Siquey

Medyo huli na, pero pakiramdam ko, kailangan kong mai-blog ito bilang pagkilala at pasasalamat sa naiambag niya sa kung anumang panulaan meron ako ngayon. Hindi pa kami nagkakakilala ng personal pero nakita ko na siya sa ilang mga salusalo.  Una kong nabasa yung tula niyang "Regarding Space" na nanalo sa Philippine Free Press nung college pa ako (Yun nga sana ang gusto kong isama na tula sa entry na ito kaso wala na akong mahanap online, kaya kung may makahanap sa inyo, pakibigay naman ang link, salamats). Mula noon, inabangan ko na ang mayaman niyang karera, hindi lang sa panitikan, kundi maging sa arkitektura at sining-biswal. Hanggang sa nitong huling linggo, nabasa ko ang mensahe ni Sir Vim sa LIRA na nasa hospital si Sir Sid. Kinabukasan nun, pumanaw na pala siya.

Wala siguro ako sa tamang posisyon, at maaaring kulang pa ang kaalaman o credentials para ipaliwanang kung gaano kalaki ang nawala sa hanay ng ating mga Alagad ng Sining sa kanyang pagpanaw (punta kayo kay Sir Marne para sa ilan pang pagbibigay-galang kay Sir Sid). Kaya't sapat lang muna siguro ang pagsaludo at pasasalamat ko sa mga kisameng kanyang pinalawak, mga aninong ipinasilip, at mga pintong ibinukas para makita ng karamihan ang mga kumikinang na espasyo sa kanyang mga tula. 

IN ABSENTIA
By Sid Gomez Hildawa

The sadness within these walls is the quiet
sadness of space itself; invisible, inescapable.
And hollow, like a forgotten well I'd like to fill up
with flood waters, lava, or quick-drying cement.
Departures are never as swift as the flick of a light
switch, or as definitive as the collapse into dust
cloud and rubble of a tall building under engineered
blasts of planted dynamite. You walk out in particles,

leaving granulated good-byes like very fine sand. I'm
sure some remnant of your reflection is still around,
bouncing off yet another conniving surface. Like once,

stepping out of the shower towel-drying my hair,
I caught the elongated image of your tanned body
mirrored by the metal door frame's shiny handle. So
you're still within these walls, zipping in perpetual
motion, an amorphous mass of energized atoms in some
theoretical physics equation where the effect of
friction is suspended. You're still here, though
not as I would have it: seated on the bed, your back
against last night's pillows, your arm outstretched,
pointing the remote control at a flickering screen.
You're here in fragments. I gather your presence
with each sweeping of the floor, the way a poem
remembers its former drafts, collecting dead skin
cells of former selves.