Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Stephanie Dec 2018
Kung may pluma lamang ang puso
Isusulat nito ng malaya ang mga salita
Na hindi mabigkas ng mga labing tikom
Sapat ang tinta nitong pluma
Pamalit sa takot na pumipigil sa sarili

Kung may pluma lamang ang puso
Hindi na kailangan pang pagtakpan ng ngiti ang bawat sakit
May buhay ang plumang ito
Alam niya ang kanyang silbi, ang maghatid ng katotohanan

Kung may pluma lamang ang puso
Isusulat nito ang bawat pagkakataong nais niyang tandaan
Mga alaala na dala ng kasaysayan

Kung may pluma lamang ang puso
Maipaparating niya ang bawat pintig
Ng ligaya o sakit
Malaya ang plumang ito
Walang magbabawal kung ano ang dapat at hindi
Walang pipigil sa pagkawala ng tunay na kulay ng bawat pintig nito

Kung may pluma lamang ang puso
Ito'y susulat ng tula na magsasabing ikaw lamang ang magiging papel na nais nitong sulatan

Kung may pluma lamang ang aking puso,
Ikaw ang nanaising maging papel
Malaya ang plumang ito at ikaw ang kanyang pinipili
Buhay ang tinta ng plumang ito
At sa iyo, bilang papel, nailathala ang pinakamagandang kasaysayan ng pag-ibig
Na binigyang buhay ng
isang pluma at papel
Lavinia Martin Jan 2019
hindi naman ako isang makata.
ang pluma at isip ko’y di nagtutugma.
oo. minsan ay pinipilit kong bilangin ang mga letra
at pinipilipit ang utak sa isang salitang nasa dulo na ng aking dila.

ngunit, hindi ako isang makata.

hindi ako katulad ng mga nakikita mo sa mga libro
wala akong galing na kayang ipahiwatig ang mga salita sa magagarbong paraan
hindi maipalalabas ng pluma ko na ang pinakakinakatakot **** bagay...
isang rosas na kahit maganda’y kukurutin ang balat mo hanggang ika’y magkasugat at magdugo

hindi ako isang makata.

ang mga luha ko man ay sunod sunod na
at ang plumang hawak-hawak ko ay dumudulas na
gusto pa rin ilabas ng puso ko ang mga salitang naiisip nito:

“Ito ang tulang hindi bebenta.”

ito ang tulang hindi mo makikita sa papel na may pahina
ito ang tulang hindi mo pagaaksayahan ng pera
ito ang tulang hindi mo tatapusin basahin
ito ang tulang hindi mo aaralin

walang bilang ang mga linya at walang tugma ang mga salita
walang magagarbong salitang kailangan mo pang hanapin ang kahulugan
walang mababangong linya na tatatak sa’yong isipan
walang pangalan na agad agad **** matatandaan

hindi ba’t sinabi ko na sa iyo? ito ang tulang hindi bebenta.

bakit ba binabasa mo pa rin?
sinasayang mo lang oras mo.
sabagay, salamat na rin.
salamat sa oras mo.

pasasalamatan kita sa bilis **** pagtingin
pasasalamatan kita sa muntikan **** paglalim
ng pagiisip para intindihan ang tulang hindi bebenta
pero hahayaan mo ako

hahayaan mo ako na ituloy ang tulang ito
hahayaan mo ako na ilabas ang damdamin ko
hahayaan mo ako na hawakan pa rin ang pluma
hahayaan mo ako na magsulat at sumaya

kahit alam kong hindi mo babasahin
dahil natutunan ko nang pasayahin ang sarili ko
sa mga munting laro at paglikha ng mga istorya
na humuhukay ng isang malalim na bangin

natutunan ko nang tabunan ito uli ng lupa
gamit ang pluma na mauubos na ang tinta
pagkatapos ay didiligan ko ito gamit ang aking luha
hanggang sa unti-unting tubuan ito ng bunga

siguro sa pagdating ng panahon mayroon mang makakita...
mababasa niya ito ngunit hindi niya maiintindihan.
at mailalagay ito si isang museo
at pilit itong iintindihin

dahil kaibigan, ang mga pinakalumang bagay
kahit wala nang gamit
ay minsan ding nagkaroon ng halaga

kaya kaibigan, tinatapos ko na.
tinatapos ko na ang huling tula na hindi bebenta.
Non-sense I make at 1AM. Holds a lot of meaning.
JK Cabresos Oct 2011
Sakdal-lungkot ang mga anak Mo, Inang Bayan;
Sinakop na, pinaslang pa'ng mumunti **** katarungan.
Humiyaw Ka! Hanggang sa rurok ng sukbo't hinanakit—
At sa pagbubukang-liwayway, pag-asa sana'y Iyong makamit:

Utak ang puhunan sa di-maarok na mga pag-alsa, kahapon;
Ni hindi nabatid ang mga luha't pawis ang sa mukha'y nangaipon,
Sa gunita na lamang ba mabubungkal natin ang mga nangagdaan?
Kung ang mga salitang sa pluma't papel nalikha'y hindi napangalagaan—

Sa paglalakbay Mo, Pilipinas, sa lansangang walang hanggan,
Sana maya't maya'y lilipad ka rin muli sa abang kalawakan;
Humiyaw Ka! Hanggang sa rurok ng sukbo't hinanakit—
At sa pagbubukang-liwayway, pag-asa sana'y Iyong makamit:

Pagkukunwari ma'y ni 'di Mo maitatago sa oras ng Iyong pagkabalisa,
Sagwil sa bawat pikit-matang kaligayahan ang s'yang Iyong natamasa.
Samakat'wid — habang buhay pa si Rizal ngayon ay 'wag nating itatakwil
'Pagkat tayo'y paunti-unting nakakahinga dahil sa kanyang pluma't papel.
© 2011
John AD Feb 2019
Mari , Maaari ko bang sabihin ang aking nadarama?
Mariposa sa himpapawid na dumapo sa aking mga pluma,
Ako'y nagdurusa , Labis na kalungkutan ang nadarama
Masyado tayong nagpadalus-dalos,At di alam kung saan papunta

Nagdurugo ang aking puso,Pinapaslang ang aking utak
Kakaisip sa mga bagay na hindi matuka ng Uwak , Dahil
Pagod pa din ako kahit nakatulog na , Di nga kita makausap
Ako'y Takot pa

Na Malaman **** , kelangan ko munang magpahinga,
Hindi naman lilisan,Nais lamang ipaalam na
Pagod na pagod na ang isip ko tuwing kausap ka
Hindi parin kasi kita maipinta

Ako'y hindi sanay sa mga bagay na ika'y napapakalma
Marahil di mo ko maintindihan , Yun talaga ang totoong kulay ng aking pluma
Hindi rin kasi ako masaya tuwing nakasimangot ka
Malungkot din ako kapag malungkot ka

Pero wala naman akong magagawa ,
Tikom lang ang aking mga bibig
Limampung Beses iniisip
Ang mga bagay na makakapagpabago ng iyong mga himig

Wala akong kakayahang makipagtalakayan
Magkaiba kasi tayo ng kapaligiran
Sana'y mauwanan mo naman ang aking nararamdaman
Masakit man ang mga nasasabi ko ,Mas masakit ang magbulag-bulagan

Dahil ayaw ko ng magsinungaling sa aking mga nararamdaman
Baka humantong lamang ito sa isang malaking kasinungalingan
Hangga't maaga , nais kong ihatid ang mensaheng ito
Upang iparamdam sayo lahat ng aking nadarama

Mari,Mariin ang sakit ng bawat letra ng aking inilathala
Bagkus ito'y magiiwan ng marka at sa pag kislap ng mga tala
Nais kong dalin mo ito at magsilbing payo ko sa iyong pagkatao
Ngunit huwag mo kong kalimutan dahil naging parte ako ng buhay mo

Mari,Marilag na binibini sana ako ay mapatawad mo
Sa hakbang na ginawa ko , Sa bagay na magiging sanhi ng kalungkutan mo,
Hindi pa naman ako mawawala bilang kaibigan mo
Basta't Huwag mo rin kakalimutan kung sino ako .

(Ang nais ko'y manatili ang ating pagkakaibigan,
Ngunit kelangan ko ngayon ng oras para sa sarili ko)

(Mari,Pagod pa ang aking isip
At Patuloy paring nananaginip
Regalo sa akin ang ating pagkakakilanlan
Itinago ko nga lahat ng iyong payo dito sa aking Isipan)
Ang pag-iyak ng mga dahon  sa bukang-liwayway  ay pinapawi ng init ng pagsikat ng Araw,At maglalaho sa Dapithapon , At Maaring magiwan ng marka padating ng Takipsilim...
Ang apat na yugto ng oras ng panahon ay nagsisilbing instrumento ng aking pagkatao... at pagkatao mo..
Sundan mo ang pagsikat ng araw ! at huwag na huwag **** papakiramdaman ang presensya ng kadiliman...
Stephanie Apr 2019
isinulat ni: Stephanie Dela Cruz

\

isang daang tula.
sabi ko noon ay bibigyan kita ng isang daang tula
mga tulang magiging gabay mo kung sakaling mawala ka man sa akin, o kung ilayo ka man ng ating mga tadhana, o kung paalisin mo na ko sayong tabi,
ngunit pangako, hinding hindi magiging dahilan ang kusa kong pag alis, pangako yan.
itong mga tulang ito ang magiging gabay mo kung sakaling maisip **** ako ang kailangan mo at ako ang gusto **** makasama hanggang dulo
itong mga tulang ito ang magiging resibo mo, magiging ebidensya ito ng kung paano kita minahal ng pagmamahal na hindi mo kailanman naibigay sa akin

isang daang tula.
alam mo bang tula ang una kong minahal kaysa sa iyo
ibinuhos ko lahat ng mga inspirasyon, pag-ibig, luha at pati tulog ko'y isinantabi ko na para sa kanila
dahil ako rin ang mga tulang ito,
alam mo namang isa kong babasaging salamin na paulit ulit na binabasag ng mga taong gustong maglabas ng sama ng loob, ng matinding emosyon, isang salaming kakamustahin kapag gusto nilang ipaalala sa sarili nila na maganda sila at mahalaga at kamahal-mahal at importante...
ako nga ang mga tulang ito, at paulit ulit kong pinaghirapang buuin muli ang aking sarili, ang bawat dinurog na piraso ko'y sinusubukang buuin muli gamit ang hinabing mga tula
itinago ko sa bawat maririkit na salita ang mga lamat na hindi na maaalis pero pipilitin ko...
at sa huli naisip kong hindi ko lang pala gustong sumulat at bumigkas ng tula..
gusto ko rin maging tula ng iba, na mamahalin ako katulad ng pagmamahal na ibinuhos ko sa mga ito

at ayun nga... dumating ka.

ngunit tanong ko pa rin sa aking sarili itong palaisipan...  "naging tula mo ba ko talaga?"


hindi.

dahil hindi ka naman talaga interesado sa mga tula.


alam ko naman kung anong nais mo talaga..

ang gusto mo'y musika.


maganda, masarap sa pandinig, masasabayan mo sa pagsayaw... maipagmamalaki.


hindi naman ako musika... isa lamang akong tula.



isang daang tula.
alam mo bang kung nakakapagsalita lamang ang aking mga sinulat ay sigurado akong magtatampo sila
dahil naisulat na ang tulang bukod tangi sa lahat, tulang pinaka mamahal ko higit sa lahat
ito ay ang bawat tulang isinulat ko para sa iyo..
isa... dalawa... tatlo.. hindi ko na mabilang kung gaano karaming tula na ba ang naisulat ko para sayo
ngunit mas marami ata yung mga tulang isinulat ko nang dahil sayo
at wag kang mabibigla kung sasabihin kong hindi lahat ng iyon ay puro kilig, puro saya, puro tamis ng sandaling kasama kita
dahil sa bawat pagkakataong hindi mo namamalayang sinasaktan mo ako ay sumusulat ako ng tula
may mga pagkakataong ikaw ang dahilan ng mga luhang siyang naging tinta nitong aking pluma na pinangsulat ko ng tula

wag kang mag-aalala, hindi nasasapawan ng kahit anong sakit at pait ang pagmamahal ko sa iyo. :)


isang daang tula.
teka, kailan ba tayo nagsimula?
napakabilis ng panahon, lumilipas na kasing bilis ng pagningning ng mga bituin sa gabi
hindi pa tayo tapos mangarap ngunit tumitigil na... natapos na ang pagkinang.
inaawat na tayo ng kalawakan... o teka... mali pala... dahil ikaw ang umawat sa kalawakan
pinatay mo ang sindi ng pinakamakinang na bituing pinangakuan ko ng wagas na pagmamahal sa'yo habambuhay
wala nang natira.. pati ang mga bulalakaw na nagdadala ng milyong paghiling kong makasama ka hanggang dulo ay wala na, lumisan na
at hindi ko naman inasahan na sasama ka sa kanila
hinihintay kong hawakan **** muli ang aking kamay nang mas mahigpit sa paghawak ko ng kamay mo katulad ng una't pangalawang beses nating pagkikita pero
binitawan mo ako mahal



isang daang tula...












teka muna mahal, hindi ko pa naisusulat ang pang isang daan
bakit ka'y bilis mo namang umalis... hindi mo man lang hinintay na matapos ko ang mga tulang ito na nagpapatunay na minsan may tayo


pero pangako...


tatapusin ko itong isang daang tula at hindi ito magtatapos sa pang isang daan dahil susulat pa ko ng mas marami, susulat ako nang mas marami pa hanggang sa hindi na ikaw ang tinutukoy ng mga salita sa aking tula, hanggang sa hindi na ikaw ang buhay nitong aking pagtula...
ipapaalala ko sa aking sarili na ako ang mga tulang ito at hindi ako magtatapos sa panahong pinili **** umalis kesa basahin ako, pinili **** iwanan ang tunay na nagmamahal sayo, sabi mo iingatan mo ang puso ko ngunit hindi mo ba alam? ikaw ang muling sumira nito kaya't heto... may dahilan nanaman para sumulat ako ng tulang magbubuo ng mga piraso ng aking sarili na dinurog mo... pinili **** saktan ako, pinili **** lumayo para sa sarili mo, pinili **** maghanap ng mas maganda at mas higit sa akin, ang dami dami **** pinili mahal ngunit bakit hindi ako ang isa sa mga pinili mo? ah. alam ko na. dahil nga pala may mas higit pa sa pagpipilian kaya bakit nga ba ako ang pipiliin mo diba?


pero pinapangako ko... isa lamang akong tulang hindi mo pinag-aksayahan ng oras para basahin ngunit balang araw ay magkakaroon din ako ng sukat at tugma, ang mga salita sa aking malayang pagsulat ay tatawaging liriko at kapag ganap na akong maging musika... pangako.... huling pangako ko na ito para sayo kaya't makinig kang mabuti...




mapasabay ka man sa  saliw ng aking musika, kailanma'y hindi na ko ang kanta, liriko, musika, at tulang isinulat para sa iyo.
I miss you so bad but not enough to want you back.
mac azanes Feb 2016
Sa mga panahon na ito ay unti unti na ako nakakaramdam ng pangungulila.
Ngunit mapapalitan naman ito galak sa tuwing maalala natin ang mga araw na tayo ay magkasama.
Alam ko din na kaya natin, kaya ko at kaya mo.
Alam ko na darating ang araw na tayo ay malulumbay  at hahanapin ang bawat isa.
Subalit Ang papel na ito ay magsisilbing bangka at ang tinta ng aking pluma ay syang dagat na maghahatid sa bawat tibok ng aking puso na nalulumbay patungo sa sansinukob kung san ang mga talanyo ang magsisilbing nating gabay.
Kaya wag kanang malungkot kasi isang bus lang at pwede na kita makapiling at mayakap habang ang ating mga mata ay nangungusap na sa wakas ay muli tayong pinagbigyan ng panahon upang namnamin ang bawat sandali na tayo ay nangulila. Magkaiba man ang lugar o ang panahon sa araw araw na lumilipas ay maisisiguro ko na ang bawat pintig ng ating mga puso ay magkasabay.
Nag sasabing ikay aking mahal at akoy iyong mahal.
Kaya sa mga panahon na ako ay nag iisa sa harap ng palayan at nakatanaw sa kanluran kasabay ng paglubog ng bawat araw o huling patak ng ulan ay hinding hindi lilipas ang araw na ang mga ngiti mo ay di dumaan sa aking isipan.
At kung sa mga oras na akoy nasa ilalim ng kalungkutan ito ang nagsisilbi kong sandata upang lumaban.
Na alam ko may bukas na dadating at malalagpasan ko din ang bawat lungkot sa aking damdamin.
Mahal kita mula nung araw na una kita makita at lalo pa kitang minamahal sa bawat araw na lumilipas tayo man ay magkahawak kamay at kahit sa panahon na tayo ay magkahiwalay.
Mahal kita kahit di kita nakikita sapat na ang mga alala upang masabi kong di ako nagiisa.
Mahal kita ou mahal,na mahal kita kahit na nasa malayo ka at ako ay nag iisa iniisip ka.
Sana sapat na ang mga katagang mahal kita upang malaban ko ang lungkot sa aking mga mata at magpanggap na di ako nangungulila sa isang dalaga na nasa bayan ng Marikina.
051922

Sa loob ng ilang taong paghabi ng mga tula’y
Nagsilbi pala itong aking pahingahan.
At sa pagpili kong isantabi nang pansamantala
Ang pag-ibig ko sa pluma’t papel
Ay unti-unti rin palang gumuho
Ang mga pader na naging proteksyon ko
Laban sa mga kumunoy ng aking damdamin.

Sabi ng iilan,
Gusto nila ng kalayaan —
Ngunit naiiba ata ang aking kagustuhan.
Pagkat mas ninanais ko pang
Punuan nang matataas na pader ang sarili kong bakuran.

Siguro nga, tama sila
Na takot akong buksan ang aking pintuan.
Siguro nga, ayokong sinu-sino lamang
Ang daraan sa aking paningin.
At baka sila mismo ang magtirik ng kandila
Para sa paghimlay ng aking mga pangarap
Na nais ko pang makamit at maibahagi.

