Some Like Poetry

by Wislawa Szymborska
Write it. Write. In ordinary ink
on ordinary paper: they were given no food,
they all died of hunger. "All. How many?
It's a big meadow. How much grass
for each one?" Write: I don't know.
History counts its skeletons in round numbers.
A thousand and one remains a thousand,
as though the one had never existed:
an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle,
an ABC never read,
air that laughs, cries, grows,
emptiness running down steps toward the garden,
nobody's place in the line.

We stand in the meadow where it became flesh,
and the meadow is silent as a false witness.
Sunny. Green. Nearby, a forest
with wood for chewing and water under the bark-
every day a full ration of the view
until you go blind. Overhead, a bird-
the shadow of its life-giving wings
brushed their lips. Their jaws opened.
Teeth clacked against teeth.
At night, the sickle moon shone in the sky
and reaped wheat for their bread.
Hands came floating from blackened icons,
empty cups in their fingers.
On a spit of barbed wire,
a man was turning.
They sang with their mouths full of earth.
"A lovely song of how war strikes straight
at the heart." Write: how silent.

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For the Dead

by Adrienne Rich

I dreamed I called you on the telephone
to say: Be kinder to yourself
but you weresick and would not answer

The waste of my love goes on this way
trying to save you from yourself

I have always wondered about the left-over
energy the way water goes rushing down a hill
long after the rains have stopped

or the fire you want to go to bed from
but cannot leave, burning-down but not burnt-down
the red coals more extreme, more curious
in their flashing and dying
than you wish they were
sitting long after midnight

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by Anne Sexton
Loving me with my shows off
means loving my long brown
sweet dears, as good as spoons;
and my feet, those two children
let out to play naked. Intricate nubs,
my toes. No longer bound.
And what's more, see toenails and
all ten stages, root by root.
All spirited and wild, this little
piggy went to market and this little piggy
stayed. Long brown legs and long brown toes.
Further up, my darling, the woman
is calling her secrets, little houses,
little tongues that tell you.

There is no one else but us
in this house on the land spit.
The sea wears a bell in its navel.
And I'm your barefoot wench for a
whole week. Do you care for salami?
No. You'd rather not have a scotch?
No. You don't really drink. You do
drink me. The gulls kill fish,
crying out like three-year-olds.
The surf's a narcotic, calling out,
I am, I am, I am
all night long. Barefoot,
I drum up and down your back.
In the morning I run from door to door
of the cabin playing chase me.
Now you grab me by the ankles.
Now you work your way up the legs
and come to pierce me at my hunger mark

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Lassie's Lassitude

days darted a meaningful glance-
a lassie who loves to spend
afternoons in a loge
with such splendor
(who defies a byronic man,
for her,
he is a theatrical show
a simulated mind).

days darted a meaningful stance
where a valley of vision lies-
a forgetful lassie,
who adores the ending
of a love story-
alone shedding
a clandestine

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Truth: Making myself believe that I'm a Humanitarian

Spending over blank data,uncertain figures and country music goddesses (Dixie Chicks) during the maddening hour of three AM, devoting herself to figure out THINGS all for one reason: extending help to (all) the malnourished elementary school children in General Santos City.

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Gauging Friendship

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with his name
faces his glory
with questions,
falling into the pit of darkness

back home,
God appears like
the saints and prophets
in the heaven calling out the Pope

he screams,
a fan of him
with his sick eyes
watches an abomination

God's voice
is the lips of an angel-
sweet and vile.

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5 months and counting...* ( A Stolen Shot )

(Panoramic View)


(Mid Shot)

Loving Weekends,
Throwing Scratch Papers,

(Camera Zooms In)

while the birds were busy grubbing,
i was alone, unearthing.

it was during the holy hour of 3:00:

A piece of paper on the table was left unattended,
i was holding a pen that time and had nothing to do,
i thought of writing few fragments
of solitary madness

a pen narrower than my fingers'
was held upright with its point
pressed onto the paper

as the pen was gliding
scribbling few strokes,
i let my thoughts couple

they were free flowing,
like any sung mantras
penetrating and liberating

i held the pen til i reached the bottom
of the page, it was pure
and chaste

there was a chaos inside my head
a cleft between the spaces,
a pen gliding across the gap

i pressed the pen harder,
letting it cut through the paper,
until the scribbled letters

let loose.

*"All extremes of feeling are allied with madness." ~ Virginia Woolf

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Feeling Futuristic*

The Future Inhabitant

Younger bro with one of the female contestants

When a scientist is ahead of his times, it is often through misunderstanding of current, rather than intuition of future truth. In science there is never any error so gross that it won't one day, from some perspective, appear prophetic.

October 5,2009
@ Dadiangas West Central Elementary School
Search for Mr. & Ms. Science and Technology '09

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in the long run, you are admired
because of your personality
someone who has the charm
to rule over the boys
and to be one of them
you know how to act
like a bitch-
to scream like your Sylvia
to pant like you own Ted

well, you know everything
from life to arts
from symbols to alphabets-
now what,
what is Europe without Paris?
what is history without civilization?

you scream in silence,
you defy conventions
you become a goddess,
a fairy, an adored ballerina
just when you thought
you're one.
how come you've become
like this:

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Mind Game*

*Nishi (Mind Game 2004): So what! I wanna get out! 'Cos there's so much out there! So many different people, living different lives! Incredibly good guys, bad guys... Folks completely different from us! It's one huge melting pot! See, it's not about success, dying in the streets, who's better, who's not! I just want to be a part of it! I realized that even if I've no connections, no talent, even if I'm one big loser, I want to use my hands and feet to think and move, to shape my own life! We can just die here or we can try, see what we've got!

Date Acquired: October 2, 2009, General Santos City

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To the Belle of the Ball

for my best friend, GKRO

There's the remnant of ashes,

the stained white rose petals

which scent smells of a dying

charm rest like broken earthenwares.

there's no death in beauty

as it is relative to perfection

thus, it is a selfish possession,

a gift of property.

like the quality of ashes,

it is vulnerable, it can be destroyed

but still it has its pulchritude

tangible yet for others, it is imperceptible.

it is the standard of taste

that defines beauty

as i said, it is eternal

for the word itself

captures the kind of elegance

and grace it could give,

it blooms from the lips.

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Snow-Covered Hills

for JRD

How does it feel to reach a snow covered hills?

Would it be best to climb in the morning

or at night?

Would it be best to climb alone or

with someone?

What are the tools to bring?

What was your reaction seeing

everything below the snow covered hills?

How far was the snow covered hills?

How lovely was the snow covered hills?

Did you meet some girls

while on your way to the snow covered hills?

Was it cold in the snow covered hills?

Do you have any regrets upon reaching the snow covered hills?

Did you enjoy your trip going to the snow covered hills?

Did you write your experience in the diary that I gave you?

Did you think of me when you reached the snow covered hills?

Did you regret leaving the snow covered hills?

Who were your companions?

Do you plan to go back to the snow covered hills?

How does it feel

to be alone now?

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