Drawing Blood (or On My Mother's Toes)

First edition December 2021.

***

Born out of yearning to connect with my family and heritage from across the ocean during the pandemic, my first collection of poems Drawing Blood (or On My Mother’s Toes) explores themes of bloodline, femininity, homesickness (and home sickness), loss, hope, and an existence within the cracks and veins of colliding cultures.

For longer than I can remember, I felt a conflict between the Filipino and Australian sides of who I am – it has seemed almost impossible to embrace both simultaneously. More recently I’ve begun to understand the ways in which one cannot exist without the other, and how together they create an identity that is whole. This notion is also reflected in my residing in two places – New York and Australia, and poses questions of home and belonging daily.

Writing has become increasingly the backbone of all the other art I create and perform, and through this I have understood more completely just how fundamental the labor of truth seeking is to my work. A large part of this has been an acceptance of self; forgiving and honoring the place I am in, wherever and whenever I put pen to paper (or my fingers to a guitar, or my body in space). Particularly throughout this past year, the highs have been joyous – euphoric even, and the lows deeply, intrinsically painful. The planes on which my internal life exists are broad and ever changing, and learning to invite each into my work has been a profoundly transformative and cathartic experience. Many of the poems enclosed here mediate on this as an act of emergence.

As I wade through the life-long undertaking of collecting and collating the fragments of my scattered identity, my work and words become increasingly the stitching. In many ways, these poems seek to marry the many opposing truths that exist within me, and within the world I see. The use of couplets, double poems, and thematic augmentation carry this idea through Drawing Blood (or On My Mother’s Toes), and attempt the bringing together of countless dualities.

December Verse

D E C E M B E R   V E R S E
 

Your cat is the love of my life, and I do not know where that leaves you. I stuffed a cardboard box with clothes you left by the door and made a home. She took to it like I welcomed the taste of your breath. That is to say: completely and all at once. Every last drop until it drowned me. There are twenty-one days left of the year and all I have to show for it are the circles you drew across my hollow stomach. And this fucking box. Is there anything I would not do for you? The lady cut my hair lopsided so I have spent the weekend taking kitchen scissors to it. Carving out my new face just in time for Christmas. It is overwhelming – the city has made me so many things. Dead or alive. My favourite black boots have half a heel each. The balcony floods when the sky wrings out and almost every pair of winter socks I own bear holes. Thus is the nature of things. I suppose. Looked one day,
out at the history of my life,
and thought that,
perhaps,
I am,
in fact,
a connoisseur of the broken.
Went hunting and found myself a new skin. Zipped my trembling body inside, poked eyeholes and a space for my thoughts. Walked on into the mortal night all the way to your door. It was cold then. You were warm. Next year, I think I shall be a real poet. Poetess? Lord no. At least I would like to try to be. If Patti Smith’s mother is right, I shall spend its opening moments pen in hand and waiting. They still have not called back. How many years should I devote to being lined up against a system that would prefer me absent, at the very least. If it does not snow on Christmas morning then truly what is the point? Your clothes smell good though and I enjoy the feeling of losing myself. Did not realise we had a view of the bridge. It took every tree stripping herself to the bone for me to learn that. Should be more grateful. I know what that feels like. I am sorry. Never thought I would love a cat. But then again, life is full of disbelief and I love many things I shouldn’t. Including the boots. One half each and I am still standing. I am still waiting. Dead or alive? I keep writing love poems by mistake and having nowhere to put them. My hands are already brimming so I started carrying them around in my feet. It is frightening to walk in circles across the plains of passion. Last year I tore down the walls so now I sway inside a glasshouse we blew despite ourselves. Draw the shades; fashion me a tree at autumn’s end. To the bone and shuddering. There is no right way to compose a poem, but I am almost certain this is not it. I am not that type of clever. The glass is cracked so pieces of sky fall in. I could acquire the glue to mend it but money is tight and the street is frozen stiff. Anyway, I like those flecks of paradise strewn across the carpet. And the undarned holes. Stuffed a cardboard box with leaves you wrapped around my chest, and made a home. Left it by the door and forgot to take out the recycling.

