Showing posts with label reference. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reference. Show all posts

Monday, July 13, 2015

THE SLAVE AND THE PHILOSOPHER – MOSLEM



A pasha was crossing the sea in a fine ship when a terrible storm arose.  One of the Persian slaves, who had never been off land before, began to weep and moan and cried out in such terror that no one could reassure him.
At last the pasha called out angrily, “Is there no one aboard who can quiet this coward?”
A philosopher, who happened to be on the vessel, said, “With your permission, sir, I think can quiet this man.”
“Proceed,” said the pasha.
The philosopher observed the chattering slave and summoned several sailors.
“Throw him into the water.”
They threw the salve into the water.  He began to drown, thrashing around wildly, and his screams were terrible to hear.
“Now pull him back aboard,” said the philosopher.
The sailors hauled the slave back onto the ship.  He clung to the deck, panting and frightened, but silent.
The pasha impressed but mystified, asked the philosopher, “How do you explain this?”
To which the wise man replied, “Before he had a taste of drowning, he could not appreciate the blessed safety of a ship.”
To the angles in paradise, purgatory is hell;
But to the doomed of hell, purgatory is paradise.


/ Leo Rosten .  Stories From Five Faiths
Posted by RoseVoc2. July 14, 2015



Thursday, June 4, 2015

On Theme. Death in the Woods

In fiction, there is always a central idea. Whether it be a poem, a short story, or drama; these are centered on a theme. In most cases, the theme is the generalization about the meaning of the story.
Leo Tolstoy once told a friend:
The most important thing in a work of art is that it should have a kind of focus, like where all the rays meet or from which they issue. And this focus must not be able to be completely explained in works. This indeed is one of the significant facts, about a true work of art - that it's content in its entirety can be expressed only by itself.
Readers interpret texts as they see life. The author writes a human experience in different ways to express an idea that branches into a lot more of profound thoughts.
Death in the Woods by Sherwood Anderson shares a theme about a woman who lives in the woods. And there in the woods, she dies, too.
An ordinary woman in the beginning becomes extraordinary in the end. In fact, the story connotes that she can be more beautiful than the others, "I remember the picture in the forest, the men standing about the naked-girlish looking figure, face down in the snow..."
Anderson, in the story, refers only to "She" as one of the nameless ones who hardly anyone knows. And once in the story calls her name Grimes, who lives with a mean husband and ungrateful son on the bank of a small creek miles away from the town.
Grease, grime and woman where in some instances, become a domestic woman's affiliation. Grime means filth, and being covered with unclean things. The occupation and daily routine of this woman becomes to be feeding the animals in her home, and in the woods. Her sad past life, buries her to chores like getting everything fed.
Falling snow, frozen body in the white snow, and alone dying in the woods make the theme so human but spectacular. The howling dogs could not eat her body, as hyenas would eat a corpse in a full moon. They only bite into the cloth of the old woman keeping the dog-meat. The story says, "I had seen the oval in the snow, like a miniature race-track where the dogs had run, and had seen how the men were simply mystified..."
Life, obviously, brings something true in death, that barren sadness and everlasting peace. And sometimes, that miracle of God, of a holy body never to be torn or broken, but a plain magnificence of oblation.


Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/5742862

Thursday, December 4, 2014

Three Scary Stories in Filipino

Three Scary Stories in Filipino








REBECCA

Kuwento ni Rose Flores – Martinez
30 Piling Kuwento 2003
Editor: Danilo S.Meneses
Introduksiyon ni : Reynaldo S. Duque

Makikita pa rin ang maraming bundok sa daan papuntang Bicol. Hindi maikakaila ang masukal na mga lugar. Sa bintanang salamin ay matatanaw ang lumang simbahan, na parang makapapasong tingkad ng liwanag, dala ng sinag ng pusyawing asul na ilaw ng krus sa gilid ng bundok.

Hindi ko maitago ang pagkamangha sa ganda ng kislap ng pusyawing asul na ilaw ng krus, hindi rin makapagsisinungaling ang aking damdamin.

Maganda nga, napakaganda ng kinang ng liwanag, ngunit sayang at hindi ko man lamang nadama ang hiwaga nito. Malamig ang dampi ng hangin sa paligid, may init ang sinag ng pusyawing asul na ilaw – katulad ng magkahalong lungkot at saya na aking nararamdama. Kung hindi nga lamang dahil kay Lola Basya …

Ano iyon? Mga ibong gubat? Marami pa ring ang mga kikik na nakakubli sa hinganteng mga punong kahoy sa gilid ng kabunkukang aming dinaraanan, pumupuno sa puwang ng iilang bahay sa tabi ng parang.

Kaya nga ba maririnig and mga usap-usapang nakakatakot at mga kuwentong hindi kapani-kapaniwala. Natatandaan ko ang mga kahiwagaan sa San Jose – ang mga engkanto, ang mga lamanlupa. Natatandaan ko rin ang pagkamatay ng isang malayang kamag-anak na tinatawag kong si Lolo Dado. Isang makisig at matandang lalaki nang magkasakit ay unti-unting namayat. At sabi-sabi, kapag gabi ay may makikitang aaali-aligigd na maga aso at baboy sa silong ng kanilang dampang bahay.

“Kain ka,” sabi ng katabi ko sa upuan.

Hindi ako makatanggi sa pag-abot niya sa akin ng kanyang kinakaing mani. Nakita ko ang masarap niyang pagnguya at pagkagat sa malulutong na butil.

“Salamat.”

“Sige dagdagan mo pa.”

“Tama na sa akin ito. May sira kasi ang aking mga ngipin kaya hindi masyadong makakagat ng matitigas.”

Nagsinungaling ako. Ang totoo, sa pagkuha ko ng ilang butil ay amoy na amoy ko ang matinding pagkagisa nito sa bawang. Ayaw ko ng bawang! Bagamat sa pagdaan ng panahon ay natuto rin ako na paunti-unting tumikim nito.

“Taga-rito ka rin ba?” tanong ko.

“Hindi. Dadalaw at magbabakasyon lamang. Maganda kasi rito sa Camarisnes Sur, lalo ang mga dagat. Talagang probinsyang-probinsiya. Maganda ang lahat, ang mga Bicolana – tulad mo! Kaya lang ang paligid, kung minsan ay nakakakilabot, masukal ang mga bundok. Sabi nga, marami raw ditong ‘anlayug’?”

Hindi ako sumagot. Minadali ako ng sigaw ng konduktor sa pagtigil ng bus mismo sa tapat ng aming malaki at lumang bahay. Nakalimutan ko tuloy ang magpaalam sa aking katabi. Parang kumukulog ang aking diddib sa lakas ng pintig ng aking puso. Nasasabik akong makita si Lola. Ang pag-ihip ng mabangong hangin sa aking mukha ay tila isang halik na nakapagpapasigla. Totoong takot akong umuwi, mayroon akong pangamba, ngunit iba ang sinasabi ng aking kaloooban. 

Halos lumipad ako papunta sa pintuan.

“Tapo po…Tapooooooooo…..!”

Bumukas ang pinto at sinalubong ako ng isang matandang babae.

“Magandang tanghali po…po!” ang bati niya.

“Kayo ba ang bagong katulong?”

“Ako nga…Ako si Tessie na inirekumenda ng inyong katiwalang si Blandina.”

Tinitigan ko siya mula ulo hangaang paa. Matandang posturyosa! Napansin ko ang kanyang mapupulang labi dahil sa lipstick.

Binati ko si Tessie nang papuring may kasamang pa-insulto. “Para pala kayong artista, pinagsamang Rosanna Roces at Ai-Ai!”

Ngumiti siya, tuwang, tuwa dahil napansin ko. Nagliwanag ang dati’y nanlilisik na mga mata. Dahan-dahan, may pag-arteng hinaplos ang buhok na nagtatayuang parang alambre sa tigas.

“Ang dilim naman. Bakit sarado and bintana, ang aga-aga pa?”

“Malamig. Bawal malamigan si Lola.”

“E, and mga ilaw, bakit hindi ninyo buksan?”

Sinindihan ko ang mga ilaw, inikot ko ang bahay upang mabuksan lahat ng switch para magliwanag. Pinagpagan ko ang mga mesa at tinanggal ang alikabok at mga sapot ng gagamba na nakadikit sa mga sulok. 

Pagkatapos, hindi ako nagpaliban pa ng mga sandali para Makita si Lola Basya. Ito ang panahong aking pinakahihihtay. Marahil ito na, ang panahong aking pinakahihintay…
“Kumusta ka, Lola? Andito po ako si Rebecca, ang inyong paboritong apo,” ang aking bulong sa kanyang malalapad na tainga habang lumalapat na marahan ang aking labi sa kanyang noo, sa kulubot na pisngi, sa pagod na mukha.

Nangatal ang aking laman sa hitsura na bumungad sa akin. Payat na payat ang matanda. Maitim ang kaniyang mga kuko at labi, hirap sa paghinga at mahinang-mahina. Parang may hinihintay. Wari ay maghihintay pa…

Ang lungkot na aking nadama ay hindi ko maipaliwanag. Sa muling paghalik ko sa kanyang noon ay may tumutulong luha sa mga mata nang naramdaman ko ang isang kalabit.

“Magme…meryenda ka muna, Rebecca,” sabi ni Tessie na nagdudumaling pabalik sa kusina. Sinundan ko si Tessie ng tingin hanggang matapat sayi sa salamin at kung paano nag-iba ang anyo ng kanyang mukha ay hindi ko alam. Pumapangit ang hitsura niya, lumalaki and mga mata, humhaba ang dila at tumatayo ang mga buhok. Guni guni?”

Sa isang kisapmata, napasunod ako sa mabilis na paglakad ni Tessie, ni Manay Tessie. Nakalimutan ko ang lahat. Ang napansin ko lamang ay para siyang dala ng hangin. Maliksi ngunit walang ingay ang mga yabag. Pagkatapos, gumuhit muli sa alaala ko ang lahat sa pagkalam ng aking sikmura. Hindi ko na hinintay ang paglamig ng mga pagkain.

Nanonood si Manay Tessie sa aking pagsubo, tinitingnan ang aking pagnguya. Nakangisi. Tuwang-tuwa.

“Ma… masarap?” tanong niya.

“Oo. Sino bang nagluto ng mga pagkain dito? May mga katulong ba galing sa bukid? Si Blandina?”

“Ako na rin. Sabi kasi ni… ni Blandina ang bilin mo raw ay huwag nang kumuha ng iba pang katulong…”

“Masarap ka palang magluto. E, kumusta nama ang pagkain in Lola?”

