justine camacho tajonera - poems -

Poetry Series

Justine Camacho Tajonera- poems -

Publication Date: 2009

Publisher:Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

Justine Camacho Tajonera(Jan.23,1975) Justine Tajonera is happily married and, together with her husband, Vier, israising their two year old son, Badger. She is a writer and poet by vocation, aneditor by profession and has had a 13 year career in telecommunications: 4years in internal communications and 9 years in marketing. She loves sharingher knowledge and insights on marriage, parenthood, pregnancy, breastfeeding,poetry, travel, career and work-life balance. She lives in Quezon City, Philippines.Her poetry has been published locally in anthologies and she maintains a <ahref='' target='_blank'>blog</a> where she publishes a poem every day,<b>Claiming Alexandria</b>. <b>Justine's Books: </b>Poetry<a href=' Novel<a href='

1www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

A Filipino Writer Of English Poems To A Filipino WriterOf Spanish Poems I think of the whiteness of snowon a postcard from an immigrant aunt.How sweet, how pureand unreal like propsin a high-school play.The closest I have seen of it iscrushed ice on halo-halo.Why do I end up speakingof white things?I feel blond -bleached and painted over.But this is how I speak:misted over with a foreign flavorbut in essence a native blendof brown and yellow.I think of how you must haveshivered in the European snow,words warm in your heart.I wonder if you dreamtin Spanish.Perhaps we dreamtthe same dream,our incandescent soulsglowing beneaththe translucent veilsof tongues-to-suit-our-needs.We were born in a landof two seasons, not four,unused to and awed bywords like:autumn, winter, spring.I think of snow andhow it melts into agray-tinged slush,how these words of ourswill melt with the heatof what we really mean.


But I think we wearour costumes well.If it is coldwe have to putour coats onbut it will always bewith our skinsthat we feel. 1996 Justine Camacho Tajonera


Afternoon Naps There are few luxuriesin lifeas preciousas afternoon naps.Holding my son's chinclose to myshoulder,adjusting the pillowsaround usand watching hissmile,I cannot imaginea better placeto be.Let everything wait:exercise drills,chores to bedone,work tosubmit.This afternoonis all abouthis sleepygrinand his handholdingmineas he fallsasleepin myarms. Justine Camacho Tajonera


At Katibawasan It is not truethat all thingsare bornin warmth. A strong stemof white waterplunges intoa corner ofthe emerald pool. My arms areoutstretchedpale greeenbeneaththe water. Swallows crushtheir wingsagainstthe water's surface. And I am in thegripof somenameless ecstasy,emerging fromwatercoldas ice. Justine Camacho Tajonera


At The Rue De La Bucherie The man I asked for directions did not know howto explain it to mebut he smiled, took my handand showed me the way.Voila! He said, when we got there.I saw an unexpected view of the Notre Dame.Entering the bookstore I was looking for,a moment of bewilderment.But only for a moment.The books did not weigh me down orgive me flight.A few titles illuminated.Only one or two.And I knew my journey was complete.If you know what you are looking for,the alleys, shelves and strangerswill take your hand andlead the way.Everything affirmsyou only need todecide. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Badger And The Jazz Musicians He looks surreptitiouslywhen he sees one of themhoist a violin.Over baked potatoand iced teahe has a farawayexpression as helistens to thisdifferentsound.He nods his head,and jumps,marches,his smileas joyfulas the music.By the timehe attackshis carrotcakein timeto the beatof thesongI know hismusical soulisfull. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Celebrating Raksha Bandhan This red threadtied to my wristis tied around my heart,is tethered to God'svery hand.This red threadbinds meand anchors meto my dreams,to dreams thatare still to come.This threadis tied to the windthat allows meto fly.This threadties meto my commitments,my promises,my word.This thread is allthe strengthand fragility ofmy life,so easy to break,yet so resilient,divinely protectedand strong. Raksha Bandhan (the bond of protection in Hindi, Punjabi, Oriya, Assamese andmost other Indian languages) is a Hindu festival, which celebrates therelationship between brothers and sisters. It is celebrated on the full moon of themonth of Shraavana (Shravan Poornima) .(Aug.22,2009) . Justine Camacho Tajonera


First Words I listen to my sonsaying words,words that now meanthingsrather than the pleasantbabble ofinfancyand I realizethat he speaksin our native tonguejust as muchas he speaksour borrowed one.I think backto my owntoddlerhood,without a motherto raise me,I must havebeen speaking inBisaya,eating ginamoswith my yayain the kitchen.I kiss my son,asking fortwenty kisses andhe teases me withthe word, ayaw.I try to rememberall the lostwordsand promise myselfthat my sonwill not. Bisaya - Visayan, a Philippine languageTagalog - Philippine National language


