos to an invisible conductor. The Californian in me nods and thinks, “we need this.” The Filipino in me is cold, too cold (this, too, is arguably Californian as well considering what temperature I regard as “cold”). In the end, after all this inner monologue, I charge all my devices and pray that we don’t lose our power.

It’s in this weather that I long to be comfy. While at my day job, I plunked away, mask, jacket, scarf, and all, daydreaming of my blanket. I sat in my car during my lunch break and thought of pillows. I thought of the gusts flinging my hair around and how annoyingly accurate water droplets landed on my glasses. It’s also in this weather that I long to write.

I continue to be grateful for the virtual offerings of fellow creatives, as I recently joined another of Sophia Dahlin’s classes, Elemental Poetry: Earth Air Fire Water. Being a millennial, I feel that I was raised on elemental contemplations, especially with shows like The Last Airbender. And, as it was recently Lunar New Year, I think of other elements not normally mentioned, like wood and metal (especially since I and my partner respectively are these minor elements). And with the rain and its vigor, I thought of the water in me, my scorpio stellium, and felt it was entirely fitting that we discussed poems of water and air on a day that was particularly windy and rainy.

I wrote a poem in today’s class that wasn’t necessarily about water itself. Rather, I tried to use water to talk about a house. A house where, I have this memory, that’s now separated by twenty-six years. It’s not necessarily getting older that scares me, but it’s the distance between things, and people, now gone that sit in me like a stone.

So, this little work in progress, is a portrait: imagine a child eating hot sinigang in the kitchen with their parents and Lola. Their mother works swing shift, so she’s still home. Their father works night shift, so he’s still home. This is why lunch time is the best time. And this child is allowed to go home for lunch and eat with their family. And while the rain poured outside, there remained a bustle and movement inside. Lola cooking and serving. Mom and Dad laughing and talking. Were my siblings there yet? These are the patches that we can’t help but have. Was there an uncle living with us yet? Or was it another lola? Was it an auntie? This scene standing still while time still swirling behind and all around it. This was lunch at the Cathay house.

Lunch at the Cathay House When It Rains

In Defense Of is a short behind-the-scenes series of the thought process behind creating and compiling the manuscript for the chapbook, In Defense Of (Love) Poems. The poems were written in response to prompts provided by Sophia Dahlin in her generative workshop, The Possibility of Love. Poetry is not the end all be all of activism, nor should it ever be. It can be the first step to bringing awareness to the struggles of your fellow people. Poetry helps in bringing visibility because the act of observation is an unavoidable skill needed in this literary art. Poetry asks: what do you see, what do you feel, and how are you going to convey this?

In Sophia Dahlin’s most recent generative workshop offering, students were provided many prompts. One of which begged the question of a world that supported love. This prompt was the entry point for me to touch on communities that need more visibility in my poem.

What does the world need to look like to support and abet love?

I ask you to take this question with you with whatever art you practice: how will you use your voice?

Putting together a manuscript is one of my personal joys of being a poet. I love learning how poems talk to each other, and how to arrange them in a way that helps them talk to each other. I began this process again with a small chapbook of love poems.

I recently finished an online, generative workshop with Sophia Dahlin, The Possibility of Love. I joined this class because the thought of writing love poetry in itself was already daunting. I weigh my interest in poetry in how much it moves me emotionally. I describe this to my partner as the clutching of my chest, or the gasp, or my hands flying to my mouth. This is especially hard to accomplish with love poetry. So, I thought, why not? How do we learn if not to challenge ourselves?

Each of the poems in this budding manuscript was written in response to a prompt provided by Sophia, some harder than others, but all harder than any other poem I’ve tried to write before. This first poem, “wrap my legs around your hips,” was an attempt towards the sensual, the erotic. How better for me, as someone who grew up with layers of shame solely on the basis of being born a daughter and Catholic, than to reclaim my joy and wants in intimacy?

And so, this is love, or rather, just one of my many thoughts on love.

wrap my legs around your hips,

We can’t reconcile everyone’s recollection of effort in grief.

I say this because last night my mother had a conversation with an aunt about creating a schedule around care, community, and support around my aunt’s ailing mother. She cried on the phone to my mother, held by her wisdom.

I sat in the kitchen, stunned. I sat in the kitchen transported back to 2020 staring at the crude (and fluctuating) schedule in my diary that I made because my sister was tired. I was tired. My brother was tired.

In this very conversation where my sister says aloud, “Mom, you only watched Lolo for one night.” Our mother responds, “I tried.”