“Mahirap ngang pakainin si Lola Basya. Ang lagi kong ibinibigay sa kanya ay ang nasa.. sa latang pagkaing gamut na inireseta ni Dr. Rosales.”

“Ganu’n ba? Ano ba ang sabi ng doctor?”

“Talaga raw ganyan. Baka naman iba ang gu-gusto ng Lola mo…”
Hindi ako nakasagot. Sa pakiramdam ko, siya ay nanunuya. Hindi ako tanga. May itinanim na palaisipan para sa akin si Tessie. Nag-init ang aking mga tainga, bahagyang sumulak ang aking dugo, namula ang aking balat sa inis. Tiningnan ko si Manay Tessie ang matalim, parang mangangaing aking titig, tagos sa mabilis na kurap ng kanyang mga mata. Napayuko siya. Napahiya. Pagkatapos ay nakita kong may isang basong tubig na ako sa mesa.

“Mamayang alas-siyete, baka pupunta uli si Dr. Rosales. Makabubuting kayo na po… pooo.. ang makipag-usap,” sabi ni Tessie.

“Linisan mo na lamang dito,” ang aking madiing utos.

Inis pa rin ako. Sa malakas na boses ay ipinakita kong ayaw ko sa kanyang pabalagbag na sagot. Ako ang amo, ako ang dapat masunod. Hindi ako dapat pangunahan.

“Simula ngayon, ako na ang mag-aalaga kay Lola Basya. At siya nga pala, huwag mong patayin ang ilaw sa kanyang silid.”

Pilit kong pinigil ang aking sarili sa pakikipag-usap sa kanya kaya nalunod ako sa katahimikan. Naisip ko ang lungsod. Kapanglawan ang tanging yumakap sa akin habang nakatitig ako sa pagkakahiga ni Lola. Malapit na… Iiwan niya ako.

Si Lola Basya. Si Lola Basya ang nag-alaga sa akin buhat nang ako ay maulila. Ginawa niya ang lahat para ako ay makapamuhay nang masagana at tahimik sa kabila nang sabi-sabing lintek na sumpa sa aming angkan. Hindi rin siya nagkulang sa pagpapa-alala sa akin tungkol sa kabutihan at tiwala sa Maykapal, kahit alam niyang ako ay may tinatagong poot at hinanakit.

Nagtatampo ako… sa simbahan. Ngunit umaasa at naniniwala. 

May lagay na napakalaking krus si Lola sa isang lugar ng aming bahay, tulad ng pusyawing krus sa simbahan. May mga angel na palamuti sa bawat sulok nito at tinakpan ng mga luma at makutim ng tela. Natabunan ng alikabok.

Tinanggal ko ang mga tela.

“Hindi kita bibiguin, Lola.”

Narinig ko ang ugong ng electric fan sa silid ni Lola Basya. Ang ingay na ito na tanging bumabasag sa katahimikan ng paligid. Umaalingawngaw ang ugong sa maluwang na kabahayan na kinukurtinang ng asul.

“Isa… dalawa.. tatlo…nararamdam ko pati ang pagpihit ng malaking orasan. Malapit na nga. Halos pahiramin ko ng pahininga si Lola at isipin kung mabuti sa kanyang pisilin ang kansyang ilong para matapos ang kanyang paghihirap? Malakas ang aking kaba. Lumalakas sa paghihintay kung ano ang sunod na mangyayari.

Gusto kong bulabugin ang langit! Gusto kong isigaw ang aking mga tanong. Lagi akong nagtatanong, laging nagtatanong sa Diyos kung bakit kami ay kanyang pinabayaan. Hindi maarok ng aking isipan ang mga kakaibang pangyayari sa mga pagsubok na ito. Pilit kong iniintindi ang kahiwaagaan, ang mga sakit sa aming buhay, na hanggang ngayon ay hindi ko maintindihan at mahanapan ng lunas.

“Re… Rebecca! Manood naman tayo ng TV. Tapos na ako sa aking mga gawain.” Naistorbo ako sa aking pag-isiip at pagkakaupo sa ulunan ng kama ni Lola.

Sumusulpot si Manay Tessie nang pabigla-bigla. Noon, napabulaslas naman ako ng halakhak sa bigla niyang pagharap sa akin. Napagmasdam ko ang kanyang napakaputing mukaha na parang pinadukdok sa arina.

“Sige, buksan n’yo na nga.!”

“Alam mo ba? La…..la…. lahat ng Channel ay mayroon dito sa atin. Kaya ng lamang ay malabo. Ang marami ay….ay mayroon na ring cable channels na kanilang tinatawag. Sila mayor yata ang unang nagkaroon dito.”

Namangha ako. Sa hitsura niya’y parang hindi niya alam ang cable ngunit… masyado yata akong makapag-isip. Itinuon ko na lamang ang aking atensiyon sa pinapanood na palabas. Naguguluhan ako. 

Maya maya pa, sa kagagala ng aking mata ay muli kong napagmasdan ang matandang katulong. Napansin ko ang langis sa kanyang mga payat na braso, sa kanyang mga binti. Lalong pinakikintab ng langis ang kaliskis sa balat ng kanyang mga paa. Nagpapadulas…

Pagkasuklam ang nararamdaman ko para kay Manay Tessie sa pagtuklas ng maraming bagay tungkol sa kanya. Tulad ng pagtalikod niya kapag matatapat sa malaking krus. May kakaibang amoy rin na iniiwan ang haplas niyang langis. Mabaho. Sabi niya, ito raw ay parang Omega Balm, gamot sa nananakit na mga buto at kalamnan.

“Ang mga aswang ay may ritwal na ginagawa,” kuwento ni Lola Basya. “Kailangan sila ay maghaplos sa buong katawan bago magpalit ng anyo.”


Inusisa ko ang pangalan ng panghaplos ni Manay Tessie. “Ang baho-baho! Bukas bibigyan kita ng lotion para mabango ka!” sabi ko.

“Sa i…Instsik ‘to…Hindi ko alam ang pangalan . Sa sitsiriya ko nabili noong nakaraang piyesta. Malansa ba? Bibigyan mo ako ng bagong lotion? Kung gusto mo imamasahe pa kita, Rebecca.”

Lalapit na sana siya sa akin ngunit pinigil ko. Pagkatapos may nakita ako ng mga posporo sa paligid niya na nangaghulugan habang ang isang istik ay ginamit niyang parang toothpick.

“Ang mga istik ng posporo ay ginagamit nilang pampalakas. Ito ay babala ng isang aswang,” naalala kong muli ang kuwento ni Lola.

Sa mga oras na iyon, matalim ang titig sa akin ni Manay Tessie. Ang singkitin niyang mga mata ay parang nagdiringas at tulala habang kinukutkut niya ng posporo ang kanayang ngipin. Nakita ko rin ang posporo na pula ang dulo, kasing pula ng dugo. Hindi ko lang pinansin. Pagkatapos hindi ko na napigil ang antok.

Kinaumagahan dalang-hangin na naman si Manay Tessie na papalapit sa akin. Inilalantad niya sa aking harapan ang bila-bailaong mga prutas na galing sa bukid. Inaalo ako. Bakit?

Mabilis ang tiktak ng orasan. Hindi ko iniwanan si Lola Basya hanggang sa paglubog ng araw. Hindi ko rin kinausap ang matandang katulong sa buong maghapon tulad ng dati. Nagpakitang gilas si Tessie. Sa dapithapon ng maayos na ang lahat ng kanyang trabaho ay nagpaikut-ikot naman siya sa bakuran. Nakita ko ang kalungkutan sa kanyang mukha na nakatingala sa langit. Nag-iisip parang nagmamakaawa…

Tumabi akong muli kay Lola. Inayus-ayos ang higaan niya. Tumingala din ako sa langit, sa itaas – at katulad ni Manay Tessie ay nagmakaawa…

“First Friday pala ngayon,” bulong ko sa aking sarili. Dinapuan na naman ako ng lungkot. Hinaplus-haplos ko si Lola Basya.

Madilim na. Malakas ang hangin sa labas. Maraming ibon. Tahimik ang gabi. Bilog ang buwan. Ang liwanag ay sumusungaw sa maliit na kawang ng bintanang kapis. Nakakahalina ang liwanag. Hindi ako mapakali. Maya-maya may nakita akong asong itim sa gilid ng bakuran. Mala-dambuhala, kaya isinarado kong mariin ang mga bintana.

Mabilis, may nag-udyok sa akin para lumabas ng kuwarto. Natigilan ako. Wari ay may humihila sa aking mga paa papuntang pintuan. Sinigurado kong nakakandado ang lahat ng mga pinto at itinarangka itong mabuti. Binuksan kong lahat ang mga ilaw. Ang aming bahay ang pinakamaliwanag sa buong San Jose! Parang piyesta, parang may prusisyon ng Santakruzan sa tapat!

“Nakahanda na ba ang mesa? Manay! Manay!”

Hangos ako sa paghahanap kay Manay Tessie. Takbo ako papuntang kusina. “Ayyy, naku!’andiyan ka na pala bakit hindi ka nagsasalita?”

May apoy ang mga titig niya. Nakapapaso. Nagsimulang magtayuana ng kanyang mga buhok, kumpul-kumpol. Natatandaan ko ang mukha niyang nakakatakot ng makita ko ang kanyang mukha sa salamin sa sala., noong ako ay bagong dating.

“Ano ang tumutulo sa iyong damit?”

“Regla!” Nagdudumali si Manay Tessie. Hinila ko ang kanyang kamay at kinaladkad papuntang sala, pinaharap ko sa malaking krus. Pilit siyang nagpupumiglas. Hinila ko ang kanyang buhok na nangagtatayuan. Dahan-dahan, parang nahahati ang kanyang katawan na nagpausbong sa luwang ng kanyang damit…

“Dugo ‘yan ni Lola!”

“Bakit? Di ba gusto mo rin ng dugo?”

“Walanghiya!”

Umikot ako sa hangin at tinadyakan ko si Tessie ng malakas, malakas na malakas. Paulit-ulit. Pagkatapos ay mabilis akong nagpunta sa kusina.

Pabalik, hinarap ko si Tessie…

Ilang sandali pa mahinahon na ang hangin. Nalilito ako sa susunod na gagawin. Ang natatandaan ko lamang ay ang simbahan… ang pusyawing asul na ilaw ng krus.

Sabi ni Lola, ang simbahan daw ay luklukan para makapagbagong- buhay. Ito raw ay may kapangyaringhang bendisyon sa unang iyak pa lamang ng sanggol hanggang sa huling hantungan ng kaluluwa.






