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Poetry Book Promotion: Persephone, Descending by Fray Narte

A nod to classic, feminine death, my second book, Persephone Descending, tackles women’s disillusionment with beauty, society, and themselves. It embraces the grotesque, the horror, and the unhinged, female gaze. When the curtains are down and the lights are out, you will find intimacy with all things ugly and unsettling — with all the tragically, dead women written by dead, male authors.

Contrary to the loud, obnoxious aching in my first poetry book, I now give you my quiet terrors, my subdued, poetic afterthoughts, and my distasteful identities — projected into multiple women living out their sensualized and sedated tragedy, in each and every page.

Buy my poetry book from 8letters’ website and Shopee account for only ₱380.

Always, Fray ❤

Note: Available in the Philippines only.

Blue Chrysanthemums

your blue chrysanthemums quietly rest in an airport seat:
a much lighter, dustier gray than your shirt,
the one we forgot in a hotel room, resting above a city
that’s sitting in its filth and rust —

you are its one silver lining i trace so desperately,
incorruptible around my wrist — your kisses
leave third-degree burning marks on tattoos i had forgotten,
as i run high adjacent to the skyline —
i’d sell my soul for all of this

and come back running, come back crying,
come back screaming from my shallow grave

and bury my body on your skin; there’s a compartment
where i shut away my sun-bleached bones next to your blue chrysanthemums.
they are soft and comforting against me, quiet next to my longing
as a different city announces its final call.

i drag my heart around like a luggage,
blue as petals, thick as stems, timid legs in an empty airport;
i hoped to find you find you waiting there
at the exit sign of my labyrinthine veins

the way you always find me:
in microdoses of sleep, in slate-gray cities, in midnight skylines,
licking the moon with my red poppy, opium-tongue like a starving beast,
in your arms i purge my lawless violence, my godless poems,
my childhood bruises, all taken off my chest — vessel by vessel
rib by rib,
until i am gentle and clean for grass to grow beneath me now
blue chrysanthemums, soft beneath me now, for
i am weightless, darling — i am made of incorruptible, pristine sky light
breaking away before the world wakes.
i am weightless — formless as the very air,

soft and flitting above you now.

— fray narte, “blue chrysanthemums” | written november 27, 2022

L’appel du Vide: A Glimpse of Fray Narte’s This Way to the Black Holes

Self-destructive, irrational, and indignant, Fray Narte’s This Way to the Black Holes encourages the reader to hurt visibly, to mourn loudly, and to pry open a chest full of black holes in broad daylight for everyone to see. This collection of confessional prose and poetry tempts and boldly takes a reader down the depths of a massive, inner black hole swirling with raw emotions and seemingly endless mental states — anguish, abandonment, self-hatred, emptiness, defeat. Each poem is someone’s eulogy for everything long gone, perhaps even for themselves.

Perhaps each of us has surrendered something to the ghostly hums of a black hole in our chest. A childhood memory, a dream, a brief glimmer of light. It is believed that once something is lost to its gravitational pull, nothing can escape. Nothing comes back the same, and nothing comes back at all, and one can only take a longing peek at something unseen and irretrievable. 

But how can something vanish when it is inside us? How can we carry the weight of everything we lost? The anthology is an invitation to fall into a void inside us and intentionally look at all the repressed thoughts and feelings that lie ahead.

The revamped book cover features a girl falling into a black hole. Inside, the poems are intentionally characterized by helpless irony;  intense yet subtle and are accompanied by minimalist, feminine, and dainty line illustrations. Written for escapists, pessimists, and neurotics, the poetry book is an acquired taste that will surely keep the reader lost and looking for something within themselves, until they find the way out — of  black hole humming in their very own chest. Support Fray Narte by buying a copy of her first poetry book here.

From Inside the Chrysalis: A Review of Metamorphosis by Admer Balingan

A poetry book entitled Metamorphosis

Like casually strolling inside the belly of a beast, there is something unsettling yet so natural about reading Iluvia Triste’s (Admer Balingan) poetry in his first book, Metamorphosis published under Ukiyoto Publishing.

The collection starts with ‘The Birth’. Here, the poet is not afraid to use haunting metaphors that a normal person would turn away from in repulsion. The persona tours the reader in places in childhood where he got his wounds, as though a crime scene revisited by a survivor. The pieces are suffocating, yet empowering and enlightening – simply raw emotions in their textual form.