 HB | 2020

Blurry Place

Blurry Place

The room in my chest
that was made to hold you
is heavy with distance,
and tears I cannot catch.
I try, in vain,
to reach my hand
across the world,
but all I return with is
fistfuls of ocean –
the waves that separate us. 


Do you hear me? I’m calling your name.
I am saying it with you.
Do you feel the hum of
your identity pulsing
beneath the earth,
stirring all beauty
into living? 

You are not alone.

Spill the ocean if you need,
I will dry it over
and over
until there is ground enough to
walk the world
and take you into my chest.
We will dig the soil
together,
bury your pain, and
watch it grow into
every
radiant
thing
you are
and will be.

I am with you.

HOME BLOOD

H O M E    B L O O D
 

In the late hours of darkness
I crave home.
The true, unconditional one.
Her vast, injured expanse,
Her wounds and blisters,
some so fresh the blood still runs a bright, grieving red.
I long for her stifling embrace and searing breath.
I long for love from people who
held my infant body
before Me, before This.
Before I decided to leave, searching for scars
in a bleak and distant land.

Here,
no one knows my mother’s face
or my father’s laugh.
No one hears themself on my tongue
or sees my brother in my skin.
Here,
I hold the infant body
of a life I grew alone.
Today, I want to be held.

Today,
I want to wade into the Pacific,
and swim, fully clothed, towards the unshakeable
fate of Southern stars,
until vicious waves strike me
against familiar rocks
and wash me, writhing, ashore.
I will drag my aching limbs
through ashes still hot,
while the bull ants mutilate
every spare inch of flesh,
leaving behind pools of
strange water and fresh blood.
I will let the huntsman strip me bare.
I will surrender the scraps to the magpie.
I will return what I stole.
Then, penitent, I will
burry myself in red earth
and lay motionless,
choked silent
in the dry, seething agony
of my doing.

HB | 2020

Yesterness

Y E S T E R N E S S

Soon
This semibreve 
[ of preciousness 
breath of spacious restlessness 
nestled between endless
Before and Afterness ]
Will be nothing but
A misremembered memory.

You and me
Wrapped around each other’s 
Company
Earnestly,
Tenderly
I watch the sun 
Waltz and run her way
Through a discordant maze 
[ your coiled crest
an undressed mess,
dispossessed and
  stressed in the arrest
of the hour’s timelessness ]
And bestow her golden ode
On our hollowed road
Where time has slowed
In this discommode
Dusk 
Warms our solitude, us
Weeping gratitude 
For this interlude of
You and me
Abundantly,
Aimlessly wandering
Disillusioned ponderings and
Worlds of our idling 
Grasp ever-tightening as
Your bishops and kings
Sing hymns of my
Slaughtering.

In the absence of Day
We unfind our way around
New grounds and these
Empty sounds in which we drown
[ yet blessed
to nest to rest
as we digress from conquest
in this recessed mess ]
And hold to ourselves
In this ageless cell
O lovemade spell
Where dawn swells and
Twilight dwells.

Soon 

This semibreve
[ ofpreciousness
breathofspaciousrestlessness
nestledbetweenendless
BeforeandAfterness ]
Will be nothing but
A misremembered memory.

So 
In your misrememory
I beg you, please

remember me.

HB | 2020

Isolated Musings – (from social isolation)

I S O L A T E D       M U S I N G S

How many odd socks make up a life?

I have spent on average
2.4 additional hours staring at
my fragile self in the mirror.

In conclusion: I am beautiful.

There is no substitute for
Washington Square Park.

The cat across the way is
undeniably gaining weight.

Is it (im)possible to feel
truly alone
in the 21st Century?

I still get social-fatigue over FaceTime.

I know all the rock ‘n’ roll songs in
my downstairs neighbour’s small but charming repertoire,
though his name still escapes me.

Define ‘safety’.

I, for one, am excellent company.

I looked up a rhyme for ‘known’.
It gave me ‘sea anemone’.

For how long have I had that freckle?

Downstairs Neighbour,
I would like to collaborate
on Strawberry Fields Forever.

Home   sickness and
Homesickness

  What will happen when finally
I tire of words?

Downstairs Neighbour,
Are you awake?

Sufjan Stevens.

