blackrose

poems

lydz — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 12:08:42 +0000

1.) GRIEVANCE TO A DEAD TREE

(An attempt at sonnet)

The naked old mango tree now deprived

Of vigor to drink the milk of earth’s bosom;

No golden fruits to cuddle for sweetly bribe

Bark stripped from flesh to rot—such a lethal doom.

Desperate to reminisce the springs of youth,

This young tree once hung a cradle of delight,

Fruits shape to sweet hearts, we’d get with loath

To feed the hunger of lovers in deep plight…

You gave me the fruit, cast with glorious spell;

While their’s floral bloom, tears will never shed,

Now gone is Your face, I, enshroud in despair,

Your presence to my soul, I longed to feed.

My flesh has aged, the mango had died.

Memories may fade but never my heart.

2.) Perseverance

when darkness is replaced

by dawn veiled in sweet beauty;

the somberness that rest once

calm in Morpheus’ arms,

now reveals the energy

of eagerness and bravery:

workmen toiling

valiant in the lofty scaffoldings

in dense tight by these rigid ropes

draping in this gigantic building;

their mighty hands

in smooth strokes

to paint a life

out of this colorless walls.

3.) To the Withered Grass

How

widely you

embrace this withering

delight of the midday sun; leaves

zipping the apocalypse of heat; wrenching

the veins of your frail and hungry roots under the

sterile ground. I too gave in weakly to life that rips me

like your parched leaves which are loomed stark by disaster.

In the depth of the naked night, I was left to lament and listen to your

soundless bewailing dispersedly buried with the mad air; lamentation of anemone.

In my dark nights where insomnia awakes the psyche like a rattling stereo,

my mind cracked open to darkness and mysteries—doomed to men.

To begin with the miracle of our existence—your being.

We had evolve like any animates and inanimate,

it is the logic of humanity that studies

necessity of our ancestry. And

here you are little grass

planted to your

destined

spot.

4.) the 20^th

how I wanted to halt

this daunting lousy click

of the sturdy finger

pointing—twelve;

hissing at my face,

a murmur of twenty.

My bones soon

in scary wreck frail.

How my young hairs

wish to forget how

to grow in aged white!

5.) Her Mama

Deep-set somber eyes, aquiline nose,

dark straight hair, infectious laugh,

lovely line in the cheeks; this is her mama.

Her beautiful sad eyes,

opens a window of love and soul.

Her nose hangs like a beak

of an eagle, she could sniff everything,

even her darkest secrets.

Her cheeks etch lines of tiredness,

fragile as the matchsticks,

but when she laughs

it’s like a vortex of sunshine

in a twilight morn.

6.) TO MY COUSIN LUCING,

NOW LUCIA IN HAWAII

Dear cousin Lucia, aloha!

Quite a long time since we’ve got

in touch with each other. How are you?

Tiya Mameng showed your

pictures today, you looked wonderful

in your flowered dress, your curly hair

is shiny too. Remember Mundo?

He said you’re now beautiful.

He will never tease you again

enchanted lady in balete tree

whose virgin hair is always soaked

dry in coconut oil.

I never climb coconut trees now,

like we used to do when we were

young and we’ve got the thirst

for a fresh buko. It’s because of Mundo;

we used to call ugly Negro,

who always made us cry

whenever he used to tell our classmates,

that someday,

we will be good pilots—not of planes

but pilots in tress.

My sister Loleng,

always laughs whenever I remember you to her. She never forgot the day

we’ve got the whipping from Tiyo Pedro

that April day we painted dots

on Bekang’s two youngs

with a black marker and tainted gold

their tails. After that innocent morning

we watched 101 Dalmatians, that day

he noticed the strange-looking puppies

rolling in the grass.

The young langka we used to tend

has grown fuller now. It bore big fruits

and tasted so delicious and juicy,

yet I got so angry when after eating

Nanding burst in loud fart

So irritating and smelly.

I always remember our cane-hacking time,

but my legs often tremble whenever

Mang Dolfo stopped by our sari-sari store

and brought stalks of sugarcanes

for my youngest brother Kikoy

whom his godson.

My pretty cousin,

please send us more pictures and letters

and tell us about your life there.

How is your mother and your new

Hawaiian father?

Lucia or Lucing, we all missed you a lot.