Naisip ko biglang —
Wala naman palang masama
Sa pagtakip natin sa ating mga sarili.
Pagkat kung ang sinasabi nilang pagtago
Ay palatandaan ng kaduwagan at pagiging makasarili'y
Baka araw-araw na rin tayong nagugulantang
Sa mga nakahanay na mga kalansay at mga bangkay
Sa ating mga pintuang pinangangalagaan.

Ang bawat nilalang
Ay may sari-sariling paraan
Sa pag-abot ng kani-kanilang pangarap.
At ang bawat katauhan di’y
May iba’t ibang paksang ipinaglalaban
At patuloy na pinaninindigan.

Kung ang mga pader nati’y
Hahayaan na lamang nating matibag nang basta-basta’y
Tila ba tinalikuran na rin natin ang ating mga sarili.
Pagkat ito’y hayagang kataksilan
Sa ating mga mga sinusungkit pa lamang
Na pangarap na mga bituin.

At kung minsang mapadpad na tayo
Sa pampang ng ating paglisan,
Ay tayo na rin sana ang kusang maging taya
At patuloy na lumaban at manindigan.
Para rin ito sa atin,
Para sa sariling kaligtasan
Laban sa walang pasintabing pagkukutya
Ng mga dayuhan sa ating mga balintataw.

Sana'y kusang-loob tayong magsisipagbalikan
Kung saan natin naiwan at naisantabi
Ang apoy ng ating pag-irog sa ating mga adhikain.
At kung pluma’t papel muli ang magsisilbing armas
Para sa muli nating pagkabuhay,
Ay patuloy rin tayong makikiindak
Sa bawat letra’t magpapatangay sa mga ideolohiyang
Kusang nagtitilamsikan buhat sa ating mga pagkatao.

At hindi tayo magpapadaig at magpapatalo
Sa mga ekstrangherong walang ibang ninais
Kundi yurakan ang ating pagtingin sa ating mga sarili’t
Sila mismo ang gagapos sa ating mga kamay
Upang hindi na muling  makapagpahinga
Sa piling ng ating mga pluma’t papel.
Nagkalat-kalat na mga lupain
Tayo sa kanya’y mga panauhin
Nangag mula sa isang lipi
Ganda niya’y sa puso namutawi

Oo nga’t siya’y marikit
Mga biyaya sa kanya’y di pinagkait
Minsa’y tinaguriang perlas ng silangan
Nakilala bilang ating Inang bayan

Lupain nang mga datu’t mandirigma
Ng prinsesa’t mandirigmang si Urduja
Mababanaag sa kanyang mukha
Katapatan, respeto’t mga paniniwala

Iningatan ng mga mapagbiling ninuno
minahal at niyakap nang taos sa puso
itong lupang ating pinananahanan
ating pinangalagaang lubusan




Minalas nga’t nilingon ng mga dayuhan
Lupang itinago ng mga karagatan,
Dala daw nila’y kaligtasan at kapayapaan,
Yun pala’y hangad nila ating bundok na yaman

Españang eskultor nang kapalaluhan
Tagapagdala ng mga salot ng kinabukasan
Baboy na mga putting inutil
Mga lapastangang mga kanluranin!




Tinuran nilang Indio’t mangmang
Dinuraan at sa putik ay pinagapang
Pinayuko’t pinaluhod  sa Niñong santo
Santong pinambulagan ng mapaglilong demonyo!

Alipin nila kung pandilatan,
Mga uto utong pinagkikindatan
Likas na mga katutubong maamo
Tiningala silang kaibigang totoo

Nakaambang mga tigre’y inamo’t pinatulog
Pinaamo nang mabagsik na mga kulog
Sa bagsik ng pluma’t itak
Napukaw mga mandirigmang hinamak


Gitlang mga hilaw na labanos
Nagsipag kuha ng mga pistola’t español na naghihikahos
Di inakalang mga Indio’y matututong lumaban
Gumising para sa kapakanan niya’t kalayaan

Estrelya ng pag-asa’y kanilang nasilayan
Sinambot ang kamalayan at kanlurang katuruan
Sa mga ganid na Kastila’y inihain
Balaraw ng karunungang matalim

Ritaso ng nakaraan, ngayon at kinabukasan
Piagtagpi tagpi, tinahi’t tinapalan
Mga pulo’y pinaglapit
Mga puso’t hanari’y naging isa kahit saglit

Epiko ng ating pinagmula’y muling nabuo
Ating lahi’y tumayo’t hinarap ang mundo
Laking galak na lamang natin sa pluma ni gat Jose Rizal
Sa kanyang dunong na nagmula sa Maykapal.
O, pluma kong kay rikit
siyang saksi sa'king hirap at sakit
siyang sumpungan sa paghihinagpis
kaibigang kung dumamay ay walang mintis

Sayo'ng piling akong aluin
sama ng loob ko'y hilumin
mga duda't alilangan ko'y pawiin
pag-iimbot ko'y tulungang palipasin

O, plumang mapagtiis
patawad sa aking pag-alis
Mga mata'y kailangan imulat
Isipan ko'y magpapahinga muna sa lahat

Aking kaibigan
aking natuklasan
bawat tinta'ng iyong iniluluha
tila ay isa ring pika

Mga salitang aking isinusulat
ay tila pika na nahambuhay na nakamarka
sa isang pirasong papel
ginugunita, inaalala bawat kasawian

bawat hinagpis at pagpupuyos ng kalooban
mgapikang nagpapaalala, muli't muling sumusugat
sa puso't isipang gustong makalimot
kaya't ika'y kailangang iwanan, aking kaibigan

masakit man sa kalooban
ngunit, marami akong gustong kalimutan
sa'king patuloy na pagsulat
sa muli't muling pagbuklat ng mga aklat

ako'y tila muling buamabalik
sa mga panahong puno ng hinagpis at pasakit
kaya ika'y iiwan
pagkakaibiga'y kalilimutan

paalam aking munting pluma
salamat sa pagdamay at sa magagandang gunita
kay bigat ng aking damdamin
sa paglipas ng panahon ako sana'y iyong magawang patawarin
011717

Sabi ko noon, hindi na ako magsusulat pa -- na hindi na ako mag-aalay ng tula para sayo. Na ang huling piyesa ng tula ay ipinalipas ko na rin noong isang taon, ipinatikom sa dagat na bumubura ng bawat larawang binigkis sa buhanginan -- noong isang taong napagmasdan ko ang pagbagsak ng bawat dahon ng alaalang dinumog at pinunit ng hangin.

Akala ko yun na ang huli, nang bigkasin ko sa mismong harapan mo ang bawat malayang mga tugmang naikatha buhat sa lalim ng sugat nang palihim na pag-ibig -- ngunit walang lihim na hindi nabubunyag kaya marapat na rin sigurong mailathala ang damdamin sa bawat dahong muling pausbong bagamat hindi ko pa rin alam kung aabutan ba ito ng taglagas.

Akala ko yun na ang huling pakikipagtagisan ko sa bawat salitang may mensahe ng pagbitaw. Akala ko kakayanin kong bumitaw agad, bumitaw nang kusa at tuluyan nang maihihimlay ang bawat tula sa mismong pinagtuyuan ng bawat dahong bumabagsak.

Ilang beses na kitang ipinaubaya sa Kanya pero paulit-ulit kang bumabalik -- ni hindi ko alam kung dapat bang sisihin ko ang tadhana o talagang kailangang kong tanggaping parte ito ng pagpapasakop at pagpapaayos ko sa Kanya. Paulit-ulit kitang kinatatagpo sa panaginip na halos magtaka ako kung bakit.

Napuno ng listahan ng ngalan mo ang mga petsa sa kalendaryo kung ilang beses kang naging bisita sa aking pagtulog at paghimbing. Hindi naman ako kumakatok sa aking unan at kumot para masilayan ka -- masilayan kung posible bang maharap kita at hindi na ako urong-sulong pa.

Paulit-ulit tayong ipinagtatagpo kung saan una tayong nagkita at nagbitaw ng mga pangakong uunahin natin Siya at doon din natapos ang bawat panimulang may matatamis at mabubulaklak na pagsasalarawan ng mga salitang "kung tayo'y tayo talaga." Pero paulit-ulit kitang hindi ipinagkakait sa Kanya kasi alam kong para sa Kanya ka naman at hindi ako ang makapagsasabing ang bukas ay laan para sa atin ng may iisang pintuan.

Hindi ko maaaring ilibing nang buhay ang bawat alaalang naging parte ng kung sino ako ngayon, mga nakaraang sabi nila'y dapat daw ay daanan ko lang at wag pagtambayan. At kung hihimayin ko ang bawat yugto, hindi ko alam kung kaya bang paluputan ang mga ito ng metaporang pampalasa sa bawat linya ng tula.

Hindi ko alam kung magkakasya ito sa puso **** ni minsa'y hindi mo nagawang pagbuksan. Inilatag ko na sa Kanya ang lahat kasama ang pagpapatawad ko sayo, kasama ang bawat panalangin ko para sa ikatataas Niya sa buhay mo -- mga panalanging para sa ikatatag ng pananampalataya mo, para sa ikalalalim ng relasyon at pundasyon mo sa Kanya.

At hindi, hindi ko lubos maisip na ganito ang paraan Niya para sa paghilom ko -- na mismong pinagtatagpi-tagpi niya ang bawat tauhan sa paligid ko para lang maharap kita.

Ilang beses akong umiwas na may sumbong sa kalangitan na sana nga dumating na ang panahon -- yung panahon na kaya ko na at kaya mo na rin. Nag-iwasan tayo na waring naglalaro ng Patintero at nakakapagod nga -- nakakapagod makipaglaro kasi hindi naman natin ninais na makipaghabulan sa wala na.

Pinili kong bitiwan ka pero hindi ko binitiwan ang paghihintay ko sayo -- naghihintay akong marinig lang mula sayo na ayos ka lang.

At oo, ayokong nakawin ang mga oras at sandali na laan para sa paglago mo sa Kanya. Noon pa man, yun na rin ang tanging dasal ko sa Kanya. At kahit sa pagbitaw natin nang paulit-ulit, mas minamahal ko Siya. Oo, mas matimbang ang pag-ibig Niya para sating dalawa kaya nga't mas mainam na mag-ipon na lamang hindi ng mga pangamba, bagkus ng mga panalanging kalugud-lugod sa Kanya pagkat iisa lang ang ating Ama.

At kahit pa, kahit pa hindi ko masuri sa aking sarili kung ito na ang huling piyesa, hindi pa rin ako bibitaw sa pagsusulat. Maubusan man ng pagdanak ng tinta ng aking pluma'y patuloy akong makapagsusulat.

At hindi matatapos ang mga tula na may ganitong pangwakas. Hindi ko rin alam kung kailan ito madudugtungan at kung dapat bang ihanay ko na sa ibang istilo ang bawat katha.

Gayunpaman, ang bawat tinta ng bawat kataga'y iisa lang ang diin -- isang mensaheng hindi ko kayang sambitin, hindi kayang sambitin nang harapan kaya't katulad ni Rizal, mas nanaisin kong ganito ang maging istilo ng mapagdamdaming paghihimagsik. Isang mensaheng hindi ko kayang bigyang pamagat at mananatiling isang alamat --- alamat na hindi ko wari kung makakarating ba sayo o hindi.
Sasarhan ko na ang plumang may umaapaw na pagbulong ng lahat, pagkat ngayon: ikaw naman sana ang magsulat. Ngayon, ikaw naman sana ang magbigay ng pamagat -- isang pamagat kung may "tayo" pa nga ba sa huling mga linya o tutuldukan na lang ba natin ito at lilikha ng panibagong kabanata.
Hindi man naisin
Ikaw ay nasa isip pa rin
Sinubukang limutin
Damdamin para sayo ay di kayang tiisin

Lahat ng lungkot na sa aking puso'y, iyong iniukit
Nakasulat sa papel, sa dingding doon nakadikit
Mga saloobing puno ng hinanakit
Itatago at kikimkimin, isasabay na lamang sa aking pagpikit

Sabi mo "hindi mo ako iiwan"
Tugon ko "ikaw lang magpakailaman"
Subalit ngayon ako'y nangungulila
Hindi malaman kung bakit laging nakatulala

Sinta, ano ba ang aking nagawa?
Hindi ko sukat akalain, na ang pag ibig natin ay biglang mawawala
Sa aking pag-iisa, susubukang isagawa
Ang paglimot sa ating masasayang ala-ala

icm
Minsan gagamit ng payak na salita
Ngunit ito'y uusigin ng iilan;
Minsa'y sisisid at muling hihinga
Ngunit tatadtarin ng masasakit na salita.

Kung ang pagsusulat ay pagmulat
Ba't hindi na lang maging simple sa pagpili ng bawat salita't parirala?
Ba't hindi diretsahin nang ang punto'y maging kalma?
Kung saan walang tensyon, ayos pa't plantsado.

Minsa'y wala namang nais ipahiwatig
Tanging ang letra'y nilalaro't nagiging bukambibig
Wala nga bang dahilan?
O ayaw mo na lamang lumaban?

Sa mundong ginagalawan
Hindi lahat makaiintindi
Hindi lahat makikiayon
Pagkat hindi iisa ang bida
May iilang ekstra sa eksena
Kaya marapat na handa ka.

Ang pagsulat ay malaya
Kaya naman hindi tugma ang bawat kataga
Ganyan ang nadudulot ng demokrasya
Malaya ka nga, pero hindi na maganda 'pag sobra.

Kung babasahin, minsa'y nakapapanting ng tainga
Ano ba ang ipinaglalaban sa pagtaas ng tono niya?
Ang pagsulat nga'y musika rin
Kung mali ang basa sa tono'y hindi maganda ang himig
Parang kapeng depende sayo ang magiging timpla't panlasa.

Isang simpleng mamamayan sa magulong pamamalakad
Dagdagan pa nang nagsisipagsalipadpad na dungis ng bayan
Hindi ka nag-iisa, ganun din ang pakiramdam ko.

Ngunit ang bawat Pilipino sumasabay sa himig ng Lupang Hinirang
Nasaan nga ba ang sinasabing "alab ng puso?"
Tila ang bahaging ito ng liriko'y walang saysay sa iba
Ang pluma ng ila'y wala palang tinta
Ngunit patuloy pa rin, walang nagagawa
Walang ginagagawa, walang nais na pagbabago.

Ganoon kahalaga ang pagbitaw ng bawat salita
Sa bawat punto, bawat espasyo, tuldok at kama
Mayroong layong nakapag-iisa
Mayroong sentimyentong ipinangangalandakan
Mayroong uusbong na himagsikan --
Mabuti man o masama.

Abstract/ abstrak
Mabuti pang ganyan ang pagsulat
Nang hiwatig ay pansarili lamang
Ngunit ang leksyo'y hindi manganganak
Hindi aabot sa mga apo ng bagong henerasyon.

Bale wala ang salita
Kung ang mga ito'y walang aksyon;
Bale wala ang salita..
Kung ang puso'y wala namang direksyon.

(6/28/14 @xirlleelang)
Ako’y modernong karpintero
Sa henerasyong baon sa utang,
Hindi pa man isilang,
Ang kamalaya’y limot at simot na.

Puros kalyo ang latay
Sa pares na kamay
Na ang sigaw ay pagbabago
Diktahan man kahit demokrasya pa,
Lahat tila may mantsa’t tatak pulitika.

May direksyon ang pagdisenyo
Pahalang sa kapwa-tao,
Samantalang ang kabila’y
Ang labi’y eksperto sa pagsayad sa lupa
Patungo sa ulap at bituin
Kung saan naroon raw ang Maykapal.

Narito ako sa kanilang tagpuan
Tatawid sa kalyeng hindi masilayan
Bingi sa sanlibutan
Minsang pinaligua’t sinabunan ng kadiliman.

Narito ako,
Sa sentro’y may hanap-hanap
Kilabot ng pagtahi sa sugat ay titiisin.
Pagkat ang latay, hindi man nasaksihan
Ramdam maging sa tadyang
Na akin daw ay pinagmulan.

Kung mararapatin lamang
Ng lupang minsa’y naging gintong bayan
Na pang-habambuhay siya’y lisanin
At sa pagbukang-liwayway, tatakbo sa Liwanag.

Walang karapatan ang takipsilim na uminda
Pagkat ang Haring Araw
Sisikat at yuyupakan ang kanyang dangal,
Siyang isang pobre’t salat sa Katotohanan.

Niyapos ko ang buhok
At pinahid sa mansanas, sa mangga’t
Maging sa dagat na sagisag ng kalayaan.

Ako’y tumakas
Tangan ang sandata ng buhay;
Pakuwari ko’y walang himagsikan
Ang siyang muling sisiklab
Pagkat ang laban ay tapos na noon pa man.

Puting papel at plumang walang tinta
Ang iniwan sa akin ng Ama
Hindi ko mawari sa paanong paraan ba
Maililimbag ang isusulat nitong pluma.

Ngunit ang tukso
Na madungisan ang pahinang puti
Ang puro’t walang bahid ng itim at kulay bahaghari,
Alam ko, balang araw
Mapupunan ito, hindi ng salita
Bagkus ng larawang sa sansinukob
Ay hahagkan ang bawat nilalang
Itatas muli ang bandila -
Silang puro ang tiwala sa Pintor ng Pagbabago.

(5/23/14 @xirlleelang)
Kapagka ang yeso ang ipinambato
Doon sa madaldal na estudyante mo,
At saka-sakaling tamaan ang ulo,
Bala ang babalik sayo mismong noo!

Kapagka pambura'y ipahid sa mukha
Niyong mag-aaral na tatanga-tanga,
Pakaiwasan mo't baka maging kawa
Yaong igaganti sa iyong ginawa!

Kapagka ang pluma ang siyang ginamit
Sayong panghuhusga'y mag-ingat na labis;
Sapagkat di tinta yaong ipapalit,
Kundi ang dugo **** mas nakakahigit!

Kapagka ang luha'y mamatak sa lupa
Niyong estudyanteng labis na nagdusa--
Pakaasahan mo't gaganti ang bata,
Ika'y sisingilin hanggang sa pagtanda!
Wala hong personalan, trabaho lang!
JK Cabresos Jan 2012
Sa pluma ni Jose Rizal?

