This "Univited Foliage" is Not My Own (Throwback Essay)

Warning: For Mature Readers Only

When I was in college, I was invited to a poetry reading program. The event was held in the Arcellana Library in the Faculty Center at the University of the Philippines. I was very nervous because it was going to be my very first poetry reading session. I had attended poetry reading sessions before, but the attendees were mostly my classmates or members of the so-called "illegal" U.P. Writers' Club. Why was it called "illegal?" It is a long story and we'll discuss it some other time. Brevity is the key.

This time, the small event would be attended by published student writers and faculty members of the English Department. Therefore, there was a real reason to be anxious because I would be among established and published writers and professors. To be given a slot to read my unpublished poem was an honor.

The mood was festive, and I was shaking but trying my best to contain my terror and elation. I was with poets and real writers, and I felt that a door was open. The gods and goddesses of Philippine literature had welcomed this "little cricket," as I secretly called myself during those days.

Poets read their works. Some were in English and others in Filipino. Every reading was always followed by applause. The popular and well-established writers got louder cheers, applause, and "ohs" pregnant with intellectual flattery.

When it was my turn, I slowly stood in front. I read my short poem as calmly as I could and let the poetic drama ooze out from my lips. My poem was about the subtle emptiness of the streets of Manila despite its cacophonous noise. It had eight lines. Once I was done, I heard a courteous and slightly audible clap, which was appropriate and deserving for a neophyte student wannabe poet. Still, I was satisfied.

After me, a young Filipino American professor stood and read his poem. He looked very presentable, and his perfect American accent added a wicked dash of charm. He smiled at everyone and read his one-line poem.

He said, "This p**** hair is not my own." 

(For the sake of decorum, the exact word will now be referred to as “underbrush”, “southern thicket”, “the uninvited foliage” and “particular growth.”)

The entire room exploded with uproarious laughter, cheers, and applause. Everyone loved it. That one sentence, it seemed, captured the elusive metaphysical truth that all poets have been aspiring to encapsulate in words.

As the young poet sat down in his chair, I thought to myself, "So that's the key, the uninvited foliage."

Forget if you hacked your chest and yanked your very core, presenting your bleeding but still beating heart to the deities. It is all about the “metaphorical underbrush.” Or was it metaphorical? Perhaps the Fil-American heartthrob of the literati was really talking about his southern thicket?

From then on, my eyes were open. I was like Louie, the Vampire. I saw the world with my new vampire eyes. The world is a Savage Garden of “Underbrush”. I saw the curly vine everywhere—on television, on campus, in movies, in magazines, in bars, and in any place where people long for love and attention.

People who show their “particular growth” have the world in the palms of their hands. They are demigods.

I never read my poems in public again after that fateful poetry reading. I also lost the urge to get published. The ironic thing about it was that I understood exactly what the fuss was all about.

Unfortunately for me, I always keep an eye on every strand of my underbrush, so I am never in doubt. I know each one. I also make sure my bed partners bring their “uninvited foliage” home with them. But enough of that; it is time to trim.

-----------------
First written on July 12, 2010 (Published in "The Chair")