How I wish I can use my pilot-ability

To drive a coconut and fly up there!

I’m still your most adorable cousin—

PEDRING

7.) haiku

a.) Now the last leaf fall

In the stillness of the night

Death is waiting— quiet.

b.) Lightning marks the sky—

Thunder boils up the ground—

I stood in the bush—still.

8.) For Jose across the Sea

when dreams are told

and future’s unseen

I wish—

to row our boats

in the blue white sea

stock our thoughts

in bottles,fancies

and pleas before

pour like rain

shells in opalescent hues

we used to dig

in the moonlit shore.

9.) Night Out

Tonight’s no night for stories and poems

The moon’s fair, witches are out leaping

from eaves to twigs

I paced about; heard them sing

“Come catch the moon about to fall.”

10.) Ug sa Imong Panampiling

ug sa imong panampiling

nahinanok mong balintataw

sa kawanangan natutok

imong panlantaw.

mga balod sa kagahapon

sa kailadman pugos

nga mga paghandum.

ug karon manambo

sa imong handurawan

ang mga pangandoy

nga mangawhat ug

modagpi aron ikaw

dili sa kahangturan

mahinanok ug malubong

sa pag-antos nga

imong nahiaguman.

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI (unrequited love)

lydz — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 12:10:10 +0000

I Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

III

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful – a faery’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery’s song.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

VII

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said -
‘I love thee true.’

VIII

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gazed, and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
So kiss’d to sleep.

And there we slumber’d on the moss,
And there I dream’d – Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried – ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.

XII

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Analysis

Formalism flourished in the early 20^th century which involves inquiry into the plot structure, narrative perspective, symbolic imagery and other literary techniques. With this formal criticism, we’ll be examining the poem of John Keats entitled “La Belle Dame sans Merci” in terms of formalist’s analysis.

The poem is a ballad; old verse adapted for recitation or singing. It is ballad which usually follows narrative style with its musical forms in rhythm and repetition also dealing on themes such as love, the mysterious and the supernatural. It also uses the poetic devices such as rhythm and repetition. As to its theme, it is clear that the other persona in the poem is knight who suffers the pangs of embarrassment while letting him overshadowed by his affection towards that enchanted woman; the case of what we call as “unrequited love”. Because his love was greater than that of the lady, it is very possible that he’s been totally blinded by the fact that the lady couldn’t really repay the love he gave with equal measure just as he believed that the “fairy maiden” is falling for him the way he falls deeply for her too. “Unrequited love” or “destruction in love” is a common theme of genre of ballads.

NARRATIVE PERSPECTIVE

By looking in his narrative perspective, Keats uses simple language to describe an event which concerned an anonymous speaker which I presumed to be a normal but unidentified passerby who accidentally passes by a knight and ask what seems to be bothering him, seeing his condition and in turn narrates him of his involvement with a lady, a mysterious lady we can assume due to the nice description in the poem and then his vivid narration of his dreams about men of power and achievement (kings, princes, and warriors). As to this passerby, it is quite hard to make automatic and valid assumption about the speaker; whether this person is a male or a female. But based on the concern of this speaker towards this knight and the worried treatment would somehow signify a feminine voice behind it; considered to be awkward (personally) if we imagine a male talking to a knight in a language like one.

In the first and second stanza, the anonymous speaker asks a question as implied in the first two lines of both stanzas. The third stanza elaborates the physical condition and emotional state of the knight (“alone palely loitering; haggard and woe—begone”). The next stanza up to stanza IX is the description of the knight’s meeting on his intimate encounter with the lady. As the poem continues, we can see a subsequent change in the roles of these two characters (lady and the knight). The dominance in the action of the knight can be seen in the stanzas IV, V, and VI as supported by his actions, “I made a garden for her, and bracelets too, and fragrant zone; I set her on my pacing…all day long” but in stanza VII up to IX it is the lady who now initiates the action (“she found me roots of relish sweets; she took me to her elfin grot; And there she lulled me to sleep.”)

The poet’s dream about powerful people is told in stanza X and XI. Considering the fact that his dream was about kings, princes, and warriors, we can somehow validly surmise that the knight with equal rank to these people of authority is one of the victims of the seductive love of this lady. By using the word “sojourn”, it clearly states the knight’s lingering in that place while he wonders about his dreams and attachment to his adored lady.