The readers will find themselves looking through a thick, giant, and sticky bubble, and the view resembles a subjective purgatory of an aborted child – if only distorted by the iridescence. 

‘The Shedding’ follows. It tackles erosion and loss, both of physical form and sanity. Sweet Elvie hits too close to home, in particular, but the pages move on in a trancelike state. The persona possesses purity and naivety – ironically not that of a young child but that of Frankenstein’s monster. Each poem in this section beckons the readers to mourn.

“…the stars become feces… the people; become black teeth…” ‘The Growing’ is unhinged, fearless, and bold in its use of seemingly mundane words we encounter every day. Reading this feels like watching a tragic film creep and unfold in the streets and houses in an unheard-of province. A slice of life, if you will, but visceral and cut quite literally from the chest. The persona has the power to leave you feeling like a helpless prey to his demons. These are the words sprouting out of a body too disillusioned with itself to make sense of anything timid and inanimate enough to surround it. You can only read on as the persona seems to go down a spiral of self-hatred and madness, leaving behind an estranged body, much like Poe. My personal favorites are ‘november’ and ‘sundays devoid of flowers’ – poems written in styles much like mine, but madder and darker.

‘The Transformation’ is a refreshing break: it is not made of unadulterated healing, but mere glimpses of it. A tendency, I would say, for both relapse and self-acceptance. It talks about the kind of softness one finds against both flowers and tender wounds. It is about learning to live in your body after waging year-long wars against yourself. What makes this part stand out is perhaps the intentionality and consciousness in it – to tentatively step out of an outgrown shell while carrying within you the possibilities of stepping back in. What matters, though, is the intention. It is a great, hopeful way to end, and I am sure ‘jesus wears a skirt’ will stay with me years after I finished the book.

True to its description, this poetry book is indeed unconventional, raw, and unique. I truly hope that more readers who find themselves in crossroads, transitions, or personal metamorphosis, come across this book. Let your breaths be taken away as you flip through the pages of Metamorphosis, and you will find each one changed, restored, and made more authentic to who you are.

Maps, Misgivings, and Misguided Roads: A Review of Franz Macaso’s The Detour Part II 

Photo from 8Letters

A roundabout. A temporary deviation. A road seldom taken leading to places no one usually visits but people escaping something — people hiding something, perhaps. Published under 8Letters Bookstore and Publishing, Franz Macaso’s “the de|tour part II” has me hurting over and longing for something I can’t even identify. Franz’ zine, a continuation of the first “the de|tour”, is carefully crafted and curated with such artistry that I only usually see in the international scene. True to its name, the zine, indeed, takes a detour from the mainstream style in online writing community in the Philippines and embraces uniqueness. 

I am not even sure I am worthy of writing this review but the pieces have utterly moved me. Franz demonstrates his artistic skills with ten poems and ten visuals, narrating what I understand to be the personas’ either conscious or mindless detour from subjective morality and reality as we know it, finding themselves in a museum, a hotel room, a diner, one with nature, or perhaps in the bed of a paramour. The piece, ‘lake, passing’ is my favorite, wistful yet hopeful, just the way I like the poems I read.

In the second zine, we also get to know more about Desiree and Eugene from the first part, in ‘someday, when u unmask my becoming’. This, in addition to ‘magdalene pts. I and II’, and seems to be a willing confession of infidelity, poems waiting to come to light and pacing restlessly behind ‘gemini’. A nod to the other woman, I must say, and admission of gray morality.

I like the indirect references to the poems under the poet’s first zine, a, particularly in ‘the anointing’ and‘reminiscences’. The personas seem to converse, with the latter piece’s line “ruined walls made of marble” a response to “carve my own history in hotel door rooms” in ‘the anointing’, and “no, i looked away, no. wouldn’t you let this be a one-night stand?” to “we can be fucking and be our own healing”. Here, we take a detour down a persona’s memory lane and come across a thought, a reaching that persists way after the fall. Perhaps, intentional, careless while in a state of vulnerability. This, perhaps, is a common denominator among all the personas in the zine — including me, the reader, after I finished Franz’ poetry.

Overall, the de|tour part II is bold, delicate, and exceptional as a work of art. Franz’ skill in writing is inimitable. I highly recommend both of the zines and pretty much any book that Franz will release in the future to anyone who wants to read quality poetry. You can grab a copy from 8Letters website or Shopee page.

