Poetry
Poetry
I was only around five when I made my first visit to Linao, a barangay tucked in the backwoods of Libon town in Albay province. My fatherEven in his sixties, he was still quick with the latigo, a lead-tipped whip, with which he slew those green snakes that disguised themselves as coconut blades and inhabited the coconut trees around his house. But that was just about all he killed, for Antero was a man predisposed to giving instead of taking away. He often smiled, and told the children stories about the longest chocolate train and invisible beings that wore psychedelic coats and frowned on children who did not take a nap at siesta time.
bring me your light
that shimmered on the wings
of yellow moths
i scurried after as a child
and cast shadows that carried no forebodings
and saw me traipsing reckless on a footbridge
at midstream
my smile up to my ears
like a slice of watermelon
as the floodwaters raged below me
tailing a hurricane.
dissolve this iceberg moored in my soul
that breathes a deadly chill
into the core of my bones
and makes me shiver like an old dog
caught in an out-of-season rain.
please, sun, touch me with your luster,
irradiate me with your glow,
electrify me with your hell-fire,
turn up your heat
set me aflame
for i
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When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all up hill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest if you must; but don't you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As everyone of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don't give up, though the pace seems slow;
You might succeed with another blow.
Often the goal is nearer than
It seems to a faint and faltering man,
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victor's cup.
And he learned too late, when the night slipped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.
Success is failure turned inside out;
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt;
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems afar;
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit;
It's when things seem worst that you mustn't quit.
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This was the favorite poem of the late Og (Thor) Aldea of Ligao, Albay. Those who knew him well are familiar with his naughty disposition and his brand of humor, including his propensity for rearranging songs to suit his comic intentions. But whether he was in a light or somber mood, he repeatedly recited this poem
as the skies weep down
the very roots of trees
that breathe the lament of cicadas.
i ponder at the grass
its cool ecstatic green
a reprieve from vaguenesses
the sight of you infects me with.
i wonder if you ever find yourself
dreaming of absent suns,
or if that gloom in your eyes
is yours indeed
or mine.
(1987)
barbara barquez ricafrente, monologues and other poems
i.
do comets wag their tails at the sight of Titan
crossing the face of Jupiter?
do constellations contemplate ever changing places,
rearranging themselves, reconfiguring their positions
for the sake of something new?
is the constellation Sirius acquainted with a smile?
and will the Red Planet, like an injured eye, ever clear up?
does the Universe have corners
like a box full of galaxies turning endlessly
like the tiny wheels in a grandfather clock?
how long did the man who stole a pig stashed in a sack
take a rest on the dark side of the moon
before he vanished with his loot?
is thunder at night the stolen pig
the thought of things that move me
now pulls back
to one small hand that waves
from across a field
to children perched on iron tanks
their imagined supermen pushing trains
that drag forever on the tracks
to strings of houselights
that bruise eyes
and force out one small blob of water
from old eyes.
(1982)
barbara barquez ricafrente, monologues and other poems
The propensity for name-calling, for instance, may not be unique to this bucolic town in Albay province but it is a phenomenon that continues to fascinate even one who has been away from Oas for many years. About fifty percent of the families even in a small neighborhood are known not only by their actual birth names but more so by the names or bansag their neighbors or friends choose to tag them with. One
Tags: Poetry
He was always Awil to those who knew him since he was a boy who ran around in his birthday suit, his face often caked with m Tags: Poetry