Sa itak ni Andres Bonifacio?
© 2012
George Andres Jan 2017
kailan ba nabuhay ang mga manunulat?

sa lahat pagkakataon, kumukuha lang sila ng materyal, ng inspirasyon, ng hangin sa baga ng apoy.

kung iniisip **** ibinigay na nila ang lahat sa'yo, pakaisipin mo ring marami silang nakuha mula sa'yo: ang alon ng buhok mo, ang tsokolate **** mata, pantay na mga ngipin, nakakaakit **** ngiti

ngunit higit sa lahat nang 'yon, ikaw pa rin ang talo, bakit?
dahil minahal ka nila upang iguhit nang tulad nang sa mga pintor: delikado, misteryoso at orihinal.

kahit pa ilang tauhan na ang nagdaan, makikita mo ang pagkakaiba ng oras, panahon at lugar; pagkapusyaw at pagkalamlam, katingkaran o putla ng kulay mo sa tuwing magkahawak kayo ng kamay.

ikaw ang talo, dahil kahit sinong gagawa ng sariling istorya, ikaw; na tinutukoy niya ay ang laging kontrabida. 'hanggat hindi natututong magsulat ang leon, palaging papupurihan ng mga istorya ang mandirigma.'
ikaw ang nang-iwan, unang nilapitan, unang bumitaw sa magpakailanman,
ang hindi lumingon

sa bawat pagtawag sa pangalan **** kirot na ngayon ang katumbas
para bang kalamansing piniga sa sugat na kailanma'y di naghilom at naglaho.
pero sa panahong bumakat na sa papiro ang mga letra, hindi na lamang siya ang luluha sa pagkawala mo, ni maiihi sa kwentong una kayong nagkatagpo

kailan ba nagkaroon ng pagkakataong inisip lamang ng manunulat ang ngayon at hindi ang bukas na isusulat niya ang mga nangyari nang araw na 'yon?

ang unang beses mo siyang halikan sa pisngi, ang panay na pagdantay mo sa kanyang balikat at pagkahawak sa kanyang braso?

kailan ba niya malilimutan at ilang beses pa niyang pauulit-ulitin ang gunita ng pagpatak ng mga luha mo sa harapan niya nang walang dahilan kundi dahil masaya kang kasama siya?

kailan ba nabuhay ang isang eskribo?

sa simula pa lamang ng panahon, kasiping niya gabi-gabi ay ang tinta ng pluma at papel sa harap ng init ng gasera at nagbabagang puso.

mamahalin ka niya gamit ang buhay na mga salita
papatayin ka niya hangga't di ka na makaahon sa lalim ng bangin kung saan inimbak ang pagtingin niya sa'yo
nabuhay siya nang dumating ka
nang mga panahong ang mga oras ng kabataan ay itinatapon na, ikaw ang naging gasolina
upang magliyab siya
oo ikaw na irog niya

nabuhay siya upang buhayin ka magpakailanman
PoemsFor....
1916
Stephanie Jan 2020
Ikaw ang takbuhan sa mga oras na walang wala..

Ang ibig kong sabihin sa walang wala ay yun bang walang wala na kong maibuhos na luha,

Walang wala na kong malapitan,

Walang wala na kong makapitan,

Wala nang gustong makinig,

Wala nang interesado, naubos na kasi ultimo ang para sa sarili.

Ikaw lang ang natatangi.

Ang lakas pala ng loob kong magalit sa mga mang-iiwan, naisip kong wala rin pala akong karapatan.

Ganoon din ako..

Binitawan kita kapalit ng kasiyahan.

Nakangiti ka sa akin habang hinahatid ako sa napakagandang hantungan.

Baligtad na ang mesa.

Nandito na ko.... muli.

Lalakad patungo sa iyo na may dala dalang pluma at papel

Iguguhit ang pait, ngingiti dahil ito na naman tayo sa puntong ito at hindi ko mahanap ang mga tamang salita

Nalimot ko na ata ang tamang pakikipagtalastasan.

Alam kong mauuwi na naman sa tipikal na kamustahan.

Hindi ko inakalang babalik tayo sa nakaraan habang umuusad ang mga kamay ng orasan

Mapagbiro.

Hindi ako handa sa pagsalubong ng taon

Bakit ko nakikita ang mga aninong matagal nang nilamon ng liwanag

Bakit muling nagdurugo ang mga sugat na matagal nang naghilom

Hindi ako naniniwala sa swerte.

Walang swerte. Walang sumugal na hindi natalo.

Buti na lang mayroon akong babalikan.

Ikaw yung kaibigan na hindi lumilisan.

Matagal ang isang taon,

Sumulat ako ng mga tulang kawangis mo

Binuo ko sila na parang mga bahagi ko

Akala ko ay tapos na...

Kung ang pagsulat ay paglaya, hindi ba dapat ay nakakalag na sa akin ang tanikala?

O mali.. baka wala talagang paglaya

Paano kung nililibot ko lamang ang malawak na hawla nang may huwad na pag-asa?

Minasdan ko ang obrang nilikha ng dekada,

Makulay, sa unang tingin ay puno ng pangarap

Parang nobelang nagsasalaysay, at kapag naroon ka na sa kasukdulan ng tunggalian,

Nanaisin **** isara ang pahina..

Makikiusap ang nobela sa isang pagkakataong sana'y siya ay tapusin hanggang huling kabanata...

Napaluha ako ng matindi dahil isa pa lang trahedya ang nobela.

Teka.. teka..

Buburahin ang ilang metapora.

Masyadong madrama.

Malayo sa imaheng gusto kong makita at ipakita

Ngunit tila hindi hawak ng aking kamay ang panulat,

Hinablot nang marahas ng pusong gustong kumawala

Ganon ata talaga sa muling pagkikita pagkatapos ng matagal na pagkakawalay...

Puno ng emosyon.

Magugulo ang burador, wala nang patutunguhan ang tula.

Hindi bale.

Hindi naman dapat na maging maganda ang porma ng tula,

Hindi importante ang sukat at tugma,

Sa susunod na babasa ka ng tula,

Nagbibigay ka ng tunay na pag-asa sa may akda.

Kasinungalingan ang bigkasing masaya ako, ngunit aaminin kong may tuwa, may katiting na pagsigla sa muli nating pagkikita,

Maraming salamat, Sining ng Malayang Pagsulat.
This is my another piece which is written in Filipino. And, it is a free verse poem.
Jose Remillan Oct 2013
Sa'yo ko ito unang naunawaan.

Ang paghalik ng pluma sa
Papel ay hindi sapat upang
Humalik ang katotohanan
Sa katarungan, dahil tangan

ng puso ang tinta at talinghagang
Nakakubli sa wagas na pag-ibig
Sa kapwa at kay Bathala.
Ang tinig ng mga batas ay

Tinig ng mga sibilisasyon at
Rebolusyon ng mga sikmura
Laban sa makina, ng makina
Laban sa mahika ng salapi at

Pighati ng lumang simoy. Nawa,
Sa pagimbulog mo sa tugatog ng
Himpapawid patungo sa paghahanap
Ng katotohon, alalahanin mo ang

Mga piraso ng iyong sarili na naiwan sa
Akin: "
Tanging sa hiwaga lamang ng*
Pag-ibig matatagpuan ang lalim ng lohika."
Ito ang iyong bilin.

Ito ang aking habilin.
For my beloved teacher and inspiration Dr. ROLANDO A. BERNALES. I wish your success in the Bar Examinations. Dr. Bernales does not only possess the three Ls of the law profession (law, logic, and language), he holds in his heart the most important L a lawyer must have, and that is "Love."

http://www.rabernalesliterature.com

University of the Philippines-Diliman
October 7, 2013
Taltoy Aug 2017
Tila ilog na walang katapusan,
Ang mga emosyong aking nararamdaman,
Walang preno, walang busina,
Walang tigil sa pag-agos ng malaya.

Akala ko'y walang humpay,
'tong mga pinanghuhugutan sa buhay,
Ang halos lahat ay may hangganan,
Ang mga bagay nga pala'y may katapusan.

Sabihin mang ako'y makata,
Isang manununula,
Manunula kasama ang kanyang pluma,
Ngunit pluma nya'y wala nang tinta.

Tila ba binaon sa nakaraan,
Ang minsang nakahiligan,
Pilitin ma'y walang maisulat,
'tong makatang naging salat.

Iyon ay kanyang alaala,
Naiisip sa bawat pagbasa,
Ng mga tulang sya din ang gumawa,
Mga tulang di nya na ngayon magawa.
Moonchild Nov 2018
Sa isang parihabang kwaderno
Nasilayan ko ang iba't ibang kulay ng panulat
Mula sa malayo, hawak hawak niya ang pluma
Umaasang may malalathalang kakaiba

Sa kaniyang utak na blanko't walang kusa
Nais lang naman ng kaniyang puso ang malaman
Kung mayroon pa nga bang siyang pag-asa
Pag-asang makalikha ng bagong yugto at makatakas sa kulungan

Mistula bang napakaraming emosyon ang nanaig
Onti-onti niyang nabubuksan ang kaniyang mga matang tago sa realidad
Sinulat niya ang unang saknong ng kaniyang tula at isinaad,

"Sana'y matagal na akong namulat sa katotohanang panaginip lamang ang makasama ka magpakailanman."

Bawat kulay na aking nasilayan mula sa kwaderno'y nabubura
Ang lalaking manunulat ay sumisigla
Napagtanto niya na kinakailangan niyang magparaya
Magparaya upang siyang patuloy nang lumigaya
A la luz de la tarde moribunda
Recorro el olvidado cementerio,
Y una dulce piedad mi pecho inunda
Al pensar de la muerte en el misterio.

Del occidente a las postreras luces
Mi errabunda mirada sólo advierte
Los toscos leños de torcidas cruces,
Despojos en la playa de la Muerte.

De madreselvas que el Abril enflora,
Cercado humilde en torno se levanta,
Donde vierte sus lágrimas la aurora,
Y donde el ave, por las tardes, canta.

Corre cerca un arroyo en hondo cauce
Que a trechos lama verdinegra viste,
Y de la orilla se levanta un sauce,
Cual de la Muerte centinela triste.

Y al oír el rumor en la maleza,
Mi mente inquiere, de la sombra esclava,
Si es rumor de la vida que ya empieza,
O rumor de la vida que se acaba.

«¿Muere todo?» me digo. En el instante
Alzarse veo de las verdes lomas,
Para perderse en el azul radiante,
Una blanca bandada de palomas.

Y del bardo sajón el hondo verso,
Verso consolador, mi oído hiere:
No hay muerte porque es vida el universo;
Los muertos no están muertos...  ¡Nada muere!
¡No hay muerte! ¡todo es vida!...
                                                     
El sol que ahora,
Por entre nubes de encendida grana
Va llegando al ocaso, ya es aurora
Para otros mundos, en región lejana.

Peregrina en la sombra, el alma yerra
Cuando un perdido bien llora en su duelo.
Los dones de los cielos a la tierra
No mueren... ¡Tornan de la tierra al cielo!
Si ya llegaron a la eterna vida
Los que a la sima del sepulcro ruedan,
Con júbilo cantemos su partida,
¡Y lloremos más bien por los que quedan!

Sus ojos vieron, en la tierra, cardos,
Y sangraron sus pies en los abrojos...
¡Ya los abrojos son fragantes nardos,
Y todo es fiesta y luz para sus ojos!

Su pan fue duro, y largo su camino,
Su dicha terrenal fue transitoria...
Si ya la muerte a libertarlos vino,
¿Porqué no alzarnos himnos de victoria?
La dulce faz en el hogar querida,
Que fue en las sombras cual polar estrella:
La dulce faz, ausente de la vida,
¡Ya sonríe más fúlgida y más bella!

La mano que posada en nuestra frente,
En horas de dolor fue blanda pluma,
Transfigurada, diáfana, fulgente,
Ya como rosa de Sarón perfuma.

Y los ojos queridos, siempre amados,
Que alegraron los páramos desiertos,
Aunque entre sombras los miréis cerrados,
¡Sabed que están para la luz abiertos!

Y el corazón que nos amó, santuario
De todos nuestros sueños terrenales,
Al surgir de la noche del osario,
Es ya vaso de aromas edenales.

Para la nave errante ya hay remanso;
Para la mente humana, un mundo abierto;
Para los pies heridos... ya hay descanso,
Y para el pobre náufrago... ya hay puerto.
No hay muerte, aunque se apague a nuestros ojos
Lo que dio a nuestra vida luz y encanto;
¡Todo es vida, aunque en míseros despojos
Caiga en raudal copioso nuestro llanto!

No hay muerte, aunque a la tumba a los que amamos
(La frente baja y de dolor cubiertos),
Llevemos a dormir... y aunque creamos
Que los muertos queridos están muertos.

Ni fue su adiós eterna despedida...
Como buscando un sol de primavera
Dejaron las tinieblas de la vida
Por nueva vida, en luminosa esfera.

Padre, madre y hermanos, de fatigas
En el mundo sufridos compañeros,
Grermen fuisteis ayer... ¡hoy sois espigas,
Espigas del Señor en los graneros!

Dejaron su terrena vestidura
Y ya lauro inmortal radia en sus frentes;
Y aunque partieron para excelsa altura,
Con nosotros están... no están ausentes!
Son luz para el humano pensamiento,
Rayo en la estrella y música en la brisa.
¿Canta el aura en las frondas?...  ¡Es su acento!
¿Una estrella miráis?...  ¡Es su sonrisa!

Por eso cuando en horas de amargura
El horizonte ennegrecido vemos,
Oímos como voces de dulzura
Pero de dónde vienen... ¡no sabemos!

¡Son ellos... cerca están!  Y aunque circuya
Luz eterna a sus almas donde moran
En el placer nuestra alegría es suya,
Y en el dolor, con nuestro llanto lloran.

A nuestro lado van.  Son luz y egida
De nuestros pasos débiles e inciertos
No hay muerte...  ¡Todo alienta, todo es vida!
¡Y los muertos queridos no están muertos!

Porque al caer el corazón inerte
Un mundo se abre de infinitas galas,
¡Y como eterno galardón, la Muerte
Cambia el sudario del sepulcro, en alas!
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
this is truly a welcome break from:
freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

     pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

   a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
     they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
                
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                   a man with...
a gamble...
         i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

   the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
       there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
   even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
             past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
     i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
   and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

             Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
               lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
         i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

   when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
   weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
   much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

           chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
           da pacem domine...
             agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
         there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
   new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
       i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
             kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.
CLStewart Dec 2015
Warm skin- wet leaves- and orange peels make for a diet Im used to.
Skeletal frames and browned jags with burnt edges turned to mucus I am not.

Bread called pan with a side of Natilla!  common on the sometimes desolate streets I once called home- BUT alas now they are filled with
Feliz Navidad and Holiday Greetings.

I came at a time when life was in turmoil and the pestilence of my American soul bled no longer to the longing of old faithful.

I came and went, my inquiries have been exhausted and the version of me has returned.
I still find that I long for your cafe and *******.
Oh but alas I am home

