LOOK: remnants of summer


Jewel Enrile; June 1, 2017 - Photography

Jewel Enrile; June 1, 2017; Photography

Jewel Enrile; June 1, 2017, Photography

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confession: confessions


Art is the extension
of a human being’s soul.
Colors and paint,
words and ink,
graphite and portraits,
brushes and pens and charcoal
in a clutter, on a desk
or in a corner of the room:
they tell you more
of who a person is
than what they themselves

With that, I have a confession:
in between the lines and verses written
are secrets taken to the grave
memories that have long faded
and tears quietly shed.
That realization is how my vulnerability grew
with the knowledge of others who read what I do.
If you knew where to look,
If you knew what to see,
you could gather all of my weaknesses
and find
the easiest way to break me.

Writing is supposed to be selfish,
and reading is, too.
so I beg you
not to divulge
what you might discover
hidden in between
rhymes and rhythms
and figurative speech.
I beg you –
interpret me selfishly,
shroud my emotions,
fit my words into your world, and
listen to what resonates within;
and not the confessions hidden
in every verse. 
For art is the extension of the soul,
and art is my soul’s absolution.



The sky is calling; telling me to find a way
to come and sail to the heavens; to come and belong with the stars.
“Stay,” the earth says. “Stay.”

Midnight had fallen; it is in the dark I lay
quiet, still, eyes wide open, mind wide awake –
the sky is calling; telling me to find a way.

“It is within me you belong; it is me you cannot keep at bay,”
the darkness whispers – am I standing on a rail?
“Stay,” the earth says. “Stay.”

“Look at you,” it murmurs, and I sway
on my feet, “the galaxies run through your veins.”
The sky is calling, telling me to find a way.

I am suspended in midair, my arms in splay,
like a marionette, caught in the act.
I am of magnificence, of stars, of cosmos, of constellations unfathomed.
The sky is calling me; telling me to find a way.
“Stay,” the earth says. “Stay.”



there are things that poetry
can simply
not capture;
that no figure
of speech
can teach
a reader to visualize.
for example, neither rhythm nor rhyme can suffice
for how erratic a heartbeat is when love looks at you right in the eyes;
how no amount of personification
can ever word how nature grows and flourishes like it has a mind of its own;
and no, no metaphor can fully embrace
how the battered and the defeated can spit right back into Fate’s face;
drawing up arms, gathering armor,
ready to face battles with a roar.

there are some things that poetry cannot do justice,
but then again poetry doesn’t exist to please –
it merely tries to voice what our hearts cannot speak
and point out what our eyes secretly wish to seek.
its beauty lies in the fact that it tries –
in a few verses, in spare lines –
to weave meaning into confusing impressions
to give us whatever consolation
in the face of ineffability of beauty and disaster;
of wreckage and of wonder.

– j.e.e / figurative

Happy World Poetry Day! It’s a bit late – for me at least, but that depends on where you are in the world.

I have always preffered the stability and length of prose, and went as far as to call poetry pretentious. It does have the tendency but things have changed… I’ve learned to appreciate poetry’s magic. I pick up more compilations than I probably should, and write poetry too frequently with such audacity when I can’t even be called a proper poet. I still love that it is there for me to express myself, and to find myself as well. Especially in the works of Plath, Neruda, e.e. cummings, Teo Antonio, and Conchitina Cruz. Also goes for those who do spoken word – from Juan Miguel Severo to a dear friend who loves doing so.

Happy World Poetry Day. Share some of your favorites and maybe your very own.