"crispin" poems
Ang nakaupong tiwali—
siya ang binoto ng masa.
Sa manggas ng kanyang barong,
panganib ng maralita
May kinang ang kan’yang ngiti
mapungay ang mga mata
Sa bawat pangakong lahad
ay pagsibol ng pag-asa.
Pag-asa na tayo'y ligtas
ay naging katakot-takot.
Para raw sa Inang Bayan,
peligro na nakabalot.
Ang salitang bulaklakin
ay daglian ding nalanta
kapalit ang pagtungayaw,
at banta ng direktiba.
Hindi natin inasahan—
bahid ng dugo sa daan.
Mga kamay, nahugasan
ngunit hindi ang lansangan.
Sa lapida nakaukit
ngalan ng mga biktima.
Sunod kayang tatahimik
ang silang may pinupuna?
Hapis ng inang nawalan,
“Crispin, Basilio, anak ko,”
oyayi ng Inang Bayan.
“Pasismo! Peligro rito!”
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 10:55 PM UTC
Kung ang bunga ng isang makata ay tula
humihingi ako ng paumanhin
sapagkat mapakla
at hindi matamis ang sa akin.
Gusto ko sanang saysayin
sa paraang patula
ang buhay mo at dalita
na tulad sa bulaklak
ay nalanta nang ikaw ay dahasin
ng mga puting dayuhan.
Ikaw ang Sisa na nabaliw
sa paghahanap ng iyong Crispin at Basilio,
Babaylan kang hinubaran ng dangal
sa harap ng madla,
subalit ikaw din ang Gabriela
na nag-armas at lumaban.
Inang Bayan ko
na sakbibi lagi ng lumbay
kailan mo kaya makakamtan
ang tunay na kalayaan
na kay tagal mo nang inaasam?
Wala kang maasahan
sa mga anak **** hangal
na parang birhing matimtiman
na laging nakaluhod
sa paanan ng dayuhan;
mga putang walang kahihiyaan
na ibenibenta lagi ang puri mo't dangal.
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 10:48 PM UTC
When my cells wont replicate themselves any more,
I'll have to bribe saint Peter on the door
I miss smoking lucky strike
I miss that my cat eased my troubled mind
I miss the weight of the world in my palm
I should have broken Crispin's arms
when I had the chance.
And when the rage that I have saved throws me overboard,
it best weight me down with cannonballs
because I'm a real good swimmer
I had all the awards.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
Tell me men of Agincourt
what was it for
why did we fight and
did we win at all?
A hundred years of war
what was it for?
The prelude that we chew upon
meatless bones across
the Somme?
Tell me,
Edward,Humphrey,Henry,
men of Agincourt,
what was it for?
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
Somewhere between
Hunter S. Thompson and
Charlie Mackenzie,
I find myself to be
something
it throws me loops.
Somewhere between
Clark Gable and
Crispin Glover,
I am stuck in
a whirlwind
of perspective.
Somewhere between
Justin Timberlake and
Biz Markie,
I sit silently
wondering how
I got here.
Somewhere between
The Waterloo Bridge and
Westminster Abbey,
an American boy
misplaced
his mind.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
And say ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian:’
Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names
Familiar in his mouth as household words:
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d,
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
May 30, 2022
May 30, 2022 at 9:36 AM UTC
In preparation for an invasion
A military force makes sorties
To their opponent’s barriers
And prods to spark response
In the responses
Defensive elements are exposed
Defenders are never sure
What constitutes a ****
Or the tsunami of attack
When the big push comes
There are shocks and surprises
There is resolve and bravery
There is fear
There is capitulation
There is desolation and loss
These shadows play similarly for us
The world prods us into middle age
Leaves us unsure with each surprise
Is this one just a little challenge
Is this the thin edge of the wedge of catastrophe
We, our weaknesses exposed
We, our defences to redouble
We, oh joyous recipients of a moment’s respite
Can regroup and recite unto ourselves
Henry’s Saint Crispin’s day speech
Before another sun rises
Yes, others shall think themselves accursed
That they were not here in my shoes
To have overcome that hellish Tuesday traffic
To have resolved the late-night call from elderly parents
To have dried the hard-fought tears
Of a beleaguered friend
Who found their last
and final reserves
were too thin
too little
too depleted
to cope.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 10:58 PM UTC
Mercy was on your mind
When you marched me to the guillotine.
My affection fell short
And our future wasn't good enough...
For you could not love me.
For I cannot blame you.
When I'm looking through the pinholes,
That adorn the ceiling like scars,
And I take a deep breath
To hold it in like the supernova
Of a dying, burning star...
I'll learn how to feel again.
I'll shake off the morphine
That you coated me in
When the curtain came down on our future
When the sun fell black
On St. Crispin's Day.
For you could not love me.
For you are not wrong.
You look upon me
From your high ground,
And you fill me full of spades.
I'm crushed below the amazement you inspire,
And and you're grinding me into dust.
I will cease to be in this enchantment.
For you could not love me,
So I peeled back your veil.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
among the millions who have never served, or wore uniform,
thought about it, was discouraged, and luck of the lottery,
the only one I’ve ever won, was #359 in the Vietnam draft,
cause my birthday was October X, and thus, stayed alive
yet, when, every time, hearing Henry V recite his battle speech,
copious weep that I was not there, for the deep need in my soul,
I too well ken, that I ne’er had the opportunity to become one of
a company, a band of brothers, this stripe, missing from my arm
would I have served if called? do not be absurd, the war was idiocy,
but that would not have prevented me from the chance, the luck,
to have been beside men, who would forevermore be mine, be my
very own band brothers...perhaps you think me mad, perverse,
not so, the bonds that formed such, gentle men for ever better...
“From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition”
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 12:23 PM UTC
there are days I want to just stand still,
my arms outstretched,
and scream at the world to come and get me,
give me its worst,
throw everything it can to tear me down,
hold nothing back,
but let me know the full fury
of the oncoming storms,
and all the damage they can bestow,
for i am as harry and it is st. crispin's day,
and those not there with me will hold their manhood cheap.
and there are days i am afraid that if i did just this,
the world would take me up on the offer.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 11:53 AM UTC