pluma de escribir -mi querida
Señor, deja que diga la gloria de tu raza,
la gloria de los hombres de bronce, cuya maza
melló de tantos yelmos y escudos la osadía:
!oh caballeros tigres!, oh caballeros leones!,
!oh! caballeros águilas!, os traigo mis canciones;
!oh enorme raza muerta!, te traigo mi elegía.Aquella tarde, en el Poniente augusto,
el crepúsculo audaz era en una pira
como de algún atrida o de algún justo;
llamarada de luz o de mentira
que incendiaba el espacio, y parecía
que el sol al estrellar sobre la cumbre
su mole vibradora de centellas,
se trocaba en mil átomos de lumbre,
y esos átomos eran las estrellas.Yo estaba solo en la quietud divina
del Valle. ¿Solo? ¡No! La estatua fiera
del héroe Cuauhtémoc, la que culmina
disparando su dardo a la pradera,
bajo del palio de pompa vespertina
era mi hermana y mi custodio era.Cuando vino la noche misteriosa
-jardín azul de margaritas de oro-
y calló todo ser y toda cosa,
cuatro sombras llegaron a mí en coro;
cuando vino la noche misteriosa
-jardín azul de margaritas de oro-.Llevaban una túnica espledente,
y eran tan luminosamente bellas
sus carnes, y tan fúlgida su frente,
que prolongaban para mí el Poniente
y eclipsaban la luz de las estrellas.Eran cuatro fantasmas, todos hechos
de firmeza, y los cuatro eran colosos
y fingían estatuas, y sus pechos
radiaban como bronces luminosos.Y los cuatro entonaron almo coro...
Callaba todo ser y toda cosa;
y arriba era la noche misteriosa
jardín azul de margaritas de oro.Ante aquella visión que asusta y pasma,
yo, como Hamlet, mi doliente hermano,
tuve valor e interrogué al fantasma;
mas mi espada temblaba entre mi mano.-¿Quién sois vosotros, exclamé, que en presto
giro bajáis al Valle mexicano?
Tuve valor para decirles esto;
mas mi espada temblaba entre mi mano.-¿Qué abismo os engendró? ¿De qué funesto
limbo surgís? ¿Sois seres, humo vano?
Tuve valor para decirles esto;
mas mi espada temblaba entre mi mano.-Responded, continué. Miradme enhiesto
y altivo y burlador ante el arcano.
Tuve valor para decirles esto;
¡mas mi espada temblaba entre mi mano...!Y un espectro de aquéllos, con asombros
vi que vino hacia mí, lento y sin ira,
y llevaba una piel sobre los hombros
y en las pálidas manos una lira;
y me dijo con voces resonantes
y en una lengua rítmica que entonces
comprendí: -«¿Que quiénes somos? Los gigantes
de una raza magnífica de bronces.»Yo me llamé Netzahualcóyotl y era
rey de Texcoco; tras de lid artera,
fui despojado de mi reino un día,
y en las selvas erré como alimaña,
y el barranco y la cueva y la montaña
me enseñaron su augusta poesía.»Torné después a mi sitial de plumas,
y fui sabio y fui bueno; entre las brumas
del paganismo adiviné al Dios Santo;
le erigí una pirámide, y en ella,
siempre al fulgor de la primera estrella
y al son del huéhuetl, le elevé mi canto.»Y otro espectro acercóse; en su derecha
levaba una macana, y una fina
saeta en su carcaje, de ónix hecha;
coronaban su testa plumas bellas,
y me dijo: -«Yo soy Ilhuicamina,
sagitario del éter, y mi flecha
traspasa el corazón de las estrellas.»Yo hice grande la raza de los lagos,
yo llevé la conquista y los estragos
a vastas tierras de la patria andina,
y al tornar de mis bélicas porfías
traje pieles de tigre, pedrerías
y oro en polvo... ¡Yo soy Ilhuicamina!»Y otro espectro me dijo: -«En nuestros cielos
las águilas y yo fuimos gemelos:
¡Soy Cuauhtémoc!  Luchando sin desmayo
caí... ¡porque Dios quiso que cayera!
Mas caí como águila altanera:
viendo al sol, y apedreada por el rayo.»El español martirizó mi planta
sin lograr arrancar de mi garganta
ni un grito, y cuando el rey mi compañero
temblaba entre las llamas del brasero:
-¿Estoy yo, por ventura, en un deleite?,
le dije, y continué, sañudo y fiero,
mirando hervir mis pies en el aceite...»Y el fantasma postrer llegó a mi lado:
no venía del fondo del pasado
como los otros; mas del bronce mismo
era su pecho, y en sus negros ojos
fulguraba, en vez de ímpetus y arrojos,
la tranquila frialdad del heroísmo.Y parecióme que aquel hombre era
sereno como el cielo en primavera
y glacial como cima que acoraza
la nieve, y que su sino fue, en la Historia,
tender puentes de bronce entre la gloria
de la raza de ayer y nuestra raza.Miróme con su límpida mirada,
y yo le vi sin preguntarle nada.
Todo estaba en su enorme frente escrito:
la hermosa obstinación de los castores,
la paciencia divina de las flores
y la heroica dureza del granito...¡Eras tú, mi Señor; tú que soñando
estás en el panteón de San Fernando
bajo el dórico abrigo en que reposas;
eras tú, que en tu sueño peregrino,
ves marchar a la Patria en su camino
rimando risas y regando rosas!Eras tú, y a tus pies cayendo al verte:
-Padre, te murmuré, quiero ser fuerte:
dame tu fe, tu obstinación extraña;
quiero ser como tú, firme y sereno;
quiero ser como tú, paciente y bueno;
quiero ser como tú, nieve y montaña.
Soy una chispa; ¡enséñame a ser lumbre!
Soy un gujarro; ¡enséñame a ser cumbre!
Soy una linfa: ¡enséñame a ser río!
Soy un harapo: ¡enséñame a ser gala!
Soy una pluma: ¡enséñame a ser ala,
y que Dios te bendiga, padre mío!.Y hablaron tus labios, tus labios benditos,
y así respondieron a todos mis gritos,
a todas mis ansias: -«No hay nada pequeño,
ni el mar ni el guijarro, ni el sol ni la rosa,
con tal de que el sueño, visión misteriosa,
le preste sus nimbos, ¡y tu eres el sueño!»Amar, ¡eso es todo!; querer, ¡todo es eso!
Los mundos brotaron el eco de un beso,
y un beso es el astro, y un beso es el rayo,
y un beso la tarde, y un beso la aurora,
y un beso los trinos del ave canora
que glosa las fiestas divinas de Mayo.»Yo quise a la Patria por débil y mustia,
la Patria me quiso con toda su angustia,
y entonces nos dimos los dos un gran beso;
los besos de amores son siempre fecundos;
un beso de amores ha creado los mundos;
amar... ¡eso es todo!; querer... ¡todo es eso!»Así me dijeron tus labios benditos,
así respondieron a todos mis gritos,
a todas mis ansias y eternos anhelos.
Después, los fantasmas volaron en coro,
y arriba los astros -poetas de oro-
pulsaban la lira de azur de los cielos.Mas al irte, Señor, hacia el ribazo
donde moran las sombras, un gran lazo
dejabas, que te unía con los tuyos,
un lazo entre la tierra y el arcano,
y ese lazo era otro indio: Altamirano;
bronce también, mas bronce con arrullos.Nos le diste en herencia, y luego, Juárez,
te arropaste en las noches tutelares
con tus amigos pálidos; entonces,
comprendiendo lo eterno de tu ausencia,
repitieron mi labio y mi conciencia:
-Señor, alma de luz, cuerpo de bronce.
Soy una chispa; ¡enséñame a ser lumbre!
Soy un gujarro; ¡enséñame a ser cumbre!
Soy una linfa: ¡enséñame a ser río!
Soy un harapo: ¡enséñame a ser gala!
Soy una pluma: ¡enséñame a ser ala,
y que Dios te bendiga, padre mío!.Tú escuchaste mi grito, sonreíste
y en la sombra infinita te perdiste
cantando con los otros almo coro.
Callaba todo ser y toda cosa;
y arriba era la noche misteriosa
jardín azul de margaritas de oro...
Lumaki ako na kinukwentuhan ng aking inay bago ako tumungo sa panaginip ko tuwing gabi.
Kinakantahan niya ako ng mga oyayi’t hele. Hinding hindi ko malilimutan ang mga gabing iyon.
Hindi lang ang tugtog ng awitin ng kanta niya ang pinakinggan ko, pati na rin ang pintig.
Pintig ng tibok ng puso naming mag ina na onti onting nagtutugma sa tugtog ng kanta na inawit naming dalawa.
At tuwing magsisimula ang awit, ako’y sumasabay… A-Ba-Ka-Da…
Ngunit hanggang ngayon, hanggang Da lang ang aking natandaan. Ang aking inay ay may katawa-tawang paraan ng pagkanta ng awiting ito. Matatapos siya sa Da, ipagpapatuloy sa Du at magsisimula ulit sa A at sasabihing “aking anak hindi kita sinukuan.” “A-Ba-Ka-Da-Du-A-Ba-… aking anak hindi kita sinukuan.” Hindi ko naunawaan ang kantahing ito at hindi ko inisip na unawain. Isang gabi, kumuha siya ng pluma at papel. Sumulat siya ngunit hindi ko ito nabasa. Ibinilin niya saakin na basahin ito sa tamang panahon. Hindi ko ito naintindihan pero talagang naghintay ako para sa sinasabi niyang panahon. Ilang taon ang lumipas, ngayon, ako’y nakaharap sa kanya(sa puntod niya), hawak ang papel na sinulatan niya noong ako’y munting musmos pa. Nakatingin ako sakanya, hinihiling kay Bathala na maibabalik ko ang mga taon na lumipas.
Isa. Dalawa. Tatlo. Onti-onting tumulo ang aking mga luha.
Umawit ako ng mahinhin… A… Ba… Ka… Da…Du… A… Ba… Aking inay, kailanma’y di kita sinukuan…
Ito na siguro ang tamang panahong ihinahayag ng aking mahal na ina. Binuksan ko ang papel na kanyang sinulatan. At saaking pagbuklat, ako’y nagulat at natulala. Mayroong labing apat lamang na salitang nakasulat dito. “Ang BAlakid ay KAkalat at DAdating. DUmating Ang BAlakid, aking anak hindi kita sinukuan.” Ngayon ay naunawaan ko na ang ipinararating ng aking inay. Gusto ko siyang kausapin sa huling pagkakataon para sabihin na salamat. Salamat sakanya kasi kahit na DUmating ang mga balakid ay tinuruan niya akong lumaban. Kaya ngayon, handa na ako sa mga DAdating na pagsubok dahil alam kong nasa tabi ko lamang siya.
The language used is filipino.
090316

Pambungad Mo'y matatamis na mga ngiti
Habang bitbit ko ang mga sandaling nilisan ang pagbati.
Batid ng panlasa ang mapait na takipsilim,
Ang kahapong yumurak sa Iyong kariktan.

May iilang sumisirit ng kandilang bilang
Mayroon ding mga nagwawaldas ng dila;
May nagwawalis ng kalat at siyang binabasura,
Mayroon ding naglalakad ng nakaluhod.

Naging tigang ang lupaing napuno ng banyaga
Sa haplos ng mga nanlilisik na mga mangungusig.
Naging batas ang ideolohiyang makasarili,
Itatakwil ang Perlas na sinisid pa't buhat sa bahaghari.

Tila mga kandadong walang susi
Ang pagsaboy ng mga dikdikang tutuligsa sa Bayan.
Dalamhati sa mga Anak ni Juan
Mga bayaning umani ng nagniningas na rebolusyon.

Ramdam ko ang pluma ni Rizal
Sa kamandag nito'y henerasyon ay aahon.
Bulag, pipi't bingi'y aakma't aaklas ng panalangin
Bangon Pilipinas! Ikaw ang natatangi naming Perlas!
Pare-parehas tayong Pilipino, lusubin natin ang Langit, bitbit ang mga panalangin. Hindi Siya bingi, Tayo ang Pilipinas at Siya ang tanging Batas!
090716

Sa gunita na lamang ba mabubungkal ang mga nangagdaan?
Pagkat sakdal-lungkot at sisi ang mga anak Mo, Inang Bayan.
Inalipusta’t pinaslang pa, ang mumunti **** katarungan!

Maglakbay ka sa lansangang walang hanggan
Lilipad ka rin sa alapaaap at abang kalawakan.
Humiyak Ka hanggang sa rurok ng sukbo’t hinanakit
Siyang lunas na mabisa sa dusa’t himutok na pasakit.

Itaas Mo ang ang noong aliwalas,
Taglayin ang silahis ng dunong at sining;
Kumilos nang may pagbubuntong hininga’t Iyong lagutin
Ang gapos ng Iyong diwa’t kumukulog na damdamin.

Sagwil sa bawat pikit-matang kaligayahan
Ang natamasa **** pagkabalisa
Buhat sa kurtinang manlulupig ng Liwanag.
Buhay pa si Rizal at hindi Ka itatakwil
Tayo’y hihinga pa’t hahabi sa pluma’t papel.
-Pluma, las musas de mi genio autoras
versos me piden hoy. ¡Alto, a escribillos!
-Yo sólo escribiré, señor Burguillos,
éstas que me dictó rimas sonoras.
-¿A Góngora me acota a tales horas?
Arrojaré tijeras y cuchillos,
pues en queriendo hacer versos sencillos
arrímese dos musas cantimploras.
Dejemos la campaña, el monte, el valle,
y alabemos señores. -No le entiendo.
¿Morir quiere de hambre? -Escriba y calle.
-A mi ganso me vuelvo en prosiguiendo,
que es desdicha después de no premialle,
nacer volando y acabar mintiendo.
JOJO C PINCA Nov 2017
“Uncle **” utang sa’yo ng Vietnam ang kanyang kalayaan,
Ikaw ang amang mapagpalaya na sa kanila ay gumabay.
Ikaw ang dakilang liwanag na sa kanila’y pumatnubay,
Kahit sa gitna ng laksang lumbay hindi mo sila pinabayaan.
Wala kang katulad sa buong Vietnam, ikaw ang bayaning tunay.

Sa ilalim ng iyong pamumuno walong taon ninyong nilabanan
Ang mga Pranses sa mga palayan, bundok at lansangan. At
Matapos ang walong taon ng nakakapagod na pakikibaka sa
Wakas ay napasuko ninyo ang mga kaaway.

Subalit di-naglaon lumitaw ang isang bagong kaaway,
Ang Estados Unidos na s’yang bagong halimaw na gustong
Humalili sa mga kolonyalistang Pranses. Lahat ng kalupitan
Sa inyo ay ipinadanas subalit sa udyok at impluwensya mo
Hindi kayo sumuko. Matapos ang labing-anim na taon ng
Madugong pakikipag-tuos natalo din ang dambuhalang kaaway.
Isa kang tunay na rebolusyunaryo na karapat-dapat na mamuno.

Subalit isa rin palang makata na sumusulat ng mga tula,
Mga tulang gumigising sa puso’t kaluluwa ng bayan.
Sumusulat ka ng mga tula habang nakahimpil sa gubat,
Habang pinapanood ang pag-aani ng palay at nung ikaw ay
Nabilanggo dun sa Tsina sa loob ng labing-apat na buwan.
Wala kang ibang kapiling kundi ang iyong mga tula.

Binasa ko kahapon ang mga tula mo, ramdam ko ang
Bawat mensahe nito. Alam ko na sa bawat paghalik ng pluma
Sa papel ay kasama nito ang kaluluwa mo at ang sigaw ng puso
Mo. Mga tulang rebolusyunaryo ang tema at dating.

Ang dahon at bulaklak ay tiyak na malalanta pero hindi ang iyong mga tula; mananatili itong buhay at naka-kintal sa puso ng Vietnam. Wala kana nga Uncle ** pero lalagi kang buhay sa puso ng mga kababayan mo at sa bawat puso ng makatang rebolusyunaryo na tulad mo.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
precursor - title correlation
body -

mind of:

C                oh

    oh                      Ri

n'ah.   (half an hour fiddling with a 502 bad
gateway; traffic these days! jeez!)

I.

it don't know what's more frustrating for the reasons that it's so good... i can't choose... it's a close call... either listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers' B-sides from By The Way... ugh! why didn't they release that as a double album! Stadium Arcadium was not that good as a double-album... all the prior albums are MAGIC... literally... for ****'s sake: GOLDMINE is literally just that... there's that... i can't concentrate on making my own translation of Ovid... i'm yet to scribble down the translation i have... i can't even drink my whiskey properly... the other frustrating focus? watching Armand Duplantis break his own world record of 6.21metres... the ****** has still at least 10cm in him! a record that will have to stand-still for the next 20+ years... i'll be dead before this record is broken... Сергій Бубка best be sleeping... i'm listening to the music, reliving the end of the World Athletics and trying to heel-myself-in-the-buttocks: better get a move on boy... hmm! "trying"... i'm actually heeling myself in the buttocks: no time to wait... one can wait for a bus... one cannot for one's own incentive... ol' Lizzy is coming up the mountain... she's coming with the proper closure of the 20th century... however many popes she outlived... however many prime ministers and american presidents... come on Lizzie... just one more year... i'm actually dying to spend money with whittle Charlie printed on the notes... my fingers are itching... but **** me... music so good By The Way should have been a double-album... no! Stadium Arcadium was not the salvagable double-album worth session... i'm getting "schizophrenic" vibes... i know that poetry is not an entertaining medium: it's a complacent self-congratulatory, thereupeutic load of *******... it's obnixious when staged: the exasperated art of speaking with speed... today i realised that i much prefer drinking to having ***... i like the preservation of my brain with a hard-on of itchy fingers than any actual ******* hard-ons... the knife opening oysters or plucking out the eyes of deer... best the eyes be gauged out... than having deer stare into car lights... hybrid confusions of static, motivated to move... frozen in a make-shift imitation of root and clay and copper: bam! one more statue down...

II.

it's no wonder why i'm not looking for a girlfriend, it's no longer bewildering why i'm not looking for a wife, at best i'm looking out for that ancient custom of Roman emperors: to become a foster father, a surrogate - i'm yet to find a match-up... i almost did, but she undermined my chances by undermining her own seriousness in such affairs... but clarity does come... as much as i might be a surrogate father to her son or daughter: i wouldn't be faithful to her... i would steal the night and run away into a brothel... but there's something else... the whole dynamic of publishing has changed... the whole idea of a library has also changed... i own more valuable books in my private collection than the public library of Romford... which is me peering at the dire straits of what the public is fed... i know why i don't aspire for pair-bonding... perhaps man so levelled aspired toward the imitation of birds a long time ago... perhaps swans are truly noble creatures: for one hears of widow and widower swans... perhaps parrots: born from those monstrous beasts that were the dinosaurs can imitate our talk... all that's this reality within the confines of "perhaps": nonetheless, it's all true... but perhaps being the mammal that i am... i moved from a community of chimpanzees into a solo-ride of imitation-bear... perhaps i only entertain the opposite *** on the encounter of ***... i couldn't land a conversation with a woman outside the constrictive-framework of work, so much so: i would abhor the mindset of men that go on dates with women: buy them food and then EXPECT... i leave that ******* out in my interactions... pay-up-front for what you're about to receive otherwise don't play cat while the woman plays mouse... or rather... a rat in cat's clothing: the woman therefore becoming a rat-trap... mind you: i can't think of a more terrible idea than the modern version of: eat first, **** later... at the old ****** proverb states: a hungry ****** is angry... a filled ****** is lazy... god forbid i ever become tempted by those dating sites... i'm currently looking for the original Latin text of Ovid's the Amores book 2 poem 6... why? what i have in my hand... and what i'm finding... it's like what Robert Pinsky remarked about once: TRANSLATIONS differ so much from one translator to another...

they have done it... UEFA are mad... just to get my
accreditation for the women's Euros final
at Wembley they're asking me to bring my passport
with me... so is Wembley the JFK of Florida
          space-shuttle launch? Houston? am i leaving
the country?
                but the girls have done it...
funny: some other people are still complaining:
IT'S TOO WHITE!
   there's not enough diversity in the team...
          that's me also planning to go and live
in Kenya and become a model for toilet paper...
i'm sure i could replace that known Koala bear /
golden retriever or perhaps i could go there
and model for soap adverts...
it just so happened that racial tensions (only football
could create them) rose up for a little:
just one night the day England lost to Italy
on penalty shootouts... because... 3 black guys
were playing a rigged roulette...
            then again? me? and the African heat?
fat chance...

find me the original Elegy VI: the death of Corinna's
pet parrot...
oh man... and her name was Polly...
i sat up late last night trying to find something
interest on the television...
bam! thank you ma'am...
                       kurt cobain: montage of heck...
sort of reminded me of...
                           a SCANNER DARKLY...
                           mind you: i sometimes do enjoy
a one-man show... or at least two...
there was this brilliant show in the West End...
Stones in his Pockets...
       two actors... sharing the roles of...
                  about 15 people each...
but it was back in circa 2001...
so... maybe it was Louis Dempsey
                                                        & Sean Sloan...
mind you... i'd still love to see Samuel Beckett's
             NOT I...

