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Wednesday, October 5, 2011

[Written] While Watching the News


I always see you during lunch break.
You and your colleagues talk of GSIS over that thin steak.
Then I see you in your office, head bent on papers, the red pen
Moving to and fro. You glance up now and then.
Now in this breezy, comfy place I see you again
In my mind’s eye: you’re at home, reading, then
Your little boy asks help for his homework. A meal
Is to be cooked for supper. Work doesn’t stop for real,
Not even away from that four-walled room. You punch
The calculator: bills, food, loans. Paycheck not enough.
You’ve got lots on your plate, yet you
Teach with energy and passion, easy as the old one-two.
To think that I sometimes clench my fists silently
Because of your rules and requirements. How silly
Of me to miss that when I’m done, I’m done. No need
To think of ways to make tomorrow colorful. Indeed
I sometimes see things only through my eyes.
I miss it: your path, it’s a life of sacrifice.
I’m sorry for sometimes thinking crap and not being nice

At the Courtyard


I attend your class every other day. You
Discuss things and make students do some stuff too.
Sometimes confetti is in the air. A happy song
Is heard. Sometimes the period just seems so long.
A dirge is playing, then I would console myself
By going to the Muse. Right there, I write a poem about an elf.
Another subject required me to think like you, see through
Your eyes. Facing the blank Word, I rack my brains
About how to start a lesson, but all I think is airplanes.
How do I crack the ice and stop the dirge from playing?
Every idea I think of gets worse, my creativity waning.
Then I see you in your office, absorbed in your own
Business, preparing perhaps, for another class. I should’ve known
You’ve got more to it than signing the square cards. It’s true
It is not that easy, the task assigned to you.

Saturday, August 13, 2011

A Desperately Written Letter (in the face of great need)

Can you pay me a visit?
I really need to see you.
Please, show up now, as I seat.
For I am screwed.

I couldn’t meet my folks' eyes.
I am being clawed by ire,
I am skinned by fire.
To be with you now would be wise.

The fire that skins me alive
Is cool fire, which makes it
More painful in every bit.
I hope I won’t be revived.

So please, heed me, answer my call.
Open up and take me—that’s all.
Then close, don’t open again,
That I may not released to the world of men.

Please, open up, I beg you.


Please, Gaea.

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Letters

August 5, 2011

It’s 10p.m. and I can’t sleep. I’m afraid to turn the lights out for fear for having a bad dream. Early this afternoon, someone in the house watched a horror film on TV while I was working on my computer and I could well hear the sound of those distant, creepy voices.

 I am now watching Bride Wars and the movie got to that part where one bride sends wedding invitations through e-vites.

And it got me thinking: what happened to the good old-fashioned handwritten letters?

When I was little, letters were a regular sight. My aunt worked abroad—email was a concept equal to outer space then, and so was text messaging—writing a letter was the only way to communicate. Unless you want to include the “voice tapes.” Her family would tell stories and record it on a tape then send it to her by mail. Going local, think of the person working in some big city (Metro Manila maybe) communicating to the family back in the provinces.

Look, I’m not saying that provinces are laid back. The point is, letters are entwined with our lives. Or at least they used to be. Now, we have text messaging and emails. We get a reply in a few minutes—if not seconds. My teacher mused once that overseas letters take weeks to get delivered.

When I visited the post office recently, I asked the mailman if there were still personal letters being sorted and mailed. He told me personal letters were rare, and that most items there were applications to a university, job-related letters, basically the “corporate letters.”

Well, time indeed makes changes. Now that I think of it, I’ve written lots of things except a letter. I’ve done essays, poems and stories. And business letters for field work, but never an actual personal letter.

***
The movie is done and I watch another. One trailer is about the movie Letters to God. It is about a boy battling cancer and a mailman who picks his letters from the mailbox. I haven’t seen the movie. I seriously feel cheesy in attempting to write a letter to God—don’t get me wrong, I say my prayers—I never actually wrote Him.