Being a Poet in a Content and Growth-Driven Space: A Confessional

Photo by: David Klein | Unsplash

Before anything else, yes, I can see the irony in writing this.

I finished a bachelor’s degree in Psychology while also majoring in Literature at the Philippines’ national university. I must admit, taking my Bachelor of Arts in Literature was due to passion and the dream of becoming a poet — which loosely translates to signing publishing deals with well-known publishers and getting best-selling poetry books out there.

Sounds idealistic, right? Because it was, and I wish somebody told me this when I was younger. And this is hugely because poetry is highly niched (and ironically saturated as well) and not marketable. Morrigan (2022) wrote that there is no money in poetry, unless you’re Lang Leav, or Michael Faudet, and others who make it big with their bite-sized, easily digestible, #instapoet content. But for a young, provincial Filipina girl in a country where publishing houses are fragmented, volunteer-led, scant of fund, and not to mention too traditional, this doesn’t seem likely. While independent publishers pop up here and there, the experience has been an eye-opener and unpleasant: absence of marketing strategy, low royalty fees, lack of or poorly skilled graphics, layout, and design team, and inconsistent and unsustainable promotion that frequently results in authors doing it all by themselves.

Five years of posting poems, two poetry and prose books, and dozens of revisions later, I made the decision to make poetry a private and personal project. 

Poetry is an Art Form and Not a Wholesale Product

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

Let’s admit it, poetry is not profitable. I’m no Rupi Kaur and my poetry, no matter how better and more beautifully written, won’t generate much revenue compared to best-selling poems, novels, or non-fiction books. While theirs is an achievement worth celebrating, it is undeniable that many people have been disillusioned with the reality of being a poet. While countless aspiring poets share their works in platforms like Hello Poetry, Poetizer, Tumblr, or even WordPress, not many people will not pay for it. It is, first and foremost, an art form and niched interest meant to be appreciated, felt, and enjoyed by a few, rather than a product to be sold in bulk to many people. At least that’s how it is for people like me.

So I Have a Degree in Literature, What’s Next?

What has become of my degree in literature? Aside from being trained under and meeting Carlos Palanca winners, becoming familiar with Philippine, Western, and Asian literature, and having the privilege to join in annual zine publishing and literary festivals, spoken word events, and book fairs of a Western Visayan printing press, nothing much. I have always been, and still am, an anxious, over-caffeinated, and cynical writer, except with better taste in books, an improved writing style, and repressed regrets that I ever wanted to publish my works. It has turned me into a content-driven, growth-driven, unhappy person in a space where being good poet means higher reach and engagement, exponential follower growth, surpassing your competitor’s likes and reactions, and of course, consistent posting of poems short and visually pleasing enough to be considered aesthetic and Instagram feed-worthy. I realized that I wasn’t being authentic to myself. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote some more the things that people wanted to read. I wrote to compete with other Filipino poets, who were also struggling like myself, and who were also victimized by modern publishers who dangled the sweet, deceptive promise of a barely edited published poetry book. I envied viral content that to me had no substance. I resisted doing the growth hacks. I was frustrated with my inability to consistently produce poems for the quick consumption of a mindlessly scrolling reader. And in the end, it made me miserable. And that was the best thing that ever happened.

I am Poet Regardless of Whether or Not I Produce “Content”

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels

By the time I realized that I was creating content and not poetry, my resistance has shown in my writings. In a way, I have bared myself and has since subconsciously written about wanting to retreat and be incomprehensible. I had to take a step back and find ways to be more authentic to myself. This means keeping my poems in Google Docs and not publicizing them. I have learned to accept that I will never again be like the writers who can write literary pieces for their daily social media content. This also means choosing to write on the things I genuinely care about — things that actually resonate with who I am regardless of their relatability. 

After all, my emotions and thoughts are my human qualities — they simply exist; they’re not here for consumption or criticism, or plagiarism even. This is my truth now. I am lucky if my poetry touches a stranger from the other side of the world, but it will never be again judged by how many readers I have, or which poem trends, or whether or not my Facebook friends hype it. They, too, simply exist.

What does My Literature Degree Have to Do with It?