Jack Trades says: i'm about to a heap
of hay of hate...
                                i'm everywhere sometimes...
if it's not music, then its visual arts,
then it's philosophy, then fine literature...
then something "oriental" in thinking...
then its coupling my fetish for Deutsche as:
father to the English zunge...
then it's back east to rummage in some Katakana...

i know why i'm single, Roger Moore remained
a bachelor until his death...
  courteous: as ever as forever always...
i'd be a terrible match-up... i've given pair-bonding
a chance: i can't bemoan why X is not Y...
the sort of men that pair-bond are claustrophilic...
they love the company of a mate...
each time i was ever in a "relationship" i already
had one foot dangling: tapping an imaginary
drum set...
recently i discovered the B-side of the Red Hot Chilli
Peppers... so for me it's a version
of keeping the 20th century alive with
the "dichotomy" of the Rolling Stones vs.
the Beatles... i'm more... R.H.C.P.'s A-sides
of R.H.C.P.'s B-sides?
                                        i'm busy...
                i'm always busy... i don't want to relax...
i want a Turkish barber to suggest that
i need  hot-towel and an arm massage after
my beard is trimmed and... i'm still going to state:
getting a Turk to trim my beard is a close
contender to oral *** from a Turkish *******...

but try finding me that original Latin of Ovid's...
ah! found it! let's see if i can compete with
my own translation... the one i originally read
and the one i found finding the original Latin
were so disparaging...

**** yes! well... there was Ted Hughes writing
about the Crow... poor ******...
should have killed himself: might have competed
with his terribly-wonderful wife of a poet...
i give her that: what noose?
best head in an oven...
and you want a shovel with that?
but this is Ovid... "complaining" about
the death of his lover's parrot...
immediately i jumped to conclusions:
not enough crackers...

(A) the Original:

Psittacus, Eois imitatrix ales ab Indis,
    occidit—exequias ite frequenter, aves!
ite, piae volucres, et plangite pectora pinnis
    et rigido teneras ungue notate genas;
horrida pro maestis lanietur pluma capillis,
    pro longa resonent carmina vestra tuba!
quod scelus Ismarii quereris, Philomela, tyranni,
    expleta est annis ista querela suis;
alitis in rarae miserum devertere funus—
    magna, sed antiqua est causa doloris Itys.
Omnes, quae liquido libratis in aere cursus,
    tu tamen ante alios, turtur amice, dole!
plena fuit vobis omni concordia vita,
    et stetit ad finem longa tenaxque fides.
quod fuit Argolico iuvenis Phoceus Orestae,
    hoc tibi, dum licuit, psittace, turtur erat.
Quid tamen ista fides, quid rari forma coloris,
    quid vox mutandis ingeniosa sonis,
quid iuvat, ut datus es, nostrae placuisse puellae?—
    infelix, avium gloria, nempe iaces!
tu poteras fragiles pinnis hebetare zmaragdos
    tincta gerens rubro Punica rostra croco.
non fuit in terris vocum simulantior ales—
    reddebas blaeso tam bene verba sono!
Raptus es invidia—non tu fera bella movebas;
    garrulus et placidae pacis amator eras.
ecce, coturnices inter sua proelia vivunt;
    forsitan et fiunt inde frequenter ****.
plenus eras minimo, nec prae sermonis amore
    in multos poteras ora vacare cibos.
nux erat esca tibi, causaeque papavera somni,
    pellebatque sitim simplicis umor aquae.
vivit edax vultur ducensque per aera gyros
    miluus et pluviae graculus auctor aquae;
vivit et armiferae cornix invisa Minervae—
    illa quidem saeclis vix moritura novem;
occidit illa loquax humanae vocis imago,
    psittacus, extremo munus ab orbe datum!
optima prima fere manibus rapiuntur avaris;
    inplentur numeris deteriora suis.
tristia Phylacidae Thersites funera vidit,
    iamque cinis vivis fratribus Hector erat.
Quid referam timidae pro te pia vota puellae—
    vota procelloso per mare rapta Noto?
septima lux venit non exhibitura sequentem,
    et stabat vacuo iam tibi Parca colo.
nec tamen ignavo stupuerunt verba palato;
    clamavit moriens lingua: 'Corinna, vale!'
Colle sub Elysio nigra nemus ilice frondet,
    udaque perpetuo gramine terra viret.
siqua fides dubiis, volucrum locus ille piarum
    dicitur, obscenae quo prohibentur aves.
illic innocui late pascuntur olores
    et vivax phoenix, unica semper avis;
explicat ipsa suas ales Iunonia pinnas,
    oscula dat cupido blanda columba mari.
psittacus has inter nemorali sede receptus
    convertit volucres in sua verba pias.
Ossa tegit tumulus—tumulus pro corpore magnus—
    quo lapis exiguus par sibi carmen habet:
"colligor ex ipso dominae placuisse sepulcro;
    ora fuere mihi plus ave docta loqui".

mein gott... in English it reads so smoothly reading
it while listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
B-sides... quixoticelixer...
teatra jam (short)... and then thinking about it...
through to and through Going Li coupled
with trouble in the pub (instrumental version)...

i will never own a car...
              mind you: i already secretely own a house...
if i keep appeasing my mother and my father:
when reality kicks in and they're dead and i'm
project solo... it's not like i'm waiting for the day...
they are hoarders of shoes and screws...
literally... no metaphor...
  on my own: i will have to recycle so much ****
before i will put the house on the market...
and? i never pledged any allegiance to Essex...
England... i have: pledged an allegiance
to the English tongue...
                 but if not the Shetland Islands...
north... "god" send me north! even as far as
Greenland!
                i'm not willing to die in a place where
villages are flaring up in a July heat...

i can't bemoan what i honestly couldn't keep...
i sometimes get mad at my father for being
so submissive to my mother...
i sometimes get so mad at my mother for only
being able to talk about her chronic pains:
i'm alligned with my grandmother
who once said: she's just like your paternal
great-grandmother... every itch and scratch...
it's like writing with chalk on a blackboard...
hey presto! ruptures of the Grand Canyon...
that ******* bollocking of: ooh! ah!
           me? i don't understand people with tattoos...
me? i collect scars...
these two fading ones on my face are a disappointment...
i thought something more pronounced
could be kept from that bicycle-crach Francis Bacon
esque imitation of painting:
   the sort of painting where you can still revel
in brush-strokes being visible...
   because it's not rigid: Renaissance form painting...

now: i can sort of imagine what men couple up...
those who fear being alone...
those not interested in art...
those mostly interested in sport... but not all sport...
just some sports...
sports that they support "passing their lineage"
with according to the cult of football teams...
not all-sports... i.e. not an interest in fencing...
swimming... certainly guys who thought:
wow! tennis is great to watch!
   but squash is so much more fun to play!
cycling... well... if you love cycling per se:
watching other people cycle is a bit: BOO-RING...
what sort of other men get married?
probably those not interested in risque ***
with prostitutes...
ones interested in making money for a woman
to spend...
me? i'm not interested in money...
                       in terms of money:
i'm more likely to spend £30 on a book than
think about a dinner date...
                      
is that...   ??? i'm not even going to ask myself
that question that begins with a buzz-word
and the letters Mmmm... miso...
                             well... what is a boy to do...
figure out what to do with his spare time...
               i don't mind cleaning the house:
who ever said that it's the duty of a woman to keep
the house clean? i like living in a household in order...
i love cooking: it's like chemistry 2.0...
                      give me a bag of Indian spices and i'll
cook up a perfect storm of a curry...
but then again: i'm not work-shy when it comes
to using heavy-duty tools akin to the KANGO...
which... i later found out was a Japanese word for
Chinese in general... or the other way round...
i'd hate to be one of those Phil Collins types of
forgetting how many hands i have
by changing gloves like i might be an octopus...

and when it comes to children?
eh... it's enough for a boy in a buggy in a supermarket
pointing his finger at me as i walk past
making that chimpanzee face of OOH at me...
or a fist-bump with some teenagers at the London
Stadium... that's enough... i'm happy to play
the "secret uncle" role...
while women remain women: as fickle as the wind...
i've learned to live with that reality...
i scratch my beard and pretend that i'm playing
a violin...

plus, i'm a terrible drinker... i'm a loving-drunk...
i'm drunk right now...
if a litre of whiskey per night satisfies
my libido shortages i'm happy:
it implies i can write... i stop drinking and start
*******: alles goot...
                           today i was visited by a wasp...
i was visited by a bee before...
oh man... it was heart-breaking...
he was dying... i had to help him...
   i poured some honey onto the pave-,
and moved him towards the puddle...
he stuck his mighty Gene Simmons sucker out
and started to perform an OD on sugar...
i was glad... watching him die from a sugar-overdose...
it was: rather pleasant to watch...

TERROR! mix JAINISM with TAOISM
and fuse that in an European mind...
               but i'll still eat meat...
                        it's a parody of what's to be expected:
i prefer life with the possibilities of change...
with... curiosities of: extensive ulterior
possibilities that run counter to estblished norms
of expectations of a RIGID MIND...
i water: i flow...
      i fire: i dance...
i air: i whirl...
i earth: i rumble...
i lightning: i blink...
hey presto! the five elements!

in another language close to my heart:
since i was born with it...
the pronoun disappears:
ja woda: płyne
ja ogien: tańcze...
   ja powietrze: kręce się (odd)
ja ziemia: trzęse się (also "odd")
ja grzmot: mrygam

there are languages in existence where pronouns
hide... to be honest...
in ******? the pronouns are rarely used...
oh mein gott... when they're used in a sentence:
esp. the I... it's like... wow! i just found
a "nugget of gold"!
seriously... that how my mother-tongue
is structured: on English is the current
prounoun-circus available to watch...
i'm siding with the Somali pirates having
a giggle... playing blackjack with either Greeks
or some other Africans...

there are languages in English that cannot: will not,
succumb to the current Marxist onslight
happening in this tongue...
not because these languages will not:
they CANNOT...
mind you... it's such an intellectual low-bar
of achievement... but since it's piggy-pop...
it must be slaughtered on an individual level
before this DISEASE is allowed to spread...
thank heavens that English is only my second
language... how that allows me to bypass
buying into any sort of propaganda...
   my lingua Ingelese... my tongue for spreading
ideas...
    oh: and thank **** i' expressing in a medium
desecrated by the same people pushing these
sordid ideas... post-humous fame! 'ere i come!
obviously! who's in it for the "real" and immediate
if one isn't... fabricating a pickling of a shark
in plastic.... who? who?! woof!
   a-woooooo"

            my heart has shrunk and hardened to
the size and hardness of a pebble...
    i wish i could entertain cosy nights with a woman
watching some pointless movie about
the stereotypes of love... then again: no...
i'd rather not...
drinking alone: who the hell said i was alone?
i sometimes "hallucinate" someone crying:
of late... i'm like: this isn't Aud Lang Syne...
this isn't Shakespear...
then again i love the idea that my true readers
are yet to be born...
i'm happy, happy-bear-alone...
                       a Maine **** is sleeping in my
bed... i'll join him come the right hour...
but he's not looking at me... he's looking above me...
only yesterday i started to paparazzi
a wasp that flew into my bedroom...
          what the **** do i have above me?
please say letters... i will not do alright with a halo...
i'm not going to join that
archangel one minute... saint the next...
clip my ******* wings for a get-through-easy
card: no!
          
it became finalized today... i'm literally tired
of ***... i'm tired of *** when it's equivalent to not...
being tired of eating food... drinking water...
it's unnecessarily-necessary... *** as golf...
per say...
                2 months of delay in payment...
i'm thinking about rekindling my affair with that mountain
bike... i have to forget the streets...
i need the woods again... but for that i need new tires...
oh... hell... i no longer have anything
to prove in the brothel... blah blah whatever...
threesomes look great: LOOk...
like a block of cheddar looks great...
when shredded...
and then melting...
perhaps in pornographic flicks...
but in reality? the changing of condoms
from one mouth to another...
from one ****** to another...
                          
what?! peiple are having unprotected ***?
vermin ****?!
   **** me... well... at least i'm obnoxiously savvy
in that regard...
no no... it's too disappointing...
you have to split your attention up...
there's nothing good about a *******...
why? because, usually... of the two girls...
there's one you really want to be a screwdriver to...
while the other is just being a, *******...
a ******* bandwagon... leftovers...
a pair of **** you get to imitate ****** with...
it's a bit like:
coupling an elephant with a giraffe...
but i want to ride the elephant!
but i want to stroke the giraffe's neck!
but  i want to pretend the elephants's tusk...
no! not tusk! TRUNK....
that rectangular bit of ******* you shovel
your clothes in when travelling...
TRUNK... or a TRAMPOLINE!
no... not the bouncy layer...
TRUNK... sneeze! trambone! jazz! ******* Miles Daisies!
Davis!  trumpet *******!
no... don't get me started on the sax...

then again: i want a rhino's horn! ram-jam...
Black Betty Bam B'eh Lam!

- oh no... i moved along... R.H.C.P.'s: thanks for the t-shirt...
Big Bukowski style:
i hate the eagles... run through the jungle...
run Forrest! whun!
WHUN!
  and that's me... hardly a LAMNTIA of the Beatniks
tripping... me? enough whiskey
and the right song... and i'm grooving beside
an imaginary drum-kit...
in that: once upon a time...
when men grew their hair long...
they were the barbarians knocking
on the gates of Rome... rather than being
the implosion of Rome within with
all of Rome's degeneracy of transgender gimmicks...

mind you: i've given it some thought...
i broke it down toward the following schematic:

anonymous audience, commenting,
video making blah blah...
****** "schematic": if you can call it that...
mind you: the VAR in WIETNAM
had the best soundtrack...
just saying: hey! her?! hey! don't shoot
the messanger!
i'd rather work the Fulham opening night
with the new stand: Thames-side being opened
than attend Wembley for a Westwood...
Westworld... Westlife concert,
i'm all up for handling those Scousers:
northern monkeys?
southern fairies...
let's just call them for what they are...
northern TOURISTS...

but the dynamic of publishing has changed:
i already know the criterium first...
women and children first...
THIRST beccause water matters...
i'm thirsty too... one litre of whiskey and
i'm still typing like a machine...
i'll box my liver and kidneys
as long as i keep my brain and eyes happy...

but it's just a different dynamic...
the internet experience...
i know a lot of people miss it...
i can't force people to read my bollocking-riddles...
ergo? i don't stagnate into celebrating it
or therefore advertising it...
i'm either read or i'm STAUB...
   dust...
                
i can't! i'm only making something available...
i can't force people out of their democratic "wedlock"...
you like it? great! you don't? great!
but the psychology of those video creators that
mind how many views they receive and
how many comments they: likewise receive...
"false hits" with the number of hits of viewership?

me? i'm not bothered... i've been watching
the female Euro finals...
i was almost scared... what if the female England team
don't make it to the finals?!
me? i'm gearing up...
any rowdy hooligans up to speed?!
as much as i hate women not trying toi compete
in sports that are sexually-exclusive...
there's this... THIS... i watch the games because
the Colleseum is burning...
i'm only watching the fire...
    and i'm watching the women i'd love to ****...
this never would have happened if watching
tennis...

    the crisp biting attache of a sharpshooter
WONG sort of mixer-mix-up with a whiskey
and a pepssi...
me... reaching for a second glass
with one already filled like: *******... RAINMAN...

keep your horses!
i'm gearing up to a translation!
wait, the, ****, up! keep it cool in Doob-Lyn!
oh no... you don't get to tell me
i use too many vowels without me showing
you... you mishandled the vowel-to-consonant
dynamic... Doob-Lyn is Dublin: tow me...
no: not to me? tow me... now you're dragging me
along the snail-trail...

the disparaging translations:

(B) the A. S. Kline translation

Parrot, the mimic, the winged one from India’s Orient,
is dead – Go, birds, in a flock and follow him to the grave!
Go, pious feathered ones, beat your ******* with your wings
and mark your delicate cheeks with hard talons:
tear out your shaggy plumage, instead of hair, n mourning:
sound out your songs with long piping!
Philomela , mourning the crime of the Thracian tyrant,
the years of your mourning are complete:
divert your lament to the death of a rare bird –
Itys is a great but ancient reason for grief.
All who balance in flight in the flowing air,
and you, above others, his friend the turtle-dove, grieve!
All your lives you were in perfect concord,
and held firm in your faithfulness to the end.
What the youth from Phocis was to Orestes of Argos,
while she could be, Parrot, turtle-dove was to you.
What worth now your loyalty, your rare form and colour,
the clever way you altered the sound of your voice,
what joy in the pleasure given you by our mistress? –
Unhappy one, glory of birds, you’re certainly dead!
You could dim emeralds matched to your fragile feathers,
wearing a beak dyed scarlet spotted with saffron.
No bird on earth could better copy a voice –
or reply so well with words in a lisping tone!
You were snatched by Envy – you who never made war:
you were garrulous and a lover of gentle peace.
Behold, quails live fighting amongst themselves:
perhaps that’s why they frequently reach old age.
Your food was little, compared with your love of talking
you could never free your beak much for eating.
Nuts were his diet, and poppy-seed made him sleep,
and he drove away thirst with simple draughts of water.
Gluttonous vultures may live and kites, tracing spirals
in air, and jackdaws, informants of rain to come:
and the raven detested by armed Minerva lives too –
he whose strength can last out nine generations:
but that loquacious mimic of the human voice,
Parrot, the gift from the end of the earth, is dead
The best are always taken first by greedy hands:
the worse make up a full span of years.
Thersites saw Protesilaus’s sad funeral,
and Hector was ashes while his brothers lived.
Why recall the pious prayers of my frightened girl for you –
prayers that a stormy south wind blew out to sea?
The seventh dawn came with nothing there beyond,
and Fate held an empty spool of thread for you.
Yet still the words from his listless beak astonished:
dying his tongue cried: ‘Corinna, farewell!’
A grove of dark holm oaks leafs beneath an Elysian *****,
the damp earth green with everlasting grass.
If you can believe it, they say there’s a place there
for pious birds, from which ominous ones are barred.
There innocuous swans browse far and wide
and the phoenix lives there, unique immortal bird:
There Juno’s peacock displays his tail-feathers,
and the dove lovingly bills and coos.
Parrot gaining a place among those trees
translates the pious birds in his own words.
A tumulus holds his bones – a tumulus fitting his size –
whose little stone carries lines appropriate for him:
‘His grave holds one who pleased his mistress:
his speech to me was cleverer than other birds’.

