A Blessed 2013!

Merry Christmas Everyone! (Our Lady of Hope, pray for us)

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!

On Iwrotefiction: I love Cookies!

Tips For Keeping Notes While Writing Creatively

Tips For Keeping Notes While Writing Creatively

By Rosalinda Flores-Martinez

When I write fiction or nonfiction, I make sure I use my notes on my journals and those texts I have marked on books.

It is true that you can never be a good writer if you have not read widely.
In writing, you cannot spark inspiration if you are not passionate in your work. You would write dull as when you wake at dawn with no urges and kiss without fire. Yet, if your muses are up all the time as good work habits, your work will stand the test of time and tide.

Here are some tips.

Mark your books. This is a way of interacting with the writer and the texts, especially while writing creatively. (See articles online "On Marking Books")
Rewrite forceful statements and relate them spontaneously with your own thoughts.
Reread your old notes or journal entries. Get those that could suit the topic.

Explore new words. Writers are word lovers. They make their own (informal) definition of words.

Consult the dictionary and Thesaurus.

Sleep with your notes. Focus on a topic of your interest and expertise.

Try new ways of writing your texts in different forms like poetry, fiction or creative nonfiction.

A good exercise for your stock of notes is the prose poem which is popular this age of new media. Among others, save your texts messages, emails, blog entries in a notebook, disc or drive.

See this example.

The Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

My notes as follows:

"Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other's yarns and even convictions.
The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky without a speck was a benign immensity of unstained light, the very mist on the Essex marshes was like a gauzy and brilliant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores of diaphanous fold."

I got these texts to arouse my muses. I don't know what I will be writing, but just to keep what hit me inside I find attractive. I believe writers are gifted to get the materials they need, and as such, they need to feed on ideas. Also, what to say, what not to say, and what to reveal between the lines come vital in keeping notes for creative writing.

From the notes above, I wrote this prose poem.
Seconds

Losing grip of love affair, I hold thin folds of time like tongues of cookie layers on the shores of white sand and white sugar in the tub. Draping darkness lulls I to sleep, tired I, rolling side to side like benign beatings on low shores. Timepiece of earth, one heart of day and night, up radiant sky, the yin and yang, cloud cookie smiles and crossing slice of brilliant sun rays grip our sweat of rain in secs.

/iwrotefiction.rosevoc2

Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Rosalinda_Flores-Martinez

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

A MIRACLE

THE MIRACLE


By Rosalinda Flores and Ben Crisp



The coffee was still too hot, so I cradled the foam cup between my knees and lit my last cigarette.

My last ever, I promised myself, as I had done the day before.

The park was mostly empty. The sun had not yet crept above the horizon, to burn the dirty greyness from the dawn sky, and it would be at least an hour before the rest of the city left the their homes to brave another miserable taglamig day outside.

There had been reports of another journalist shot in Manila. I had long grown used to such news, acknowledging it with a kind of postured indifference that my ex-girlfriend had found no comfort in. It didn’t matter to her that I was relegated to the smallest sections of the sports pages; I was white, and besides, could not an outraged sports fan be just as violent as a vengeful gangster or deranged terrorist? She was probably right. Still, I found comfort in my own sense of insignificance. Speaking barely a word of Filipino, and – some had argued – only just enough English to get by, I would never rise to the ranks of martyrdom like my braver, more talented brethren. I may have been white, but with no money, no connections and no friends I was worth nothing to anyone.

A familiar figure appeared from behind the trees that formed the arched entrance to the park. She always wore yellow dresses, or perhaps the same yellow dress, that danced beneath her knees. She was pretty, or at least she gave an impression of prettiness from across a distance too far to know for sure. She meandered, indecisive, between the benches scattered beneath pines that brushed the air in the morning breeze, before choosing the one she always chose.

It faced the statue of the Madonna that stood upon a plinth in the centre of a small pond. It was a simple carving, as they all were; achieving no greatness in aesthetic or skill. The virgin’s head tilted to one side, serenely, eyes opened wide and her hands stretched out in blessing - not, as it had always appeared to me, shrugging as if to say: what?

To the pinay in her yellow dress she was captivating. She sat before the statue, alternating between long, lingering stares and moments with head bowed, eyes closed, I guessed, though I was too far away to know.

I sipped my coffee and watched her watching the Madonna, killing time as I waited for my day to begin.



There was no place to go, but here.

I was raging as always, to imperfections. As such, at least, be perfect in front of this holy woman.

Something stirred into my memory, while I uttered chants I couldn’t even understand. So, this holy woman people called their mother, and the Catholics believed to be the mother of Christ, had always stunned me. No, she did not stun me like ghosts scared, but her benevolence scared my sins and inspired me to hope. At least, in this way, I could re-organize my undecided life.