Kuwento ni Rose Flores – Martinez
30 Piling Kuwento 2003
Editor: Danilo S.Meneses
Introduksiyon ni : Reynaldo S. Duque

**************************************************************************


Sa Aking Silid

Ramdam ko ang pait at pagmamalupit ng panahon sa akin. Sa tuwing ako ay lilisan palabas ng aking silid, may kahalong lungkot at ligaya tarak sa aking puso. Tila ako ay binalutan ng tinik sa dibdib.

Simula noong ako ay bata pa sa pagpasok ng aking silid may kaba at takot na laging umaamba sa paligid, parang usok na lumalaki.

Si Ama ay isang kilalang tao sa lipunan. Mataas ang tingin ng mga taga-bayan sa kanya, maging ang kanyang mga kakompetensya sa San Gabriel. Sa araw araw na ginawa ng Diyos, masaya ang mga taong dumadalaw sa aming bahay na lagging may pagdiriwang na nagaganap. Mahal na mahal si ama mga taga- San Gabriel. Mahal din ni Ama si Ina… at ako. Maraming tao ang natulungan ni Ama. Mahirarap man o mayaman, walang pinipiling tulungan. Maraming krimen din ang nalutas. Maliban lamang sa kaso dito sa aming bahay. Iyan ang lihim.

Sa aking silid, pinid ang durungawan. Ang mga ala-ala ng aking nakaraan ay hindi maungkat. Ayaw kong maungkat muli ang mga ala-ala ng aking Ina. Maging si Ama ay ayaw ding makaalis sa mga alaala ng silid na ito.
Si Inang may mala-rosas na kutis, makintab, maitim at mahabang buhok, mapupulang labi. Hindi maiwasang ang mga kalalakihan dito sa amin ay mabihag ng kanyang kagandahan.
Isang gabi ng Disyembre, ako at si ina, ay bumili sa Quiapo. Pumili kami ng mga parol para sa pasko at pangregalo sa mga kaibigan, kamaganak at mga kasamahan. Marami kaming nabiling mga baso. Tuwang tuwa ako noon. Hindi ko makalimutan ang mga sandaling kapiling ko ang aking ina. Hawak ko ang kanyang palad na parang unan . Maligaya ako kapag magkasama kami ni Ina . Dama ko din ang seguridad na may gumagabay sa akin. Mula sa kanyang mga pangako na “hindi niya ako pababayaan” ay mga salitang nagpapalakas sa akin.

Sa pag-uwi sa aming bahay galling sa Quiapo ay mahigpit pa ang hawak kamay namin ni Ina. Kumalas ako sa napansin kong kaunting liwanag galing sa siwang n pinto na aking silid. Ngunit hindi ko pa rin ito binigyang pansin. Iniwanan ko muna si Ina sa tabi ng pintong my kawang, at hinayaan ni Inang kumalat ang liwanag mula sa ilaw ng maliit na kandila ng aking silid.

Ngunit . . . ano ito? Bigla akong nakarinig ng malakas na sigaw ni Inang, “Tulong, tunlong!” Nakita ko ang anim na kalalakihan sa paligid. Ginapos is Ina. Agad akong tumakbo patungo para magligtas. Ngunit sa aking murang edad, wala akong nagawa sa anim na kalalakihan. Umiyak at sumigaw, “Ama, Ama ... tulungan mo kami…” Walang si Ama. Walang taong sa bahay. Walang nakarinig.
Ang mga haling ang kaluluwa ay tuwang tuwa. At nakita ko isa sa kanila na humawak sa nagpupumiglas kong kamay ay si Emil. “Si Emil! Masama ka, masama ka! “
Si Emil ay kasambahay naming pinagkakatiwalaan ni ama. Si Emil na nakakaalam ng mga secreto ng aming pamilya. Si Emil na itinuring na anak ni Ama at ni Ina. “Ang aking nakatatandang kapatid at tapat na kaibigan?”
Paano ito nangyari sa aming pamilya? Ang akala naming Kuya Emil ay is palang anak ni Hudas! Sa sandali ng aking pagkatulala, may hinampas sa aking batok. Ito ang nagpagpatumba at nagpatigil sa aking hagulhol. Parang nawalan ako ng ulirat at hinang hina.
Pinilit kong tumayo sa pagkakahiga at nakagapos pa rin si Ina. At abot tanaw ko habang nilalapastangan siya – hinuhubaran, hinahalikan, winalang-hiya! Nakita ko kung paano lumaban si Ina at sumigaw at paulit ulit niya kaming tinawag. Nagdasal ako. “Magdasal, magdasal,” naalala kong pangaral niya.
Nakatulog ako sa masamang panaginip at nagising. “Si Ina!” Duguan, walang buhay. Si Ina na aking pinakamamahal, wala na siya. Nandoon din si Ama sa labis na paghihinagpis.
Niyakap kong mahigpit ang aking Ina. Niyakap ko ang malamig na katawan. Pilit ko siyang ginigising sa pagbabakasakaling may milagro at siya ay mabuhay. Hindi gumising si Ina. At marahil, sa pagkamatay ni Ina, itinulak ako ni Ama at sinabing, “Ikaw na lamang sana ang namatay, hindi siya.” Ang pagpanaw ni Ina ay kasabay ang pagpanaw ng aking buhay.

At ngayon, sa tuwing ako ay mapapagawi sa aming bahay, sa aking silid, lahat ng ala-ala ng kahapon ay pilit na nagbabalik. Ang kahapong umiikot sa buhay ko. Ang kahapong maramot sa aking matikman ang ligaya ng kasalukuayan at pagasa ng bukas. Ang kahapong ako ay pinagmalupitan at ginapos. Ang kahapong buhay ang aking Ina!

Parati ko na lang dinatnang mainit ang ulo ni Ama. Walang puwang ang kasiyahan sa akin , at nawala na rin ng puwang ko sa puso ni Ama kasabay ng pagpanaw ni Ina. Pinagbubuntungan niya ako ng galit. Marahil marami siyang problema mula sa pulitika. Marahil hanggang ngayon ay isa pa rin siyang bilanggo ng kahapong hindi marunong magpatawad. “Ako ang kanyang sinisisi sa pagkawala ni Ina!”

Si Emil, na anak ni Hudas ay masayang nakakagala ngayon at tila walang kasalanan. Hindi na siya nagpakita pa sa mga pulis. Ngunit, alam kong siya ay ma-impluensya.

Ang maraming tagapaglingkod naming sa bahay ay pinaalis din ni Ama. Kaya lahat ng gawaing bahay ay ako ang gumagawa. Ako na rin ang pilit na pumupuno sa mga pangangailangan ni Ama. Ako at ako lang. At sa tingin ko ay hindi pa rin sapat ang lahat ng aking pagsisikap. Hindi ko siya masisisi.

Hindi nabigyan ng hustisya ang kaso ni Ina gayong si Ama ay isang kilala at sa lipunan. Bakit kaya?

Mula nang matalo ang kaso ni Ina, sinabi niyang siya ang pinakawalang-kwentang tao sa buong mundo. Pati ang mga mamamayang madalas niyang tulungan kagaya ni Mang Ambit at ni Aling Aurora ay binabale-wala na niya kahit pinagsilbihan kami ng mga matatanda ng buo nilang buhay at katapatan. Hindi nagtagal, nawala siya din siay sa pulitika. Hindi niya ininda. Wala siyang pakialam kung ano ang mga mangyari, mawala man ang lahat. . . mawala man ako.

At ngayon, wala na si Amang pinagkakaabalahan kundi ang alak at sugal. Masaya niyang kanakausap lamang ang litrato ni Ina, na kahit anong milagro, ay hindi hindi babangon.
Wala pinipiling pagkakataon ang init ng ulo ng aking Ama. Kahit maraming tao sa bahay at mga kaibigan sa sugal ay wala sa kanyang pahiyain ako. Pilit niya akong pinapapasok sa silid sabay sabing “Ayaw kitang makita!!!” At pilit niyang iginigiit ang mga katagang ako na lang sana ang nawala at hindi si Ina. Ako naman ay agad-agad na papasok at nanginginig ang mga binti at buong katawan kasabay ng matinding takot. At madalas, kapag ako ay nasa silid na, hindi maiwasan ang pagsunod ni Ama. Ang mga mata niya ay nag-aapoy sa galit. At doon, sa aking silid - ako ay kanyang sinasaktan. At sa silid, pilit bumabalik ang mapait na kahapon. Pilit akong sumisigaw sa sakit habang hinahampas ako ng latigo. Marahil, ang tingin niya sa akin ay ako ang mga kriminal na pumaslang kay Ina. Wala siyang pinipiling tamaan. Buong parte ng aking katawan ay walang kawala sa hagupit ng kanyang latigo. Ako’y nagmamakaawa at isinisigaw ang “Ama, Ama tama na po.” Sana mamatay na nga ako. Madugo ang paligid. Maswerte lamang ako at nakakayanan ko ang mga malulupit na palo. Marahil ito ay dahil sa patnubay ni Ina sa akin kahit anong mangyari ay hindi niya ako pinababayaan.
Salamat sa Diyos at hanggang ngayon ay buhay ang pangako ni Ina. Sa sumunod pang mga araw, patuloy ang pananakit si Ama sa akin. Nakalimutan niya marahil na ako ay kanyang anak, at siya ay aking ama. Puno ang puso niya ng poot na isainasabuhay niya sa kalupitan at lubusang pagkalimot ng pagmamahal sa akin.

Magiisang taon na din ang kamatayan ni Ina mula sa kanyang mapait na sinapit. Patuloy an gaming kalbaryo ni Ama. Totoong hindi niya mapatawad ang kanyang sarili dahil hindi niya nabigyang hustisya ang among kaso.

