He knew it was the right time. He had planned this for a hundred sunsets. “Take this cup as a sign of my blood,” he said, handing to each of his men a few ounces of holy water that streams in his veins. “Do this in memory of me,” he pleads. And they drank from the cup. On the floor they dropped and in a blink they woke up to find themselves crucified on sycamore wood. They called out the name of their creator but heard no answer.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
faith
The storm frightens the fishermen, the spray of sea salt desperate to reunite with the tears brimming in their eyes. "Be calm," a man says now awake, raising a hand. He steps out of the rocking boat and walks on water, just serene under the balls of his heels. He waves from a distance and allows himself to be swallowed by a giant fish. He leaves the people wailing, knowing that a sail without the fortitude of their despair has a boat that goes nowhere. A smile cracks on his face.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
insolence
In olden times, devout men worship their idols from morning until midnight, singing, reaching for their silken hems to feel how salvation runs smoothly in their fingers. And then at their faces they spit, cold and biting, searing the skin of the believers. This must be the reason why some are black, drifting into many shores like vessels of the night. They are burned at the stakes.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
how old are you?
An article by Sam Tanenhaus of The New York Times asks the question, “how old can a ‘young writer’ be?” The premise is interesting enough to set aside my morning tasks.
Going straight to the point of the article, the author implies, if not argues, that many writers produce and achieve great successes in their writing, which usually stays longer than any other works, when they are young (in the scope of fiction writing). That is why labeling them as “budding” or “promising” is not right; in fact they are at their peak.
Let’s take a trip back to history (taken in its entirety from the article) and see what this is all about:
‘Flaubert was 29 when he began writing “Madame Bovary” (and was 34 when it was completed).Thomas Mann was 24 when he completed his first masterpiece, “Buddenbrooks.” Tolstoy, after a period of dissolution followed by military service, began writing “War and Peace” at age 34. Joyce, who wrote “Ulysses” in his 30s, already had two major works behind him. The late-blooming Proust, his youth idled in Paris salons, was only 37 when he began writing “Remembrance of Things Past.” Even Kafka, the 20th century’s most haunting exemplar of anguished paralysis, was 29 when he wrote “The Metamorphosis” and 31 when he began “The Trial.”
Unsurprisingly, in youth-obsessed America, writers have often done their best work early. Melville was 32 when “Moby-Dick” was published (after the successes of “Typee” and “Omoo”). The writers of the lost generation found their voices when they were very young: Fitz gerald (28, “The Great Gatsby”), Hemingway (27, “The Sun Also Rises”). Faulkner lagged slightly behind. He had just turned 32 when “The Sound and the Fury” was published. Then again, it was his fourth novel.’
The celebrated post-World War II generation was just as precocious. Norman Mailer was only 25 when “The Naked and the Dead,” his classic, and enormous, war novel came out. And James Jones’s even longer work, “From Here to Eternity,” was published when he was 29. The indefatigable warhorses who grew up in the 1950s were also good very young: Joyce Carol Oates (31, “Them,” her fifth novel); Philip Roth (26, “Goodbye Columbus”); John Updike (28, “Rabbit, Run”); Thomas Pynchon (26, “V.”).’
A novel at the age of twenty-four (of which the writing starts at 22!)? Hands down. Even the writers of our own blood achieved overwhelming praises in their early 30s, worthy of argument or not, here and abroad. There’s Miguel Syjuco with his debut novel “Ilustrado,” grand winner of the Man Asian Literary Prize 2008. There’s Ian Rosales Casocot, a huge heap of literary merits under his belt. And many more.
The article just got me introspecting: What am I doing now? Sad to say, I am in a rut. I already have something grand in mind, yes, for fiction (none so far for my first love, poetry) but the disease of inevitably thinking of it is a long shot keeps me derailing from the “action,” forever stuck in the “plan.”
“Move on!” Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas told me once in one of my many meta-musings. She is right. While the thoughts are still fresh in the head, young and malleable, move on and write on. This is the simplest route.