At least, I’d be prim in front of her, confident in front of her; complete. Apart from my whoring affairs to get money, I wished some guy would come back for me, as my yellow dress meant waiting.

In a few weeks, my boyfriend, a married man, would decide whether to marry me and annul their marriage, or leave me for his wife. Of all the men in my life, I just got into material quests so I could sustain my falling business, but this married man was different because he thrilled my every need, other than desire.

We’ve been on and off this love affair for two years now, and I could see how he craved for my being, because of his maid wife. “My wife compared to your diplomas is only good for a housekeeper,” he told me.

And so, I summoned him. “You must choose between me and your wife.” In a few weeks, I hoped, he’d be back to cuddle me and present me a diamond engagement ring.

A yellow dress would be good to wear all the time! I’d go for this good luck hype.

“Oh, would you always come back for me, Madonna?”

In my thoughts I chanted, “My boy friend would come back for me; heaven might let the maid wife curse me, but what can I do? I have to steal something to love me, or else I won’t stop whoring. Who would come back for me? Maybe, a thousand other men, to prance on my neck and mark it “Hey, I’ve got your ass, too.” Will I be punished for ruining a sacred matrimony or stealing a father?

In this place, was something more real and tender. “Love me tender, love me sweet… Oh, my love complete,” I hummed. After my love affairs, here was the only concrete and beautiful thing.

Across the benches, of this, which I called a sanctuary, were a few others who breathed solace like me. Perhaps. One could be on a fitness program, another read a newspaper, and still another guy, sipped his brew. This guy, sipping his brew, could be thinking nuts like me. Or could he be thanking the magnificence of another day, while he looked up the sky, bowed low for his cup, and darted again, in front this Madonna?

Or would he look at me, too? His gaze was flaming hot. For what thoughts, he could have sensed my urgent pleading to this holy statue, sublime in simplicity and honesty. “Well, we’re flesh and bones, but if for moments, we could be holy,” an old priest said that during the mass I had attended when I was younger, so once in a lifetime I had been serious in the temples; so once pure, I was, before I came into this labyrinth. Would my pleadings echo around?

I caught him looking into nothingness, unconscious maybe, when he glanced into my space and my confused efforts. That time, when he raised his cup, swallowed and sipped again, I thought he was a handsome bum.



It must be nice, I thought, to have some sort of certainty in life.

To be able to look to a faith to guide you when reality – that deluge of chaos that tears at the flesh and soul – is inescapable. Or maybe she just liked the statue.

More people began to trickle into the park. The illusion that this was my place began to fade, like it always did, as the sun drew long shadows on the ground; soon it would be time for work. Once I had enjoyed the anonymity of living in a big foreign city. Now, I feared, solitude was decaying into loneliness and I felt myself disappearing into the crowds that lined the streets each day.

She finished or paused whatever thoughts had held her and stood up to leave, as though in a sudden hurry.

Was this my life? Watching others from outside a window like a child at a pet store?

It took a moment for me to notice the sliver of yellow beneath the bench. Curious, I stood and walked slowly across the park to the space in the front of the statue. The impassive Madonna did not turn to look at me as I entered her periphery, and when I stooped to inspect I saw it was a silk summer scarf that had fallen from the bench; that same canary hue of the woman’s dress.

She was already at the end of the park, turning left out of the gates without looking back. The scarf in one hand, my other reached into its pocket to retrieve my phone.

comedwn sick. mybe flu. srry. tlk 2morrow.

I had taken three sick days in four years. Whatever else that devotion to such a badly paying job might be called, I reasoned, it wasn’t the symptom of a well man.

I quickened my pace not quite to a jog and scanned the streets when I reached the gates. For a moment I thought I had lost her until I spied a flash of yellow amidst a crowd of pedestrians moving across an intersection two blocks down. The traffic closed after them like parted waters and I waited, tense.

Overloaded trucks and bikes whined past at high speed in the dangerous dance of weaving engines that only the Filipinos can survive. A group of wiry children aligned at the curb next to me, chattering like squirrels, watching the road with unblinking eyes and gesturing to each other with their hands. They were preparing to cross. I watched them watching the cars, and when they darted out I sucked in a breath and ran with them.

Horns blared all around me, and I felt the thundering slabs of steel rush by close enough to feel the heat from their choking and spluttering motors, but after a few terrifying moments we were across safely – the children giggling and pointing at the idiotic white man.