I’m still working on holding both truths in my hands:

* My mother was traumatized as a fifteen-year-old abandoned in the States by her parents who married quickly for a green card and a family

* My siblings and I needed more help than we were given because our parents trauma got in the way of providing this help

Other truths I hold in my hands:

* I resent becoming a primary caretaker of my Lolo

* I hated being a primary caretaker of my Lolo

* I felt guilt towards this hate the moment Lolo passed away

Self-soothing during a panic attack going through the cyclical motions of grief

Anger is an emotion I continue to hold and unravel. This poem was a way of surrender. I didn’t want to be angry anymore. I didn’t want to feel guilt where there isn’t a reason to feel guilt.

So now, in my hands, I hold the butterfly of myself and let it coast the wind.

Note: While there are no blatant spoilers mentioned in today’s essay, inferences can be made about the events of episode 3 of the Last of Us from reading this essay. If you would like to experience the episode without any kind of spoiler, I highly recommend you stop and watch the episode first before reading this essay. I seek safety and commitment in my relationships. I’m on the side of the argument that love is not enough to sustain any relationship. With love (to me), there needs to be a bedrock of trust and consistency.

Along with millions of other viewers, I sobbed at the story shared between Bill and Frank in the third episode of The Last of Us.

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In the short time spent with Bill and Frank, we see their differences and similarities and rejoice in the beauty of their vulnerability. We see actions as love whether it in the exchange of strawberries, watering of flowers, or the turning of a plate. In a dystopian world, they found peace in each other's presence.

My partner and I’ve had conversations on what we think we would do when we pass. My thinking is very future-oriented (in all its pros and cons); and, in this way, I’ve prepared for his death again and again.

But what my time with my partner (and Bill and Frank) has taught me is to imbue every moment with appreciation. Us choosing each other is a gift in itself. In these moments of worry, he takes my hands and says, “everyday spent together will be full of love enough to last lifetimes.” It is in the little actions he does that make the meaning of love for me. Time and time again, my partner shows up and chooses me.

How will you / have you prepare(d) for his death?

I would like to think that he and I are years away from this type of preparation.

But even if this day comes to us much sooner than we expect, each day spent together from now until then will be worth a lifetime of love, security, and tenderness.

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In all versions of me, I am angry. I am earth centered, water guided fury. Each of the elements move within me, against me. While they fight, I look at the trees. I count the leaves and thank the sun for each of its rays, which adorn my forehead like a crown. I gather these rays and they lie in wait. Of all the signs within me, Sagittarius is dormant. They sleep soundly knowing Virgo is at the helm with Scorpio at her second. But sometimes, Virgo and Scorpio bow too often. They are already awake before a finger brushes their shoulder. Hooves against the dirt of the earth that lifts them up. Muscles hardened, knowing the tension of enduring. And when Virgo's and Scorpio's noses touch the ground, Sagittarius' arrow is already loosed.

Sometimes, poems are born, emerging.

This poem was born from a writer’s block its original title, “Too Much Lava in my Big 3 with my Fire Sign Moon".

This poem, my Athena, was an accumulation of emotions I left untended. On the day this poem was born, I was preparing for dual-performance at the Montalvo Arts Center to celebrate the reveal of the “Creating Space” installment at the 2022 Marcus Festival. The poets invited were asked to create ekphrastic pieces in conversation and or in response to the new paintings and or sculptures. Despite knowing my task a month prior to the event, I had major “writer’s block.”

I reached out to poet (my pare, poetry father, and fellow performer at this event), Lorenz Mazon Dumuk, on how to approach this dilemma. I explained that this is abnormal for me; normally, I excel in writing in response to “prompts". To which he said, “seems things feeling familiar is throwing you off. Your mind is hella involved. All your tectonic plates are shifting.”

I replied, “too much lava with my fire sign moon!!!!”

And there, he taught me the necessary detour:

“Write about this first. You need this poem before you work. It is not an obstruction, but something fighting to be heard by you. And heart kind of agrees to it, so mind and heart have conspired against you. Lean into that first. Let that be released first.”

After I sent him my poem, he said:

”If we want our writing authentic, we must approach it with our authentic self. Writing, especially of the heart kind, will always magnetically go towards where we are most honest. Remember you were clearing channels. Parts of us will take that chance to be amplified even despite our ambition. Sag chakra blocked you for a reason. Writing is hard when you have Sag asking for the last however long for attention. If you need clarity for a poem, you going to need to use the walis, or else that what’s swept under will laugh at you, especially when it’s this big lump under the carpet.”