Going straight to the point of the article, the author implies, if not argues, that many writers produce and achieve great successes in their writing, which usually stays longer than any other works, when they are young (in the scope of fiction writing). That is why labeling them as “budding” or “promising” is not right; in fact they are at their peak.
Let’s take a trip back to history (taken in its entirety from the article) and see what this is all about:
‘Flaubert was 29 when he began writing “Madame Bovary” (and was 34 when it was completed).Thomas Mann was 24 when he completed his first masterpiece, “Buddenbrooks.” Tolstoy, after a period of dissolution followed by military service, began writing “War and Peace” at age 34. Joyce, who wrote “Ulysses” in his 30s, already had two major works behind him. The late-blooming Proust, his youth idled in Paris salons, was only 37 when he began writing “Remembrance of Things Past.” Even Kafka, the 20th century’s most haunting exemplar of anguished paralysis, was 29 when he wrote “The Metamorphosis” and 31 when he began “The Trial.”
Unsurprisingly, in youth-obsessed America, writers have often done their best work early. Melville was 32 when “Moby-Dick” was published (after the successes of “Typee” and “Omoo”). The writers of the lost generation found their voices when they were very young: Fitz gerald (28, “The Great Gatsby”), Hemingway (27, “The Sun Also Rises”). Faulkner lagged slightly behind. He had just turned 32 when “The Sound and the Fury” was published. Then again, it was his fourth novel.’
The celebrated post-World War II generation was just as precocious. Norman Mailer was only 25 when “The Naked and the Dead,” his classic, and enormous, war novel came out. And James Jones’s even longer work, “From Here to Eternity,” was published when he was 29. The indefatigable warhorses who grew up in the 1950s were also good very young: Joyce Carol Oates (31, “Them,” her fifth novel); Philip Roth (26, “Goodbye Columbus”); John Updike (28, “Rabbit, Run”); Thomas Pynchon (26, “V.”).’
A novel at the age of twenty-four (of which the writing starts at 22!)? Hands down. Even the writers of our own blood achieved overwhelming praises in their early 30s, worthy of argument or not, here and abroad. There’s Miguel Syjuco with his debut novel “Ilustrado,” grand winner of the Man Asian Literary Prize 2008. There’s Ian Rosales Casocot, a huge heap of literary merits under his belt. And many more.
The article just got me introspecting: What am I doing now? Sad to say, I am in a rut. I already have something grand in mind, yes, for fiction (none so far for my first love, poetry) but the disease of inevitably thinking of it is a long shot keeps me derailing from the “action,” forever stuck in the “plan.”
“Move on!” Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas told me once in one of my many meta-musings. She is right. While the thoughts are still fresh in the head, young and malleable, move on and write on. This is the simplest route.
Then let’s discuss about our ages next.
Friday, June 11, 2010
unfinished ode to a cat
The cat
is no ball
of cotton,
it is a blithe
object of stealth,
a bullet
that hits
nine lives.
is no ball
of cotton,
it is a blithe
object of stealth,
a bullet
that hits
nine lives.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
silliman university activities of s.y. 2010-2011
For Silliman alumni out there planning for their latest trips back to the city of gentle people, Dumaguete, here is the 2010-2011 calendar of activities of Silliman University to guide and strategically mark the calendars with pins and x’s of getaways. Breathe in, breathe out, I wish I could do the same.
Monday, June 07, 2010
the fall
He ambled alone in a trail and found his men asleep under the almond trees. “Wake up! Why can’t you even spend an hour with me?” the man asked, his robes as pale as his face. But before he received the words he wanted to hear, he felt the burden of his disciples’ own pronouncements and let them be. His feet brought him to a hilltop where he wept and confessed to his Father. He was struck by lightning.
Friday, June 04, 2010
how sleep can be defined
I
Sleep? What is sleep but a still moment of escape,
a practice suspended in litmus clouds, or clouds
that could be cumulonimbus, or stratus in layers
levitating like sheets of linen above closed eyes,
where light could sift through their folds and head
to corners and creases and places night holds.