The woman had vanished from sight, and I spent a few moments striding between street corners, standing on the tips of my toes as I scanned the faceless crowds for her. Then the yellow dress peeked out through gaps in the crowd ahead of me, and I moved again in her direction, pushing my way past the suits and the sneakers and the cell phones and sunglasses.

I followed her to a street lined with townhouses – the angular, rendered townhouses for people with the money to pay others to choose their tastes for them. I had gained enough ground now to call out to her from the other side of the street, but I caught myself when she stopped in front of a high stone wall to push the button on an intercom panel.

She spoke for only a moment and waited for a response, then the courtyard door must have been unlatched from within because she pushed it open quickly and stepped inside.

I was alone, on that lush and empty street, the scarf still wrapped in my hands.

As the days had been stressful, good times were numbered.

Friends came and disappeared. When people smelled you could not give enough, they stayed away. If they could not get anything from you or suck anything from you, merry days would be over; you would be out of the circle. See I’m out? They smelled they couldn’t get much from me.

“Good morning, Miss!”

Where is he?

“Please see him in the living room.”

He was sitting in his wheel chair. He was reading the newspaper and a glass of water was on the table. Postcards were scattered, a record book, and medals of his faith. He was supposed to be a priest, but due to weak health, he didn’t get it through. Instead, he ventured on a business that earned him a fortune.

I always borrowed from this man, and he was the only one who didn’t tax me. As people could see outside, he lived in luxury – but his heart, it was benevolent to any creature who would seek his help. The only thing that he asked from me was to help him on his records and choose medals for him, which I really liked. He collected stones, as well; precious and non precious; even diamonds.

“What’s the problem?”

It is the same as yesterday.

“The love affairs...”

Yes. And he will be back for me soon.

“Could you be happy...”

Yes, you know I love him so much. I danced in front of him.

“You are must be mad.”

Yes, I am. I thought we could be married.

“Next time he would sell you for a gold coin.”

We sorted out the medals. Some were very, very old. Some were new. Some were uniquely precious and of great value. In a while, he got something inside his fist and told me.

“Close your eyes. Give me your hands.”

Nah, you will play up on me.

“I’m serious now. I have something for you to drive evil spirits away.” He teased me.

You and your fart! I laughed out loud. My sad laughter filled the quiet room.

“I said open your hands!”

Okay, Sir, here it is.

I closed my eyes and slowly he dropped the object in my hand. “Magic, here!” My palms were excited and cold, just like when one student told me to open my hands across snowy Japan, then surprised me with a Sakura. She told me, she liked me a lot, offering me the national flower of her country. And now, was another guessing moment.

Is it another precious gem?

“Hold it carefully and see for yourself.”

That time was special. I could see his face full of compassion for someone weary. I felt it was an act of consolation to blow zeal to my broken spirit. It was as though a magic clock made me a princess or sent me somewhere in another time like, Alice in Wonderland. What I held in my hands was dear to my heart, and the feeling was all of a child so loved dearly: free and happy. It was a gold heart locket; an old one, embed with red tiny rubies. Inside was a picture of the Madonna. He knew I liked the Madonna. My throat tightened and my eyes blurred with clouds of water. And then, his hands came gentle on my cheeks. He smiled and hugged me, tight.

I was certain I would get a chain for this. My ringing phone intruded. He told me, “Go now.”

“Why do you want me to leave? Am I disturbing your holy hours?”

“No, you need to go and find what will make you happy. And that boyfriend? Stay away from him. Do you think he’ll marry you for real? He has got a wife.”

Before I left his house, he’d always tell me the same reminders. That was what I evaded. I couldn’t let any one, not even my family or closest friends mock my boyfriend. It was time to leave again.

“Thank you for the Madonna.”

I hurriedly kissed him and went out of the house. I didn’t look into my phone to check, nor answer it. My boy friend was always exciting, as there might be something confidential – not business, not updates, but the tweets and yearnings of him.

Outside, when the gate was closed, I dialled his number. He was the one who called. Was he meeting me? I waited. He wasn’t answering the phone. I tried calling him again, but still, there was no answer. I texted, “Plz answr ur phne nw. I miss you so much.” As I walked the empty street, the air glistened to me. I was reminded, of my separation with him, my incompleteness, and that I was only, waiting for crumbs.

As I looked the next post, I saw that same white guy, walking and holding something that was mine. Was it my scarf?



“Yes,” I said, gesturing pointlessly down the street as I crossed to her. “I… you left it at the park.”

“Thank you,” she said, reaching out a hand to take it. She brushed a loose strand of hair back and squinted at me. “I have no money, sorry. But thank you.”

“No, you don’t… I didn’t want a reward. Are you alright? You look upset.”

She turned away, and I wondered how I could be so direct to this perfect stranger.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m inquisitive.”