Ginamos - salted, fermented fishYaya - Visayan or Tagalog for NannyAyaw - Tagalog for I don't want to Justine Camacho Tajonera


Floating On Batis Aramin The pond isquietexcept forthe birds.A tree extendsits armsacross thewater.We watch leavesfallslowlyas we rowfrom one endof a bankto another.We have nothingbut time andthe promise ofgrilled fish anda kilo of sweetrambutan*. *Rambutan - Nephelium lappaceum, is a fruit considered exotic to people outsideof its native range. To people of Malaysia, Thailand, the Phillippines, Vietnam,Borneo, and other countries of this region, the rambutan is a relatively commonfruit the same way an apple is common to many people in cooler climates. (Batis Aramin, Lucban, Quezon Province, Philippines) Justine Camacho Tajonera


Gift This gift costs nothing.It is a rainy afternoon,racing down agiant slide,laughing hysterically,like there'snotomorrow.It is miraculouslynot fitting intoa bathing suitbut letting itfitme.It is playing hideand seekand new gameslike catch Mommy'skeys,racing aroundlike a loonwith noregard whatsoeverto anyone,or anything they haveto say.It's dancingwhile doingthe groceriesand holdinghands duringstoplightsand eatingpan de salout of the blue.This gift cost menothingand everything.


(Sept.7,2009) Pan de Sal - Pandesal (Spanish: pan de sal, literally 'salt bread') is a roundedbread or dinner roll usually eaten by Filipinos. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Hidden Light They say millions of peoplepass through thisshopping mall.I feel lost in a seaof choices:shoes, bags,jewelry, scents,make-up, jeans,shirts.People of allshapes and sizespass me by,part of ademographic,a numberon a chart.I will not seetheir hopesand dreams writtenon their sleevesor even in theireyes.I will not seethe love theybear theirsons or daughters,fathers or mothers.I closemy eyesand imaginetheir collectivehopebeneath all thesurface garmentand skinand this lifts meon scented airacross a streamof stars.


(SM Megamall, Mandaluyong City) Justine Camacho Tajonera


Higher Things How far are these 'higher things'from what I feel for you?The earthly, humble touchof your hand,the pressure of your shoulderon the side of my headwhen I'm tired,the smell of laundry on yourshirt mixed with yourend-of-day sweat.And what if these thingsbind me to this earth?Our baby's gummy smile,the smell of his fingersafter he has sucked on thembecause he's teething,his warm cheek after hefalls asleep?I would go no higherthan the height of ourshared bed.I fix my eyes on thecircle that we makeand pray for God'sforgiveness for covetingall this borrowedtime. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Homecoming His smile could light upthe world,I think, as he runs to mefrom the door.Skin to skin, bone to bone,his face fits right betweenmy chinand shoulder.He says, 'Mommy' like it'shis favorite word,the sweetest, sweetest thingto hear over and over.I hold in the scent of thetop of his head andthe feel of his chubbylittle fingers, saving themfor dayswhen I feel lostor drowned.He buoys me,melts me to myvery essence,blessing me withthe privilegeto love himfor as long asI possibly can. Justine Camacho Tajonera


I Have Met Rome I have met Rome both as beggaron the streetand king on the throne,as old man fumbling with wordsand young, fearless manwith golden hair andjubilant voice. I have met myself in Romeas woman withouta language,at a loss for words when,gripped with emotionand tears going downmy face at thesight of the Pope,I realized that no onetranslated his wordsinto any Asian languagedespite a hoardof Japanese pilgrims. I have met myself as Rome,victor and defeated,slave and conqueror. December 3,2003 Justine Camacho Tajonera


It's Her Birthday Again She is still herewith me.Her love has lastedthree and a halfdecades.It doesn't matterthat I only hadthree years ofher.Love is strongerthan time,than death.The smell of herhairis gone,the tone of whatI imaginewas a sweetvoiceis silent.But there is somethingabout how shemust have onceembraced meand whisperedin my earbefore I fellasleep at nightthat keeps mestrongand fullof life. (Aug.25,2009) Justine Camacho Tajonera