(C) the  P. Green translation

parrot, that feathered mimic from India's dawlands,
is dead. come flocking, birds, to his funeral:
come, all you godfearing airborne creatures,
beat ******* with wings,
   mourn, claw your polls, tear out soft feathers
(your hair), and pipe high your sad lament.
Philomela, nightingale, the ancient crimes of Tereus
which you lament is long past -
    divert your grief to the obsequies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique.
all wind-borne voyagers through the clear empyrean
lament now, and above all his friend the turtle-dove
they lived in complete agreement,
    their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes or Argos, that Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while fate allowed.
yet of no avail your devotion, your rare and beautiful
plumage,
your adaptable mimic's voice;
    not even the care that my darling lavished on you -
poor Polly, paragon of birdhood, is dead.
so gree his feathers, they dimmed the cut emerald;
scarlet his beak, with saffron spots.
no bird on earth could copy a voice more closely
or sound so articulate.
fate, jealous, removed him - that unaggressive creature,
that talktative devotee of peace,
with his tiny appetite , whose love of conversation
left him little leisure for food,
who lived on a diet of nuts, used poppy-seed to encourage
sound sleep: kept his thirst at bay with nothing but water.
quails spend their whole life fighting -
maybe that's how they reach a ripe old age.
carnivorous vultures, kites gyring high in the heavens,
weather-wise jackdaws, prophets of rain to come,
are all long-lived - while Minerva's bête noire, the raven,
can outlast nine generations. yet Parrot is dead,
that loquacious parody of human utterance,, that bonanza
from the eastern edge of the world,
greedy death almost always pickss off the best ones early -
it's the third-raters who reach a ripe old age.
Thersites attended the funeral of Protesilaus;
Hector was ashes while his brothers still lived.
what point is recalling the desperate prayers my sweetheart
uttered?
some stormy sirocco blew them out to sea.
six days he survived, and then, at dawn on the seventh,
his thread of destiny ran out.
yet somehow, though dying, he could still find utterance,
and the last words he ever spoke were: 'Corinna, farewell!'
beneath a hill in Elyium, where dark ilex clussters
and the moist earth is for ever green,
there exists - or so i have heard - the pious fowls' heaven
(all ill-omened predators barred).
harmless swaans roam after foot there, there dwells
the phoenix, that long-lived, ever-solitary bird;
there Juno's peacock spreads out his splendid fantail
amid the billing and cooing of amorous doves;
and there, in this woodland haven, the feathered faithful
welcome Parrot, flock round to hear him talk.
his bones lie buried under a parrot-sized tumulus
with a tiny headstone bearing these words:
r.i.p. Polly: this tribute from his loving mistress:
articulate beyond a common bird

the thought of LEMONS or perhaps
the IDEA of lemon...
then again: i can't refrain from
ORANGES and LIMES...
and the shy-sunlight of autumn
and the blooming of apples...
and operas...
             "someone"...
                              what pretty pies of
unfuckable wonders await...

divert your grief to the obsequeies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique
(antiquated?).
all wind-borne voyagers through tge clear empyrean
lament nowm abd above all
his friend the turtle-dove, they lived in complete
agreement
   their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes of Argos, that, Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while Fate allowed,

i'm not even going to bother with a "bananna C"...
i woke up wild-awake with ideas...
brimming with Tao...
"non-doing" id est: point PROVEN
or rather point SERVED?!

Russia and China are clashing...
or rather sparring...
they're having their civilization-state
agenda being put in place...
while there's a "culture-war" in the "west"...
right... James Bond...
so we're refrrering to nation-stattes
as post-nationhood...
  "states"...
                    precursors to the globalist agenda
of fake space exploration via the ******* telescope...
if Russia and China are civivilasation-states...
then... whatever culture "war" is investing in:
or rather: digressing into... impliies
the FSA (federal states of america)
             is a culture-state...
                                                ­                 no?

personally? i don't like the current h'American culture...
it's absolute *******...
no! i'm not going to translate any more of Ovid...
i already read the better translation...
i found out only two minites ago that
i prefer drinking to having ***...
and keeping an eye on cats is just as rewarding
as rearing children: if you allow yourself
to give them a personality...

           so Russia is a civilisation-state...
while America is a culture-state...
                    well... no wonder...
                                            America is the zenith
that could be: but doesn't have to be
preserved...
the culture-state-of-the-sand-*******...
i wish: the Arabs clocked in lucky...
sitting on so much raw ill of oil...
bounce bounce libido bounce bounce...

hmm... "inner monologue"... i had that "thing"
once... i kost it... turning psychotic...
then again: within the confines of having
an internal monologue? i was passive...
       i was a passive agent...
                         upon losing it: having my soul
evaporate: becoming an "N.P.C."...
i became an active agent...
i opened my eyes a second time...

           i think my inner monolpogue became blocked
by:
został wyciszony... bo zaczoł być cykliczny,
tzn. nie po prostej:
       wymarł według koncepcji
sprawiedliwości...

even i know: the gods uttered the words:
shut the **** up! we know you're right!
but we're playing roulette!
shut the ******! we're playing cards!
shut up!
wait! wait your turn!
**** me, given the prowess at attaing
a concept of the differential of space comparing
time... i.e. speed... i'll be karma-happy
once i die...

i'm not translating the rest of that Ovid...
a girl's parraot died... great!
now i'm thinking about:
a bicyckle is a terrible idea... to ride...
on the roads towards St. Paul's... i think i might
require a horse!
i need a horse! bring me a hood, a hoof,
an apple and a toothbrush!
the last place i'm thinking about moving
to is California...
   and thank no god for that...
just the people who already live there.

III.

i sooner discovered the rare B-sides of Red Hot Chilli
Peppers than having realised... oh right...
they release two albums after By the Way...
i completely forgot about those two...
               guess i'm not as big a fan as i thought i was...
Go Robot... it's not oh so wo terrible now, or anymore...
oh woah woe... what a whale to ride into the night...

sometimes it just happens, a sort of blend of an Ezrra Pound
and a Charles Olson moment, poem, moment-poem...
it stretches for three days and you just don't want
to finish it... you kept repeating yourself writing seemingly
aimlessly with no focus...
at this point writing becomes theraputic...
by the simple act of writing: not theraputic regarding
what you're writing about: memories of frustration and
complications having finished Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus...
unlike those joyous frustrations with Samuel Beckett's
Watt...
                  and on the third day "he" finished painting
four metal chairs a new colour of copperhead...
a copperneck painting chairs copperhead...
to me the colour of copper is more appealing than
that of gold...

if i still had that inner-monologue people speak of
i wouldn't be writing this,
that inner-monologue fantasy i once was a proud owner
of: i.e. the closest "thing" to the idea of soul
was also filled with so many doubts...
i simply don't care what the supposed benefits
of it were... that whole no-inner-monologue ergo
one's an NPC (non-playable character)...
    i remember that that when my first psychotic episode
slammed me on a rampage i started to see DIFFERENTLY...
it was as if a veil was lifted from my eyes...
if i didn't write terrible poetry back then...
i most certainly wrote very little...
             the inner-monologue doubts... a plethora of them...
no? psychosis = the osmosis of soul...
   the body has remained... the devils said:
but these idle hands and this idle intellect have to stay...
we'll pass on the message with your soul
as it leaves your body...
call it whatever you want:
   res vanus or the silence of the "mind"...
that's how you become more of an active agent...
it might be called writing but i call it digging...
a tunnel toward some variaton of: marrying Hades
with Tartarus...
                after all... Venus is the daughter of titans...
and she's the only Titan among the Olympian gods:
such is her perfection... almost on par with
   the patron of philosophers that's Sacred Sophia:
who entertains the foolishness of elder men
without being able to tell them apart from boys...

IV. if i were to translate Amores II. XI

would i be willing to add a D in the translation sequence?
i don't think so
there's no need... i like comparing the two i already
made available...
i just wanted to stress how unbelievable Latin is...
compared to the modern tongue, for example English...
how compact it is!
- and course, i prefer the second translation...
     it... exfoliates!
                     this is the point for me where i truly appreciate
Ovid to be on par with Horace...

side by side walking through the zenith-nadir of
man...

   i'm finally come across a sequence of events that
make me unwilling to stop typing: perhaps if i get
drunk enough and stumble on my first typo
perhaps a series of typos would end my ambition...

do i think men in the west are living
in a land of libido-insomnia? i think they are...
whoever said that watching one type of pornogrphy
soon spirals out of control and men start
scouting for more extreme *******:
hello outlier A! hello outlier B!
where's outlier C? oh... he's coming...
at a time when women are supposed to be these
sexually liberated creatures while men
are either STAGS with harems or limp biscuit *****...
thank god i managed to catch the train
of having the ***** of walking into a newsagent
and buying a pornographic magazine to ******* to...
stashed about six in a folder behind
the radiator in the bathroom at 21B Beehive Lane,
Gants Hill...
                         mind you: i started prematurely...
8?
     i switch off with western ****** antics:
people are either having too much ***: ergo the kinks
or not enough of it...
outlier in the middle: when it's too hot
i leave the insects to do their lineage pride...
cooler temperatures: *** like rubbing sand-paper
on a ****** paint-job...

                         makeshift boney **** of the hand...
well: at least ******* makes me more interested in
the **** than **** ***...
but i did the opposite... i need to keep a sack-of-sanity
atop my head...
beside adoring the Katakana...
i very much adore Japanese tamed sexuality...
     グラビア アイドル (gurabia aidoru)...
back in the day when the English tabloid newspaper
the Sun had a page 3 girl...
back to basics... a show of *******...
    a show of cleavage... perhaps even the breast
like the eye... the sclera of the rounded breast...
the darkened skin at the iris and then the pupil
as the ******...
  floral patterns of the *******...
                  back to basics...
                           a photograph of a naked woman
and all the imagination at work: what wouldn't
i want to do with her?

well... if you begin pleasing yourself while concentrating
on the kiss between Venus and Cupid
in one of Bronzino's beauties of paint-strokes...
you're hardly going to go down a rabbit-hole
of "hide and hide": wihtout seeking it out...
people and thier kinks...
while a minority: dodo-project sexuality of
homosexuality is celebrated: garnerded unto the guise
of "pride": i can't stomach shame...
but hey: look at me! i'm about to parade my sexuality
like and ******* latex-clad gimp readied
for being given ***-favour-orders...

outlandish! god-forgiving god-fearing...
  hardly every god-loving...
           a settling in of a blue that's not the sky
but a melancholy... i'm finally willing to end this
"diatribe"... to start afresh... again and again...
like mixing: Dreams of a Samurai with
Hans Zimmer's spectres in the fog...

                      my ***: going back to figuring out
the premature adventures into ***...
one boy passing on the secrets of *******
to another while sharing a bath:
the cruel curiosity of the circumcision:
in a secular environment: without the kippah
or the niqab: the submission of the women...
i will not give up the "sheath" to my "sword"...
i will keep my teeth with my twirling tongue...
if ever an improvement on the aesthetics?
clipping the ears of Dobberman dogs...
banning clipping the clipping of their tails...
but still: the preserved atrocity of male circumcision...
i could agree...
once a woman is devoted to her man...
a circumcision like putting on a wedding ring...
noble swans... oh noble swans...

a melancholy that's sort of azure...
amass enough water and you will see blue...
amass "too little": freeze it...
a paleness somewhat grey...
but then the icebergs roaming that are
the Cistercians...
            all i need right now is for some lonely
dog to start barking into the night...
or the cackling "laughter" of a fox...
    
    but all those sexless lives...
            "lucky" me for taming my consumption down...
where would i be without it?
i didn't ask for a *******...
i wa offered it... i will never forget how she clamoured
for the opportunity...
she couldn't stomach being rejected twice...
she just had to clamour like a crab in a crab bucket...
even if she thought she thought she succeeded:
she was the spare wheel...
what i've learned... i prefer one-on-one interactions...
but i gave in...
   it would have never worked out:
not like it "works out" in pornographic flicks...
the sharing of saliva and other juices...
we're responsible adults...
unlike in the pornographic flicks...
          two women: one man...
the changing of condoms...
                           i had to think quick:
there's only one way i will not be undermined...
snuggling up to the one i really wanted
to spend an hour with...
                       kissing neck and cheek...
while she did a hand-job...
   the other just sat there sort of idle...
                          until i figured out... those *******
could be of some use...

- i couldn't pull off a Jesus look...
long hair and a beard is not my "thing"...
even with a sly undercut...
i chose the better option.... short hair, a beard, yes,
but a "fu manchu": an elongated love-spot...
competing with the length of the beard...
i really "don't understand" why i have no memory
of my chin and neck...
it's like there was never the idea of using
water as a mirror... perhaps poor Xerxes lashed
at the Aegean for hiding his reflection
when he had one of those Narcisstic moments
of anguish: he forgot how he looked like...
but then the sides of the moustasche also drooping:
elongated... that work much better than
a beard and long hair...
it's so unfashionable these days...
i don't get why men think beards and long hair
"work"....

then again i never figured out why Khadira
wanted to have unprotected ***...
  how she insisted that it was just plain o.k.
for me to ******* into her...
how i snapped and dived in into her pandamonium
of multiples springs of irritated ****...
all slobbering with oyster-tongue
and knose...
                               all that informed me...

companionship? what a rare commodity...
it's enough to have a mother to know
how a woman's company can quickly sour
the already sweet grapes...
one word: tell a man he's LAZY...
while he's just tired of being pushed and shoved...
if a mother can do that to a son?
what could a wife do?
                          and i'm come across curiosities of
men who waged wars with their mothers...
at the Tyson Fury boxing match...
i was trying to calm the **** down a guy
who was having a panic attack after being
"abandoned" by his mother...
who bought the tickets... and drinks...
i squeezed him hard... told him: but i'm here for free!
nay! i'm here and getting paid for it!
blah blah...
               i hate seeing panic attacks in men...
it makes me either feel like
more than a man or less of a man...
it makes me think of the men prior
with shell-shocks... or women exploiting
the challenges of p.t.s.d.

                                    i've seen so many people fake
a mental illness... i've spoken at length
to them... how easily open up to their own struggles...
while i'm left alone with whatever ones
i have...
                   maybe because my "mental health issues"
have morphed into philosophical caviats
implies that i'm immune to outright sharing
the details... and boring people to death...
so i listen...
        i listen...
                            in one ear out the other...

i remember days in high school when we would love
to change the subject, create a game:
SLAP-BALL... imitation of Tsar Peter III prior
to tennis... an imitation court... with a fence between us...
or just playing BLACKJACK...
cards... that was big... we understood that ignoring
women was best done with / by playing cards...
at one point: i remember it to this day...
Samuel Richards grabbed Ian Goodman's neck
and pinned him to the floor...
we tried to intervene...
i don't know whether it was about the actual
game of cards or whether it was about
Sam bailing out... he was about to move to France...
and ****** off from pur in-group...
started playing basketball with the black-boys...
forgot he was supposedly the "PUNK" in the school...
i remember skateboarding with him...
he actually stole his mother's credit card and bought
a skateboard for me...
but his ******* MOHICAN was ****...
it didn't entertain the entire length of his skull
meeting his spine...
but we did walk back from Romford
toward Ilford this one night...
underage drinking... singing Backstreet Boys songs...

ha ha...
         time is a museum of melancholy...
while space is a museum of furthering whatever is left
of leftover potential...

i'm so despondent about this life having to end...
today i cycled up to the traffic lights
on my ******... ******?! £125 viking road bike... say the word
****** one more time... what was i facing?
a solitary man in an Aston Martin...
behind him? some solitary guy in a Porsche...
right... "alphas"...
i'm on my bicycle... but these two guys
in those choicest of motor-examples?
that's the thing with "competing" in life rather than
sport...
     i like my bicycle... i love my bicycle...
i am yet to wash away the blood from my head
from the crash...
i don't have a broken leg: i just have an outgrowth of bone
on my shin where my bone should have cracked:
i love milk...

competing with these men... **** me...
i was thinking about the Porsche guy...
nice game... but it's not playing cards...
i taart myself up: compete...
what do i get? i get a Porsche...
     but then ahead of me there's this guy
in an Aston Martin: mate! i'm ******!
oh blue blue Hue... the Aston Martin looked like
the bomb that is already was...
the Porsche? the Porsche looked like
a ******* Ford Mondeo by comparison...
Civic Extra... if that's even a car...
i was sort of happy to by cycling...
i figured... well: i'm not using my legs...
to walk... i'm peddling...

ever heard the expression "push-bike"?
i heard that only recently... what a werid coupling
of words... a motorcycle is distinguished from
a a bicycle by the term: "push-bike"
this half-brain-dead coworker...
what the **** am i pushing?!
it's just as weird as calling it a peddling-bicycle, no?
eh?
but what am i pushing? a bicycle is a bicycle
a turtle is a turtle... i still have to figure out
what's being pushed...
what comes first? the donkey, the carrot, or the stick?!

mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
keep nurturing the spacing between numbers
but also keep lost track of the alphebticaal
queue...
never the type to rehash a refurbishment
of SPAWN...

           i simply don't want this day-dream to end...
around me people cowering into sleep...
i'm left in limbo...
            between consetllations and the scythe
of the moon... dearest: moooooon...
i'm itching to break the silence with a howl...
but first: the thirst of a dog barking...
i hear a dog barking i'll start to howl!

aren't we simply becoming the same
tired people of old?
              more impetus...
more gravity! more fire! more tides!
more the quaking of the earth!
more whirlwinds! more! more!
one Pompeii is not enough!

                       almost one litre of whiskey
into the session and i'm sober-tense...
i'm starting to think that entertaining
hell is not a bad "gimmick"...
                  there's the imaginary hell-crowd
and there' some also doubly-imaginary
crowd of people that yet to be bound to imitation-migration
focus...
           next time you ask me:
i'd rather be eating ice: crunching on
ice than drinking water...
i want to burn my tongue...
licking ice...l i want to burn my tongue
licking ice: but first i want to be dipping
it in coridnader-cumin-chilli-turmeric mix-up
of spiders...

i want to first bruise my knees before
i lick them clean...
i want the strict juices of: not tomatoes?
red is red: ergo blood is blood...
vulture ****...
there's an open window:
there's an evaporating night too...

best refrain: 6 by 6s refrain on 9s...
since? there's plenty of 0s / oopses...
by this "flesh and blood"...
i heave this sand and timer
like: i was sadly woken up with
an inheritance of salt...
boiling blue bloods and boiling gravy...
a smile that reads: clenched teeth...
a smile so awkward that
it make^ a parrot think twice about
imitating human speech.

