Nada Revisited


He thought he was done
with poetry.
Its language cannot forestall
the return of nothing
that gripped the heart –
& his hand that stilled it
could only flow
with the nothing that kept rearing
like the Inquisition.
When he heard the old news
she’s spoken for,
he could only stare
at himself
like a rat clubbed on the head
& that infernal nothing
registered on the retina
with the expansiveness
of a wind frozen on its tracks.
He was overwhelmed the first time,
but the second assaulted him
like a storm…
It was as if he had died
though he’s never privy
to the what of death anyway
except that look, as on a screen,
that stayed blank like a child’s.
O poetry never mattered
for all the world to care.
It hid the secret of nothing
that said nothing
like a soundless squall.
Pain, sorrow, mirth, exaltation
were winecoloured masks –
& would remain nothing
because she’s spoken for.


& his days shall be filled
with nothing
even if he laughs at
& desires that nothing of something.
Is the glass half-full?
Atom permeates everything
& the eyes that feel
that nothing
can only sum up
that which makes for something.
Ever the fool to insist
that nothing happens,
something along the curve
of his everyday learning
that tells him, like a blind seer,
that which festers in the heart
& screws his daily living.
She’s spoken for:
But that’s the rule.
The world forever turns
& magically floats
on a teardrop of nothing.


& if she’s no longer
having melted into air,
what is there to do?
Pantomime is also speech.
He cannot avert his eyes –
the real, unfathomed but desired,
is beyond the language
of his signifying.
What’s in store for him
who stays at the brink
of nothing?
It is the shadow’s wager
that someday, sometime
between the sun & stars
love shall bloom like a rose
that is pure nothing
& therefore of immeasurable


It is a sad summer
that denies the scorching heat
as if it doesn’t hit anyone
between the eyes…
Somehow things do not add up
& wearing a hat
is clue enough
the sun blasts all sky-high,
like her
who shall always
be the fantasm of his psyche,
spectral dove
circling around his sleep,
chirping like some omen
that he’s not wary of.
O things do happen
outside his mortal reckoning.
Even nothing
has a musicality
that escapes agnostic ears
but drowns loverly wail.


The monk’s confessional
is a phone booth
in space
drifting toward
& prayers
in the galactic dark
are pebbles dropped
into an ocean of nothing
where no sound
eddies toward
the limitless shore.
How should things be, then?
What words for her
to signal a ship
has weighed anchor
at the pier?
travels like a bullet
between them
& they stand
rooted like crystalline trees
in the strands.


So this then
is the heart’s conflagration:
nada in between
nada to blitz
the past & the future.
If the middleground
is interminable dream,
they awake,
exhausted like somnambulists,
only to lapse
into another dream,
ad infinitum.
O Pray for a silence
breached by the accident
of words
& imperishable presence.


So he waits
for the angelic visitation
that comes,
old lovers say,
once in a blue moon.
Is love possible
between figures
in a landscape
assailed by semaphores
in a sea of bones?
He’s marooned somewhere
on an iceberg of his grief;
she lingers by the window
for apocalyptic horsemen
to get her out of season of ennui.
O how the gods play
with actors
of ill fortune!

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2 Responses to Nada Revisited

  1. [talking to persona] if i were you, i’d tell it all… all of it, all!sino ba itong pag-ibig na ito? aber?

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