“OK,Yankee Steve. I have to go now,” she said, and started to walk.A stupid, mad chuckle escaped my mouth and I caught it quickly in my hand as I chased after her.

“No, not… it means I’m nosy. I’m curious, sorry. Like a cat, you know.”

She stopped and squinted at me again, as though wondering whether to smile at this insane white man or not. Then she pointed at my nose. “Curiosity kills the cats.”

“Yes it does,” I said, nodding. “Do you want a coffee?”

She turned and started walking again. “If I had money I would give it to you, but thank you for bringing my scarf.”

I chased after her. “No! No, it’s nothing to do with… I want nothing from you. I just thought you looked like you could use a coffee.”

Her squinting tortured me. I had no clue what was going on behind those stern brown eyes, and not knowing this little thing was vanishing all that I did know; every instinct was fading from me.

“I’m a journalist, I’m not…” I said helplessly, and shrugged. Not what?

She shrugged back.



“Your boyfriend’s house?” I asked as we sat at a table beneath a red canvas umbrella.

“Why do you think that?”

“The locket.” I pointed at the little golden heart turning restlessly between her thumb and forefinger. She snapped it into her palm defiantly.

“The scarf is from my boyfriend,” she said, pulling it from her neck and resting it on the table as our coffees arrived.

I tore open a sugar packet and tapped it into my cup. “I’ll bet you chose it. It matches your dress.”

She checked her phone and did not answer me. I was right.

“You drink too much coffee,” she said at last, after she had sighed and tucked her phone away again. “Caffeine is bad for the heart.”

I shrugged again. “Everything is bad for the heart these days.”

We sipped from our cups and ventured into the silence that filled the air around us. Empty, silent air; it choked me more than smoke. Was that why my fingers reached for last cigarette after last cigarette after last cigarette?

“May I see?” I said, and held out my palm.

She stared at me through steam rising from her coffee, a cradle of warmth between her two soft hands; then lowered the cup, unfolding her fingers to proffer the locket.

It was of the yellow gold I had never admired, adorned with rubies that might have been real, or might have not; and not knowing made them seem worthless. A tiny clasp unhinged its two halves, splitting the fragile little heart in two, revealing a miniature biscuit-tin print of the veiled Madonna.

“Lucky charm?” I asked.

“She is pure. Perfect. Everything else is dirty in the morning.”

“Nothing’s quite as pretty as Mary in the morning,” I sang in my best Elvis voice, but she did not smile. A digital chirrup sounded beneath the table, and she withdrew her phone swiftly, reading the message with that same familiar squint.

“Boyfriend?” I asked.

She reached out and took the locket back, standing as she did so.

“I have to go. Now.”

Her voice had a tiny tinge of urgency to it. I stood too.

“Thank you for the coffee,” she said as she started to walk away.

I was about to remind her that I hadn’t actually offered to pay for her drink, but changed my mind and dropped a handful of coins on the table instead, following her.

“Your scarf,” I said, offering it to her. She snatched it from me with a little noise of annoyance – at herself or at me I was not sure. “It’s Michael, by the way.”

“Violeta,” she said.

She began to murmur underneath her breath as she quickened her pace. I was almost jogging just to keep up with her, my hands in my pockets as though we were just two friends in a mutual hurry. She was praying, I realised; every other word of the rosary filtered from her lips through the noise of the traffic – into which she suddenly stepped, waving her hand at a Corolla with barely readable taxicab printing that skidded to a halt beside her.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

She glanced at me like an impatient schoolteacher as she grabbed at the door.

“Hospital,” she said.



“Then Michael hop in! Or would you leave now?” So we boarded the Corolla.

I didn’t know what this guy wanted from me, but I didn’t care less because my thoughts were horrible. I knew something would happen, and whatever fate again would present to me – as to my friend Hannibal’s wisdom was to be happy and free. I assured myself that what could happen to my boyfriend was reality, like the shifting of clouds – we just couldn’t stop their movements, only God can. The next thing I felt our hands were tightly locked, and Michael’s gaze trying to seize my brokenness.

“Is there something I can do?” he asked.

“Nothing. Thank you.”

Lane upon lane, track upon track; my mind whizzed the clouds, the nothingness, the coldness of my fright, the fallen hopes, the waiting, my single life of faith. At this time, the locket...

“Don’t worry. We’ll get there.” Michael asserted.

And then, in my bag the phone buzzed again. I grasped the phone firmly, but my hands were weak so the phone dropped down the cab floor. Michael got it and read the message.

I did not mind his resolve. The driver was silent with only the twist of his wheels. The air was cold and my heart pounded heavily like rocks on my chest breaking for mercy. “Oh, Maria!”