Joining The Diaspora I had a dream last nightabout being pulledby the waves,clawing into the waterand drawing out a raftthat became a boatthat became soilbeneath my feet. This morning, upon wakingI felt the slight rockingof the seaand listened forthe sound of the earth's crustbreakingthe sound of a continentapproaching. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Kay Gat Andres Bonifacio Mula Sa Isang Hudas At kung magkikita tayobalang arawsasabihin mongako’y taksildahil lumaki akosa wika at lahing mga dayuhanat hindi man lang akolumaban. Nilulon kopati ang pagbigkasng bawatsalita,pati pagsuotng damit,patipagsulat.Nilulon, minahal,inangkin. Sinusugatan kita,kadugo ko,kapatid.Turuan mo akongmasaktan,magalit.Gisingin moako. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Last Day Twelve and a halfyears latershe packs awaybooks, certificates,photos,little mementos,coffee mugs.So many memoriesflood the cornersof her office,the halls.She closes thisbookwith so muchgratitude andpoignance.There's no wayfor herto see itfrom adistancenow.Tomorrow,time will notstopfor sure.There issomething aboutbeginningagainthat makesher heartsoar withhope. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Looking Forward To Wine Today was humid,full of cares,two parties to attend,maneuvering the wholeday throughrain.In betweeneverything,we had groceries,lists,checks towrite,bills topay.But I rememberthe wine thatwe chilled,waiting forusat home.The hour-longrideback homedoesn't seemso long.We will haveour coolsweetblackberryintoxicationin the end. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Morning Sun I watch the sunlightbounce off the waterrunning from my morningshowerand meditate onthe meaning ofbeing a sourceof light.The sun does notlabor to rise,it is a thingof terrible beautyunleashedin the universe.What is itto beunleashed?To grow in grandeurand powerand radiancewithout everdiminishing.I am a sununto a worldI have not yetdefined.I am an emberthat needs onlya draftto raise meinto a bonfire.It is only a matterof time. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Mother's Day Your father and Idiscovered your budding teethwhile eating crabs on a Sunday. Time stopped for meas I counted backall your goofy,toothless grins. I wanted to slowdownand memorizeevery one of them. Do you know thatI bring your drowsy eyesand sweet, milky breathwith meevery daythat I plod to work? Though I can't waitfor you to call for meby name,I want to baskin this quiet smileof yours. Wait a while for me,dearest one.Hold my handa bit longer. (May 13,2007) Justine Camacho Tajonera


October 28 The evening is softwith revelations,with ears opento all manner ofsecrets,with embraceswaiting to befilled.In this silent distanceeven the beatingof your heartis eloquentand the warmthof your handsis all that needsto beunderstood. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Picking Up A White Feather At Valbonne I've sloughed off parts of myself onthis trip:two shirts in Saint Paul du Roulea pair of boots in Niceand maybe a raincoat or asweater in Florence?My aunt asks if I see Europeas one big 'les poubelles.'No, its only peelingmyself to anindestructible core,that part that can liveanywhereand be satisfied,that part that nosun or windcan defeat,that part that knowsalwayswhat to takeand whatto leavebehind. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Saying Grace At Palaisdaan Before we leaveQuezon,we have a mealof grilled tilapia and shrimpsand hito stewed incoconut milkand pineapples.We walk alongthe floatingbamboo bridgesover the koiand tilapiapond,looking forour nook.We find theperfect spotbehind a stonefish fountainand a wheel.We perch on awooden swing,contemplatingthe windsweeping overrice terracesthat seem to reachuntil the baseof Mt. Banahaw.Life could notbe sweeter thanthis. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Seven Years Later, Driving Home It is impossible to fall in love againfor the first time.The first blush, the heart quickening,racing madly with a secret:these things happen only once.Yesterday, in the car, only half-listening to a song,I remembered.And in my mind, I turned around.If I had known that I would neversee you again.If I had known that afternoon in August,I would have stayed rooted there.Watching you.Nineteen yet and dreamy.I felt the years deaden me, one by one.And all the headlamps around meblurred.It was so sweet,even to feelthat wound again. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Sifting Sand As Meditation A laborer's workis simpleand clear.I sift the sandthrough ascreen,swinging thescreenbackward andforwarduntil all thatare left arepebbles andstones.With a strongheave, I watchthe pebblesand stonesflyfrom the screenand landin a heap.I do thishundreds oftimes,my bare handsgripping the woodenframe ofthe screen.I do this untilthere is nothingin my mindbut sand, pebbles,stoneand flight.I do this untilthere is no differencebetween laborand


prayer. (Sept.8,2009Bgy. Pinagbuhatan Habitat for Humanity Build) Justine Camacho Tajonera