Confirmed:
absolutely nothing

will stop the Astoria Motorcycle Gang
from terrorizing my street.

How long does it take to
construct an entirely new reality?

Apparently, not long.

Downstairs Neighbour,
Where did you go?

I will miss your music.

I S O L A T E D    M U S I N G S,   I I

 Downstairs Neighbour,
I saw the shoes outside your door.
Welcome back!

 I have so much to tell you.

 The kid in 1F learned to sing Happy Birthday.
His rendition is a daily custom.
[No, it isn’t actually anyone’s birthday.]

 
Well, it was mine. You were gone.
I turned 24 and celebrated through a screen.

Central Park and the Hudson River became morgues.
No one spoke for many weeks.
Seventh avenue was so quiet I could hear the wind.

 Humanity found new ways to exist.
I learned the importance of imagination.

 Downstairs Neighbour,
I’ve gotten very used to stillness.
Could you tread a little lighter?

The fight for justice poured out of our phones and on to the streets.
The city burned.
Police pushed back.
Truth pushed harder.

My country seemed further away than ever.
Its people closer.

I began a love affair with the afternoon light that shines through my west-facing window.
And the key of D major.

Where do I run if I don’t run home?

The tree outside unfurled with delight.
As did the people when the sun came out.

I have never been on so many picnics.

Downstairs Neighbour,
What do you make of Noah Baumbach?

I tried to let go a little.
Turns out, not my forte. 

Sandalwood incense and rooibos tea.

I cried for an entire week.
I read sixteen books.
I learned ten songs on guitar.
I played four games of chess.
I danced alone.
I lost hope.
I found resilience.

Downstairs Neighbour,
Play a little louder. I will sing along.

HB | 2020

WOMAN

WOMAN

If I trace with my fingertip
Every inch of me
My hand,
A replica of my mother’s,
Would eventually find my feet
Then ground
Then root

 If I trace with blood
Every inch of my womanhood
My root,
An extension of my mother’s,
Would weave its way to a land
I cannot navigate
And bury itself
A seed

If I study my women
Twelve of nineteen
Four of seven
One of four
I see

 Volcanic ladies
– Eruption and reconcile, a cycle –
Bold in unapologetic certainty they
Form a path further than my gaze
And bleed through
Every inch of me
Whether I want it or not,
Settle under my feet
So I can stand,
Spill over into my mouth
And mould my words
So I can speak,
Hide themselves between my bamboo bones
And set off sparks
So I can start fires

 If I trace the ground
Every inch
Until my fingertip finds root
And follow it across oceans
Further than my gaze
I find them
Buried in my dusty skin
The seed throbs
Bleeds
And reveals itself
Woman

HB | 2020

"Protect Yo Heart"

–excerpts from Reconstruction, (publication TBC)

Downpour

Can I fall
But                  just for a little bit
A flash
A moment
Here where we fit? 

May I love
But                just for right now
Thirst 
Revelry
While we’re allowed?

It’s so easy
So clear
The tumbling in
The stumbling
Our plummeting
Your conjuring of dark magic
Or                 was it me?

Eighteen hours
Shaken
Awaken
But nothing dared break
In the fall
Through the heat
Sweet,

Hasty and brash
A reckless beginning
A universe spinning
                            Splash

Can I crave
But                       just for tonight
Your breath
Your lips
Curls
And hips?

And                      if I fall
Resolving this rhyme
Fleetingly
Fast
All at once
On a dime 

Will you, too
But                 just this time?

“Protect Yo Heart”, summer 2019

***

2am

In the copper glow of The Village by night
We wander
A confusion of half streets
Welcoming the uncertainty around
Every anonymous corner,
Guardians to the midnight street,
Whose kerosene eyes flicker in the heaviness of slumber,
Past windows dressed in gaudy rows of fiction and fact
— Worlds we cannot reach through taunting glass.
A guessing game here
Before drifting to the next.

String of arbitrary moments
Perfectly framed by stones of cobble and brown
Occupied by an unmistakable silence known only to
The infant hours of a new week.
We float
Upstream along The Hudson
Idling our way through minds of past selves
Sinking ever deeper in these waters, breathing
“Surrender” to the pull of forces we cannot resist

I want you
More than ever
In the elegant haze of 2am

The river rises
Into my eyes, this time
Spilling puddles of moonlight onto my icy cheeks
And I am
drowning once again.

