photo by Germelina Lacorte
by Quennie Wang Yuni
This is how I found the poet.
One day when I was talking to Karen about writing again, she said that her poetry was a one-time thing—like she had a one night stand with the muse who left before she woke up the next morning. Of course, Kian was there to console her—almost as if she had always wanted to be a full-time mother.
Then I asked her to find me a poet—not one who is long dead nor someone we would have to invent. And no, not like the fictionist I met when I was too young either. Yes, we were fascinated by his stories that won several Palanca and other awards but growing up made me forget why. I no longer love how he writes—dry but earnest. Besides, I do not want to break another heart like that.
The ones after him were far more poetically challenged. I was on my tippytoes like a Love Girl Scout who lives in infinite hope until I decided to take a break (yes, the self-imposed dating hiatus). We could not really blame amateurs for leaving my heart in shards, could we? They spoke the language of dreams in another tongue—like photography, music, film, technology, law, money, science, etc.—and I was too lazy to take their language lessons seriously. When they tried to tread on my dreams by attempting to write, I drifted—and once, even fled. I must warn you though that if you ask them, they most likely will tell you another tale.
As I started to plan for the search, Karen wandered into my poet wonderland with a huge sign that says:
“He is not the poet. I AM the poet.”
~Sheilfa (when asked about her lover eight years ago)
I smiled after reading which prompted her to add, “The search for the poet is futile. You should date an accountant. Really, look at Carrie. Her Mr. Big is a financier because she is THE WRITER. Never mind that she is fictional.”
And like most of our conversations, this ended in laughter—the kind that makes the muse forget that we had broken up.