Isang araw, habang ako ay patuloy na sinasaktan ni Ama, biglang nasanggi ng kanyang latigo ang larawan ni Ina. Bumalik bigla sa aking alaala ang mga pangyayaring naganap kay Ina. At kung saan galling sinabayan ang iyak at paghihinagpis ko ng sigaw at iyak ng ni Ina. Naisip ko ang pagkakataong dapat kong ipagtanggol ang aking naaaping ina. At sa di sinasadyang pangyayari ay naitulak ko si Ama gamit ang aking natitira pang lakas. Tumama ang kanyang ulo sa kanto ng aking kama. Duguan si Ama! Natulala ako… Bigla yatang nabaliktad ang mundo. Nakita ko si Ama. Duguan. Tila gripong bumulwak ang dugo sa kanyang ulo. Nagmakaawa si Ama at humingi ng aking tulong at patawad. Subalit bakit ganon? Tila hindi ko siya ama? Nakita ko ang mukha ni Emil. At kahit konting awa ay wala akong nadama.
Sa pagkakataon ding iyon ang aking pagmamahal kay Ama ay hindi ko naalala o naramdaman man lang. Kinuha ko ang latigo at inisip ko na makaganti. Nagmakaawa si Ama, sigaw sa daing, abot langit ang pagsisisi. Naririnig ko ang hiyaw ng paghihinagpis niya kasabay ng paulit-ulit kong hampas ng latigo. Pili ko lang ang mga parteng aking hampas. Ang kanyang mukha, at ang kanyang dibdib. Iyon lamang. Binigyan ko ng maraming latay si Ama. Madugo ang silid. Kalat ang mga talsik ng dugo sa aking labi, sa aking katawan, sa mga dingding at sulok. Bakit ganoon? Mahal ko si Ama ngunit hindi ko na maramdaman na mahal ko siya? At alam ko, mahal din ako ni Ama ngunit hindi ko din maramdaman na mahal niya ako. Kaya naman, pabilis ng pabilis ang paghagupit ko sa kanya sa paniniwalang maaari ko siyang baguhin sa ganoong paraan. Ilang sandali lamang ay wala nang hinagpis at ungol. Si Ama! Ano ang nangyari kay Ama? Wala na akong narinig na hininga mula kay ama. “Hindi!” Napatay ko siya.
Nabalot ang buong silid ng katahimikan. Ang pawang narinig ko na lamang ay ang mabilis na tibok ng aking dibdib. Patay na si Ama. Wala kahit isang patak na luha ang gusting tumulo. Marahil ay nagalak ako ngayon, sa anibersayo ng pagkamatay ni Ina na, ay araw din ng paglaya namin ni Ama mula sa masamang bangungot na dulot ng tadhana.
Kinuha ko ang larawan ng aking pumanaw na ina at pinagmasdan ko. Bumalik sa mga alaala ko ang mga salitang binitawan ni ina niya noon “Anak, hinding hindi kita pababayaan…” Patnubay ko nga siya.
At ngayon na kanyang anibersaryo ng kamatayan, ramdam ko na inilipat na ni Ina ang mga pangakong iyon kay Ama. Si Ama ay hindi ako pababayaan hanggang kamatayan. Mamahalin ako ni Ama. Simula noon, kami lagi ni Ama ang nasa bahay na iyon. Kaming dalawa sa silid. Nililinisan ko si Ama. Titiyakin kong walang ni isang bahid ng dugo ang dudumi sa katawan niya. Binihisan ko siya ng maayos na pantulog. Inihihiga ko siya sa aking kama para kami ay magkatabi.

Pagkalipas ng isang taon, kasama ko pa rin si Ama, sa aking kama, sa aking silid. At sa mga panahong nagdaan, doon ko naramdaman ang pagmamahal niya sa akin. Hindi na niya ako sinasaktan. Mahal pala ako ni Ama at mahal na mahal ko din siya.





Ma. Riza Flores Martinez, copyright 2009
Edited by Rose Flores - Martinez

***********************************************************************


Bolpen

Masarap mangarap, masarap mabuhay lalo na kung ang lahat ng iyong gusto sa buhay ay natutupad. Karangyaan, kayamanan, kasikatan yan ang pangarap ng lahat… at isa doon si Rosa. Si Rosa ay simpleng manunulat, may 2 anak at 6 na taon sa trabahong ito ngunit wala pa ding nangyayari sa buhay niya. Mahirap pa rin siya…at pawing lalong humihirap.

“Pesteng buhay ‘to! Kelan ba ko aangat sa estado kong ito?” ani ni Rosa. “Lagi na lang ganito, walang gustong tumanggap ng mga isinusulat ko? E napakagaling ko naman!”

“Ano ka ba Rosa? Maging matiyaga ka lang, may awa ang Diyos. Baka di pa dumadating ang tamang oras mo,” sagot ng kaibigan niyang si Leslie. “ Nga pala may opening sa darating na Biyernes sa may Ortigas, naghahanap sila ng mga writers para sa bago nilang ilalabas na libro, pwede ka doon. Bakit di mo subukan? Eto ang numero tawagan mo..”

“O sige, mapuntahan nga yan baka yan na yung matagal ko ng hinihintay na break!,” sagot ni Rosa.

“Oo nga, sige good luck sayo kaya mo yan. Balitaan mo na lang ako.” Sabi ni Leslie.

Purisigidong pursigido si Rosa, naghanda ng mga write-ups, iniwan muna ang mga ibang gawain para makapaghanda para sa job opening na ito. Nangutang pa ng perang pang-parlor at pamasahe. Talagang handing handa na siya.

Dumating ang Biyernes, handa na ang lahat, mula ulo hanggang paa ay ayos na ayos siya. Pagpasok sa building ay kapansin pansin siya: buhok ang nakaplantsa, damit ay mukhang nakahanger pa din at pedicure na kulay ginto.

Sa table, habang pumippirma at nagpapasa ng mga requirements si Rosa… “Aba, hindi ka naman masyadong handa? So ikaw pala si Rosa,” ani ng kanyang katabi. “Oo ako nga, bakit? E sino ka ba?,” sagot ni Rosa sa katabi. “Haha… totoo pala na may pagkamayabang ka…,” sagot kay Rosa ng kausap. “Hindi naman masyado, may ipagmamayabang naman e… dahil magaling ako at alam kong matatanggap ako dito,” sagot ulit ni Rosa. Humalakhak na lang ang kanyang kausap at umalis ng hindi nagpapakilala…

Pagkatapos ng ilang oras ay pinatawag na isa isa ang mga nag-apply.. Si Rosa na… Pag pasok sa kwarto ay nakaupo doon ang kausap niya kanina. Hawak ang kanyang resume at manuscript. “O, Rosa kamusta naman?! Maupo ka muna,” sabi ng lalaki. “Salamat po,, kung gayun kayo pala si Mr. Hernando Baltazar…,” sabi ni Rosa sa boses na nahihiya. “Ako nga, so, nabasa ko na ang iyong resume, at manuscript… napakawalang kwenta… ano to basura?,” sabi Mr. Baltazar. “Excuse me po… anong walang kwenta? Graduate ako sa kilalang unibersidad, may masteral pa ako, at isa pa… yang manuscript ko ay napakaganda,” pasigaw na sagot ni Rosa. “Sinong nagsabing maganda? Ikaw? Bobo ka ba?!” Basura to… Pwede ba wag ka ngang magsulat dahil wala ka ding maaabot… Pinipilit mo lang ang mga bagay na di mo kaya… Magtinda ka na lang ng kendi dyan sa tapat at baka sakaling yumaman ka pa…Hahaha!,” sagot sa kanya ni Mr. Hernando. Mabilis na dinampot ni Rosa ang kanyang gamit…at binantaan si Mr. Hernando… “Titingalain mo din ako baling araw, at sisiguraduhin kong ikaw ang magmamakaawa sa kin,” pasigaw na sinabi ni Rosa sabay binalibag ang pinto ng malakas.

Malungkot na malungkot si Rosa parang buong mundo ay bumagsak sa kanya. Wala siyang nakuhang trabaho. May utang pa siya… “Ano gagawin ko?, Bakit wala bang gustong magbasa ng mga isinusulat ko!” sabi ni Rosa habang lumuluha.

Naabutan na si Rosa ng ulan at gutom na gutom na siya. Bad trip na bad trip na siya. “Psst…!” Tila may tumatawag sa kanya ngunit wala naming tao… “Pssst!”… may simitsit ulit… “Hala sino bay un?!,” ani ni Rosa. Dahil sa sobrang galit lahat ng madadaanan ay pinagbubuntunan ng galit. Pati ang nakakalat na bolpen ay sinipa na lang… kawawang bolpen… “Aray!,” napasigaw si Rosa… “sino ba yung namamato?”… Tinamaan siya nung bolpeng sinipa nya…”Pssst!...Pssst!...Pssst!”… “Sino ka ba… at sitsit ka ng sitsit namamato ka pa?,” Pabalang na sabi ni Rosa… “Ako to ang bolpen!,” sagot ng bolpen sa maliit na boses. “Pulutin mo ko… matutulungan kita!”… biglang natauhan si Rosa. Namutla dahil nagsalita ang bolpen! “Di ba gusto mong yumaman… kailangan mo ko..” ani ng bolpen… “Talaga yayaman ako? Sisiskat?...Pano?,” tanong ni Rosa. “Basta kunin mo ko at tutulungan kita…” sabi ng bolpen. Dinala ni Rosa ang bolpen, nilagay sa bag at umuwi na sa kanyang bahay.

Pagdating sa kanyang bahay ay pinatong ni Rosa ang kanyang bag dumiretso sa kusina at nagluto ng hapunan para sa kanyang mga anak. Pagkatapos maghapunan..ay kitang kita ang kapaguran kay Rosa. Pahiga na si Rosa ng biglang… “Pssst…! Rosa….!” Nagising bigla si Rosa pumunta sa kanyang table at nakita ang bolpen… “Ano bang magagawa mo e bolpen ka lang? Napakapangit… luma…at mukaha pang mumurahin!,” pasigaw na sabi ni Rosa. “Hindi mo alam ang pwede kong magawa. Pwede kitang pasikatin…payamanin…kahit anong gusto mo, mga pangarap mo ay maaabot mo, mga kaaway mo ay magagantihan, mga taong gusto mo ay mapapalapit sayo! Kaya ko yung lahat!..,” sabi ng bolpen sa kanya. “Talaga lang ha…e bolpen ka lang pano mo naman matutulungan si Rosa na isang magaling na manunulat?” pagmamayabang ni Rosa. “Hello? Ikaw magaling? E bobo ka nga e…wala kang katalent talent kaya walang gustong bumasa ng mga sinusulat mo kasi para silang nagbabasa ng basura! Basta tutulungan kita… Pero sa isang kondisyon…” sabi ng bolpen. “Ano naman yun?,” sagot ni Rosa. “Ibibigay ko ang utak ko kapalit ng kaluluwa mo…Hahahaa!,” tuwang tuwang sagot ng bolpen kay Rosa… “Ang kaluluwa ko? Ayoko nga!, ” sagot ni Rosa sabay biglang tinapon ni Rosa ang bolpen… at pumunta na sa kanyang kama at natulog…

Sa kalagitnaan ng gabi biglang nagising si Rosa… Hindi siya makatulog kaya naisipan nyang magsulat na lang. Dinampot niya ang kanyang bolpen at kumuha ng malinis na papel. ”Kaiinis bakit naman walang mga tinta tong mga bolpen dito?,” pasigaw na sabi ni Rosa. Lahat ng bolpen na makuha nita ay walang tinta hanggang may isang pluma na nadampot nya…”Eto buti naman at may sumulat din dito sa mga bolpen dito,” ani ni Rosa. Nakatapos si Rosa ng isang writeup…ng mapansin nya na ang bolpen na hawak nya…”Hahaha… sabi ko na sayo… ako lang ang makakatulong sayo! Hahaha..” ani ng bolpen. “Hala… “Ba’t nandito ka? Tinapon na kita ha?!,” Namumutlang sagot ni Rosa. “Sabi ko naman sayo ako lang ang makakatulong sayo e… tingnan mo nakusaulat ka ngayon. Bukas ipasa mo agad yan at tiyak ko nay an ang magiging umpisa ng kasikatan mo…Hahaha!,” sabi ng bolpen.

