We Will Wade In The Shine Of The Ever

Did you say, "No, this can't happen to me?"
Did you rush to the phone to call?
- Jeff Buckley

All right, hold it.

Before I go on, I'd like to yell my hundred-decibel CONGRATULATIONS to Mikael Co and Douglas Candano, both of whom won in this year's Palanca Awards, and both of whom damn well deserve the recognition! Kael snagged the First Prize for English Poetry, while Doug will be flying off to Canada with the Second Prize for English Fiction cradled smartly in his hands. As it so happens, both guys were co-fellows of mine - five years ago - in the 8th Ateneo-Heights Writers Workshop, where Kael brought upon each of us the uniform label, Rakstarr. Which is a bastardized version of the term Rockstar. Which is why it was so cool, since it was so emphatically coarse. We have never made a secret of our pedestrian tastes.

Kudos to you, Kael and Doug. What else can I say except that I'm awfully proud of you both? The fact that you haven't at all stopped writing, not at any point – well, that in itself is beyond remarkable.

It seems well-placed to sneak in one of my favourite Edward Hirsch poems here, something euphoric and celebratory. And what better piece than In the Middle of August, seeing as how the past month has proven to be such an obscenely generous one? You're almost inclined towards suspicion, where, by dint of habit, you count the doomed seconds until the other shoe drops. But what if there is no other shoe? All around you is the explosive sound of a thousand bare feet drumming upon terra firma, the beat born somewhere in the fevered axis of your body. Listen: it is gratitude's own arpeggio, escaping raw and weightless from your limbs.

In the Middle of August
Edward Hirsch

The dead heat rises for weeks,
Unwanted, unasked for, but suddenly,
Like the answer to a question,
A real summer shower breaks loose
In the middle of August. So think
Of trumpets and cymbals, a young girl
In a sparkling tinsel suit leading
A parade down Fifth Avenue, all
The high school drummers in the city
Banging away at once. Think of
Bottles shattering against a warehouse,
Or a bowl of apricots spilling
From a tenth-floor window: the bright
Rat-a-tat-tat on the hot pavement,
The squeal of adults scurrying
For cover like happy children.
Down the bar, someone says it's like
The night she fell asleep standing
In the bathroom of a dank tavern
And woke up shivering in an orchard
Of lemon trees at dawn, surprised
By the sudden omnipotence of yellows.
Someone else says it's like spinning
A huge wheel and winning at roulette,
Or drawing four aces and thinking:
"It's true, it's finally happening."
Look, I'm not saying that the pretty
Girl in the fairy tale really does
Let down her golden hair for all
The poor kids in the neighborhood –
Though maybe she does. But still
I am saying that a simple cloud
Bursts over the city in mid-August
And suddenly, in your lifetime,
Everyone believes in his own luck.
.