PLOT STRUCTURE/FORM

The poem is basically a ballad. Lines 1, 2 and 3 of each stanza have four feet and eight or nine syllables. With exposition at the first level, the poem starts as this passerby asks what’s wrong with the knight seeing his weary appearance. The story in the poem continues its complication as the knight narrates the events that happened when he met a fairy-child and this meeting resulted to his great endearment to her, then to his dream with the people who were also linked to this maiden who also undergone the pitiful condition he had, and down to the end; the revelation of his sojourn on that lonesome, barren place (“the sedge has wither’d from the lake, And no birds sin.”).

The repetition of the last two lines in stanza 1 tends to mark an emphasis as the reader moves to its finality. It is a form that signals the reader to have a sense of no movement in connection with the knight, a supporting detail to what the knight says about his “sojourn” in that place. It opens a question of why the knight loitered in that place “the sedge has wither’d from the lake, And no birds sing” and ended up with the knight’s reason of his presence in that same place with that identical lines.

SYMBOLIC IMAGERY

In the first two stanzas of the poem, we can get the idea of contrasting world. While the first signifies a barren place, “the sedge has wither’d from the lake, And no birds sing” the last two lines of stanza II somehow creates a contrasting details (“as the squirrels granary is full, and the harvest’s done”). The two contrasting lines provide us the idea of a lonesome world where the knight chose to stay yet the land is a productive land.

While the poem conceals such contrasting lines, it also reveals metaphoric concepts as well. In stanza III, the knight’s paleness is compared first to the whiteness of a lily then to a “fading” and “fast withereth” rose. Traditionally, the former represents the symbol for “death” while the latter exudes the idea of “beauty”. “With anguish moist and fever dew”; this line can also be a metaphor for the knight’s misery, with “moist” as tears or maybe perspiration or literally the fever as a possible result of too much grief or sadness. (Would this suffice the notion that if someone cries a river, the consequence would also be “fever”? Funny but it could be. That’s possibly be a result of the so-called “mania or possessive excited love”.)

Back to metaphors, the impact of this lady to the knight is clear, but her character remains as mystical and vague. What kind of entity we can consider her? With his description, (“Lady in the midst, full beautiful, a fairy’s child”) it is quite to regard her as mortal; for she sings a fairy’s song as well but not only that, with her “strangely spoken language” are notion of her mortality also be justified as the main speaker told us that the mystical lady took him to her “elfin” grot. These things about the lady are enough to validate our convictions of “enchanment” and “imagination” revolving in the poem. The knight was totally mesmerized with the lady disregarding a wicked sign (“her wild wild eyes”). “Wild” is captivating but we should regard the word with more emphasis, by repeating the word it could be a warning to the poet; that he’s been dealing with an enchanted yet mischievous woman. He’s not been warned also by the lady herself but with his dreams too. Despite these all, his delusions tolerated his attraction to the maiden seduced by her beauty, her “false” avowal of love with sensuality. But we can’t avoid the question on whether the mysterious lady existed in the real of the knight. Is he just being absorbed in the pleasures of his enchanting thoughts? Neglecting these questions we can draw a conclusion from this; that he’s “too much love” for that beautiful fairy child, lets him mask his world in imagination; the mere reason for his pitiful condition and destruction.

To the Withered Grass

lydz — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 05:06:38 +0000

How

widely you

embrace this withering

delight of the midday sun; leaves

zipping the apocalypse of heat; wrenching

the veins of your frail and hungry roots under the

sterile ground. I too gave in weakly to life that rips me

like your parched leaves which are loomed stark by disaster.

In the depth of the naked night, I was left to lament and listen to your

soundless bewailing dispersedly buried with the mad air; lamentation of anemone.

In my dark nights where insomnia awakes the psyche like a rattling stereo,

my mind cracked open to darkness and mysteries—doomed to men.

To begin with the miracle of our existence—your being.

We had evolve like any animates and inanimate,

it is the logic of humanity that studies

necessity of our ancestry. And

here you are little grass

planted to your

destined

spot.

weekly task 3

lydz — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 07:19:09 +0000

THE SUN RISING
by John Donne

BUSY old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us ?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run ?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices ;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou think ?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long.
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and to-morrow late tell me,
Whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left’st them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, “All here in one bed lay.”