Standing In Line We are there for onlytwo hoursand yetit is a flashbackof cliches: that there areprofessional fixers,that there areobsoleteequipment, likea rundownautomatedcashier,hanging aroundfor no reason,that there arelines that gonowhereand counterswith nolabels. The rainpoursand styrofoam boxesstand agape, pointless,collecting water leaking fromthe roofand trash frompeople who have mistakenthe boxesas trash bins. For once,I look into the eyesof the man suggestingthat I short-circuit the linewith a few hundred pesos


and I tell him sincerely,'Okay lang sa akinpumila.'* I am not a cowbeing herded.Despite theinconveniences,I chooseto standin line. (NBI Satellite Office in Quezon City HallSept.9,2009) Justine Camacho Tajonera


The House That Jesus And Florliza Built I observe the quality of lightstreaming throughthe windowswatching how ittouches the wood of the floor,the metal of the wrought-irontable that has beenin this housefor decades.One day this housewill be gone,or will belong to another,with no one to seethe passage of time,of lovethrough its windows,and wallsand doors,with no one to listen tothe laughterof three generationsof childrenthat has seeped intothe peeling paintand the dustin the farcorners andLola's china cabinets. But I am here now,watching, listening.I will rememberfor themthat this house isnot just a frameagainst the elementsbut a templesacred with countless,priceless


family artifacts,each one touchedwith lovebeyond grief. For Vier and his family Justine Camacho Tajonera


The Leaf I experiencethe leaf,the deadnessof it,the meaningof death,the endof meaning,nothing.I experiencehow it liesamong pebbles,how it isbrown,how it is everythingand justa leaf,and all mygrief,and the soundof a silentafternoon.I am notthe leaf.I am notthe pebblesholding upthe leaf.I meannothingby this.I let thisall go,with a sigh,like a windthat lifts upthe meaninglessleaf.


Justine Camacho Tajonera


This Space This spacein my head isa box,a small onefilled with mementosmy motherleft.This spaceis a roomwith a viewof the piazzaSan Marco.This spaceis as bigas our weddingfeast in 2005.This spaceis as wideas the kingdomof ourshared dreams,draped in grandgestures andambitioushopes.This spacereturns tothe distancebetween uswhen wefall asleep,the lengthand breadthof our own dreamingson.This spaceis the sacredboundarywhere I


stand guardover whoyou areand sharewhoI am. For Vier Justine Camacho Tajonera


Two Hours Early The world threw metwo whole hourswith sunlightstreaming downmy faceand a bagel waitingin the toasteroven.I had seven wakingdreamsand a prayerin my heartthat filledeach momentto overflowing.As I drankchilled waterwith the breakfastmy sistermade for meI found thatI could notask formore. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Waiting The sound you makeis fainter than the soundof rain softly falling outsideour windows. I turn inwardsjust to listen. I cannot imagine yetwhat whorls are formingon your fingerswhat dreams you might haveupon first waking. I close my eyesand try to see. I try to think of my own mother,humming, looking out the window,waiting for me to touch herthrough our barrier of skin. I share her smile now.I am waiting to seeyours. Justine Camacho Tajonera


Walking Sparta We take our Dalmatianout to walk,the three of us,letting her goher way.No patch ofgrass is ignored,no smell is toointriguing.Life is simple:it is the roadahead.Turning left orturning rightis the major decisionof the afternoon.As the sun retreats,throwing backher gorgeous maneof gold and scarlet,I catch a glimpseof paradise. We say we are walkingour dogbut it is our dogwho leads uson our merry way,teaching us to loveevery sight and smelland touch,teaching us thatlife can be just oneperfect afternoon. For Badger and Vier


Justine Camacho Tajonera


What Ditas Left My mother left banglesin her jewelry box,poems that my fathercan no longer find,paintings of birds breakingfree from cages andumbrellas catchingraindrops. She painted melooking over a butterfly-sleeve and my brotherin blue and orangewith a look of awe. My mother left mea little trail of things:pictures of herbeautiful, wide-eyedsaying 'wow'over and over,a gold pendant,a set of books etchedall over with her analysisof characters,bright, bold declarationsas thought I would debatewith her over time.I recognize my own writingin her staccato style. Sometimes when I readwhat she scrawled at theback of her photo albumI cry:Life is full of sound andfury, yes.But full of significancetoo. Just you wait and


see, just you wait andsee, just you want andsee only threeyears withyou, Mommy. I have a hand-ful of gifts now,things you neverthoughtwould mean so much. You left meyour eyes,your wonder,you left memy name. Justine Camacho Tajonera


justine camacho tajonera - poems -

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