The first time I encountered the story "May Day Eve" written by the indefatigable Nick Joaquin, let's just say I was a little short of being blown away. The enchanting atmosphere permeating the plot, the magic realism employed, the skillful use of language - all contributed to a total feast for the senses. This time around, I gave my own shot at a poetic interpretation of the hard-drinking, no-nonsense writer's most famous magnum opus. I hope I have given it justice.
May Day Eve
“If all goes right, just above your left shoulder will appear the face of the man you will marry."
"And what if all does not go right?”
"Ah, then the Lord have mercy on you…because you may see the Devil!"
A hint of brilliance in the dark, a hand piercing
through the blackness. Candle-wielding fingers,
shedding light into a room that speaks of emptiness
forgotten. Here, a spot by the old mirror where
the moon casts a glow with its ghastly shimmer,
a slight breeze murmurs its phantom whispers.
This indecent hour of night when witches start to
forage for some rumpled mortal flesh, for victims,
the scent of someone courting what’s forbidden.
Somewhere, dogs are howling, shadows on walls
shuddering in fright. They are in another place,
another home – and she shrugs these thoughts off.
Tomorrow, the flowers bloom in their pompous
magnificence, but tonight, her young heart beats
with a love yet uncertain, with a longing finally
freed from its shackles, emerging into the light.
The urgings of the soul giving way to the first word.
And “mirror, mirror show to me him –
whose woman I will be.” She hesitates, her voice
trailing off into muteness, the chant still resounding
within the confines of her head. Farther off, her knees
buckle from the weight of the unfamiliar, skulking
towards her like an unseen spider. But there is no
turning back, and she repeats the incantation
with pleas thrown to the wind, bated breath, half-
heartedly anticipating the final instruction: look, look
closely. And gazing into the mirror, excitement
intensifying with each tread towards the unknown,
towards a shot for true love, the inescapable arrival
to a secret discovery. True enough, it is there:
a face white and pure, unblemished and radiant –
hers. A blink, then a second look, and suddenly
saw an image that could’ve made her scream, a
hair-raising shriek spilling over trees and roofs
and rousing the household from its slumber.
That earsplitting disruption of the stillness
is her option. Only, it is not taken.
For the night remains untarnished, the same
enchanting elegance, punctuated somewhere
by a gasp of sheer terror, a soul perhaps claimed
in the name of love, or in the fires of hell.
Which is which, no one ever knows.
This question remained unanswered, the one
her child keeps on mouthing. The innocence of youth
peering out from two curious eyes, waiting for
salvation. But she was staring past those eyes,
forgetting herself, succumbing to the subconscious
world of the infernal. The present is a blur.
Decades apart, generations in between –
The warning stays. The daunting task for those who dare,
who defy the ancient admonition. Folks quietly stirring
the legend, rekindling it back to life. Far from
oblivion, something thrives in antiquity, the silence
caressing stories that almost become actual
when he closes his eyes and grasps the old summer air,
as if looking for something, someone he once loved.
He opens the windows, takes in the whole setting,
regret overpowering him like the weather.
The vision flickering in his graying mind, of her –
now imagined, now real, now
a tombstone.
May Day Eve
“If all goes right, just above your left shoulder will appear the face of the man you will marry."
"And what if all does not go right?”
"Ah, then the Lord have mercy on you…because you may see the Devil!"
A hint of brilliance in the dark, a hand piercing
through the blackness. Candle-wielding fingers,
shedding light into a room that speaks of emptiness
forgotten. Here, a spot by the old mirror where
the moon casts a glow with its ghastly shimmer,
a slight breeze murmurs its phantom whispers.
This indecent hour of night when witches start to
forage for some rumpled mortal flesh, for victims,
the scent of someone courting what’s forbidden.
Somewhere, dogs are howling, shadows on walls
shuddering in fright. They are in another place,
another home – and she shrugs these thoughts off.
Tomorrow, the flowers bloom in their pompous
magnificence, but tonight, her young heart beats
with a love yet uncertain, with a longing finally
freed from its shackles, emerging into the light.
The urgings of the soul giving way to the first word.
And “mirror, mirror show to me him –
whose woman I will be.” She hesitates, her voice
trailing off into muteness, the chant still resounding
within the confines of her head. Farther off, her knees
buckle from the weight of the unfamiliar, skulking
towards her like an unseen spider. But there is no
turning back, and she repeats the incantation
with pleas thrown to the wind, bated breath, half-
heartedly anticipating the final instruction: look, look
closely. And gazing into the mirror, excitement
intensifying with each tread towards the unknown,
towards a shot for true love, the inescapable arrival
to a secret discovery. True enough, it is there:
a face white and pure, unblemished and radiant –
hers. A blink, then a second look, and suddenly
saw an image that could’ve made her scream, a
hair-raising shriek spilling over trees and roofs
and rousing the household from its slumber.
That earsplitting disruption of the stillness
is her option. Only, it is not taken.
For the night remains untarnished, the same
enchanting elegance, punctuated somewhere
by a gasp of sheer terror, a soul perhaps claimed
in the name of love, or in the fires of hell.
Which is which, no one ever knows.
This question remained unanswered, the one
her child keeps on mouthing. The innocence of youth
peering out from two curious eyes, waiting for
salvation. But she was staring past those eyes,
forgetting herself, succumbing to the subconscious
world of the infernal. The present is a blur.
Decades apart, generations in between –
The warning stays. The daunting task for those who dare,
who defy the ancient admonition. Folks quietly stirring
the legend, rekindling it back to life. Far from
oblivion, something thrives in antiquity, the silence
caressing stories that almost become actual
when he closes his eyes and grasps the old summer air,
as if looking for something, someone he once loved.
He opens the windows, takes in the whole setting,
regret overpowering him like the weather.
The vision flickering in his graying mind, of her –
now imagined, now real, now
a tombstone.
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