Silence in the cab, in the air, near the afternoon... Michael didn’t say any word, but searched the locket for me and put them in my hands. He held me close and I did not resist the comfort of his arms around my bereft shoulders that needed warmth and flesh.

“We’d go to the back office of the hospital, Violeta. The staff will give us instructions...”

I paid the driver as she sprang from the taxi.

My only thought during the ride was that I could not remember the last time I had hugged someone out of the simple instinct to comfort; when had the act of touch become so foreign?

Please hurry.

That’s all the second text had said.So whatever disaster had befallen him had not restricted his use of a phone. I hated myself for the unkind thought. Had my ex looked as Violeta looked, whenever I had told her I was ill?

The nurse at the back office desk glanced at the clipboard hanging by her side. Emergency. Bay 212. Violeta hurried ahead and I followed, helplessly, at a distance. I thrust my hands into my pockets and peered through the gridded windows on the doors as we walked the length of the corridor, my lungs filling with the smell of disinfectant. The figures in the beds looked so small and vulnerable. As Violeta stopped ahead of me I realised they were children. The realisation shook in me, and my fingers closed around something in my pocket. The familiar scratch of a paper curl on skin. A forgotten cigarette.

I stood behind her. Through the window in front of us I saw a dimly lit room. A woman leaned forward in a chair, her back to us. Her hands were clasped around the hand of a boy who lay motionless in the hospital bed. From where I stood I could see his eyes were not quite closed, fine red lines crossing his face around them. Machines surrounded him, their cables disappearing under his sheet, electric green and blue lights winking and flickering softly.

Across the bed from the woman stood her husband. I recognised him. I had seen his face in newspapers; a politician, maybe. He was short, dressed in a dark business suit. His hands were deep in his pockets and he stood, slumped, staring at the boy with a strange look on his face. It was the look of a man for whom the curtain of life had been pulled aside, and he saw nothing behind it.

His glassy eyes drifted from the boy across the room to the door. He saw Violeta. He saw me. I glanced at Violeta, her eyes now welling. Across the space, through the glass, the two of them were sharing a look filled with all the sadness, the sweetness, the tenderness and heartache that I had ever known love to be about. It was then I felt alone, as the lonely will do, rain soaked neighbour to the world of the loved. A world for those who felt the warmth of others even when parted, and who felt another’s pain.

I felt pain. I felt Violeta’s, as she felt her lover’s, as she felt and he felt the pain of his son, and the mother did too, and I; all of us there in the chapel of pain, Our Lady of the Sacred Heart Hospital.

He looked to his wife, and Violeta turned from the window, her hands to her mouth, eyes searching for some solace in mine. I curled an arm around her shoulder and walked her to the stairwell at the end of the ward. As we rose, step by step, I heard the rooftop doorway humming a mellow chant between the cold conditioned inside air and the free and humid day outside.

On the roof we stood and stared, listening together as the yellow scarf fluttered in morning eddies, and I saw… I saw, across the avenue, beyond the cries and howls and mirth of the city streets, through a border of bricks and bolts and steel, perched on a plinth in the centre of a pond, the concrete Madonna.

Perhaps love was not pure, but stained. Perhaps love was not harmony, but discord. Perhaps love came in all the shades of earth and grime, and in the moist and dirty breath of the taglamig air that brushed our faces on mornings such as this.

Violeta prayed in silence beside me, and I lit my last cigarette.

My last ever, I promised myself, as I had done the day before.


First published on Conversations Across Borders website
for the CAB Project (2012/june) :  Air

/iwrotefiction.rosevoc2

DEAR POETS: MAY I LEAVE A COMMENT? THANK YOU, ROSEVOC2

Dear Poets: May I Leave A Comment? Thank You.




To: Sir William C. Williams (on 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 Mr. R. Eberhart (on 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: Mr. W.H. Auden (on 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 (on After the Funeral)



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.



Did I make sense, dear great poets?

Thank you for the poems.

God bless the poets!

rosalinda flores martinez
on iwrotefiction

/also on poemhunter.com

A Remembrance

Dear Jesus, hear our prayers.

The LIST of my professor in one of his newspaper columns -

scared me -

while i read the names of the dead one by one.

It was a frightening suspense - when those dear to you

slowly leave...

The world is a big race track

Our footprints soon, in earth and water.
***

Eternal rest grant unto the faithful departed, O Lord

And let they perpetual light shine upon them.

May they rest in peace. Amen.

rosevoc2 on iwrotefiction

REBECCA

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









/posted 10.07.2009



rosalinda flores - martinez



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