Literary Works

Featured on this page are the literary works of Junior Writers participating in Taboan: The Philippine International Writers Festival 2009.

• RONALD BAYTAN

The Queen Sings The Blues: Poems, 1992-2002 (Anvil, 2007)

Years
for R. and A. who think me a kid

Last night, I dreamt
I had beard and moustache
Like you, dear stranger,
And you were here
Lying with me in bed.
As my lips climbed down
From your eyes to your toes,
Precious years of lives
Distant to us both
Reeled like a film:
You were walking in cap
And gown and I was floating
In Plato’s world of ideas, I was born
And you had your first child,
You divorced and I discovered
Love. Our hands peeled
Time from our faces
Till I saw myself
As your image,
And I awakened.

Time has turned
Your hair into gray and white
Like my father’s. Mama has learned
To expect no sons from me.
But when she sees you,
She will ask me why.

I have no answer,
Only that I am drawn
To you like seed
To the earth.

This afternoon,
Before leaves turn
Yellow and fall,
I shall see you
Dear father-brother-lover
Stranger.
I promise
Years will shudder off
Our skin.

***

Star-crossed


You are a waterfall,
and I, a stream:
You will forever flow through me
and I shall never contain you,
but you will never wash me away.

***

Queen


Mama, the rhinestones are falling one by one
Because I always put the crown on my head
When you and Papa are sleeping. Imagine:
A fairy at the center stands with her wand
That stirs glowing waves of magic like sea
Shells in the dark. The crown is divine.

Mama, the gown I wore that night is fading
In the closet, unwashed black velvet exuding
Beauty irretrievably gone. It’s a backless
Sleeveless tube with big slits on the side,
Silver sequins on the padded bosoms, and white
Gloves for the spectacular beauty that I am.

Mama, my shoe size is ten, and the pair I bought
Is plain, pure black, four-inch heels like ice cream
Cones, enough to make me feel like Diana.
When they stab the marble floor, I hear
The clicking of light, regal steps from a castle far,
Far away. One night, the queen knew.

Mama, my sash is kept in a hidden drawer
Where secrets abound as beautiful boys thriving
On paper. It is white, laced with gold strips
On the side and reads: Miss Gay Universe 1995.
They all loved that beauty, your son, when he
Walked. No doubt, the ribbon was made for my hips.

Mama, as you sleep in the other room, I am
Sushmita, head up, teeth white, lips red and wide,
Hands touching hips, foamy bosom out, tummy
Tucked. In my mind, Mama, I am holding a fresh bouquet,
Waving to a feverish crowd, and you are there crying
Because it’s your son’s farewell walk as queen.

***


Long Yang


There in the sky’s mirror—the expanse of blue
Water, the two of them lay, Long Yang
And the King of Wei. Today the lake
Was their possession, and nothing could be heard
Except their voices and the splash of water
Opening itself to the lovers’ hooks.

Lord Long Yang looked at his empty basket,
And knew the fish found the king more
Charming. Every time a bigger fish appeared,
Wei would say Here is a better catch and whistle
In excitement. Something always has to please him
More, this Long Yang realized and he started

Weeping. “We can share the fish, beautiful
One,” Wei tried to comfort his peach
But Yang replied, “The fish you caught earlier
No longer interests you. Soon
You will throw it back into the water
Because there are more beautiful
Ones waiting for your noble hook.”

The king did not say a word, and rowed
The boat back to the golden palace.
The oars sliced through
The lake and Yang could hear his heart
Beating like the water
Shaken by Wei’s rowing arms.
Yang folded his arms across his chest
As if to comfort himself, and gazed
At the fish for a long, long time.

***


Emperor Wu, Confession


And the messenger proclaimed:
“He is dead.”

The trees have changed
Their color, but Han Yan still
Breathes in my memory,
His heart throbbing like rain
Falling on delicate palms
Of leaves the color
Of flaming mandarins.

I wear Yan’s words
Like layers of silk, heavy
And thick on my body:
“She is not telling the truth.”
That night, he took the back route,
And never returned.

Mei-Mei, the favored one, claimed
Yan had seized the plums
Of her ripeness, for the warrior’s eyes
Could open even the women’s quarters.
So furious was the empress dowager
That she ordered his arrest, death, both.

Finding him smelling of women’s
Powder several times, I listened
To the news—to my faithless nose.

I let the hunt happen.

His sword glinted
In the fields, and the armies
Found him cold, arms
On his chest, a pendant of gold
In his grasp, bearing
The name of the one
Heaven knew he loved.

Mei-Mei later confessed
She mounted him in his sleep,
And the emperor’s steed ran
Wild across a heartland
Of bleeding plums.

Mei-Mei and I burn
Offerings.
We have built a palace
Of wishes for his spirit.
Yet paper is not enough.
The flickering flame speaks
Of purple skies one windy night:

From my window, I saw him
Running through the footpaths
Of my orange grove, and he faded
In the arms of midnight mist.

***


Photograph


It knows everything,
And shows without guilt

The lines on our faces,
The intransigence of our grief.

I remember our conversation:
Seated across from me, you said

You had found the one. After crossing
A hundred states and bedding

A hundred men, you knew too well
The future of a Friday fuck, or a weekend

Foray in fancy bars. I resorted to silence,
Thinking of the one I had left behind

In my own country, yet imagining
Your lover’s hand kneading

Your chiseled chest, his chin resting
On your shoulder as he reads the poem

You write. You wear forty years of life,
But you have no regrets for this

One. In the photograph, there we two are—
For a moment together, dining, talking.

As my hand moves across the royal
Paper, I leave wet fingerprints.

***