Napaiyak si Rosa dahil alam niya ang magiging kapalit ng paggamit niya sa bolpen ay ang kanyang kaluluwa. Di niya alam kung anong gagawin niya. Kahit pilit niyang itapon ang bolpen ay bumabalik pa din sa kanya…

Kinabukasan ay napagisipan na ni Rosa na ipasa ang kanyang nagawa nanginginig na isinilid ni Rosa ang papel sa envelope…At dali dali ng umalis… Naipasa na ni Rosa ang kanyang ginawa… Walang sinabi sa kanya. Ang sabi ay tatawagan na lang daw siya. Pagdating sa bahay biglang ring ng telepono… “Kring…….!” “Hello, Magandang hapon!,”sagot ni Rosa. “Hello, Magandang Hapon po.. nandyan po ba si Rosa?” sabi ng nasa linya ng telepono. “Eto na nga po!,” sagot ni Rosa. “ Eto po si Mr. Erwin Lee, from Maxx Publications, nabasa namin yung mga writeups ninyo at napakaganda. Pwede ba naming ilagay sa libro naming?.. At saka gusto naming na magsubmit ka pa ng marami! Napakagaling mo kasi talaga,” sabi ni Mr. Lee. “Talaga po?.. Sige po bukas na bukas dadalhan ko pa kayo ng maraming writeups at manuscripts!,” Tuwang tuwang sagot ni Rosa. “Sige, pumunta ka dito sa opisina ko bukas ng umaga at gusto din kitang makausap,” sagot ni Mr. Lee. Pagkababa ng telepono ay nagtatalon sa tuwa si Rosa. Nung gabi ay nagsulat pa siya ng marami gamit ang bolpen na napulot niya. Nakalimutan muna ni Rosa ang kapalit na hinihingi ng bolpen… ginamit niya ito ng ginamit hanging sa sumikat na siya.

Sikat na sikat na si Rosa. Lahat ng tao ay iginagalang siya at tinitingala… Napakayaman niya na din… “Salamat sa’yo bolpen… tama ka…ikaw lang nga ang makakatulong s’akin. Kung wala ka siguro…walang wala pa din ako…,” bulong ni Rosa sa bolpen. “ Hindi ako tumatanggap ng salamat. Gaya nga ng sabi ko sayo kaluluwa mo ay akin na,” sagot ng bolpen. Namutla si Rosa. Naalala niyang ang lahat ng kanyang naabot ay may kapalit: ang kanyang kaluluwa… “Pwede ba iba na lang?! Wag lang ang aking kaluluwa…,” nagmamakaawang sagot ni Rosa. “Utak ko para sayo, Kaluluwa mo para sakin… yun ang usapan!,” sagot ng bolpen.

Ilang araw naging balisa si Rosa pilit niyang nilalayo ang bolpen para hindi niya magamit ngunit kahit anong gawin niya ay kusang lumalapit pa din to…Pilit niyang sinisira ngunit di pa din masira… “Hahaha… di mo ko kayang sirain…Hahaha!” sabi ng bolpen. Pilit pa din ni Rosa na sinisira yung bolpen ngunit tila lumalaban ito na parang tao…”Sige kung di kita masisira… di mo din makukuha ang kaluluwa ko!.” Sagot ni Rosa. Sabay biglang itinusok ang bolpen sa kanyang lalamunan. Bumagsak si Rosa sa mesa… Naging pula ang papel sa natahimik na buong paligid… “Matitigil na din ang kasamaan mo… ako na ang huli mong biktima!” sabi ni Rosa hanggang unti unting nawalan na ng hininga…

“Pssst… hahahaha… Walang makakasira sa akin....Hindi ninyo ako kaya… Hahaha!”

–Bolpen
Wenzi Jeanne Flores Martinez, copyright 2009
Edited Rose Flores Martinez, 2009Labels: fiction, iwrote fiction, three scary stories in Filipino, wenzi jeanne f. martinez



Thursday, January 23, 2014

A CHAPBOOK ON POETRY AND POEMS: BY YOUR BEDSIDE







By Your Bedside


A Chapbook on Poetry and Poems


By Rosalinda Flores - Martinez



For you

Maybe you and I once held hands
Or just looked at each other
Maybe I wanted you so much when you were away
Maybe you came, but I didn’t see you
Maybe the paths we’ve crossed had gone astray

Maybe you had loved me, too
Because you, a zeal for my heart
Once taught me I could be best -
When there was nothing and no one but God
And all the time, I have loved you then.

By your bedside,
Rose






Contents

Places to Look to Publish Your Poems
How to Write a Poem Using Figurative Language
How to Write a Poem Just for Fun
Love Poems – Elements to Include in a Love Poem
Write It, Rhyme It
On Poetic Preferences
Let me Share a Poem Prayer: The Stations of the Cross
Poetry:  Let Us Practice With Words
Some Poetry Thoughts
Vignette:  Does She Really Love Me?
Why We Still Write and Read Poetry in the Information Age
Describing Using the Five Senses
Emily Dickinson – A Private Poet
Poetry in a Speech Class
Alvarez on Sylvia Plath
















Places
To
Look
To
Publish
Your
Poems



After a press conference (my last at that time), when I could no longer go out the house often, I explored the web community. After my husband's death and while taking care of a sick mom, I found good places to write and good places to blog. Of course, no one has to die or to be sick first, but then, that was how it came with me.
I retrieved my old poems, my poems from a workshop and my love poems. I saw my high school poems, Where Did We All Come From and Goodbye Dear Grandmother.
I also found some six poems, submitted to Dr. Marjorie Evasco (of our Poetry Class), where the kind teacher offered me to join a writer's workshop for free (which I declined because of a house chore). Thank you dear teacher for the challenge, and I am sorry for not having the guts and seriousness of a poet, that time.
My journey to the places of where to publicize my poems required and entailed hard work. I felt those moments grand and exciting; at other times, haunting. I thought someone, readers, or at least you, would read my poems and be with me. I wrote the words. I restrained some phrases. I came to you.
I had written Death Row on Poemhunter.com. I had thought about Haiti, sores, healing, blood dripping and Uncle Scrooge wilting in pain; hence my lines imposed "Prepare the heaven, open!" I thought of pleading to God in the screams and agonies of battlefields, pain and confusion.
The poem Three Bottles came while I was alone with my mother (may God rest her soul) in the hospital, years ago. I was literally counting the drops of blood in the bottle till it filled the brim.
"It makes my brain shiver and my hands tight with each other." So I thought, there was no other way, but to pray!
Truly, vivid pictures of memories are gifts from God. They have to be shared, as they are an enormous task of poets and writers to fulfill.
Conversations Across Borders, Read Write Think, Yahoo Network, Google+, You Tube, Worldwide Poetry, Prose and Poetry Global, Shadow Poetry. Com, Filipino Poet's Circle, Blogspot websites, and WordPress blogs are places to look to publicize your poems. And there are still many others offered by the I Share Community!
So write your poems, create your own blogs or sign up. You can join challenges and prompts online. Literary magazines are also accepting contributions from both amateur and professional writers.

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How

To

Write

 A

Poem

Using

Figurative

Language

Using the figurative language adds human touch to words. While it makes prose more interesting, it sparks a lucid image in poetry.
A word is most effective when used with care. A polished poet uses the right denotation (dictionary or factual meaning) and connotation (figurative or suggestive meaning) of words.
The figurative language is woven by the poet from the stock of experiences, knowledge, and zeal she deals with everyday, in and out of her world. Through the senses, she relates words with pleasure so the readers could feel, hear, see, smell and taste.
Way back in high school, my English teacher (Miss Jose) asked, "What's a cloud like?"
"It is like a cotton ball," I answered. Until now, that scene is vivid to me dealing with similes and metaphors.
See this example.
A simile is a comparison with the use of as or like.
That is: A cloud is like a cotton ball. It is soft as a cotton ball. It is white as a cotton ball.
A metaphor is an implied comparison without as or like.
That is: A cloud is a cotton ball. It is soft and white.
Among others, other symbolic devices are personification, metonymy, hyperbole, and allusion. It will depend how you would interpret your words and make them alive.
Here is my own poem, as an example.
I Will Write In Your Heart
I will whisper in your ear, all your heart yearns to hear.
I will write in your heart, all your mind wants to remember.
I will weave in your body, all you dream about love.
I did the poem using implied metaphors.
Literally, the ear is for hearing. The word whisper is appropriate for soft cuddling with a lover. The heart literally, can't hear sounds, but it does feel unspoken words. When you love someone, you feel the beloved in your heart. Here is acceptance.
I will etch. I will write in your heart, literally, is bloody. Blood is a sacred pact. It comes with a covenant. The mind is very intelligent; hence, people are specially created by God for his Kingdom. The heart is over mind here, only to offer what is most beautiful for the beloved. The mind will be programmed to remember the beautiful things because of that sacred love. An endless love like that of the Sacred Heart, roots from God's words all over time.
I will weave in your body, all you dream about love. How do you weave? You intertwine threads. You lace colors. You merge juices.
My friend asked me, "How would you do that?"
I answered, "By kneeling... "
Also, I got mixed feelings in this poem. I used "synesthesia" as a device (in Greek, it means perceiving together). When I had this poem, it just came out quickly like press, zoom, and send!












