Katrinian Literature

I wrote these poems on October 5th, a day after my mother's birthday. I was reprimanded for my insensitivity regarding my responsibilities and I do admit of my lukewarm conduct in our household. It is like seeing crime go unpunished, I am aware of what I am to do, and yet I no longer have the spirit to go about fixing things - apathetic. I am a spoiled little girl who doesn't know a thing in the world except perhaps to gain pleasure for myself - hedonistic me.

There are things which I would like to do, and yet I hold back, without knowing why. Whenever I see my siblings sick, as much as I'd like to help and comfort them, I stay put in my uninterrupted medley of thoughts, pretending to be ignorant, acting unconcerned, detached, uninvolved; as I've always been to all affairs which I am usually pulled into. (Why is it that man is drawn into affiliations?) Whenever I see someone cry, I dare not approach him or her, for I find it awkward and unnatural, it is not of my nature to be a lover, a nurturer, a thoughtful caregiver. Perhaps I've been accustomed to be on the receiving end of things that I've grown selfish, gluttonous of my personal benefits, indifferent. I don't know how to act - my hands, my virgin, pristine hands - unblemished perhaps by hardship.

Perhaps I'm being hard on myself, this entry seems to be laden with I's. Am I such a bitch? Am I really worthless? Did I ever do anything worthwhile? What is my purpose in life? - to blabber endlessly of my life like I have one.

Torpid

I see him ogle at my breasts
My eyes read his
Like tarot cards laid down
On a fortune teller's table.
Dare he say
In the voice of the devil
That he dreams, too
Of flowers
As I dream of trees
Us and our irrevocable natures
And we'd dream
Of wild rivers gushing down
And headstrong salmons running upstream
But the pine doesn't
Want to grow in the valley
Nor does the valley want to cater
To the spawning of
The family of the pine.
Thus we'd dream
Unfathomable sterile dreams
Holding dearly to our disease
- such virginity.

I dare wish to be just an observer of life - to live life mainly to observe and record and ponder and wonder; detached and involved in the process at the same time. I dare wish to be among the mortals, but not among them in the sense of living exactly their lives. Do I make sense?

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I found many of my unfinished stories in one of our old computers. Reading them, reminds me of my wave of thoughts when I was younger. At certain points, I simply amaze myself at the composition as well as the maturity I find in my work, such thoughts that I have been lost from me now that I've aged. I dedicate this poem mainly to the idea that I never ever had a finished work - on second thought, whoever gave license to stories to ever have an end?

Incomplete

Does my pen remain
Faithful
To the bullets
Of my gun?
Arched backs,
Roll out your twisted bones
Out of my womb, my fetus,
Scream your silence
Wax,
still my music.
In a moonless night
I shall not once again
Gain sight of you.

Play with me,
Play with me
Sandman, my philandering lover,
(you spare no one, wise or fool, Adam or rib)
Play with me,
Give me my child,
New, fresh, sweet
From our matrimonial bed
Of perpetual yesteryears.

I've killed them all.

Bled them till blood
Drops from their eyes,
Massacred (all our children)
In anticipation of a new pregnancy.
Excited with the mask of nausea, vomit
But never the contentment of motherhood
All babies aborted
Before they take true form.
Never nursed to health,
Since and until when?

Do I permit
That - Will I grow old alone?


I am beginning another story, which I hope to actually find the justice it deserves – its end. I don't want these thoughts to remain thoughts. I want to give birth to at least one of my babies.

I will post here the introduction of my story, although it barely says anything of importance - just the theme; it's another untitled love story.

A vision of idealism rolls itself like a blind film over the eyes of a girl in love. Romantic books and "happily ever after" movies are perhaps the best culprits of which such whimsical reveries could possibly be drawn - where a kiss is accompanied by a million firecrackers exploding on the ebony sky, or the union between two long lost lovers would be glorified with the flight of a hundred white doves. Could reality possibly par itself to the fanciful and perfect dreams that the mind creates?

Why is it that the images that are flashed before the television screen become the basis as to how a relationship should progress? Why does it seem that all couples are required to kiss at one point of their togetherness in order to confirm not only to the public audience but also to themselves of their complete devotions for each other? What therefore is a kiss? Could it be just the simple act of puckering up one's lips and meeting the other's, eventually adding the accessory of hands wandering consciously or even unconsciously like a snake slithering across the partner's body? Could such a simple act bear only the mundane symbolism of lust or is it possible to have more weight than what was just mentioned?

Time has been awfully kind with me. His punishments for my poor insight regarding love were faint, and yet I cannot help but yearn for more aggressive blows from the divine emotion; blows grave enough that I would no longer stand as I do now, critical enough that I would no longer recover the fullness of my esteem or worse, my being. Am I savoring the pleasures derived from my masochism, or am I challenging the possibility of perhaps the frightful encounter with a mature affair?

Thus I question, have I truly loved?