^a notable typo, i think i might require an editor
(insert a snigger); two alternatives:
1. it might make a parrot think twice,
2. a smile so awkward that it makes a parrot think twince...
all depending on the tense.
Rhon Epino Apr 2018
Pag ibig
Kanya-kanyang depinisyon
Kanya-kanyang eksplinasyon
Isang uri ng salamangka
Na makakapagpapabago ng lahat
Makapagbibigay ng dapat at sapat
Pero hindi lahat ng dapat ay kailangang maging sapat
Dahil kailanman ay hindi naging sapat ang lahat
Maghahangad ng iba
Maghahanap ng ibang kasama
Pero gayunpaman ay wag kalilimutan
Na ang pag ibig ay pag ibig parin
Kahit ito pa ay paiba-ibahin
O kaya nama’y balibaliktarin
Bawasan mo man o buuin
Pag ibig parin

Pag ibig
Ito ang tuwa sa isang libo **** luha
Isang porsyento sa ilang daang libo
Ito ang kahulugan sa bawat salita ng diksyonaryo
Ito ang nagbibigay pag-asa sa bawat gising mo
Ito ang magtuturo sayo
Na ang sakit at pait ay hindi bagay na dapat **** katakutan
Hindi bagay na dapat **** sukuan
O kaya nama’y dapat **** kalimutan
Dahil ang pag ibig ay ang lakas sa bawat paghina
Ang kagustuhang tumayo sa bawat pagsuko
Ang pagsulong sa bawat pag urong
Ang simula sa bawat katapusan
At ang katapusan sa bawat simula
Dahil ang katapusan ay hindi masama
Ito ang simbolo ng tagumpay
Ang simula ng simula

Pag ibig
Ang magbibigay ng sagot sa bawat tanong
Sa ano, bakit at paano
Ang pupuno sa bawat kakulangan mo
Pupunan ang pangangailangan mo
Ito ang tulay sa bawat pagitan
Malakas, matibay, mapagkakatiwalaan
Sapagkat ang pusong puno ng pag ibig
Ay malakas, matibay at mapagkakatiwalaan
Ito ang magkumukunikta sa dalawang magkaibang mundo
Kahit na sino at kahit na ano
Kahit na ano pa ang kasarian mo
O kahit na ano pang kinabibilangan mo
Sasagipin ka nito sa pagkalunod
Sa pag iisa
Sa mga panahong akala mo’y wala ka nang kasama
O kaya nama’y kinalimutan ka na
Yayakapin ka
At nang hindi manlamig at mamanhid ang iyong kaluluwa

Pag ibig
Di ka nito huhusgahan
Tatanggapin ka kahit ano ka man
Dahil kailanman ay wala itong batayan
Kahit ano pa man ang iyong pinaniniwalaan
Dahil pag ibig lang ang may konsepto ng pagtanggap
Pag unawa at walang halong pagpapanggap
Ito ay puro at dalisay
Hindi pinapahina ng panahon
At sa halip ay lalo pang pinapatibay
Ito ay mas malakas pa sa bawat pagsubok
Mas mataas pa sa pinakamatarik na bundok

Pag ibig
Ito ang produkto ng konseptong positibo
ng pluma at panulat
Ng tuno at liriko
Ng imahinasyon
Ng respeto at pagpapahalaga
Umibig at ibigin
Sabihin kung ano ang laman ng damdamin

Sayo, ano ang pag ibig?
Marinela Abarca Jun 2015
Nagdasal at humingi ng isang tao
Na magtutulak sa akin para bitiwan na ang panulat na ito
Isang tonelada at mahigit na ang mga salitang pasan ngunit hindi pa rin ako nabibigatan.

Mali ang akala.
Hindi pa pala.
Lalo lang umitim ang tinta.
Dumiin sa papel ang pluma.

Nanatili pa ding naka-dantay
ang mga salita sa namimitig kong kamay.
Hinihintay nalang mamanhid
para hindi manatiling nakasilid
ang mga naipon na tula't sanaysay na wala nang saysay.

Hindi na ko humihiling
ng isang dahilan na dadating
na aalayan nitong mga salitang
naririnig at binabasa lamang.

Mga letra na binibigyang kulay,
nagkakaiba lamang sa kung sino ang bumubuhay.
Nakakapagod mag pinta
kung ang bawat makakakita ng obra,
babaguhin ang imahe sa kung ano ang nasa harapan nila hindi man lang isipin na magkakaiba tayo ng mata.
Inilarawan **** berde, gagawin nilang kahel.
Tinta mo na asul, hahawakan at magiging pula.

Siguro nga itong mga kamay na biyaya,
hindi na para sa papel at tinta.
Kasabay ng maraming paalam
ang huling isinulat na liham.
Piramidal, funesta de la tierra
nacida sombra, al cielo encaminaba
de vanos obeliscos ***** altiva,
escalar pretendiendo las estrellas;
si bien sus luces bellas
esemptas siempre, siempre rutilantes,
la tenebrosa guerra
que con negros vapores le intimaba
la vaporosa sombra fugitiva
burlaban tan distantes,
que su atezado ceño
al superior convexo aún no llegaba
del orbe de la diosa
que tres veces hermosa
con tres hermosos rostros ser ostenta;
quedando sólo dueño
del aire que empañaba
con el aliento denso que exhalaba.
Y en la quietud contenta
de impero silencioso,
sumisas sólo voces consentía
de las nocturnas aves
tan oscuras tan graves,
que aún el silencio no se interrumpía.
Con tardo vuelo, y canto, de él oído
mal, y aún peor del ánimo admitido,
la avergonzada Nictímene acecha
de las sagradas puertas los resquicios
o de las claraboyas eminentes
los huecos más propicios,
que capaz a su intento le abren la brecha,
y sacrílega llega a los lucientes
faroles sacros de perenne llama,
que extingue, sino inflama
en licor claro la materia crasa
consumiendo; que el árbol de Minerva
de su fruto, de prensas agravado,
congojoso sudó y rindió forzado.
Y aquellas que su casa
campo vieron volver, sus telas yerba,
a la deidad de Baco inobedientes
ya no historias contando diferentes,
en forma si afrentosa transformadas
segunda forman niebla,
ser vistas, aun temiendo en la tiniebla,
aves sin pluma aladas:
aquellas tres oficiosas, digo,
atrevidas hermanas,
que el tremendo castigo
de desnudas les dio pardas membranas
alas, tan mal dispuestas
que escarnio son aun de las más funestas:
éstas con el parlero
ministro de Plutón un tiempo, ahora
supersticioso indicio agorero,
solos la no canora
componían capilla pavorosa,
máximas negras, longas entonando
y pausas, más que voces, esperando
a la torpe mensura perezosa
de mayor proporción tal vez que el viento
con flemático echaba movimiento
de tan tardo compás, tan detenido,
que en medio se quedó tal vez dormido.
Este. pues, triste son intercadente
de la asombrosa turba temerosa,
menos a la atención solicitaba
que al suelo persuadía;
antes si, lentamente,
si su obtusa consonancia espaciosa
al sosiego inducía
y al reposo los miembros convidaba,
el silencio intimando a los vivientes,
uno y otro sellando labio obscuro
con indicante dedo, Harpócrates la noche silenciosa;
a cuyo, aunque no duro, si bien imperioso
precepto, todos fueron obedientes.
El viento sosegado, el can dormido:
éste yace, aquél quedo,
los átomos no mueve
con el susurro hacer temiendo leve,
aunque poco sacrílego ruido,
violador del silencio sosegado.
El mar, no ya alterado,
ni aún la instable mecía
cerúlea cuna donde el sol dormía;
y los dormidos siempre mudos peces,
en los lechos 1amosos
de sus obscuros senos cavernosos,
mudos eran dos veces.
Y entre ellos la engañosa encantadora
Almone, a los que antes
en peces transformó simples amantes,
transformada también vengaba ahora.
En los del monte senos escondidos
cóncavos de peñascos mal formados,
de su esperanza menos defendidos
que de su obscuridad asegurados,
cuya mansión sombría
ser puede noche en la mitad del día,
incógnita aún al cierto
montaraz pie del cazador experto,
depuesta la fiereza
de unos, y de otros el temor depuesto,
yacía el vulgo bruto,
a la naturaleza
el de su potestad vagando impuesto,
universal tributo.
Y el rey -que vigilancias afectaba-
aun con abiertos ojos no velaba.
El de sus mismos perros acosado,
monarca en otro tiempo esclarecido,
tímido ya venado,
con vigilante oído,
del sosegado ambiente,
al menor perceptible movimiento
que los átomos muda,
la oreja alterna aguda
y el leve rumor siente
que aun le altera dormido.
Y en 1a quietud del nido,
que de brozas y lodo instable hamaca
formó en la más opaca
parte del árbol, duerme recogida
la leve turba, descansando el viento
del que le corta alado movimiento.
De Júpiter el ave generosa
(como el fin reina) por no darse entera
al descanso, que vicio considera
si de preciso pasa, cuidadosa
de no incurrir de omisa en el exceso,
a un sólo pie librada fía el peso
y en otro guarda el cálculo pequeño,
despertador reloj del leve sueño,
porque si necesario fue admitido
no pueda dilatarse continuado,
antes interrumpido
del regio sea pastoral cuidado.
¡Oh de la majestad pensión gravosa,
que aun el menor descuido no perdona!
Causa quizá que ha hecho misteriosa,
circular denotando la corona
en círculo dorado,
que el afán es no menos continuado.
El sueño todo, en fin, lo poseía:
todo. en fin, el silencio lo ocupaba.
Aun el ladrón dormía:
aun el amante no se desvelaba:
el conticinio casi ya pasando
iba y la sombra dimidiaba, cuando
de las diurnas tareas fatigados
y no sólo oprimidos
del afán ponderosos
del corporal trabajo, más cansados
del deleite también; que también cansa
objeto continuado a 1os sentidos
aún siendo deleitoso;
que la naturaleza siempre alterna
ya una, ya otra balanza,
distribuyendo varios ejercicios,
ya al ocio, ya al trabajo destinados,
en el fiel infiel con que gobierna
la aparatosa máquina del mundo.
Así pues, del profundo
sueño dulce los miembros ocupados,
quedaron los sentidos
del que ejercicio tiene ordinario
trabajo, en fin, pero trabajo amado
-si hay amable trabajo-
si privados no, al menos suspendidos.
Y cediendo al retrato del contrario
de la vida que lentamente armado
cobarde embiste y vence perezoso
con armas soñolientas,
desde el cayado humilde al cetro altivo
sin que haya distintivo
que el sayal de la púrpura discierna;
pues su nivel, en todo poderoso,
gradúa por esemptas
a ningunas personas,
desde la de a quien tres forman coronas
soberana tiara
hasta la que pajiza vive choza;
desde la que el Danubio undoso dora,
a la que junco humilde, humilde mora;
y con siempre igual vara
(como, en efecto, imagen poderosa
de la muerte) Morfeo
el sayal mide igual con el brocado.
El alma, pues, suspensa
del exterior gobierno en que ocupada
en material empleo,
o bien o mal da el día por gastado,
solamente dispensa,
remota, si del todo separada
no, a los de muerte temporal opresos,
lánguidos miembros, sosegados huesos,
los gajes del calor vegetativo,
el cuerpo siendo, en sosegada calma,
un cadáver con alma,
muerto a la vida y a la muerte vivo,
de lo segundo dando tardas señas
el de reloj humano
vital volante que, sino con mano,
con arterial concierto, unas pequeñas
muestras, pulsando, manifiesta lento
de su bien regulado movimiento.
Este, pues, miembro rey y centro vivo
de espíritus vitales,
con su asociado respirante fuelle
pulmón, que imán del viento es atractivo,
que en movimientos nunca desiguales
o comprimiendo yo o ya dilatando
el musculoso, claro, arcaduz blando,
hace que en él resuelle
el que le circunscribe fresco ambiente
que impele ya caliente
y él venga su expulsión haciendo activo
pequeños robos al calor nativo,
algún tiempo llorados,
nunca recuperados,
si ahora no sentidos de su dueño,
que repetido no hay robo pequeño.
Estos, pues, de mayor, como ya digo,
excepción, uno y otro fiel testigo,
la vida aseguraban,
mientras con mudas voces impugnaban
la información, callados los sentidos
con no replicar sólo defendidos;
y la lengua, torpe, enmudecía,
con no poder hablar los desmentía;
y aquella del calor más competente
científica oficina
próvida de los miembros despensera,
que avara nunca v siempre diligente,
ni a la parte prefiere más vecina
ni olvida a la remota,
y, en ajustado natural cuadrante,
las cuantidades nota
que a cada cual tocarle considera,
del que alambicó quilo el incesante
calor en el manjar que medianero
piadoso entre él y el húmedo interpuso
su inocente substancia,
pagando por entero
la que ya piedad sea o ya arrogancia,
al contrario voraz necio la expuso
merecido castigo, aunque se excuse
al que en pendencia ajena se introduce.
Esta, pues, si no fragua de Vulcano,
templada hoguera del calor humano,
al cerebro enviaba
húmedos, mas tan claros los vapores
de los atemperados cuatro humores,
que con ellos no sólo empañaba
los simulacros que la estimativa
dio a la imaginativa,
y aquesta por custodia más segura
en forma ya más pura
entregó a la memoria que, oficiosa,
gravó tenaz y guarda cuidadosa
sino que daban a la fantasía
lugar de que formase
imágenes diversas y del modo
que en tersa superficie, que de faro
cristalino portento, asilo raro
fue en distancia longísima se veían,
(sin que ésta le estorbase)
del reino casi de Neptuno todo,
las que distantes le surcaban naves.
Viéndose claramente,
en su azogada luna,
el número, el tamaño y la fortuna
que en la instable campaña transparente
arriesgadas tenían,
mientras aguas y vientos dividían
sus velas leves y sus quillas graves,
así ella, sosegada, iba copiando
las imágenes todas de las cosas
y el pincel invisible iba formando
de mentales, sin luz, siempre vistosas
colores. las figuras,
no sólo ya de todas las criaturas
sublunares, mas aun también de aquellas
que intelectuales claras son estrellas
y en el modo posible
que concebirse puede lo invisible,
en sí mañosa las representaba
y al alma las mostraba.
La cual, en tanto, toda convertida
a su inmaterial ser y esencia bella,
aquella contemplaba,
participada de alto ser centella,
que con similitud en sí gozaba.
I juzgándose casi dividida
de aquella que impedida
siempre la tiene, corporal cadena
que grosera embaraza y torpe impide
el vuelo intelectual con que ya mide
la cuantidad inmensa de la esfera,
ya el curso considera
regular con que giran desiguales
los cuerpos celestiales;
culpa si grave, merecida pena,
torcedor del sosiego riguroso
de estudio vanamente juicioso;
puesta a su parecer, en la eminente
cumbre de un monte a quien el mismo Atlante
que preside gigante
a los demás, enano obedecía,
y Olimpo, cuya sosegada frente,
nunca de aura agitada
consintió ser violada,
aun falda suya ser no merecía,
pues las nubes que opaca son corona
de la más elevada corpulencia
del volcán más soberbio que en la tierra
gigante erguido intima al cielo guerra,
apenas densa zona
de su altiva eminencia
o a su vasta cintura
cíngulo tosco son, que mal ceñido
o el viento lo desata sacudido
o vecino el calor del sol, lo apura
a la región primera de su altura,
ínfima parte, digo, dividiendo
en tres su continuado cuerpo horrendo,
el rápido no pudo, el veloz vuelo
del águila -que puntas hace al cielo
y el sol bebe los rayos pretendiendo
entre sus luces colocar su nido-
llegar; bien que esforzando
mas que nunca el impulso, ya batiendo
las dos plumadas velas, ya peinando
con las garras el aire, ha pretendido
tejiendo de los átomos escalas
que su inmunidad rompan sus dos alas.
Las pirámides dos -ostentaciones
de Menfis vano y de la arquitectura
último esmero- si ya no pendones
fijos, no tremolantes, cuya altura
coronada de bárbaros trofeos,
tumba y bandera fue a los Ptolomeos,
que al viento, que a las nubes publicaba,
si ya también el cielo no decía
de su grande su siempre vencedora
ciudad -ya Cairo ahora-
las que, porque a su copia enmudecía
la fama no contaba
gitanas glorias, menéficas proezas,
aun en el viento, aun en el cielo impresas.
Estas que en nivelada simetría
su estatura crecía
con tal disminución, con arte tanto,
que cuánto más al cielo caminaba
a la vista que lince la miraba,
entre los vientos se desaparecía
sin permitir mirar la sutil *****
que al primer orbe finge que se junta
hasta que fatigada del espanto,
no descendida sino despeñada
se hallaba al pie de la espaciosa basa.
Tarde o mal recobrada
del desvanecimiento,
que pena fue no escasa
del visual alado atrevimiento,
cuyos cuerpos opacos
no al sol opuestos, antes avenidos
con sus luces, si no confederados
con él, como en efecto confiantes,
tan del todo bañados
de un resplandor eran, que lucidos,
nunca de calurosos caminantes
al fatigado aliento, a los pies flacos
ofrecieron alfombra,
aun de pequeña, aun de señal de sombra.
Estas que glorias ya sean de gitanas
o elaciones profanas,
bárbaros hieroglíficos de ciego
error, según el griego,
ciego también dulcísimo poeta,
si ya por las que escribe
aquileyas proezas
o marciales, de Ulises, sutilezas,
la unión no le recibe
de los historiadores o le acepta
cuando entre su catálogo le cuente,
que gloría más que número le aumente,
de cuya dulce serie numerosa
fuera más fácil cosa
al temido Jonante
el rayo fulminante
quitar o la pescada
a Alcídes clava herrada,
que un hemistiquio solo
-de los que le: dictó propicio Apolo-
según de Homero digo, la sentencia.
Las pirámides fueron materiales
tipos solos, señales exteriores
de las que dimensiones interiores
especies son del alma intencionales
que como sube en piramidal *****
al cielo la ambiciosa llama ardiente,
así la humana mente
su figura trasunta
y a la causa primera siempre aspira,
céntrico punto donde recta tira
la línea, si ya no circunferencia
que contiene infinita toda esencia.
Estos pues, montes dos artificiales,
bien maravillas, bien milagros sean,
y aun aquella blasfema altiva torre,
de quien hoy dolorosas son señales
no en piedras, sino en lenguas desiguales
porque voraz el tiempo no ]as borre,
los idiomas diversos que escasean
el sociable trato de las gentes
haciendo que parezcan diferentes
los que unos hizo la naturaleza,
de la lengua por solo la extrañeza; .
si fueran comparados
a la mental pirámide elevada,
donde, sin saber como colocada
el alma se miró, tan atrasados
se hallaran que cualquiera
graduara su cima por esfera,
pues su ambicioso anhelo,
haciendo cumbre de su propio vuelo,
en lo más eminente
la encumbró parte de su propia mente,
de sí tan remontada que creía
que a otra nueva región de sí salía.
En cuya casi elevación inmensa,
gozosa, mas suspensa,
suspensa, pero ufana
y atónita, aunque ufana la suprema
de lo sublunar reina soberana,
la vista perspicaz libre de antojos
de sus intelectuales y bellos ojos,
sin que distancia tema
ni de obstáculo opaco se recele,
de que interpuesto algún objeto cele,
libre tendió por todo lo criado,
cuyo inmenso agregado
cúmulo incomprehensible
aunque a la vista quiso manifiesto
dar señas de posible,
a la comprehensión no, que entorpecida
con la sobra de objetos y excedida
de la grandeza de ellos su potencia,
retrocedió cobarde,
tanto no del osado presupuesto
revocó la intención arrepentida,
la vista que intentó descomedida
en vano hacer alarde
contra objeto que excede en excelencia
las líneas visuales,
contra el sol, digo, cuerpo luminoso,
cuyos rayos castigo son fogoso,
de fuerzas desiguales
despreciando, castigan rayo a rayo
el confiado antes atrevido
y ya llorado ensayo,
necia experiencia que costosa tanto
fue que Icaro ya su propio llanto
lo anegó enternecido
como el entendimiento aquí vencido,
no menos de la inmensa muchedumbre
de tanta maquinosa pesadumbre
de diversas especies conglobado
esférico compuesto,
que de las cualidades
de cada cual cedió tan asombrado
que, entre la copia puesto,
pobre con ella en las neutralidades
de un mar de asombros, la elección confusa
equívoco las ondas zozobraba.
Y por mirarlo todo; nada veía,
ni discernir podía,
bota la facultad intelectiva
en tanta, tan difusa
incomprensible especie que miraba
desde el un eje en que librada estriba
la máquina voluble de la esfera,
el contrapuesto polo,
las partes ya no sólo,
que al universo todo considera
serle perfeccionantes
a su ornato no más pertenecientes;
mas ni aun las que ignorantes;
miembros son de su cuerpo dilatado,
proporcionadamente competentes.
Mas como al que ha usurpado
diuturna obscuridad de los objetos
visibles los colores
si súbitos le asaltan resplandores,
con la sombra de luz queda más ciego:
que el exceso contrarios hace efectos
en la torpe potencia, que la lumbre
del sol admitir luego
no puede por la falta de costumbre;
y a la tiniebla misma que antes era
tenebroso a la vista impedimento,
de los agravios de la luz apela
y una vez y otra con la mano cela
de los débiles ojos deslumbrados
los rayos vacilantes,
sirviendo va piadosa medianera
la sombra de instrumento
para que recobrados
por grados se habiliten,
porque después constantes
su operación más firme ejerciten.
Recurso natural, innata ciencia
que confirmada ya de la experiencia,
maestro quizá mudo,
retórico ejemplar inducir pudo
a uno y otro galeno
para que del mortífero veneno,
en bien proporcionadas cantidades,
escrupulosamente regulando
las ocultas nocivas cualidades,
ya por sobrado exceso
de cálidas o frías,
o ya por ignoradas simpatías
o antipatías con que van obrando
las causas naturales su progreso,
a la admiración dando, suspendida,
efecto cierto en causa no sabida,
con prolijo desvelo y remirada,
empírica
Crissel Famorcan Mar 2018
Hahabi ng mga bagong tugma para sa bagong libro
Sa mga bagong pahina nito,may pag-ibig na kayang mabubuo?
O mga kasawian na naman ang tanging  isusulat ko?
Kalungkutan na naman ba ang uubos sa tinta ng aking pluma?
O sa malinis nitong papel,may pag-ibig nang magmamarka?
Maisulat ko kaya ang kuwentong inaasam
At sa matayog **** isipan,magawa ko itong ipaalam?
Posible kayang mapansin mo ang iaalay kong regalo
Kahit na ba di mo pa alam ang pangalan ko?
Wala naman kasi akong balak na magpakilala sa iyo!
Kahit madalas man tayong magkatagpo—
Magkakasya nalang sa mga nakaw na tingin
Sa mga simpleng sulyap na ginagawa ng palihim
Patuloy akong magmamasid mula sa malayo—
Malayo sa iyong tabi,
Pagtatagpi-tagpiin ang mga tugmang kapares ng iyong ngiti
Hindi ako lalapit at patuloy lang na magkukubli,
Pagkat alam kong kapag ika'y nakaramdam—
Wala akong magagawa kundi humulmang muli ng paalam.
Kevin V Razalan May 2020
Walang labis, walang kulang,
Kung magliyab ang pluma kong laging natatakam,
Mga salitang lilikhain nito'y namumutiktik sa sabik,
Malinggal ang dila, nagagalak kung maghasik.