 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How

To

Write

A

Poem

Just

For

Fun



Have you ever tried having fun rhyming words? Poems are fun in all ages! This is good for brain exercise. When my children were younger, we tried talking in short sentences with full end rhymes. The words and sentences seemed funny or out of context, but everyone never got bored because the mind was working and the thinking cells to the max!
My students enjoyed writing diamond poems and fill in the blank exercises, but what they liked most was writing number poems. See this example.
Your phone number is 525-4944. You could use your telephone or cell phone number to specify the number of syllables, accents or words in each line.
The Android
How are you today?
I'm good.
May God light your way.
Are you busy?
I am working now. How about you?
Bored and sleepy,
Here, so creepy!
The poem is set up as a triplet and a quatrain, where lines four, six and seven set the rhyme pattern. The poem can also be a syllabic poem, where the phone numbers set up the number of syllables. Try this poetic experiment.
Also, you can try changing the verbs in your poems. Change the present verb tense to a past tense or a past tense to a present form, although the poem might sound muddled because poems are formed or meant to be with a tone and the overall structure, not as dictated by rigid tenses. See this example.
Glass (my original poem)
She broke the glass.
She and her wicked teeth broke it.
Her gums did not bleed while she swallowed the chips.
The monster in her, with its slimy green saliva, feasted on my precious glass.
But after a while, she burped her black heart out.

Glass (changing the verb tense from the past to present form)
She breaks the glass.
She and her wicked teeth break it.
Her gums do not bleed while she swallows the chips.
The monster in her, with its slimy green saliva, feasts on my precious glass.
But after a while, she burps her black heart out.
Moreover, you can write occasional poetry. These poems include celebration, mourning, fortuitous events, and birthdays, among others, expressing varied emotions related to people, events and objects. Check this.
A Prayer Poem For Calamities
Lord, we can do nothing but wait at what would come to us.
We are nothing but dust, yet you make us your children.
Our hands cannot reach out, but only measure from one arm.
Our feet cannot run, but only walk a few steps till the next turn.
We cannot hide God, but just stay where we are.
When the earth shakes, the waters rise and darkness visit our lands,
we can only cry for your mercy and seek your face.
Where are you dearest God?
Please protect us and those we love.
Hold each falling leaf and sweep with your breath every rattle of doom.
God come! Come God to us, and carry the weak earth,
every crippled nation, and mend those teeth all cracked from the mouth of life.
We are so afraid dear God.
Forgive our transgressions.
Help us rest with you, forever!
Halt the chaos, and give us tranquility!
Be our strength!
Most Sacred Heart, we trust in Thee.
All angels and saints, hear our prayers.
Into your hands, God Almighty, we commend our lives. 
Write your poems now! Express yourself!




















Love Poems –
Elements
To
Include
In
A
Love Poem






In A Promise and Clothes of Time: I still miss the bones of your hands, those lips that rocked my ribs, those gaze that skinned the metamorphosis of my flesh. These are lines from my work. This is one example of a contemporary love poem.
Love poems usually convey emotions and subjectivity. Some are sung and go under the classification of the Lyric. According to Paul Landis and Entwistle (The Study of Poetry, 1929 Tomas Nelson and Sons), lyric poems can be a poetic cry from the heart. They express a single emotion, could be short, musical metrically or verbally, or both.
Hence, its wistful and haunting loveliness eludes all tests!
Professor Albert Casuga said "Those who can write love poems could be better poets."
Online, check Rumi, Poem Hunter, and Poems About for examples.
Master poets in lyric and love are Shakespeare, Milton, Neruda, Lorca, Auden, Pushkin, Rilke, Plath, Maya Angelou, Dylan, Frost, Hass, Yeats, Eliot, Donne and more.
From Wikipedia could be found more courtly poems about knights and nobility.
Love poems must let the mind see the lines in action. Moments of absence and separation, invitations, activities, conversations on life, ardent reflections, or triumphs or loss of a lover are expressed vividly in words with characters in peaks of emotion or drama.
In my poems, I could hardly imagine how I did it. In first drafts, they were written spontaneously, as if I did not want to stop. Revisions could be made after the draft, though most of the time I submitted them sooner without revisions. They are still open to re-working.
Check "Memphis Ferry." This is a sample of John Foster "On Translating Hieroglyphic Love Songs." I got this sample because of my fondness of water phenomenon. The Memphis Ferry happens in twilight, in a mystical communion with the triad of gods who watch over. One character is Hathor, the Egyptian goddess of love. She functions in the Lyric as the Greek Aphrodite.
Lines say"...blossoms newborn in the blue lotus. Twilight is heavy with gods."
Finally, the inspiration (muse) in a love poem is tremendous. Perhaps, it is by the gods or deep from the heart that no logic or intellect can ever elucidate.
What can you say about the psalms of David in lament to God, the canticles in the Holy Bible, or Job in his unwavering faith?
And so my plea, in whatever word that comes out from my heart, let your divine Sacred Heart be the source of all love. Master of the universe, come to me in zeal.























 

 

Write It,

 

Rhyme It

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There had been instances in my life where I just want to hold a pen or press the keyboards. If I can't do that, I feel restless and I have to move to and fro. If I can't write in whatever form, I try to make-up something on my way to write. If I am not successful at this, I rage.
In the poems I make, I am not even sure if they will work. I admit that the classroom and workshops are not enough, though they help a lot. But what makes me last is when I feel, I wrote from my heart and I have released something good from inside of me and from the muses around me.
Thank God, for my seasons!
Let me share some tips in writing prose and poems.
Read a lot. I mean the right materials for the topic you want to write.
Practice. In any writing form, practice makes perfect. In life, practice is one of the best chants.
Keep a journal and write words that stun you. Update your vocabulary.
Collaborate with students, workers, writers, teachers, and experts.
Use your five senses, or more, keenly.
At least, structure some poems.
Do writing prompts.
Read the work of other writers. They inspire and teach.
Make a leap of faith.
Open a vein.
Take note of the metaphors. Poets and writers know how to read between the lines and understand what is left unsaid. Familiarize yourself at this. Later, when you mature in this field, expect changes in the way you deal with your prose and poems: it is not easy, yet the chances of fulfillment.
In writing poems, you may practice on the types of rhymes, too. Check the following.
There is perfect or full rhyme when the accented vowel sounds and following consonant sounds rhyme.
It is an end rhyme when the ends of line rhyme. Kids love this.
Falling rhymes are those that occur at the end of lines with falling rhythm, like lines that end on unaccented syllables.
Rising or masculine rhyme occurs at the end of lines with rising rhythm, like lines that end on accented syllables.
Alliteration is an emphatical repetition of initial consonant rhymes or head rhymes, such as wind and wheel.
Assonance is the repetition of vowel sounds like aim and pray.
A slant rhyme, also called near of off or half rhyme, is the repetition of accented syllables in final consonant sounds without correspondence in the preceding vowel or consonant sounds. Emily Dickinson is best at this.
Consonance is partial or total repetition of consonants in words or syllables whose main vowels differ.
Internal rhymes are those within or between lines that do not fall at the line endings.
Sight rhymes are words that look as though they rhyme but have different sounds.
Find your rhymes now and have fun writing!
"Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree." (Joyce Kilmer)








 

 

 

 

 

 

On

 

Poetic

 

Preferences

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writers have different places under heaven.
Writing preferences can vary like the various kinds of expertise and talents.
Among others, poems come to everyone like magic chants, puzzling crystals, and the pleasure of switching rainbows.
What are poems? How do you write it? How does it differ from prose?
As for me, I'm trying hard everyday to write them. I go bird by bird and nail by nail. I try to taste jello and wonder how it melts.
I strive. I fail. I win. I wait. I love.
I just hope everything works.
Poetry teachers advise, "Say the hardest thing."
Check these fixed forms of poems:
A sonnet is composed of fourteen iambic pentameter lines rhyming in various ways.
An Italian sonnet (or Petrachan) is divided into an octave (eight lines) and a sestet (six lines).
The English (or Shakespearean) is made up of three quatrains and a final couplet.
A sestina has six six-line stanza and a three-line envoy (short concluding stanza).
The villanelle (a villanelle was originally an Italian country song or dance) is a nineteen-line poem, consisting of five tercets followed by a quatrain and having only two rhymes. It repeats the first line (A1) and the third line (A2) according to the scheme at the left. "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night," a poem by Dylan Thomas is an example.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Old age should burn and rage at the close of day.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light...
The "tanka," a 31-syllable poem is a poem, whose fives lines have 5.7.5.7.7 syllables. It may have influenced the cinquain (an American invention) with 2.4.6.8.2 syllables.

The "renga" is revived by Mexican poet Octavio Paz.
Haiku is a poem about nature and generally follow the principles of minimalism and immediacy. There is a suggestion of season. The Haiku is composed of 17 syllables (5.7.5).
The pantuom is made up of quatrains in which the second and the fourth lines of each stanza become the first and the third of the next one. The concluding stanza repeats lines from the first stanza.
Here's part of a poem I wrote, as pattern.
Four Seasons With God
"Dear God, dear God
I give you myself
Split from skull to toe
Hold me.
I give you myself
My hands and the work I do
Hold me
Talk my thoughts..."
The diamond poem is a poem that makes the shape of a diamond (The Diamante, 1969).
Check my example.
The first line is love.
The second line is sweet, sour.
The third line is hugging, beating, promising.
The fourth line is heart, hands, sky, earth.
The fifth line is living, working, embracing.
The sixth line is brilliant, strong.
The seventh line is God.



 

Let

Me

Share

A

 

Poem Prayer:

 