***

Honeydrunk

A quiet in the street below
Eerily familiar to me, but not from this life

The sea of scattered books, pencils, sneakers, wrappers, tuners, capos, journals, yesterday’s, and tomorrow’s clothes,
On which this bed floats

Sheets bunched in my hand
Tighter and tighter as we throw fire at fire

The pang of your guitar on my heart’s strings

A balancing act, teetering
But somehow steady

The buoyant babble of our
Made-up conversations

And the melding of our minds

Fragile gasps that twist together in
Negative space

When we tread our bodies through water
We don’t yet know

Splayed out
Honeydrunk and short of breath

The ceiling backwards and spinning

Muffled traces of peanut butter on your words as you
Explain two ends of the superhero spectrum

The chance you might glance over at any moment
Tugging at threads

Carbonating an ocean
Sticky and sweet on the inside of my cheek

You stir
Blinking sleep and centipedes away

Another one for the ages
Another day

***

I cut off my hair and stood naked before you and lost myself and gave you every piece of the creature I am and I tried to hold the words in and I told myself I’d hurt if        and I tried to take heed, listen to the street                protectyoheart             and yet I could not stop it, I never can when it comes to you, so out it all fell, my soul into your lap and you held it as tight as you could, whispered to it and tried                  but I already knew and I already wished to drink it back into the most secret corner inside me where no one not even I can reach and instead feel something that you can too           but I already knew       so for now I am to be okay with that                                 
perhaps in time I will find a way to unfold this feeling again into footprints we tread together or a melody we both may sing                           or perhaps it is okay to dance together on different sands.

HB | 2020

a New York list

Things I wish I’d known about living in New York City when I arrived three years ago, terrified out of my mind, crying under the Empire State Building, but then again it was thrilling to learn them on my own.

Find somewhere high. Preferably a rooftop. Make it a refuge. 

Invest in friendships. There are few people who truly get it. They will save your ass over and over again, and Friends-giving will become the most important night of the year.

Befriend the DJ. You never know when you might need to cut loose to Men at Work – ‘Down Under’ late into a night out.

Make a habit of staring into the dead space straight ahead of you. It’s the only way to make it through Times Square alive. People will move around you, trust me.

 Know how to write a cheque (“check”). Yes, you thought as a 20-something of the modern world this would be an unnecessary skill to preserve, but you’re in America, baby.

 Avoid 34th/Broadway like the plague. No one needs to drop into H&M that bad.

 Get yourself a good pair of headphones. Sometimes the city’s symphony of screeching and grinding is better drowned out by some Ben Folds or, yes, Men at Work – ‘Down Under’.

 Don’t expect yourself to love it all too soon. It takes so much time. Longer than you think. It will come though, and you’ll wonder how you ever considered leaving.

 Learn to pause a conversation without losing the thought. No story is worth yelling over that bypassing 5 express train hurtling towards the Bronx for.

Kiss that person.

 Make a point of getting out of the city. Upstate New York is really nice. Your ears will ring a bit on the first night, but just try to enjoy the quiet stillness.

 Phone home. No one got here completely by themselves.

 Pull silly faces at that wide-eyed kid on your subway car. It might be the only moment of purity you experience all day.

 Summer will come eventually.

 Don’t worry about seeing all the sights. The subtle details of your own life here are far more important. Plus, you’ll need something to do with those friends-of-friends who come to visit.

When you feel ready, relinquish control. Let the streets lead you to the next page in your book. But only when you trust them to.

 Try not to wear light coloured pants on rainy days. The murky grime of the city that will inevitably flick up onto the cuffs is surprisingly hard to wash out.

Be brutally honest with yourself, and listen to your heart. In a place where sense and feeling can be knocked out of you in an instant, you’re going to need a) a good helmet, and b) a fiercely strong sense of self. Find it, and hold it close. It is the most valuable tool this city will give you, and for a place that’s not often generous, you’ll want to be thankful for the gold.

HB | 2020