Many of my fellow literature majors didn’t end up as poets, or writing fellows, or book authors. For 19-year old me who thought she was writing unique literary material, this would have been soul-crushing. But it’s not! For a while, I was lost and consumed by self-doubts. With a double-major in my diploma, a license in psychometrics, and friends who were equally as clueless, I was tempted to accept low-paying writing jobs just so I could tell myself that I was a writer. But I already was, even without exploitative agencies and clients. So for cynical idealist poets like me, here are some of the things I wish I knew. Who knows? It might just be helpful!

  • Being a poet or a writer isn’t the dream that it actually was. It is much fulfilling when you do it for yourself, that is, it’s not a chore due within the week or so.
  • Publishing houses, both traditional and vanity, aren’t your saviors; most of them are after your intellectual property for money. They will earn more and pay you an indecent amount of royalties. When in doubt, remember that you’re always better off having the control of what happens to your literary works.
  • While the web can be driven by content, SEO ranking, and performance, it is a tool and not an enemy; it’s a good way to get started and explore being a poet. You can create a blog or a website to curate and showcase your works and connect with readers who genuinely admire your skills and talent. As discussed above, you can use platforms such as WordPress, Medium, Tumblr, Hello Poetry, Poetizer, All Poetry, Wix, and even Canva! You can also tap social media platforms to join poetry communities and groups and connect with other writers and readers.
  • It’s okay to submit your poetry to free and paid online publications, such as literary magazines, journals, or websites. I have works at Aster Lit, Alpas Journal, and Love, Girls, Literary Zine! Don’t forget to check their respective submission guidelines!
  • Learn from online resources. It costs nothing to follow and support underrated poets that capture what you feel. Learn from their style and start experimenting with yours! Remember to be authentic to yourself as you do so.

Final Words

Photo by Camille Brodard on Unsplash

Being a poet takes time and effort. In the end, it’s not about popularity but creativity. Not about engagement but fulfillment and expression on a deep, emotional level that transcends sales and the number of re-blogs or comments. It will never be a cold commodity and that’s what makes it beautiful. It is a meaningful art form created by wonderful minds. Maybe it’s not supposed to be mainstream in the first place. Otherwise, it is nothing but a poet’s tainted skin on shameless display for viewers who can’t appreciate it.

I have shed this old skin and I am reborn with new-found appreciation for who I am and what gives me life. I am ending this by deliberately mis-quoting Dead Poets Society; poetry is something we stay alive for. I will never again clothe and turn it into something that seems to be a creature of a consumerist, mechanical world. It is much too beautiful and intricate, and my poems, much too sacred now for soulless eyes. I’ll keep it if I have to. This time, without pressure and misery but just content and comfort that I am being true to myself. Still, I’m a poet and nothing will make that less true.

Galatea

Art: Cesari Giuseppi (Cavaliere D’Arpino), The Triumph Of Galatea, 1760 | Manipulated using Picsart

Such a classic mortal blunder to lay
my spine as it erodes, graceless, inelegant
on Galatea’s cold, ivory arms;
such delicate carvings can never be human, look human,
feel human under my lonesome bones.

I long to see you flinch and break
into fine, liquid, rain of dust blinding me,
covering the walls of this room
in a blameless shade of white: a new asylum ward
for my kind of insanity,
you say.

It envelopes like light around my awe
and my forlorn limbs,
tangled with Galatea’s unmoving ones.
I look for comfort within brittle carcasses
scraped of everything they could ever give.

The quiet persists eerily.

But here, Pygmalion’s gifts remain untainted:
the apex of auger shells, the beak of a songbird
the blunted ceriths, the rusty chisels
all impaling my spinal bones.
Yet the sculptor’s kisses, long erased,
the careful carvings, long defaced,
long reduced into a Grecian ruin.
I bury my body on your arms yet they find no rest
against the ghostly pleas of mammalian tusks.

How many for your fingers?
How many for your hair?

Tell me, Galatea, were you carved to bear the weight of
all the sea salt I swallowed as I drowned?
Soften under my meandering thoughts; I long
to see you flinch and break — like all the dead elephants —
any reminder that you yield pliantly to the voice
of the love goddess, that you were once turned human.
Break now, your solid arms, under my own collapse
over the sea foam caught on fire.

I am no longer bending and weeping to pick myself up.
Here it all goes down and ends:
my bones,
and yours,
burning,
snapping.
Nothing —
nothing less glorious will last after us.

— Fray Narte | written October 18, 2022, 1:35 pm