FROM the look of things, Lawrence Ypil is not acrophobic. Or on another plane of thought, is there a force that pulls him upward, to higher places?

An addiction to both words and heights, when drawn altogether, may appear less likely, but Lawrence stringed them in one compilation. And perhaps, it is his most unforgettable firsts that brought him high above – of the many baptisms of fire mentioned in this first anthology.

Released by Ateneo de Manila University Press, The Highest Hiding Place is a book-bound collection of his poems inspired by love, his many firsts, and his lust for that one perfect spot.

The foreword states, written by Simeon Dumdum, Jr: “I consider this the proper spot for the poet. For me, that hiding place is the loft, which incidentally, I have a thing about, and in which I imagine myself whenever I write.

“In that, to the rest of humanity, its function is hidden, the loft is the poet’s highest hiding place. And the best – because when they know that he is there, they would not think that the poet is hiding at all.”

Not that he’ll venture into sky diving anytime soon, but it refers to an ideal place for giving birth to beautiful words – poetry

His loyalty to this literary art did pay off in hundred folds.

In this case, 79 pages have sent out his message across (wooing someone, Lawrence?)

It begins with his early memories of his childhood where entertainment was simple, vividly narrated in his poems At the Beach, Porch, Lemon Tree, and House.

In Jacob’s Guilt, Being A Son, and The Firsts of Love, Lawrence emphasize his closeness to his family.

But how did the ripple start?

Flip a few pages, and you could trace back how poetry became his bloodline: The Discovery of Poetry, At the Piano, The Old Mime, and The Foundering. Albeit the playful use of words, it’s fulfillment beyond description.

Not satisfied yet? Here’s hardcore poetry, a series of Lawrence Ypil signatures. It could be as emotive as the beginning stanza of Funeral March: Hearse without body/ without flower/ without Dearly Beloved/ without You will be missed.

Or as provocative as the conclusion of Five Fragments: A Confession: O Adam, O lonely lonely Adam/ before you were split into Eve.

Our very own Dog-ears in the Wrong Notebook columnist is quite uncomfortable about being addressed as book author but is secretly ecstatic about distributing copies nationwide in all leading stores. (Clint Holton P. Potestas)