II
Sleep! The epilogue that the waking eye holds!
Defined by circles they create, those that escape
conventions of space, all forms of sleep head
to where they are contentedly in a blur: clouds.
This has a reason: dust, street and spires tire the eyes,
Glass buildings split and slice the body in thin layers.
III
Does one really need mirrors to face layers
upon layers of one’s self, wherein one hand holds
the multiplicity of sameness, gripping the eyes
with images so grand no marvel could escape
before sleep arrives? No, what are needed are clouds:
Real but invisible to touch, like thoughts in the head.
IV
Some say sleep does not appoint dream as the head,
the principal in every meditation, since it layers
itself with plausible elucidations on living, it clouds
logic, lifebuoy of occasional foolishness. Yes, it holds
some truth: dreams give the wrong reason to escape,
they trick people not to look with their own eyes.
V
Query: Why trouble on things not seen with the eyes?
Response: Answers are buried beneath the head.
Query: But why trouble on intricate plans of escape
to dreamscapes when in fact truth lies in layers
of falsehood, in patterns? Response: the sleeper holds
too much weight he wishes to rest on the ninth set of clouds.
VI
Sleep comes not only at night; it heralds the clouds
as day visits, like one morning a man sees them, eyes
them skimming the sun over skylines, in bed that holds
him, cradles him in the next hours ,where his head
rests on layers of blanket, of blankets in layers.
He closes his eyes, defines sleep, there is no escape.
VII
Nothing holds certainty as beautifully as sleep, to escape
With eyes closed in peace, not just to see between the layers
Of random thoughts where clouds set sail and head.
Sleep? What is sleep but a still moment of escape,
a practice suspended in litmus clouds, or clouds
that could be cumulonimbus, or stratus in layers
levitating like sheets of linen above closed eyes,
where light could sift through their folds and head
to corners and creases and places night holds.
II
Sleep! The epilogue that the waking eye holds!
Defined by circles they create, those that escape
conventions of space, all forms of sleep head
to where they are contentedly in a blur: clouds.
This has a reason: dust, street and spires tire the eyes,
Glass buildings split and slice the body in thin layers.
III
Does one really need mirrors to face layers
upon layers of one’s self, wherein one hand holds
the multiplicity of sameness, gripping the eyes
with images so grand no marvel could escape
before sleep arrives? No, what are needed are clouds:
Real but invisible to touch, like thoughts in the head.
IV
Some say sleep does not appoint dream as the head,
the principal in every meditation, since it layers
itself with plausible elucidations on living, it clouds
logic, lifebuoy of occasional foolishness. Yes, it holds
some truth: dreams give the wrong reason to escape,
they trick people not to look with their own eyes.
V
Query: Why trouble on things not seen with the eyes?
Response: Answers are buried beneath the head.
Query: But why trouble on intricate plans of escape
to dreamscapes when in fact truth lies in layers
of falsehood, in patterns? Response: the sleeper holds
too much weight he wishes to rest on the ninth set of clouds.
VI
Sleep comes not only at night; it heralds the clouds
as day visits, like one morning a man sees them, eyes
them skimming the sun over skylines, in bed that holds
him, cradles him in the next hours ,where his head
rests on layers of blanket, of blankets in layers.
He closes his eyes, defines sleep, there is no escape.
VII
Nothing holds certainty as beautifully as sleep, to escape
With eyes closed in peace, not just to see between the layers
Of random thoughts where clouds set sail and head.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
dignify
Names are not found
Names are not found
underneath the stones
but within them,
trapped in cages
used to their ignorance.
If my hands hold the skill,
I will dip my fingers
through the surface
of the stone and pluck
the name carefully
from its core, pocket it
and throw the stone
to a nearby river,
see it skip three times
away from my name.
Names are not found
underneath the stones
but within them,
trapped in cages
used to their ignorance.