The

Stations

Of

The

Cross



The Lenten season is a season of grace for all. From here, man is reminded of a faith in God. How Jesus lived his life on earth, and taught everyone is a concrete example of how man must deal with life, its trials and lessons about living. If someone Almighty could be offering something to humanity, then why should we doubt God's love?
It was Good Friday when Jesus Christ was crucified for his love to us. So who say's no one loves you?
Of course, Jesus loves you.
It was Sunday, called as "Easter Sunday" when he resurrected and redeemed mankind. We are sinners. We have to forgive ourselves, build our lives anew, and find the meaning of life. That meaning will be realized not by any wealth or human power, but by the love and service we share to one another. God is just around the corner.
Let me share this poetry prayer I wrote:
"Stations of the Cross in Poetry Prayer"
Station 1. Jesus is condemned to death.
You were betrayed Jesus
Even by trusted friends
Still shows us charity
Life for us you mend
Your power brings to serve
People you call your own
Condemned to death, for us
A Father's promise sown
Jesus on the cross, by your love heal us.
Station 2. Jesus bears his cross.
Cross, you bear means love
Almighty's gift to the world
Jesus, brother, keeper
To journey with us, Lord
You became man
Mercy for humanity
Sky and earth unite
Miracle flowing sanctity
Jesus on the Cross, by your love heal us.
Station 3. Jesus falls the first time.
Lord, let us hold you
Lord, let us rise with you
Power in humility
Shows us to be true
No man is perfect
Only God - is
Lord Jesus, as example
If fallen, hold to peace
Jesus on the cross, by your love heals us.
Station 4. Jesus meets his mother.
What grief for a mother
What grief for a child
What grief for a beloved
Alone in sorrow, Jesus guides
Feel us Jesus
In sorrow and isolation
But God's will is best
Have mercy in temptation
Jesus on the cross, by your love heal us.
Station 5. Jesus is helped by Simon.
Simon of Cyrene, hail to God
Courage and cross you lifted
Bridge to us from heaven
Angel signs we're gifted
And so we come in prayer
Flesh, thoughts, and our hearts
Your holy cross dear Jesus
To us don't ever part.
Jesus on the cross, by your love heal us.
Station 6. Veronica wipes the face of Jesus.
Saint, Oh Saint Veronica
Ring bells to God's workers
Crown of thorns on Holy face
Hope and bliss, His blood carves
O, poor Face we love you
Face of beauty, Face of light
In suffering and brokenness
Sacred Face of might
Jesus on the cross, by your love heal us.
Station 7. Jesus falls a second time.
My Lord! My God! My Savior!
We trust our lives in Thee
You know how weak we all are
We beg, we beg, we plea
My Lord! My God!
Be here to servants frail
Hold me, hold us
O'er wind we fly, on sea we sail
Jesus on the cross, by your love heal us.
Station 8. Jesus speaks to the women.
Help us to love Mother Mary
You longed your parents, too
The crowd, are us, your family
How precious all to you
Speak to us, we long for Thee
The bravest soldier frees
From sin and wars
Your words a bomb and keys
Jesus on the cross, by your love heal us.
Station 9. Jesus falls a third time.
Race and blows
The third's the final count
Your sacrifice, a painful lash
Forgive our sins abound
Hold tight hold, dear Jesus
Please - do not let go
These eyes are full of tears
Wash us white as snow
Jesus on the cross, by your love heal us.
Station 10. Jesus is stripped of his garments.
When all is done for love
So fair and pure the nakedness
And all that Christ gave
T' was peace for all and happiness
Strip all, be all
We ask You for nothing
Let You alone fill us
Christ, O Christ be everything!
Jesus on the cross, by your love heal us.
Station 11. Jesus is nailed to the cross.
Nails piercing us
First pierced on you
Nations already won
Sacred Cross on earth anew
Man and tides pushing rocks
When life cries in pain
Trials come harrowing
Lord let Your Kingdom reign.
Jesus on the cross, by your love heal us.
How You loved us, Jesus; How great, You are God's Son.
How You loved us, Jesus; How great, You are God's Son.
"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do
Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise
Woman, this is your son. And this is your mother
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
I thirst
It is finished."
Then, Jesus cried out in a loud voice
"Father, into your hands I commend my spirit."
Jesus on the cross, by your love heal us.
Station 12. Jesus dies on the cross.
Tomorrow's death so scary
Life today we pray
Us - forever with you Jesus
With Almighty Father lay
Jesus how we love you
Let us see Thy face
Forgive us in transgressions
A Holy Cross wins grace
Jesus on the cross, by your love heal us.
Station 13. Jesus is taken from the cross.
God's justice stark in love
Priests on temples pray
Breath of Holy Spirit blows
Forever brothers all we stay
Body whole and pure
No evil can defeat
The triumph of the cross
For holy workers banquet
Jesus on the cross by your love heal us.
Station 14. Jesus is laid in the tomb.
Love never fails; never ends
The Holy Bible writes
Wake us up dear Jesus
At dawn, resurrect flight
We adore you O Christ
Have mercy -
Your holy cross be salvation
Hearts with Thee forever, have mercy.
Jesus on the cross by your love heal us.
Jesus on the cross by your love heal us.
We love you.
I love you.
Thanks for letting me share this one. We would all keep praying.
Truly, "The Lord is our/my shepherd, we/I shall not want."



























Poetry:

 

Let

Us

Practice

With

Words








Words are fun to study! Those, which they signify are pictures of all sorts and a hurricane of imaginations, as Archibald Macleish's maple leaf and globed fruit represent.
Below are some poems, as comments to other beautiful poems:
To: Sir William C. Williams (The Descent)
Descent is the moon that wanes beneath darkness
Clouds, gray nights of cold
Like a love unrequited
Like tales untold
Like throes hiding under shadows
Like dreams unrealized burrow
Etched is truth, there lies abyss
Lonely lilacs surrender peace.
To: Sir Richard Eberhart (Grave Piece)
Death nigh unto life, lay questions of tomorrow
Four doves in the grave, blight then, now sorrow
O crystal Tear, of all be near, I shall not fear, I shall not fear!
To Sir: W. H. Auden (Perhaps)
Your "barren virtuous marriage of stone and water"
Is a ring in my heart where name and image meet.
You paint a soothing ocean in the summer
Black stones glittering gold cobwebs ponder
Underneath stones sparkling ripples of kiss
My lips supple - still, pure pink for your love
Lithe for your flesh; be for you, Dear love.
To: Sir Dylan Thomas: After the Funeral (in Memory of Ann Jones)
Could there be a love like Michael Furey's love?
Could Ann Jones be the reality of Gretta?
What other thoughts tie Sir James with you?
And me, and the others? Perhaps love, that of Auden.
Scrubbed and sour humble hands of old Anne
Clench monuments for the boys shedding dry leaves
And I, now a mother, a womb of oceans
My naked chest for the world
And after all the lovers gone
Vigor and bloom on window sills
Everything fades from a love, all transient like grass
Only funerals in choir of angels
Only God's love eternally lasts
And for my lover, my lover, my lover
Haul me up your arms when in death;
Nigh your heart, nigh your breath,
In peace, cast away my fear
To Father God, I shall forever rest.
Truly, works of art are indestructible and true. They bear fruits and would last unto the next morrow. Only patterns change, and feelings as to the way how people live. But then, the world turns. Nothing is permanent, as art gives birth to new dimensions like water, it will disperse unto the sea again, back to the sky again, then unto the earth again. Poems keep moving, and that is why they are alive!
Thank you for the poems, dear poets. God bless the poets!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poems:

 

Some

 

Poetry

 

Thoughts

 

 

 

 

 

Poems give light to pleasure in words. I don't know what poets like it for, but as I practice my poetry every word comes alive, while I diffuse myself to that which lay before me.
From a burnt wood, from the slivers of time, from the gusty wind of waves,
how from heart unto heart life could feel and see, believe the hum of seasons,
touch the blossom of sun, face the whip of tide, thou receive the mercy of Allah.
Thought:
In poems the hands are filled with abounding grace
In those times they're denied the sweetness of flesh
The hands and grip are never releasing
Until something blooms from stars, the clouds drop rain
And refresh seeds for a harvest.
Check these beautiful poem lines from Master Poets. Each one can give a thought by expressing a feeling on the poem. It is not exactly to summarize it, but explicate the images that create sensations. Moreover, critics relate the poems to other significant literary texts. Express your thoughts!
T.S. Eliot: The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock (1909-1935)
"I grow old... I grow old
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled."
Thought:
A glimpse of aging as told by Eliot. Can you imagine how an old man rolls his trousers?
Carl Sanburg: The Ghost of Milton
"One of the triumphs of the poem is that is takes a literary figure and makes him not a remote writer in history, but a living and vigorous man." Paul Engle
"I would sit by fire and dream of hell and heaven,
Idiots and kings, women my eyes could never look on again,
And God Himself and the rebels God threw into hell."
Thought:
Milton was always in protest. Sandburg shows sympathy for Milton, and empathy to Milton's blindness.
According to Paul Engle, the last line of all "And God Himself and the rebels God threw into hell," is the strongest line of all.
D.H. Lawrence: The Snake
"Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting."
Thought:
The poet brings us an exact, vivid and true picture where snakes love to dwell. Humans need not attack, but just wait and see, as the lines express in "a second comer and waiting."
Man, as D. H. Lawrence (most afraid) is also honored by a snake accepting a kind of hospitality from us, letting the animal be first in the line. The snake, crawling holes, troughs, as in "dark doors" whence the snake comes from, from all of creations that part, of our secret earth.
True enough, a poem is from God's sup, dropped down our tongues, a sweet taste of bliss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vignette:

 

Does

 

She

 

Really

 

Love

 

Me?




I will address this to everyone, and specifically for the second person pronoun, singular and plural in number: You.
I am she, third person pronoun: singular in number, feminine gender. My name is Rose.
Don't you know that I love you? Every beat of me lives for you. My every breath longs to linger in your mouth.
Do I really love you? Why do you have to ask? Your face is the sky to me.
They told me you were a great man.
You don't need to win that soccer match.
Your peculiarity and your brilliance, come to serve everyone.
I know where to tickle you.
You don't need a hair grower.
You don't need an enlarger of any stuff.
You don't need those big muscles to punch.
And I don't want you to be a senator robbing money from the people.
You don't need a Volvo.
You don't need to be young.
You don't need to be old.
You don't need to be what you aren't and pretend you are someone else,
like Superman, or an American Idol,
or a rocker like Bono.
You only need to be you -cool and cute in any angle that I look at you, during work.
I need you to be a man for me: strong, and a baby, sometimes.
I need you to clasp those hands together in chants and Kung Fu.
I need you to go on your knees every morning,
Lift your hands and bow to the sky. The sky is your mirror.
I am not anyone's wife. I am somebody else's wife.
My husband knows I belong to him alone.
Oh, and how could you tell that she really loves you?
In marriage and a family.
Oh, and she, another she?
If she's concerned with how good you could be for others,
But I don't know exactly how, maybe if God's will comes.
And forget about her, are you with me?
Every fiber of your vein is woven in my prayer.
Every muscle that you flex, I could feel in my heart.
Every time you say you love Him,
I love you more and more, more than anything - that very moment.
Your heart is in mine?
My heart takes the place of yours?
We beat as one now? Take care of my heart.
Are you confused with my answers?
You have to pray, so you would find out.
And who do I love? The monks.
And you, too, brother, father, and son,
And all else is for God to decide.
It seems that we have to love each other, too.
Take care of my heart.
I love you. Be with me in prayer.
Now we are the first person pronoun, plural in number: We.