She’s all states, and all princes I ;
Nothing else is ;
Princes do but play us ; compared to this,
All honour’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus ;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere ;

This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.

Jan. 16, 2008

John Donne’s poem may seem to be easy to grasp, yet being one of the great metaphysical poets of his time, everybody else would agree that something must be delved more and deeper, for there are a lot of meanings to be discovered, to be revealed though it might be a tedious one.

Here in this poem, the narrator is basically talking about the sun and like what I’ve said; it is not merely about the rising sun, the power of the poem lies on how it is associated with the whole idea of love. The author even gives life to this sun as shown in the poem through the use of personification which even gives more strength to the poem. It seems like the sun is an animate thing that does not only affect people’s lives and as well drives humanity.

Jan. 17, 2008

Busy, fool and unruly pertains to the personified characteristic of the sun associated to his diurnal task to the world, his ‘shining business’ for the humanity. The poet also refers the sun as “saucy pedantic wretch” which means its being rude anyhow yet in a quite amusing way. As the poem goes on, the persona tells the sun to do other tasks like rebuking the school boys for their tardiness, tell the court-huntsmen and their ants about their duties yet not interfere with the lover’s business because as the narrator points it, “love, all alike, no season knows nor clime…” I guess the argument somehow is clear for the readers especially to the lovers—that love is unpredictable, it will come any time, to awaken the heart which be for some time in its quiet slumber.

Jan. 18, 2008

Love is yet more powerful than the sun’s gleaming rays as implicit in the poem. A man in love can even “eclipse and cloud them with [his] wink” if only he wouldn’t lose sight of his dear one. Even those who are in hard toil those—the valiant workers—would agree. There is enough time to wok, a spare moment to rest and a perfect time to love—and this the saucy sun couldn’t hinder; they (Indians of spice and mine) “all here in one bed lay.”

Jan. 19, 2008

Funny though, but this time, the poem made me remember of the song that goes like this; “why does the sun go on shining, why does the sea rush to shore…” (such a sad, desperate song for a broken hearted one.) Yet a broken heart will not be a “broken” one if hereto the man/woman will not let it be (period) =)

Jan. 20, 2008

It’s a cool morning to wake up in your soothing and relaxing bed while witnessing the grassy arena outside your window being bathe by the beautiful rays of the early sun. There is the green meadows beyond giving food for the farm animals, their aw, meow, and the booming moo. (Maybe i was just tired of my sleepless reading last night that I dream of Utopian communion with nature…)=)

Jan. 21, 2008

Since the sun cannot intervene with men and women in love, the speaker in conclusion has one thing to ask favor for the sun and that—to shine and warm for them as this is his duty. Make their bed his center and their walls his sphere.

Jan. 22, 2008

I failed to write something or is there something to write anyway. My thoughts are so preoccupied with a whole lot of things. Please illuminate me John Donne…

There’s just one thing I want to say, your poems are quite HARD to GRASP!!!!

GRIEVANCE TO THE TREE (an attempt at sonnet)

lydz — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 10:46:54 +0000

GRIEVANCE TO A DEAD TREE

(An attempt at sonnet)

The naked old mango tree now deprived

Of vigor to drink the milk of earth’s bosom;

No golden fruits to cuddle for sweetly bribe

Bark stripped from flesh to rot—such a lethal doom.

Desperate to reminisce the springs of youth,

This young tree once hung a cradle of delight,

Fruits shape to sweet hearts, we’d get with loath

To feed the hunger of lovers in deep plight…

You gave me the fruit, cast with glorious spell;

While their’s floral bloom, tears will never shed,

Now gone is Your face, I, enshroud in despair,

Your presence to my soul, I longed to feed.

My flesh has aged, the mango had died.

Memories may fade but never my heart.

The Aged Lover Renounceth Love (the weekly task)

lydz — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 10:44:26 +0000

Jan. 09, 2008

So where do we go from here?

Yes, this sanctuary won’t be too good for eternity. We all are going to die. Though everybody wouldn’t claim these for some reasons, aging and death are inseparable, unavoidable, lethal and fearsome to many. Death may be gruesome but by logical judgment, this is real condition which will affect humanity—our mentality, our lives and the way we live. Even how we recognize and deal with love is under its dominion. Most of us were then scared, still are afraid and this fear is even worsen by our idea of death.

Jan. 10, 2008

Love is ecstatic.

