Lagumbay.com Reflections on Love, Rage, and Fear

To write is to offer sacrifice to the gods
who stand over my shoulder disappointed,
who sit among a crowd of ghosts
awaiting wisdom wrapped in language
ready to bestow judgment, offer encouragement
but most of all, to consume
and be consumed in the ceremonial fire.

To write is to befriend the ghosts
of Jack and Eddie arguing about
form and structure over
more drinks than either should have had.
It is to seek approval from the essence
of writers past and present
who managed to meander their way
into the audience in my mind.

To write is to simultaneously
embrace and transcend my flaws,
to wish my inner poet had a deeper voice
with which to deliver thoughts
from mind to the imaginary air,
to wish that I could speak
as if my words were a sword
masterfully wielded
with purpose and conviction.

To write is to be absolutely alone,
left frighteningly isolated
to fend off the demons of doubt and fear
in an imaginary world
where the gods themselves are of my design
and the sacrifices they demand
are in turn offered in my name.

I sipped a drink called “Joy” from Sorrow’s cup
and found it bittersweet.
Thirst unquenched, I asked for more,
which kept my spirit incomplete.

Next, I asked if I could sample “Laughter”
and with a smile, he poured the drink
which quickly chilled my weakened veins
and made my weighted spirit sink.

I thought, perhaps instead to try “Despair”
which was unopened on the shelf.
It reminded me of lemon water
and eased a part of my inner self.

I caught the barkeep by surprise
when next, I tasted “Pain”
which was like nectar mixed with honey
and felt like a welcome summer rain.

Emboldened, I demanded “Death”
and watched the liquid pour.
Quenched, my spirit soared above me
as Sorrow’s cup fell to the floor.

I hope you will be happy looking back at all the tears you never had to cry,
at all the pain you never had to feel, and all the love you chose to never share.
I hope it is somehow satisfying knowing that you were never truly hurt
because you were never truly vulnerable — always distant, never close,
never one to start — ever so afraid that having to say Goodbye
would break your fragile heart.

“Pain is good sometimes,” she said — this memory, this ghost inside my head –
this imprint of an old friend who has since ignored, forgotten, erased.
Pain is good sometimes, I say, surrounded by family and friends
creating immortal memories I cherish, wearing them with joy and honor,
like Auden’s rose on St. Cecilia’s Day long past the painful heartbreak
of having to say Goodbye.

Then what do you do when they forget about you — when you find yourself
preserving memories only you care to remember?  Is your heart big enough
to hold the dark empty void left behind each time you gave a part
of yourself away?  What happens when you vanish from their lives and
the vow you made to always remember turns into an eternal wish
that you could somehow forget?

Ten masked phantoms passed me by, each taking something
of myself — my youth, my health, my faith — swept in the whirlwind
of rushing ghosts. Two buildings and thousands of lives in New York,
The symbolic stadium in New Orleans — the floating bodies
and the unapologetic monsters they revealed. The dead of war –
parents who mourn their sons and daughters, many in languages I know not.
The paralyzing fear that made a nation surrender itself to a cowboy
for protection. The lust and greed that led to this economic catastrophe
Poverty, famine, disease. Scapegoating the foreigners. We chose change –
a victory based on a promise yet to be fulfilled. Ten masked phantoms
passed me by, each taking something of myself and when they left, arms full,
I was empty save for a novelty called “Hope.” I’m not comfortable with that.