If my hands hold the skill,
I will dip my fingers
through the surface
of the stone and pluck
the name carefully
from its core, pocket it
and throw the stone
to a nearby river,
see it skip three times
away from my name.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
punctuate
There is nothing left to think about
since everything has been printed
broadcasted forwarded relayed
heard side by side chats gossips
phone messages conversations
over bottles of beer cups of coffee
in uptight steel and wooden cafés
there is nothing left to think about
since there is no time to pause and
think since the right time doesn’t exist
no wonder no one knows the news
since everything has been printed
broadcasted forwarded relayed
heard side by side chats gossips
phone messages conversations
over bottles of beer cups of coffee
in uptight steel and wooden cafés
there is nothing left to think about
since there is no time to pause and
think since the right time doesn’t exist
no wonder no one knows the news
Monday, May 31, 2010
cleaning
I have removed the cbox or chatbox in this blog because I could not stand any longer the advertising of products coming from Taiwan and other countries, regaling me with marketing extravaganza that won’t even work to men of the lowliest IQ’s. This is also a step to further minimize the visits of people who merely step in the site and comment in the box with a silly “Hey, nice blog, care to ex-links?” I have enough of that one too.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
the four-hundredth post with six words
Six Words
by Lloyd Schwartz
yes
no
maybe
sometimes
always
never
Never?
Yes.
Always?
No.
Sometimes?
Maybe—
maybe
never
sometimes.
Yes—
no
always:
always
maybe.
No—
never
yes.
Sometimes,
sometimes
(always)
yes.
Maybe
never . . .
No,
no—
sometimes.
Never.
Always?
Maybe.
Yes—
yes no
maybe sometimes
always never.
*
by Lloyd Schwartz
yes
no
maybe
sometimes
always
never
Never?
Yes.
Always?
No.
Sometimes?
Maybe—
maybe
never
sometimes.
Yes—
no
always:
always
maybe.
No—
never
yes.
Sometimes,
sometimes
(always)
yes.
Maybe
never . . .
No,
no—
sometimes.
Never.
Always?
Maybe.
Yes—
yes no
maybe sometimes
always never.
*
In my search for inspiring sestinas, highly-structured poems having their heyday back in the twelfth century, I stumble upon this work. Imagine the inventiveness! It’s as if I am stoned with a hollow block and all I could say is “uh-waw.” It leaves me dumbstruck.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
new academic heads of silliman university
Silliman University (Dumaguete City, Negros Oriental) has issued appointments to new academic heads for three school years, starting school year 2010-2011. The University underwent a rigid selection process that involved nominations, consultations on the academic unit level, screening by a committee composed of different sectors in the University, including the alumni, headed by Vice President for Academic Affairs, and an endorsement to and a confirmation by the Board of Trustees.
The following are the new academic heads effective June 1, 2010:
Dr. Jose Edwin C. Cubelo
The following are the new academic heads effective June 1, 2010:
Dr. Jose Edwin C. Cubelo
Dean, College of Agriculture
Dr. Margaret Helen U. Alvarez
Dean, College of Arts and Sciences
Prof. Jane Annette L. Belarmino
Dean, College of Business Administration
Prof. Dave E. Marcial
Dean, College of Computer Studies
Dr. Muriel O. Montenegro
Dean, Divinity School
Dr. Earl Jude Paul L. Cleope
Dean, College of Education
Dr. Tessie A. Cabije
Dean, College of Engineering and Design
Atty. M. Mikhail Lee L. Maxino
Dean, College of Law
Dr. Ma. Cecilia M. Genove
Dean, College of Mass Communication
Dr. Jonathan C. Amante
Dean, Medical School
Prof. Florenda F. Cabatit
Dean, College of Nursing
Dr. Elizabeth Susan V. Suarez
Dean, College of Performing Arts
Prof. Carlos M. Magtolis, Jr.
Dean, Office of Student Affairs
Dr. Ma. Teresita Sy-Sinda
Dean, Graduate Program
Dr. Reynaldo Y. Rivera
Dean, School of Public Affairs and Governance
Dr. Edna Gladys T. Calingacion
Associate Dean, College of Arts and Sciences
Prof. Teodora A. Cubelo
Director, Institute of Clinical Laboratory Sciences
Dr. Lynn L. Olegario
Director, Institute of Rehabilitative Sciences
Prof. Francisco E. Ablong, Jr.