Love is warm.

Love is dynamic.

Love is great.

Love is fresh.

Love is old.

Love is a dream.

Love is the world and all things within.

(sooo corny…=))

Jan. 11, 2008

And she was the teen who tried. She can’t even describe that feeling but she knew how it came about, and there was the sentiment of familiarity she hated to recognize. Because she have gone through it, it was once a heart-stirring experience that later came to be should-forget moments. But how could she forget them, when on and on it’s a dream to believe yet a nightmare to fear.

Yes, indeed it was love she wanted to bury, and now it’s love again coming across her way. Is it again a sweet vision or yet a scary apparition?

Jan. 12, 2008

Man, in context has not basically change. When the gruesome idea of death is involuntarily altered in one’s mind, one is surely looking forward to his personal fears, this deep-seated fear of dying; there’s the thought of aging that may prompt the idea of grave, of finality of feelings, of the ensuing ending of our diurnal treadmill. Clearly, this is one thing that the poem wants the reader to ponder.

Here in this poem it is the hovering claws of death that made the speaker renounce love. His old age gave him the reason for doing so. He rejected everything, his fancies, lust and even the fervor of writing, he, believing that his muse doesn’t favor him anymore and that his hand and pen aren’t excellent enough as it had been a long time ago.

Jan. 13, 2008

Who says that dying is not fearsome? If you don’t think so, then ask yourself why in your first grade, you were so scared to face the dead body of a person in the coffin, elsewhere you were so afraid in the dark you might be seeing “Kamatayan” in his sharp and shiny pickaxe and wearing his grisly smile at you.

Even when dying is only a centavo beyond, I mean when dying is so near because old age shows wrinkles and furrows in every corner of our face. Can we still manage to see the brighter sides of things? We’d say we have mastered it on many levels yet the truth is lurking behind. This is a universal fear, frightening event, ere we’ll be acing our own graves and the only thing we can do is to hope for a calm death.

Jan. 14, 2008

The poem simply made me remember of particular lyrics of that song entitled “Somewhere down the road”. “We had the right love at the wrong time…” I find it a bit peculiar though. The speaker here is of course renouncing love because of his old age, for it would be futile to pursue his feelings knowing in one tick of time he’ll be lying in his deathbed and soon he’ll be leaving that woman he dearly love.

Jan. 15, 2008

I just wonder how it would feel to be lying in bed perhaps sitting comfortably in a chair in my hundred years, just waiting for a halt in my breathing. What will I be thinking? What’s within my senses? Would it be like what the poem says, hearing the clerk that knolls the careful knell? Seeing the harbinger of death? Seeing my self-apparition or my grave?#

ONE MISTY MORNING IN THE KITCHEN

lydz — Fri, 14 Dec 2007 14:38:37 +0000

The white rectangular table,

the half-empty catsup bottle,

the plastic egg rack with its

arranged medium size eggs,

the small tomatoes wrapped

ripe inside a lime-green cellophane,

the adjacent screened door with

the elegant smile of the F4

pinned down in a large poster

hanged limp and fragile; swayed

by the early gusty wind,

the dry empty sink, the faucet

firm above, the plastic drawer

filled with various cooking elements,

the metal shelf, the clean dishes

piled carefully, the aluminum stove,

the kettle boiling under the blue flame

like these excited thoughts

of going home blowing in my mind–

soon…

BRAZEN FIELDS; GOLDEN PASTURES(1)

lydz — Tue, 11 Dec 2007 12:48:50 +0000

Wang wei, 701-61

A FARM ON THE WEI RIVER

Slanting sun across the land

Cows and sheep on the crooked lanes.

An aged farmer, propped on cane,

Watches for his shepherd lad.

Pheasants whirr in the heavy wheat.

In the chopped green leaves, the silkworms sleep.

Homeward trudging with their hoes

Workmen murmur when they meet.

This life I long for makes me hum

That ancient folksong, “Going Home.”

12.07.07/11:25pm

HOME

I was an insider yet I am an outsider.

I tried to move away from it—

But I failed to leave it.

There are the rays of the sun that slip

through the white curtains in my window,

soaking the misty morning in delight.

There’s the therapeutically soothing tranquility

in my old bed; tonic in position.

And the vibrant music that the mayas

in the rooftop sing.