Why

We

Still

Write

 And

Read

Poetry

In

The

Information

Age






The "whys" of life are many and some unanswerable. Entertainment in films and other forms of arts make life vivid and more thrilling for all to see. We, as humans express ourselves in different ways like poetry. And like the many forms of being creative, poetry endures time, and speaks of life yesterday, today and tomorrow.
When I was younger, I could find happiness in scribbling words. I was not really aware how grammar rules were complied with because I was not a native speaker of English. Yet, my earlier poems were in the second language. I loved my native tongue and my second language, as well.
I remember reading cartoon dialogues in both Filipino and English. I held newspapers and magazines, to read only that section and the headlines. I pretended to understand all the other texts, as the adults in the house (my aunts and uncles who were all college students) read. I imitated them, and made myself happy reading what I could not understand at all. I was a "trying hard" learner.
In that way, I have learned to read small verses which my small mind could absorb. Since no one spoke and gossiped with me, I found books and papers - the interesting topics in the house and school. At a young age, we talked about songs, and poems, and rhymes and ideas. Yesterday, people loved it when I gave them short notes of caring. In school, we did that, too. We exchanged candy messages and old common poems.
During the generation of my children, their teachers in school asked them to memorize poems and recite them. This is part of the language subjects for the teens to express themselves, whether about life, love, religion, society, and longing, among others.
In culture - songs, poems, and other reading texts don't die. They just change as to the needs of time and people's way of life. Some are revived, and then passed on again. New literatures are being written in the present and even in view of the future. Films and fiction are creative and good forms of entertainment. They make use of the brains.
Yes, we still read poetry in the information age, because poetry is life itself, that speaks the heart and intellect of man. Poetry is a gift from God, that binds a canon and an experience to become flesh.
There are many poetry sites online like Poem Hunter.com (classic, masters, amateur, and professional poets), Slam Poetry in You Tube (Andrea Gibson and Shane Hawley), and intellectual poetry (Robert Hass and others) to entertain, inform, and sustain culture with fresh, classic, and inspiring ideas for the world. We need to be smart, and feed our brains with good reading materials in all of time. Moreover, read the "Psalms" (Holy Bible, old testament) they're one of the best forms of poetry. If you believe in love, life and connections, poetry will define your needs. Poetry is endless and will exist in any age and layer of life. Now, it becomes a vital part of the information age, too. Seek profound thoughts. Check online!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Describing

 

Using

 

The

 

Five

 

Senses









How To Describe Using the 5 Senses
Art deems pleasure in the senses. It is something indescribable, beautiful, and almost intoxicating. To describe, poets use sense impressions like creating images similar in fiction's, "Show don't tell."
Take this sample 1:
Art is
your mouth in my mouth
the fragrance of sea breeze
the drumbeat and church bells
squeaking of rubbing saw
they're small pounds of a hammer
gliding of twigs
tinkering dishes
creation of Ikebana
Art is
the curve of your jaw
those eyes when you gaze
your untouched lips
the sweetness
when you talk fiercely
The five senses include the sense of touch, smell, sight, hearing and touch.
An activity for students in an English class is to describe people, places and things through their five senses:
Take this sample2:
Sense of sight sun like rays of gold
Sense of taste like honey
Sense of smell brewing coffee
Sense of hearing sound of the forest
Sense of touch your pores, when they open
Description is describing the concrete attributes. One can describe using the figurative language and/or sense impressions.
1. Simile is comparing objects using "as or like."
Example: Clouds are like cotton balls.
2. A metaphor is direct comparison.
Example: Clouds are cotton balls.
In some books, other than the simile; others are classification of different metaphors.
"Metaphor" is from the Greek word transfer.
3. Synesthesia is a blended feeling.
"To the bugle, every color is red." Emily Dickinson
4. Personification is speech endowing human qualities to things.
Heaven cries with me.
5. Synecdoche a form of substitution in whole or part
She is a heron.
6. Allusion reminds of something or with reference to something
Check out the poems of Plath... (death poems)
Using the five senses will make your speech colorful and interesting. It can give depth or humor, and there's pleasure in your expression. The exactness and profundity of choosing the right descriptions is gift.
The poet sees a lot of the world, and includes beauty and ugliness in the magic of words creating pleasure and meaning.
Let try this:
Gold
in the coming of dawn
you shepherded
to remind how love should be
perfect.
/rose, ishallwrite
1. How do you explain "gold" here?
2. Who was the shepherd?
3. What figure of speech was used?
The senses work in divine ways. It draws special images and symbols, it builds concrete assemblage of life. And though Carl Jung says "The individual is the only reality," the poet works hard at these. He/She will describe, specifically, writing in words symbols and images where you can hold and experience something. The poet will bleed for you and you will interpret how you felt it (other than deconstructing the poem, etc) - sharp as bliss. You will come peacefully.



















Emily

Dickinson –

 

A

 

Private

 

Poet











When you can browse an abstract picture and you can talk and see life in deep metaphors, you will feel the value of art in being.
Poetry is something beautiful out of anything and in ugliness. It transforms matter into movement and life. It creates an array of light, culture, stories, buildings, clouds, and cute monsters. It tastes heaven, death, grapes, blood, and glass. It sees triumph, moans grief, shouts wisdom, and all the mind could do.
"If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it...," this is how Emily Dickinson finds poetry.
Dickinson is a noted poet. Her sentences are short that express a nervous discharge of energy. A poet of Victorian period, she has a certain kind of poetic insight that brings a startling contemporary tone to her works. Most of Ms. Dickinson's poems are metaphysical poems which are about life, love, and death among others. Her gift of words is timeless.
Sample Poem /Phrase from Emily Dickinson
"Death Is A Dialogue"
Death is a dialogue between
The spirit and the dust.
"Dissolve, says Death. The Spirit, "Sir,"
I have another trust."
Death doubts it, argues from the ground
The Spirit turns away,
Just laying off, for evidence,
An overcoat of clay.
1. "In the usual Metaphysical tradition, "Death is a Dialogue" expresses its meaning through the central devices of argument, and of image and situation," Edith Tiempo says. (Edith Tiempo is a reputable professor in Poetry)
2. Emily Dickinson often uses off-rhymes (near rhymes or oblique rhymes) that it becomes a characteristic. Her earliest works show she could rhyme perfectly when she wants to, but for some reason she becomes fond of the little dissonance. She believes that any vowel can rhyme with another vowel.
Example: Instead of rhymes like "June"/ "moon"
She prefers "June"/men."
3. She also uses synesthesia (from Greek words meaning "blended feeling"), as in "... he hears odors..." and "To the bugle every color is red."
An analysis by R.P. Blackmur about Emily Dickinson writes:
"She was neither a professional nor an amateur poet (She was a private a poet); she wrote indefatigably as some women cook or knit. Her gift of words and the cultural predicaments of her time drove her into poetry instead of antimacassars."
















 

Poetry in a Speech Class



When I was younger, I tried to make my own dialogues, and expressing myself I wrote a child's poem about creation. I remember I pleased and surprised my English teacher in high school when I delivered my own poem during a speech exam. My classmates got poems they read from books and other reference texts, while I read my own composition. I was the only student in the class with a thick face to impose on everyone, "Please listen, I've got a poem for all!"
Around the world, poets will not stop writing poems and sing their hymns because poetry is made out of life. According to Eliot and Wordsworth it is something recollected in tranquility. I knew poetry should magnify things. Truly, it should make things bigger and vivid and tangible in words.
Here are lines from Ars Poetica by Archibald Machleish
A poem should be equal to:
Not true
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea -
A poem should not mean
But be.
II. Check out the following poetry words:
1. metrical literature - A metrical literature is having a regular arrangement of accents.
A= metrical literature
B= imaginative literature
A+B=Poetry
2. prosaic means ordinary, like prose (plain language). It is the language of reason.
"The definition of a good prose is proper words in their proper places." (Samuel Taylor Coleridge)
3. imagination - Imagination is a creation of the mind. It is thinking to create or forming pictures in the mind; the imagination of a writer
4. Scrooge- Scrooge is any dingy or stingy person. The old miser in Charles Dickens story, "A Christmas Carol."
5. succor - Succor means assistance or any person or thing that relieves (especially British, succor).
6.epic - An epic is a long narrative poem which is communal in character (...race), rather than those of individual. The style is marked by dignity and sublimity. The same meter is used throughout, and the theme is the same action of unusual interest.
In an epic unity is achieved by concentration on the main character.
7. sonnet - A sonnet can be an Italian or Petrarchan Sonnet with an octave ( 8 lines), a sestet (6 lines).
English or Shakespearean sonnet is divided into 3 quatrains, with a rhyming couplet.
In both types the normal measure is iambic pentameter (14 lines).
8. octave - An octave is a group of eight; first eight lines of a sonnet; a group of 8 lines of poetry; in music the series of tones GABCDEFG
9. elegy - An elegy is a poem of lamentation. As a rule an elegy is less spontaneous than the true lyric. Like the ode, is often elaborate in style and death is sometimes the sole theme.
10. lyric - This can apply to all classes of poetry. Its chief characteristic is its emotional quality or intensity.
The lyric says that the poetic way of the heart follows powerful feelings of brief duration. The lyric as an artistic expression of emotion is short. According to Paul Landis "It has been called the quintessence of momentary mood into words".



 

Alvarez

 

On

 

Sylvia

 

Plath






She was a valued poet. During poetry classes held in many academes and workshops, there was always something special about her work. Poetry students kept thinking about her life, and the readers curiosity got aroused. And I, like the other writers and readers came always peeping on her poetry and the life that wrote that poetry. She was married in 1956 to Ted Hughes, who was also a notable poet. The critic A. Alvarez wrote in his personal essay that maybe this was why she and her husband had temporarily parted, it was a question not of differences but of intolerable similarities.
From time to time, upon reading the personal essay of Alvarez about Sylvia Plath, there was a certain part of her life that was quite similar to ordinary mothers who worked for a living, took care of babies, and did domestic chores. No doubt, the plainness of Sylvia's life, was as ordinary as anyone's, but intolerably complicated because of the imaginary thoughts of her being a prolific and serious writer. She deemed a surrendering responsibility in writing, even in the dead hours (between night and day), despite everything that blocked her way. She always thought deeply and was in constant association with her muses, facing her private horrors, involving deeply with her writing prompts.
In the course of her life, she attempted suicide many times and had been spared, on some occasions, because of what she believed to be miracles. In one of her poems, She even said that she had nine lives, like that of a cat. She had survived deaths, she sardonically felt herself was fated to undergo once very decade. This made her wrote freely, experimenting with death. According to Alvarez when she read her poems "She was always hot and full of venom."
Sylvia Plath gave the readers a poetry of wonders. And of course, empathy and praise for her courage which no human science could explain. Even her doctors tried to help her.
"The passion for destruction is also a creative passion," said Michael Bakunin. The playwright and professor Tony Perez said that in Creative Arts there are Thanatos loving people. In Mythology, Thanatos is the Greek personification of death.
Check this out:
"I have once done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it -
A sort of walking miracle...
I am only thirty.
And like the cat, I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three...
Sylvia Plath
A Alvarez is an English poet and critic. He wrote the essay "Sylvia Plath: A Memoir".

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Glory to God in the highest! Rosevocations 2014


On August 12. Ocean Voung on Writing