Director, School of Basic Education
Dr. Nichol R. Elman
Director, Extension Program
Dr. Enrique G. Oracion
Director, Research and Development Office
Dr. Pablito A. Dela Rama
Director, Instruction Office
Information taken from the university's official website.
Monday, May 24, 2010
17th iligan national writers workshop fellows
The 17th Iligan National Writers Workshop (INWW) opens today at the MSU-Iligan Institute of Technology Mini-Theater. Twelve writing fellows were selected for this year’s INWW. They are:
Poetry
Bernardo Miguel Aguay Jr., Calabanga, Camarines Sur (Filipino)
Paul A. Castillo, University of Santo Tomas (Filipino)
Roberto Klemente R. Timonera, MSU-IIT (English)
Gratian Paul R. Tidor, MSU-IIT (Cebuano)
Herminigildo M. Dico, MSU-IIT (Cebuano)
Jona B. Bering, University of San Carlos (Cebuano)
Nemesio S. Baldesco, Lamiraw, Calbayog City (Waray)
Fiction
Jayson E. Parba, Capitol University (English)
Kyra Camille C. Ballesteros, Ateneo de Manila University (English)
Romulo P. Pena, UP Diliman (Filipino)
Reynaldo A. Villaruz, Colegio de la Purisima Concepcion (Hiligaynon)
Play
Anili F. Butcon, Xavier University (English)
The 17th INWW panelists are Antonio Enriquez, Leoncio P. Deriada, Merlie M. Alunan, Victor N. Sugbo, German V. Gervacio and Steven PC Fernandez. This year’s keynote lecturer is Lawrence Ypil, and workshop director, Christine Godinez-Ortega.
Major sponsors this year include the MSU-IIT Chancellor’s Office and Office of the Vice Chancellor for Research & Extension; the National Book Development Board; the NCCA Speakers Bureau; the Manuel E. Buenafe Writing Fellowship; JY Balacuit Memorial Awards; and writers groups, schools, past panelists and INWW alumni who donated cash and in kind so the workshop could be held this year.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
top-of-the-head response to a novel: ilustrado by miguel syjuco
After an arduous read, I've finished Ilustrado, the Man Asia Literary Prize Winning novel by Filipino writer Miguel “Chuck” Syjuco, in two weeks. Yes, arduous because the work is a compendium of fragmented pieces of prose, contemporary or not: newspaper articles, interviews, blog comments, short story and novel excerpts, and even text messages. And yes, two weeks, because I read slow. And I have a day job. With that being said, I am surprisingly entertained by its chatty, sometimes lyrical tone, with words I do not even think are present in my dictionary.
But that was it: just entertained. The wide scope of sociopolitical-family drama carefully set up in the beginning, along with the needed nuances of humor snippets in between, did not pull in that much gratifying denouement. I closed the book and, like everyone else who read it first, said: “Now what?!”
It dawned on me that if I would like to be entertained, I would grab an Archie Comics digest or, to be more Filipinized, the latest compilation of Kikomachine comic strips by Manix Abrera. But I did not pull from the shelf either of the two. I picked up Ilustrado. I am not sure; maybe I am just expecting something grander, something more revolutionary than that epilogue. Or maybe I love it very much I do not want to see/feel the literariness stumble in the end. Then again, I am not the author. Go purchase the book, Philippine literature needs your insight. Have your own reaction.
But that was it: just entertained. The wide scope of sociopolitical-family drama carefully set up in the beginning, along with the needed nuances of humor snippets in between, did not pull in that much gratifying denouement. I closed the book and, like everyone else who read it first, said: “Now what?!”