Now it’s my heart that tells me;

Time to find my way back home.

12.08.07/11:34pm

TO MY COUSIN LUCING,

NOW LUCIA IN HAWAII

Dear cousin Lucia, aloha!

Quite a long time since we’ve got

in touch with each other. How are you?

Tiya Mameng showed your

pictures today, you looked wonderful

in your flowered dress, your curly hair

is shiny too. Remember Mundo?

He said you’re now beautiful.

He will never tease you again

enchanted lady in balete tree

whose virgin hair is always soaked

dry in coconut oil.

I never climb coconut trees now,

like we used to do when we were

young and we’ve got the thirst

for a fresh buko. It’s because of Mundo;

we used to call ugly Negro,

who always made us cry

whenever he used to tell our classmates,

that someday,

we will be good pilots—not of planes

but pilots in tress.

My sister Loleng,

always laughs whenever I remember

you to her. She never forgot the day

we’ve got the whipping from Tiyo Pedro

that April day we painted dots

on Bekang’s two youngs

with a black marker and tainted gold

their tails. After that innocent morning

we watched 101 Dalmatians, that day

he noticed the strange-looking puppies

rolling in the grass.

The young langka we used to tend

has grown fuller now. It bore big fruits

and tasted so delicious and juicy,

yet I got so angry when after eating

Nanding burst in loud fart

So irritating and smelly.

I always remember our cane-hacking time,

but my legs often tremble whenever

Mang Dolfo stopped by our sari-sari store

and brought stalks of sugarcanes

for my youngest brother Kikoy

whom his godson.

My pretty cousin,

please send us more pictures and letters

and tell us about your life there.

How is your mother and your new

Hawaiian father?

Lucia or Lucing, we all missed you a lot.

How I wish I can use my pilot-ability

To drive a coconut and fly up there!

I’m still your most adorable cousin—

PEDRING

12.09.07/11:30pm

Nothing can compare to the mystic panorama of brazen rice fields made golden by Mother Nature herself lay bare under the fair blue sky. And when you hear the whirring of the wind cooling your check in accompaniment with the rattling river somewhere— that’s the perfect prospect to rest.

I know that life would end for everyone in this sanctuary and yes— I imagine the last day of my 80 years, lying down in a hammock made of rattan hang under a tree where this perfect view would feed my eyes in satisfaction and forever peace.#

12.10.07/11:23pm

Homeward bound. It’s this cool lonely night that makes me feel that familiar breeze of the December nights in my little room—how I wish I was in my homeward bound where the night is a stranger no more; where the moon shares its winsome beauty in the night sky; where I consider the stars as my treasures and my most valued possessions.

Homeward bound. Where the twilight sky gave way to the mounting sun in the east, bathing the drowsy animals and the quiet plants with light in vigor. Where the neighborhood never grow tired working in the fields, inspiring the day with their untiring smile.

This is my home. This is where I should be. This is where I love to be.

12.11.07/08:20

That was the same field where I find the loneliness I longed to forget; where my uncles found my grandfather lying—dead; where fear was derive whenever flood made it a horrible vast body of water; where my brothers and I flew kites cheerfully; where I had my first ride with my lolo in a carabao; where I have the excitement seeing the golden fields of rice to be harvested soon; where my favorite guava tree stand no more because the typhoon has blown it; where the I enjoyed the view of different birds sharing my happiness for the harvest season.

That was the field where the memories of my childhood are still fresh as the morning dew and are buried deep in the ground so that when thoughts are escaping and my heart longed for home, I only need to dig down these memories and be buried in it too.

haiku (desperate attempt2)

lydz — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 09:37:13 +0000

Lightning marks the sky–

Thunder boils up the ground–

I stood in the bush– still.

lydz — Tue, 04 Dec 2007 10:45:47 +0000

12.05.07/06:00pm

This nightmare has not yet been deleted since I had it last night. I was too deeply bothered and troubled. I dreamt that we had a day out at the beach together with my family and friends, then a huge wave appear in an instant and washed the lives of some of my loved ones. I was crying then until I woke up and still I can feel my tears in my cheeks. That morning the image of an ocean was not a splendor to me anymore. For me it resembled as an abyss of fire which can kill many people!

That was so horrible and I remember I also had that same dream some weeks before. (I guess reading again Freud’s “Interpretation of Dreams” might somehow help.)