memory's sacred domain

moments mundane and magical

Archive for the ‘love’ Category

An invitation

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agatha

Written by Romel

May 8, 2013 at 3:12 am

Posted in balak, beauty, love, poetry, tula

One for poetry month

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hands

Haiku ng pagsinta

 

Sa  seda

ng iyong mga kamay,

halik ng mga pangarap.

 

April 5, 2013, 12:33 am

Written by Romel

April 4, 2013 at 5:58 pm

Posted in balak, beauty, love, poetry, tula

Tagged with , , , , ,

poetry recalled

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UNTITLED


And if I look in my heart,
it is always you that I see.
-Graffigny, Lettres d’une Peruvienne

coffee



The coffee
I love
reminds me
of my
beloved’s
lovely
round eyes –

ah,
what sweet
mystery
lies hidden
in its syrupy
blackness?

I look in
my cup
and Nocturnes
I hear
whenever
her gaze
meets
mine
begin
to play
in my heart.
And then
I take
a sip,

Romel Regalado Bagares, coffee study series, no. 1

Written by Romel

March 2, 2013 at 2:53 pm

Posted in beauty, coffee, love, tula

Tagged with , ,

The things I love

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Gideon Strauss, senior fellow at the Center for Public Justice, asked me to participate as one of several guest bloggers on his blog. In this SIX BIG QUESTIONS  project inspired by the thought of  his friend Steven Garber,  the guest bloggers are asked to list down the things they love and then, to answer the other FIVE  big questions:

What do I believe?

Who am I?

where do I belong?  

What possibilities are afford to me what constraints are imposed on me by my time and place?

What contributions am I called to make?

Here is my response to the first question: What do I love?

Written by Romel

November 16, 2011 at 4:04 pm

What moves me

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Yes, I sometimes catch myself crying over a sad movie. Small injustices stir me to anger. Poetry moves me. At church, I get a lump in my throat and mist in my eyes over a well-loved ancient hymn. I love to walk under the shade of the acacia trees on UP Campus. I thrill to the sight of a golden sunset. A rare book I find hidden in a pile of forgettable books at a used book shop get me all excited. Above all, your pretty face could make my head turn.

Written by Romel

September 27, 2010 at 5:04 am

Posted in balak, love, Uncategorized

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W.

I was around five when I first fell in love. My very first day in grade school. I remember it oh so vividly: I didn’t want to go to school, at least not yet, preferring instead to spend my afternoons chasing dragonflies in the grassy lot behind our house. I had had my taste of kindergarten and didn’t quite get the hang of it. But Mama, who was a public school teacher, wanted to enroll me as a salingpusa in a colleague’s class; there I was – furiously wiping away tears with my hands as I stood behind my mother’s skirt and oblivious to her entreaties that things will be okay as soon as I meet my teacher- when she passed by.

She seemed to float as she walked, this pretty girl who, from out of nowhere, entered my life at such an inopportune time. It was such a fleeting but heavenly moment; she threw a glance at me and and my tear-soaked gaze met hers; the embarrassed cry-baby in me smiled at her, and she smiled back, and then she went on her sweet, sweet way; I don’t remember now if at that time, she was with her mother. All I remember were her lovely round eyes and the dimples on her cheeks. Inexplicably, my heart beat like mad as my tender gaze followed her, until she disappeared in the noisy sea of students excited to attend their first day at the Lagao Central Elementary School.

Right there and then, I decided that I was going to like school after all, and then–dutifully headed for Mrs. Tulio’s class.

Written by Romel

March 5, 2010 at 4:53 pm

Posted in love, W. schooldays

Tagged with ,

with 2 comments

(Non)stirrings of the past

I feel a certain tug in the heart reading this poem by the Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska:

FIRST LOVE

They say
the first love’s most important
but not my experience.

Something was and wasn’t there between us,
something went on and went away.

My hands never tremble
when I stumble on silly keepsakes
and a sheaf of letters tied with string —
not even ribbon.

Our only meeting after years:
the conversation of two chairs
and a chilly table.

Other loves
still breathe deep inside me.
This one’s too short of breath even to sigh.

Yet, just exactly as it is,
it does what others still can’t manage:
unremembered,
not even seen in dreams,
it introduces me to death.

– from the New Yorker Anniversary Issue (2004)
(translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh)

Written by Romel

June 2, 2008 at 2:54 pm

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