It dawned on me that if I would like to be entertained, I would grab an Archie Comics digest or, to be more Filipinized, the latest compilation of Kikomachine comic strips by Manix Abrera. But I did not pull from the shelf either of the two. I picked up Ilustrado. I am not sure; maybe I am just expecting something grander, something more revolutionary than that epilogue. Or maybe I love it very much I do not want to see/feel the literariness stumble in the end. Then again, I am not the author. Go purchase the book, Philippine literature needs your insight. Have your own reaction.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
grab this week's philippines free press now
Yes, the one with the faces of people running for Philippine presidency this year, buy that in the nearest magazine or newspaper stands. It won’t hurt your wallet, it is worth P50 only. Leaf through the magazine until the last page, and there you are, discover the reason for this ultimately shameless plug on this corner of the blogosphere:
My poem “Traffic” is published alongside the works of Jan Paulo Bastareche, Alfred Casipong, and Bron Teves, and a piece of fiction by Dean Francis Alfar. If literature is not for you, well, just wallow in the editorial pages and other articles for your desired consumption. Thanks.
My poem “Traffic” is published alongside the works of Jan Paulo Bastareche, Alfred Casipong, and Bron Teves, and a piece of fiction by Dean Francis Alfar. If literature is not for you, well, just wallow in the editorial pages and other articles for your desired consumption. Thanks.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
no longer safe
I have always read online privacy issues in all forms of media, with the recent being this article entitled “Tell-All Generation Learns to Keep Things Offline”, but the days, like the rest of the days, simply move on their usual route. The possibility of me stumbling into a trap of cyber clandestine issues, I consider, is laughable. Until today.
One centralized department email account in our office is suddenly receiving numerous messages from different employees, from different departments of the company: confidential memos directed to the president, conversations on delays of progress reports, gossips on absences, and even my planned trip to Pagudpud, Ilocos Norte. My trip to Pagudpud! The last one made my heart skip a beat. Even our IT personnel are dumbfounded. Automatically retracing all the conversations made in my email account, my mind hits a ringing realization: with computers (especially the internet) nothing is really private.
This episode may only be a problem within our company’s computer systems, for now, but in all likelihood, our everyday Google or Yahoo could go bonkers sooner or later. With this being said, let us be careful with what we are saying (or posting). You know, words are sharper when they are out of their sheaths.
One centralized department email account in our office is suddenly receiving numerous messages from different employees, from different departments of the company: confidential memos directed to the president, conversations on delays of progress reports, gossips on absences, and even my planned trip to Pagudpud, Ilocos Norte. My trip to Pagudpud! The last one made my heart skip a beat. Even our IT personnel are dumbfounded. Automatically retracing all the conversations made in my email account, my mind hits a ringing realization: with computers (especially the internet) nothing is really private.
This episode may only be a problem within our company’s computer systems, for now, but in all likelihood, our everyday Google or Yahoo could go bonkers sooner or later. With this being said, let us be careful with what we are saying (or posting). You know, words are sharper when they are out of their sheaths.
Monday, May 10, 2010
something that came up on election day
Heard Before
You heard it before:
the whorls of our fingers
construct a convoluted maze
where our feet trace the fate
of our country’s face.
You heard it before:
promises are meant to be broken
like shells of the pearls of the orient
crushed under the bellies of crocodiles
promises of turning the crows white.
You heard it before:
mercy is in our fingertips
or the carpals of our hands
or the intermetatarsals of our feet
with the help of spikes digging our skin.
You heard it before:
science has a way
of explaining matters
no wise man of the wisest
can enlighten with the birth of stars.
You heard it before:
there is no such thing as the wisest
not even that man hung in beads
hung in rear-view mirrors of taxis
With radios turned on an afternoon soap.
You heard it before:
Precinct volunteers in T— City threatened with gunshots
Brownout hits D— City… PCOS machines not working
Teachers ran out of indelible ink… G— Mall bombed, three dead
Drama Actress, handa sa paglabas ng sinasabing sex scandal!
Abangan…
You heard it before:
the whorls of our fingers
construct a convoluted maze
where our feet trace the fate
of our country’s face.
