06.01.09   planning to gate-crash
the masquerade ball below
He forgot his mask * The temptation to complicate the poem above is strong. But I managed to rein myself in. ;) Looking at a sky like that, first thing in the morning, makes me wonder who's looking at whom (reality TV, 4.55-billionth episode, shooting now). It has also reminded me of a poem (written last year but posted here just now, below) I've made for an old mentor-turned-friend.somewhere past a blackhole
a Sound Being conjures a poem --
this is the relevance of philosophy
I can never know:
how in some world
I can never visit
inside a room
I can never be invited
some other thinker
I can never meet
postulates on why
I can never exist
* written: 10.16.08
For all the epistemologists, plus existentialist philosophers, who made squiggly wheel tracks on my mindscape. And for S.D., my old mentor in Cosmology, who would've grinned his jaw off upon reading (between) the above lines. ;) Wherever he is (time-) traveling to right now, I hope he has found 'his answers.' ======================
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Snow White, On 'Violence Against Women'
04.29.09another leaves her something poisonous, an offering piled against the glass window at night. fruits all painted white. the color of bruise ripens inside, spreads like handprints pressing rot in layers, breaks through, sprouts black things, and grows, in her mirror, a garden. * Hullo. Again. ;) Pardon the long absence. I've been going through, and dealing with, certain personal issues (which, I assure you, has nothing to do with the title of the above poem, so fret not) demanding a great deal of alone time. Recovery through 'solitary confinement' works for me. It can be quite comfy in -- returning to -- Plato's Cave. ;)
Now, enough of that. I'm glad, and grateful, to be back. My blog turned four while I was gone. I missed the opportunity to celebrate the occasion by doing something major, like redecorating the place. Hmm. I guess you'll have to settle for me making a double post, with photos. ;) Have a look at the second poem below, accompanied by a set of pictures I took last month. Cheers. ======================
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04.29.09fire hurts, too, and screams at the unfairness of being placed in a blue world. hell borders every patch of earth, is delivered in a glass of water, lives in moving containers of flesh that breathe out death to the life at the wick of every candle. when it rains at night, all flames tremble; campfires, bonfires get stabbed everywhere at once, scream 'why' heavenward. their countless gods in reply, merely blink. the devil drops more rain, the storm cuts power, candles are lit in homes. a human sings to a child about twinkling gods, leaves after killing the screaming light. * The photos came first, but I forgot all about them. ;) It was only after writing the above poem that I remembered saving the following digital images to my hard drive. I've been meaning to post them anyway. (grin) I've named the set "Roses Under Fire." (Click the image to view higher resolution.)   ======================
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No-Flying Zone for Winter
02.16.09Winter declined to come back after its first visit when it found leaves here swayed, all stayed in trees, green flags in humid air waving. Not the welcome it had ever known. Stopped by dread in its tracks, Winter slunk backwards, marked boundaries, refusing to be the weight that gnarled leaves so young, frozen or torn before they could brown -- thin limbs that would, in a blizzard, snap as a multitude, audible enough for one tree to crack-pop in concert little thunderclaps spelling severance, rumbling early death. How could Winter bear thousands of islands' worth of it? * written: 02.13.09
A bit of nature poetry this time, with a twist. ;) Here in the Philippines (with its 7000+ islands), we don't have autumn, winter, spring. Summer, yes, but only as part of the dry season; then there's the rainy/wet season with numerous typhoons in tow. So, we have two seasons instead of four. Anyway, it's been a while since I've written a nature poem. This gives me an opportunity to post the following photo (click it to view higher resolution) which I took last month. I relish looking up (and through) umbrellalike treetops. ======================
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02.11.09With small hands, he would form three-dimensional clouds out of paper and twigs and glue, drop them two at a time over bridges, squint his round eyes to follow them float until, far away, they would sink. Flowers he discovered when first he loved. He was told petals had speeches already written over them; so he carved lilies out of scented candles and fragrant soaps that reminded him of hallways she had just left. On the night he proposed, he brought twelve roses long-stalked and thornless, all chiseled with mindful detail out of a single log (to which they remained attached) resting on his arms as their petals spoke for him in vain. They grew roots to break into his soul on his long walk back home, passing bridges, stopping at the last to rip the log from his chest, throw it over the railing, watch it hammer the night sky outlined below -- splinters of a galaxy in the unmaking. * written: 08.20.07 (now reposted)
