Eat My Tanaga, You Bastard!

When I hurt, I write. Friends who haven’t been seduced by writing (yet) often ask, “How can you write anything while you are in pain?” And just as often, I respond, “How can you keep yourself from writing your defiance into agony’s bullying face?” Fine! So, I don’t really say that to them, but I think it. Because it’s true. When I hurt, I shove my words into pain’s throat. Then, I laugh like a maniac. And while pain is baffled by the uncanniness of my behavior, I shriek, “Eat my Tanaga, you bastard!” All right already, this is my first Tanaga battle cry. But all the rest is true. When I hurt, pain eats my words. No compromise.

 

Say hello to my little Tanaga:

Hot hurts my words won’t whither,
reigned pain can make ink sweeter—
stories kiss torture better
and poems dull the bitter.

 

via

the wee notes…
Tanaga: Filipino poem (7-7-7-7 syllabic verse, with an aaaa rhyme scheme).
– yes, the title made me giggle. Giggles, too, make good weapons in the battle against pain. It has been scientifically proven (by my flesh and bones and me).
– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

Battling to Birth Wild Balance

“What matters in life is not what happens to you but what you remember and how you remember it [to tell the tale].” ~ Gabriel García Márquez

 

My bit of the North revealed its skull hollow on a mad Tuesday. Mandibles dropped for cover, tongues lashed out in outrage, and no less than 1,001 fists (per nanosecond) pumped towards the heavens in despair—dark clouds and powerful men with darker souls gave exactly zero fucks. But… worry not, my Ink Warrior, today’s babies sharpen their teeth on the neckbone of injustice.

I art my words strange,
fill my tales with blood and feels.
My poetry howls
of love and other demons
battling to birth wild balance.

 

the wee notes…
– If Death had not felt the need for the best of storytellers, my dearest Gabo would’ve turned 91 today. He has been gone for almost 4 years. To celebrate his amazing life, I chose 4 of his quotes, crafted them into a blackout poem, expanded the poem into a tanka, and grew it into the tanka prose you’ve just read. Also, the fourth line of the tanka is the title of one of Márquez’s novels. Feliz cumpleaños, mi Gabo, your words will always live in needed tales.
– I apologize to those of you who were expecting the next bit of “In a Normal (probably-pre-apocalyptic) Reality”. I’ll post it next Tuesday. I just couldn’t skip my Gabo on the anniversary of his birth.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.