You heard it before:
promises are meant to be broken
like shells of the pearls of the orient
crushed under the bellies of crocodiles
promises of turning the crows white.
You heard it before:
mercy is in our fingertips
or the carpals of our hands
or the intermetatarsals of our feet
with the help of spikes digging our skin.
You heard it before:
science has a way
of explaining matters
no wise man of the wisest
can enlighten with the birth of stars.
You heard it before:
there is no such thing as the wisest
not even that man hung in beads
hung in rear-view mirrors of taxis
With radios turned on an afternoon soap.
You heard it before:
Precinct volunteers in T— City threatened with gunshots
Brownout hits D— City… PCOS machines not working
Teachers ran out of indelible ink… G— Mall bombed, three dead
Drama Actress, handa sa paglabas ng sinasabing sex scandal!
Abangan…
*
words taken from the top of my head after hearing news about his brothers being threatened with gun shots early this morning, when they spotted some men trying to mark voters waiting in line with indelible inks way before they can get hold of their ballots.
words taken from the top of my head after hearing news about his brothers being threatened with gun shots early this morning, when they spotted some men trying to mark voters waiting in line with indelible inks way before they can get hold of their ballots.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
for mother
A mother is a desert,
the sway of her hips
the changing hills of sand,
as days rise and fall,
curves shift from slopes to dunes,
sometimes warm,
sometimes parched;
a mother is a desert,
vast,
embracing,
cupping an oasis
no mirage
can ever fool.
May 09/10 (10:59am)
No one could carry so much love other than a mother.
This isn’t exactly an argument on which role of parenthood does best, since this will only beat the bush like determining which comes first, the hen or the egg. The very bottom line of that premise is this:
Our mothers bring us all into this world. Just imagine such responsibility.
That is why in as early as the days of ancient Greece mothers are esteemed in highest regards, festivals being commemorated for her. Through time, the importance of a mother finally finds its day of celebration indelibly marked on the second Sunday of May in almost all calendars across the globe.
But being a mother is no easy job. Aside from giving up her curves, she endures all forms of pain from the birthing of a child to the last aching sight of a grocery list. The coming and going of her children must also be one of the most trying times in her life, but like everything else, she handles this with grace and endurance. Beyond the usual façade of vulnerability is a character of strong will.
Whether this day does or doesn’t have any special bearing to some people, there’s no denying that there are many days for men and about men, accounting to the numerous holidays of our heroes and won wars. That’s why on this day, let us show our gratitude to our mothers for bringing us into this world, for giving us a chance to love them the way they love us through the years.
To all mothers, mommies, mamas, and nanays, thank you.
the sway of her hips
the changing hills of sand,
as days rise and fall,
curves shift from slopes to dunes,
sometimes warm,
sometimes parched;
a mother is a desert,
vast,
embracing,
cupping an oasis
no mirage
can ever fool.
May 09/10 (10:59am)
No one could carry so much love other than a mother.
This isn’t exactly an argument on which role of parenthood does best, since this will only beat the bush like determining which comes first, the hen or the egg. The very bottom line of that premise is this:
Our mothers bring us all into this world. Just imagine such responsibility.
That is why in as early as the days of ancient Greece mothers are esteemed in highest regards, festivals being commemorated for her. Through time, the importance of a mother finally finds its day of celebration indelibly marked on the second Sunday of May in almost all calendars across the globe.
But being a mother is no easy job. Aside from giving up her curves, she endures all forms of pain from the birthing of a child to the last aching sight of a grocery list. The coming and going of her children must also be one of the most trying times in her life, but like everything else, she handles this with grace and endurance. Beyond the usual façade of vulnerability is a character of strong will.
Whether this day does or doesn’t have any special bearing to some people, there’s no denying that there are many days for men and about men, accounting to the numerous holidays of our heroes and won wars. That’s why on this day, let us show our gratitude to our mothers for bringing us into this world, for giving us a chance to love them the way they love us through the years.
To all mothers, mommies, mamas, and nanays, thank you.