When folks discover my big three, they’re often in disbelief. I’ve heard a range of, “this is…a lot,” “your chart is so chaotic,” to “you’re so sweet but your chart is…much.”

In all versions of me, I am angry. I am earth centered, water guided fury. Each of the elements move within me, against me. While they fight, I look at the trees.

I don’t know what it is within me that allows my need (and ability) for control. Perhaps, it’s my Virgo Sun and Libra Mercury? Despite my intense emotions, I do my best to listen first before I react. And because of my Scorpio Rising, I’ve a penchant for retaliation. I’ve a Scorpio Stellium with a Virgo Sun, Cancer Mars, and Libra Mercury, so I joke I’m the avatar with all the elements housed within me.

While they fight, I look at the trees. I count the leaves and thank the sun for each of its rays, which adorn my forehead like a crown. I gather these rays and they lie in wait. Of all the signs within me, Sagittarius is dormant. They sleep soundly knowing Virgo is at the helm with Scorpio at her second.

My partner is a Leo Sun with a Leo Stellium. In my writing, I refer to him with sun imagery. To me, he is the sun. I am half-joking when I tell him this, but in moments where my anger flares, the other person (or people) are only spared because he is present. He calms me; he is my center. Funny enough, he is all fire, but he is my rock. I think of his kisses and the tenderness with which he kisses my forehead. While he is the person that prevents potential outbursts, he encourages them. He looks at me earnestly and says, “you are too kind.”

I think about my relationship with anger. With my stoic Virgo Sun and soothing therapist, Scorpio Rising, my first instinct is to look for alternative routes towards a solution. But sometimes, peace is only won after a fight.

But sometimes, Virgo and Scorpio bow too often. They are already awake before a finger brushes their shoulder. Hooves against the dirt of the earth that lifts them up. Muscles hardened, knowing the tension of enduring. And when Virgo's and Scorpio's noses touch the ground, Sagittarius' arrow is already loosed.

I am a genderfluid/genderflux/genderfae fem non-binary person. I prefer they/them pronouns. I am non-binary, but I’m still in touch with my womanhood. I speak to her; and sometimes, I am her. To me and of myself, I think of my Virgo Sun and Scorpio Rising with she/her pronouns. I greatly correlate my fire and my desire to be seen as my true self with my Sag Moon, so I think of them as they/them.

I didn’t know this then, but my Sag Moon has always been my protector. Anger is a signal; it blares when we are wronged or hurt. As a recovering people-pleaser, I’ve sacrificed myself at the expense of others’ wants. I gave myself as the price of peace. But when my Sag Moon awakes, they do not allow this to happen. Before I know, I am saying before I am thinking. I am moving before I am thinking. Sag is a one track mind, and they tell me to go. They tell me, to flex, to scream, to flail. They tell me to fight. This is where I see my inner placements in battle.

My Sag Moon, my archer, my anger, pride, and voice, deserve to be seen.

They will be heard.

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In which we are pearls. In which we bear a cross. Inri. In remembrance. In spilling. In heaving. Each of us nailed at the spine. In which we all wear white. In which we all might share the same last name or wherein last name is  middle name, regardless. Only we wear white. Only we as in this branch, gnarled purple wood and yellow. In which my brother is broken into powder blue pieces. In which I have to tell my baby cousin to say his good-byes. Where when I hold him, I am holding myself. In which I promise to always tell them stories of him. In which, now, my lolo lives in kingly wings. White wings. The sun cries its light down to us. It tells me we are pearls. It tells me this cross is worth its weight. It tells me in remembrance. It tells me he is everywhere alive. 

A poem is a gift. It is also an unfurling. Within a poem is a story. Good poetry carries a universal truth giving life to a feeling we’ve all felt. Outside of love and longing, what’s more universal than grief (where within grief is still an entanglement of love and longing)?

Lolo Meong, my paternal grandfather, passed away February 4, 2021.

Despite this pain, we were the lucky ones. This was during a height in COVID-19 precautions. Prior to his passing, the majority of our “visits” to Lolo (who was checked into a convalescent home due to low to failing kidney health) were over FaceTime. Our luck played a huge part, as this communication was due to the kindness of his nurses, who would call Nay from their personal phones. The two times we did visit in-person, there was the separation of a glass wall. Wherein, again, through the kindness of his nurses, he was wheeled out to us, and we talked through the glass.

With us, our luck came in threes. In his last hours, we technically weren’t allowed to see him in-person. But, his nurses permitted us to visit him in pairs. I went to see him with my father’s brother, Uncle Dodo. He and I cried as we held Lolo’s hands. Uncle Dodo told him everything would be okay, that he would be okay. I told Lolo that he was the best lolo and that I loved him. I promised I would remember his stories and share it with my younger cousins, my children, and everyone who followed. Lolo looked at the both of us and nodded.