Here's my little offering for the month of love. Not a cheery piece, though. My happy-ending poems are on lockdown. Kidding. ;) Anyway, onto more sharing: here's my short list of recommended love poems for (feel-good) leisure reading --
More Strong Than Time by Victor Hugo (1802-1885). link
She by Theodore Roethke (1908-1963). link
Bride and Groom Lie Hidden for Three Days by Ted Hughes (1930-1998). link
Plus a lot of such poems by E.E. Cummings (1894-1964). And a screaming LOT of them by Pablo Neruda (1904-1973). Then we can have a swooning frenzy. ;) Cheers.======================
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For the Guitar Makers of Guagua, Pampanga
01.29.09Guitar ChildrenIn Guagua, guitars live like big families inside workshops fronting homes of craftsmen who see a musical string-child in every board of wood waiting to be given the shape of a body that can, by being hollow, push vibrations into melody. Seventy years of rearing guitar children with hands that grow more callused every decade, the guitar maker still touches wood, knows life. "You'll love the riffs in blues," he says to one, in a soft voice cracked by old age. He no longer sings with his children, though his home is never silent at night when he brings them, one at a time, with him to the old bamboo bench right outside his workshop to tune the strings, to teach the guitar child in his arms how to speak for, cry with, croon the soul out of those who can only strum. ======================
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On Mortality (Two Poems)01.22.09VestigeLaughter -- may it be the final reception, the song that ushers the end, my enduring requiem. When old age renders an encompassing fading, when the mind is but a string of shivered echoes in the interim of counted breaths unadorned, bereft of words, I hope that however sparse the remainder of substance would cling to accompany my mind through the whirr and blur of letting go, I could still firmly preserve the one memory -- the last I would need to recognize the tilt, list and lilt of the sound I have known to be my own voice: that once, many times it danced, streaking chords of homespun joy. * written: 06.10.06 (now reposted)
========================================A Night of PaymentOur dear loanshark, eternally you impose a staggered payment scheme on all of us walking debts. We borrow what we forget you own; we owe interest with laughter and jest as currency, and for all the audacity we muster with age we never can tell when the next payment is due. I, for one, am silenced
for the time being
and no richer than the night
that rents its coat from you.* written: 02.13.08 (now reposted)
Mortality has been a recurring theme in my poetry, over the years. Not that I'm suicidal, perpetually depressed or goth-inclined. (grin) It's just that, well, this is a topic that's inevitably linked to most philosophical discussions and writings. My interest in philosophy, then, I reckon, is the key to why mortality (as an umbrella subject) keeps popping in my head when I write. And, given that I value variety as regards my poems, I try to make sure that, despite the number of 'death pieces' I write, no two are really similar (with regard to voice/mood, content/story, etc.). Which brings us to the two poems above -- a couple of old ones, with a touch of generality, both mentioning "laughter," and differing in, well... (I leave that up to reader interpretation). Cheers.======================
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Flimflammed by the Denouement
Flimflammed by the Denouement01.14.09scattered scraps that will do as 'pages' following the end of a fairy-tale account of having fallen with impatience, different from how Newton's apple fared, more like a coconut letting go of its branch, gravity-driven like hailstone tripped over by lady luck; pages that chronicle the daily assault of morning breath, thunder snores, bed hair, drool-spotted pillows, one blanket, one bathroom to share, with a seat that snaps up, slams down, never by itself but by the flick of hands that can work cause-and-effect wonders of mechanical acts: so make the bed, undress, wash away another night's trace of aging from the skin, try to run fingers through knotted, split hair-ends as rebellious as legs recklessly unshaved while mismatched socks find their way jammed in between self-help books to be reread tonight, while lying on one's side, handling the binding scotch-taped to hold the pages -- each scanned to test the accuracy of scribbled-from-the-gut notes on the busy margin marked with arrows, punctuated, encircled by a home-schooled editor by necessity. * written: 12.30.08 (edited: 01.04.09)======================
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Of Contrast and Stillness
On Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” (Part 2)
12.28.08In SuspensionThe hanging of a single note in the air, brief to move the melody, long enough to suspend everything that beats, that flows within the span of a singular escalating howl cut up in little, even breaths counting down the thrashing world outside the piano room in my head -- in Beethoven's dead, warm mist of hands. * Note: Part 1, i.e. the first poem which was inspired by Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata," can be found here (which I wrote and posted last year), with a short background info on Beethoven and on the onset of his progressive deafness.