Monday, May 03, 2010
how writing grows: after the 10th iyas creative writing workshop
I was excited being the first to arrive at 6:30am in Balay Kalinungan at La Salle Bacolod two Sundays ago, and all of a sudden, cheerless next being the last to leave the place, seeing people you’ve grown to like packing their bags and leaving the doors with a hesitant wave inside their taxis. It was a sad image, recycled over and over in my head.
Like any gathering such as the 10th Iyas Creative Writing Workshop held last April 25-May 1, leaving each other’s familiar presence is but the final untold session of all: the parting tests the strength of bond.
For practicing writers, this bond is what keeps the craft going: the exchanges of ideas, the developments of verses, the first drafts of stories, or simply the never-ending swaps of rumors, both humorous and not.
I hope my co-fellows—Anne Abad, Elsed Tongonon, Gino Francis Dizon, Jesus Insilada, Vernan Jagunap (for fiction), Alyza Taguilaso, Arbeen Acuña, Gian Paolo Lao, Glenn Muñez, Noel Fortun, Paul Gumanao, Roselle Ibabao, Sim Gadugdug, Charmaine Luzano, and Rogerick Fernandez (for poetry)—will soon realize this. But I am sure they will.
Humility aside, I have been to two writing workshops already (one in Dumaguete and another in Iligan) and I can attest that constant communication with fellow like-minds brings out the best of anyone. And being in the tenth installment of Iyas, thereby approximately affirming and reaffirming the birth of a hundred or so budding writers in the country, is one proof that that really is no lie.
In retrospect, I came in prepared for the workshop, considering that this would be my third, but the keen insight and dissecting skills of Dr. Elsa Coscolluela, Dr. Danilo Francisco M. Reyes, Dr. Anthony Tan, Dr. Dinah Roma-Sianturi, Dr. Genevieve Ansenjo, and Prof. John Iremil Teodoro—our formidable panelists of varying literary discipline—never fail to resonate the fact that I was there to learn, to be immersed in their knowledge and talent that could blow anyone’s mind away.
Though all fellows had their fair share of the spotlight in the workshop sessions, special mention should still be made to the fellows for the regional languages (Hiligaynon, Kiniray-a, Cebuano, and Boholano). Their showcase of promising discipline, mastery of language and technique put more weight on the fact that talent and the ability to relay an insight no matter what locality it is based from do not revolve around the English and Tagalog languages only.
And here’s another reminder: No matter how far you’ve gone, with Iyas, the seed that promises a canopy of wisdom and a trunk for the pillars of our future praises, there’s always room for improvement.
To all fellows, I’d like to say that writing and its results are like taking care of a bonsai—to see its startling beauty, one must endure the aching and hard steps of trimming, bending, wiring and rewiring.
Since all beautiful things start with a seed, it is only fitting that by the time we see the point of going back to revising our entries in the workshop, if time permits, let us pull our manuscripts from the envelope, study the branching comments that peek out from a sentence, the erasures that seem tentative in their repose in one specific verse, and keep the writing grow.
That is how our writing will grow.
Though all fellows had their fair share of the spotlight in the workshop sessions, special mention should still be made to the fellows for the regional languages (Hiligaynon, Kiniray-a, Cebuano, and Boholano). Their showcase of promising discipline, mastery of language and technique put more weight on the fact that talent and the ability to relay an insight no matter what locality it is based from do not revolve around the English and Tagalog languages only.
And here’s another reminder: No matter how far you’ve gone, with Iyas, the seed that promises a canopy of wisdom and a trunk for the pillars of our future praises, there’s always room for improvement.
To all fellows, I’d like to say that writing and its results are like taking care of a bonsai—to see its startling beauty, one must endure the aching and hard steps of trimming, bending, wiring and rewiring.
Since all beautiful things start with a seed, it is only fitting that by the time we see the point of going back to revising our entries in the workshop, if time permits, let us pull our manuscripts from the envelope, study the branching comments that peek out from a sentence, the erasures that seem tentative in their repose in one specific verse, and keep the writing grow.
That is how our writing will grow.
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