That was at 1am. Even after each of us had our turn visiting Lolo, we stayed in the parking lot another hour, unsure of what to do. At 2am, we decided to go home. Nay promised she would wake us when he passed on.

Then, at 4am on February the 4th, my lolo passed away.

In which we are pearls. In which we bear a cross. Inri. In remembrance. In spilling. In heaving. Each of us nailed at the spine.

My parents’ generation endured plenty of loss with the passing of titos, titas, and mga pinsan who lived in the Philippines. However, at this point, my parents (and their siblings) had been in the States for well over twenty years. They loved these family members, but there was a numbing that came with distance. Lolo Meong was the first death among the Arañas-Labras in the diaspora, in this branch that makes us.

I visit Uncle Roger, my lolo’s youngest brother, as an errand for Lola. This was shortly after Lolo Meong passed on, so I was hesitant to see a direct connection to Lolo Meong outside of my immediate branch of the family. I see Uncle Roger’s mannerisms and can pinpoint their similarities. They stand the same. They sit the same. When I hear him on the phone with Lola, fast and aggressive Cebuano, he sounds like Lolo. But, he is not my lolo. Uncle Roger dons a Warriors hat, brimming with hope for another chance in the Championships. I tug at my own Lakers sweater. He is not the same. He is not my lolo.

My lolo loved his children in curious ways. He was also a hoarder. Having lived through poverty, war, and an occupation, he held strong attachment to the material. My father would grow, either physically out of his old clothes or into a new fashion sense, and Lolo would keep these articles of clothing. Lolo would adopt allegiances, following his children.

And so, mimicking the starry-eyed middle schooler, who was my father, Lolo, too, watched Magic Johnson live up to his name on the court. And through the years, Lolo kept the Lakers merch my father amassed.

After his passing, my sister and I pored over countless trinkets, boxes, and drawers. And there, she found the priceless sixteen time champion Lakers jacket. This wasn’t questioned or even a matter of fate. Of course this jacket would return to us. Because we are a branch of purple and yellow.

In which we all might share the same last name or wherein last name is  middle name, regardless. Only we wear white. Only we as in this branch, gnarled purple wood and yellow.

Lolo served in the Philippine Navy for twenty plus years. His regaled us with tales of his captaincy. It was because of this, we chose the color blue for his casket. Lola still wears a necklace of a blue anchor. My sister picked bouquets of blue and white. Before they lowered Lolo, my brother watched the tree cry its white flowers along the wind. I can’t visualize him crying, but I know he did. He bared the brunt of Lolo’s hopes and aspirations because he was the only male, Labra apo who would bear his last name.

In which my brother is broken into powder blue pieces.

The younger generations meet softened versions of our elders. The lolo I knew at seven was not the same my baby cousin met when he was seven. Similarly, the lolo I knew was not the cold, distant father that my father knew. This is something to be celebrated. It is a blessing to witness a softening.

At Lolo’s viewing, my younger cousin, PinPin, read aloud his speech. At the podium, with the help of my sister, he told us what he loved and remembered about his Lolo Meong. He cried, and his crying caused his little sister, Baby, to cry. And I stifled my tears to hold the other side of him. He was too young. I felt too young. This was too soon. I swore again that I would tell him stories, and I would ask him to share more of his.

In which I have to tell my baby cousin to say his good-byes. Where when I hold him, I am holding myself. In which I promise to always tell them stories of him.

In 2021, I was bitter at the overlap. In 2022, I am grateful for the overlap.

I read and hear of rituals that bring comfort to me despite my religious (or lack thereof) beliefs. My lolo is promised to us for forty more days. He ventures the world as a butterfly, specifically the white butterfly that frequents Lola’s garden. As a butterfly, he can spend as much time as he wants in the sun. I can imagine his face angled, as if purring, toward its warmth. The world does not mourn with us, but I want to believe it does.

We are still the same string as before. My partner reminds me I will always have two. I will always have two. He helps me to carry what I no longer see as a burden. Grief is a reminder that the universe is without feeling or intention. It is with this sentiment that makes the overlap such a blessing.

In which, now, my lolo lives in kingly wings. White wings. The sun cries its light down to us. It tells me we are pearls. It tells me this cross is worth its weight. It tells me in remembrance. It tells me he is everywhere alive. 

He will stay in the before; he was with me for a moment in the present; and now, he continues into the future with us.

In us.

In me.