Madalas ay parang lantang gulay,
Kung gumuhit ng salita ay matamlay,
'Di matuka ng uwak kung ialay,
Minsa'y kulang-palad kung panlasa'y 'di bagay.

Sa tuwing hahampas ang higanteng salot,
Rubdob ng damdamin ay mapusok,
Tatamuhing sugat ay balon na 'di maabot,
Pilat ay siyang mararanasan, patawad ko'y suntok sa usok.

Minsan nama'y isang mapagtangis,
Ulan sa ulop katumbas ay luhang hitik kaysa pawis,
Ipapatalos sa huwad **** puso ang nalasap na pait at sakit,
Sa pluma ko'y tutungayawin ka't isasakdal sa piitan ng malasahan mo rin ang pait.

Hindi na sapat ang galak na malalasap,
Gayong panulat at puso'y nakaranas ng dusa at alat,
Naglahong bula ang hiwaga nitong kaibuturan ng pusong marilag,
Sa pinta mo'y nagmistulang kahabag-habag.

Umpisahan mo ng pumikit, ng mahagilap mo rin ang sinapit,
Madalas man akong matinik , sayo'y hindi na iimik,
Nitong plumang binuling at pinatulis ko sa inani ko sa'yo,
Ngayo'y kakikintalan mo ng hayag na masakit ngunit pawang totoo.

✍: pensword
AUGUST Oct 2018
Mahal kong Margaret,

Patawad

(Higit pa sa Sampong beses ko na tong nagawa
Hanggang ngayon di pa maunawa
Ang tulad mo sa akin na nag mahal ng kusa
Nasaktan ko ng di sinasadya)

Alam kong sawa ka na sa paulit ulit na nang yayari,
Away bati sa  mga bagay na kahit na simple.
Walang ibang Iniisip kundi ang puro pansarili,
Nagseselos ako bawat sinong makatabi.

Marahil pagod ka na, at gusto mo nang umayaw.
Ngunit sana ikaw ay magbalik tanaw
Humihingi ng tawad, hiling na magbalik ang dating ako at ikaw
Maging ako man ang inakalang papawi ng luha sya pa ang unang bumitaw

Tanggapin ang alay kong tsokolate at rosas na pula
Tikman ang tamis nito, tulad ng pagsisikap kong laging pasobra
May taglay na bango ang bulaklak, binabalik ang alaala
Ng lumipas, Kalakip ang tula galing sa puso, inukit sa pluma, indinaan  ko sa letra.

Pakinggan mo sana ang mga daing kong nawalan nang tinig
Masdan ng mga mata **** nakapinid,ayaw nang tumititig
Muli nating painitin ang samahang unti unti nang lumalamig
Bigyang pagkakataong buhayin ang pusong di na pumipintig

Alam mo namang lahat ay aking gagawin,
Ano mang kaparusahan ay handa ko nang akoin,
Sa panong paraan ba ako patatawarin?
para lang ANG PANGALAWANG PAGKAKATAON SA AKIN AY IYONG MARAPATIN.

*ps. hintayin kita duun lagi 。
1-4pm kada meirkules


Makatang humihingi ng tawad,
August E. Estrellado
solEmn oaSis Aug 2020
Katorse de Agosto
Ngayong kambal-taon
kaganapan di na wasto
para bang koraL sa taLon

Pinigilan kong huwag humawak ng pLuma
ngunit sadyang malapit sa akin ang tugma
na tila ba regalo Lulan sa loob nitong papel de hapon
Ako'y napasulat at tuluyang humugot sa mahiwagang kahon

A-kinse na pala, akin ngang namalayan
Alas-dos impunto nang relo aking tiningnan
Bagamat nga dahil sa ang hapag-sulatan ko ay kapos na
Hindi naman ito ang kataposan para sabihing ang tula ko ay tapos na...

Makandadohan man tayo sa pintoan ng kapalaran
At itrangka sa atin pati na ang bintana ng tadhana
MagiLiw pa rin akong bumabati sa bawat isa na makababasa
sa tulong nitong teknolohiya sa panahon ng pandemiya...

Kamusta na po ba kayo?
sa bagong normal na pamumuhay
Ikaw, ako, siLa... Lahat tayo !
Gawin pa rin nawang pormal itong ating buhay

Hindi man nga natin ngayon nakikita yaong kalaban...
Kinikita pa rin naman maituturing nating kaibigan !
" Siya ang Liwanag, ang tamang daan sa katotohanan at ang  B U H A Y  "
hanggang dito na lamang, hanggang sa muLi, nagmamahal... TULA~Y

© 08/15/20
solEmn oaSis
in times of pandemic
merely don't panic
for there is harmony
in every U N I T Y !
Adrián Poveda Sep 2015
Líneas, trazos, sonidos, me he dado cuenta que percibo frases ocultas, sin presencia verbal, literalmente perceptibles desde mi nube, creo que empiezo con imaginar un fin, hechos del futuro, idea tras idea, haciendo historias de un segundo que han durado una eternidad.

¿No es así como pasa?
Inicias con la página en blanco, a menudo se acerca una pluma, un momento de vacío; el destino puede elegir cualquier dirección, me apodera la curiosidad, ahí, en ese momento, la pluma me esta usando, llenando los vacíos con líneas de locura, desangrándose su tinta me dibuja, y a los demás, de esa forma oscura y a la vez multicolor; trazos en mis líneas que van sin sentido, un mundo alterno, vertical a lo que podría ser involuntariamente, si cayera en la gravedad.
Un momento en que la pluma me permite ser alguien más.

Copyright © 2015 Adrián Poveda All Rights Reserved
Margarita está linda la mar,
y el viento,
lleva esencia sutil de azahar;
yo siento
en el alma una alondra cantar;
tu acento:
Margarita, te voy a contar
un cuento:Esto era un rey que tenía
un palacio de diamantes,
una tienda hecha de día
y un rebaño de elefantes,
un kiosko de malaquita,
un gran manto de tisú,
y una gentil princesita,
tan bonita,
Margarita,
tan bonita, como tú.Una tarde, la princesa
vio una estrella aparecer;
la princesa era traviesa
y la quiso ir a coger.La quería para hacerla
decorar un prendedor,
con un verso y una perla
y una pluma y una flor.Las princesas primorosas
se parecen mucho a ti:
cortan lirios, cortan rosas,
cortan astros. Son así.Pues se fue la niña bella,
bajo el cielo y sobre el mar,
a cortar la blanca estrella
que la hacía suspirar.Y siguió camino arriba,
por la luna y más allá;
más lo malo es que ella iba
sin permiso de papá.Cuando estuvo ya de vuelta
de los parques del Señor,
se miraba toda envuelta
en un dulce resplandor.Y el rey dijo: -«¿Qué te has hecho?
te he buscado y no te hallé;
y ¿qué tienes en el pecho
que encendido se te ve?».La princesa no mentía.
Y así, dijo la verdad:
-«Fui a cortar la estrella mía
a la azul inmensidad».Y el rey clama: -«¿No te he dicho
que el azul no hay que cortar?.
¡Qué locura!, ¡Qué capricho!...
El Señor se va a enojar».Y ella dice: -«No hubo intento;
yo me fui no sé por qué.
Por las olas por el viento
fui a la estrella y la corté».Y el papá dice enojado:
-«Un castigo has de tener:
vuelve al cielo y lo robado
vas ahora a devolver».La princesa se entristece
por su dulce flor de luz,
cuando entonces aparece
sonriendo el Buen Jesús.Y así dice: -«En mis campiñas
esa rosa le ofrecí;
son mis flores de las niñas
que al soñar piensan en mí».Viste el rey pompas brillantes,
y luego hace desfilar
cuatrocientos elefantes
a la orilla de la mar.La princesita está bella,
pues ya tiene el prendedor
en que lucen, con la estrella,
verso, perla, pluma y flor.Margarita, está linda la mar,
y el viento
lleva esencia sutil de azahar:
tu aliento.Ya que lejos de mí vas a estar,
guarda, niña, un gentil pensamiento
al que un día te quiso contar
un cuento.
kenny Jul 2018
Librong matagal na binuksan sa madla,
Ngayon ay ipipinid ko na,
Maraming salamat sa pagbasa ng aking mga obra,
Sa inyong aking mga taga suporta.

Ngunit ngayong gabi wawakasan ko na,
Hindi na kailanman masisilayan pangalan ng may akda,
Hindi ko na kayang sumulat pa,
Sapagkat kadilima'y tuloyan ng nakapasok sa puso ng manunula.

Nahihirapan ilimbag itong huling tula,
Kahit alam kong dito'y walang magbabasa,
Ito na ang huling tulang aking isusulat,
Paalam ito'y iaalay sa inyong lahat.

'Wag ka sanag tumigil sa paglikha,
'Wag **** hayaang mawala ang tinta ng iyong pluma,
Gawin **** inspresyon ang pagsasara ng aking libro,
Ipinapangako kong ako'y gagabay sa'yo.

Hindi man kita lubosang kilala,
Ngunit ibibigay ko sa iyo ang aking dugo upang ika'y makasulat pa,
Maraming salamat,
Ako'y magpapaalam na.
La cebolla es escarcha
cerrada y pobre:
escarcha de tus días
y de mis noches.
Hambre y cebolla:
hielo ***** y escarcha
grande y redonda.

En la cuna del hambre
mi niño estaba.
Con sangre de cebolla
se amamantaba.
Pero tu sangre,
escarchada de azúcar,
cebolla y hambre.

Una mujer morena,
resuelta en luna,
se derrama hilo a hilo
sobre la cuna.
Ríete, niño,
que te tragas la luna
cuando es preciso.

Alondra de mi casa,
ríete mucho.
Es tu risa en los ojos
la luz del mundo.
Ríete tanto
que en el alma al oírte,
bata el espacio.

Tu risa me hace libre,
me pone alas.
Soledades me quita,
cárcel me arranca.
Boca que vuela,
corazón que en tus labios
relampaguea.

Es tu risa la espada
más victoriosa.
Vencedor de las flores
y las alondras.
Rival del sol.
Porvenir de mis huesos
y de mi amor.

La carne aleteante,
súbito el párpado,
el vivir como nunca
coloreado.
¡Cuánto jilguero
se remonta, aletea,
desde tu cuerpo!

Desperté de ser niño.
Nunca despiertes.
Triste llevo la boca.
Ríete siempre.
Siempre en la cuna,
defendiendo la risa
pluma por pluma.

Ser de vuelo tan alto,
tan extendido,
que tu carne parece
cielo cernido.
¡Si yo pudiera
remontarme al origen
de tu carrera!

Al octavo mes ríes
con cinco azahares.
Con cinco diminutas
ferocidades.
Con cinco dientes
como cinco jazmines
adolescentes.

Frontera de los besos
serán mañana,
cuando en la dentadura
sientas un arma.
Sientas un fuego
correr dientes abajo
buscando el centro.

Vuela niño en la doble
luna del pecho.
Él, triste de cebolla.
Tú, satisfecho.
No te derrumbes.
No sepas lo que pasa
ni lo que ocurre.
Cebolla
luminosa redoma,
pétalo a pétalo
se formó tu hermosura,
escamas de cristal te acrecentaron
y en el secreto de la tierra oscura
se redondeó tu vientre de rocío.
Bajo la tierra
fue el milagro
y cuando apareció
tu torpe tallo verde,
y nacieron
tus hojas como espadas en el huerto,
la tierra acumuló su poderío
mostrando tu desnuda transparencia,
y como en Afrodita el mar remoto
duplicó la magnolia
levantando sus senos,
la tierra
así te hizo,
cebolla,
clara como un planeta,
y destinada
a relucir,
constelación constante,
redonda rosa de agua,
sobre
la mesa
de las pobres gentes.

Generosa
deshaces
tu globo de frescura
en la consumación
ferviente de la olla,
y el jirón de cristal
al calor encendido del aceite
se transforma en rizada pluma de oro.

También recordaré cómo fecunda
tu influencia el amor de la ensalada
y parece que el cielo contribuye
dándote fina forma de granizo
a celebrar tu claridad picada
sobre los hemisferios de un tomate.
Pero al alcance
de las manos del pueblo,
regada con aceite,
espolvoreada
con un poco de sal,
matas el hambre
del jornalero en el duro camino.
Estrella de los pobres,
hada madrina
envuelta
en delicado
papel, sales del suelo,
eterna, intacta, pura
como semilla de astro,
y al cortarte
el cuchillo en la cocina
sube la única lágrima
sin pena.
Nos hiciste llorar sin afligirnos.

Yo cuanto existe celebré, cebolla,
pero para mí eres
más hermosa que un ave
de plumas cegadoras,
eres para mis ojos
globo celeste, copa de platino,
baile inmóvil
de anémona nevada

y vive la fragancia de la tierra
en tu naturaleza cristalina.

— The End —