* On a personal note, the title of the poem above has a certain ring to it that makes me think that it is an apt two-word approximation of the end of 2008 for me. I guess one could say I have indeed been breath-still for the past months, waiting for the music to resume -- be it piano-calm, string-haunting, or percussion-loud. Hmm. But enough of my cryptic semi-rant. (shrug, grin, wink) I intend my last post for 2008 to end on a note of revelation... After almost four years of anonymity on this blog, I'm now going to pare down said anonymity, but only slightly, with the following pieces of information (not mentioned in my Blogger profile or in any previous post):
1. I used to play the piano. I haven't touched one in about a decade, so I'm not confident that I could still do it without a hitch.
2. My peripheral vision is quite sharp, which sometimes freaks out people around me when I react to what they're doing when they think they're out of my range of clear vision. (chuckle) It's handy for people-watching, and also for being aware of one's security in a crowded area.
3. I have a thing for sound/vocal mimicry. It started when I was just a child, wide awake late at night (insomnia at an early age); I would mimic (down to timbre) animal sounds for fun -- different dog barks and growls and howls, cat purrs and hisses, pigeon coos, etc. When I began watching television and developed a life-long love for movies, I found out that I could also fake various foreign accents and even personal inflections. To a T.
In an alternate life, I would probably be a voice actor. Maybe a Foley artist. (big grin)
4. I like the cold. I like touching cold skin. My own skin (especially my palm) is unusually very warm most of the time.
5. I have an irrational fear of heights. Claustrophobia, too. But I'm not afraid of the dark. ;)
Here's to 2009. May we all be richly blessed this coming year. Cheers.======================
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12 Poems: The December List
12 Poems: The December List12.14.08The third list in a row. ;)
As with the related October and November blog entries, the following is a list of must-see, much-recommended poems posted on writing blogs I have had the good fortune to visit within the past month. (Note: I have deliberately focused on poetry sites not yet featured in this kind of list. So, to those of you who have gone over my picks last October and November: do have fun now, meeting other bloggers -- possibly new acquaintances -- who share a similar passion for poetry writing. Cheers.)A Study in Gender Development by Scot Young. linkChild of My Heart by Rachel Westfall. linkChristmas Trip by Dymphna. linkDoodles of the Mind by Carole. linkHome Thoughts by Gordon Mason. linkHow to Pray Without Ceasing (2) by Melissa Crowe. linkLament for Federico Garcia Lorca by Christine Swint. linkPatriotism by Hugh McMillan. linkQuick Cathartic Sonnet Before Never Mind the Buzzcocks by Antonionioni. linkThe Dance by Maggie May Ethridge. linkThe Weaving II by Rachel Westfall. linkA Blighty One by Ken Head. (link removed as of January 2009; site closed)And now, for the bonus feature: a couple of witty, good-humored poems by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906), one of my favorite African-American poets. Confirmation He was a poet who wrote clever verses, And folks said he had a fine poetical taste; But his father, a practical farmer, accused him Of letting the strength of his arm go to waste. He called on his sweetheart each Saturday evening, As pretty a maiden as ever man faced, And there he confirmed the old man's accusation By letting the strength of his arm go to waist. The Unlucky Apple 'Twas the apple that in Eden Caused our father's primal fall; And the Trojan War, remember -- 'Twas an apple caused it all. So for weeks I've hesitated, You can guess the reason why, For I want to tell my darling She's the apple of my eye. ======================
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