Since I’m a writer, might as well try, right?

Dear God,

I’ve been surfing the net earlier this evening and I Googled “memory.” Lots of stuff came out, and I chanced upon two conflicting opinions on a website. Having a sharp memory is both a blessing and a curse. It can be a blessing because you don’t easily forget. Students with sharp memories are good with memorization. And it is a curse because you don’t forget. Like that scene I saw on TV this afternoon.

I know You gave me that gift as a blessing; and I have benefited from it all my life. But right now, I'm too spooked to get to bed.

I’m writing this letter with one request: Help me forget what I saw this afternoon and help me have a peaceful sleep.

Yeah, I know. Even when I wrote that I felt a little stupid. I’m not a three-year-old to crawl under my blanket for fear of bad dreams.

But hey, a letter is a letter. If you write your best friend and tell her something, I’m prepared to bet you’d say it point blank. You’d never feel—even for a single sec—that you’re a complete dope.

The only difference is: I can’t mail this one. And the one I happen to write to has an address that’s a little…out of the mailman’s route. I’m sure the receiver of this letter has read its contents even before I finished typing anyway.

Honestly, that’s the best I could come up with right now. It’s not much. Probably not the best letter.

What would be in the best letter? If I write another letter to God, what should be in it, for the letter to be considered the best?

Wait. I write a letter to communicate.

If the letter were to my friend living one cab away, I’d write it plain and simple. I’d tell her about my day, the mind-boggling exam that gave me a nosebleed—nay—brain damage. I’d tell her my brain was completely shut down when I was done and that I am looking forward to an eight-hour sleep tonight.

That would make the best letter. But since God knows everything about me, what would be my best letter to Him?

Bingo.

The best letter is my life.
     

Sunday, July 31, 2011

The Contribution of Of Mice and Men To American Literature

John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men is considered a must-read, yet it is also a banned book. Published in 1937, the novel tells the story of George Milton and Lennie Small, their dream of having their own farm and the journey they take to make the dream true. The novel reflects the struggle of the working class to survive in the 1930s. During that time, the Great Depression was devouring the United States economy; unemployment soared alarmingly to more than 15 million (McElvaine 2008).
The contribution of the novel to American literature is its subtle way of commenting on the realities of society, issues that are considered taboo. It presents the struggle of the working class towards a better life and the magnetic power of the American dream. The novel shows the inconvenient truth that sometimes, even the best laid plans fail due to circumstances that are beyond man’s control.
Also, it touches the issue of racism—how blacks were considered as dregs of society. Feminism is also touched in the novel.

The Struggle for Survival  
The struggle for survival is shown in the efforts of George Milton and Lennie Small in finding a job. What kept them going—something that urged them to work hard—is their vision of a free life: having their own farm and home, where they enjoy all the fruits of their labor. This vision of an ideal world is what the other workers in the ranch hold on to.
The workers in the ranch dream of a family, which they make real through the bond they establish among themselves. They look out for each other and are happy to know that someone has their back. This kind of idyllic life is what George believes in as he continues to tell and retell to Lennie the story of how they will live their lives on the farm.
This vision of the pleasant life, however, is crushed when George realizes that the world is a battleground for the weak and the strong; that the strong prey on the weak. It is revealed in one conversation with Slim that George abused Lennie for fun. George learned the truth that it is wrong to take advantage of the weak. He made it his mission to protect Lennie who, even with great strength, is very vulnerable. Lennie’s vulnerability is shown when Curley attacks him and he refuses to fight back even if he is already wounded.
This shows that the American dream—idyllic life—has a very strong magnet among the people. The story proves this when Candy offers to give his savings to George—so that they could get the farmhouse—as long as George would let him come with them.
The victory of strength over weakness is also shown in Lennie’s character. He kills everything he has in his hands—rabbits, puppies and even Curley’s wife. He loves to pet soft things. His petting is too strong for the animal (or woman), but he also fails to recognize that his strength is killing the one he is petting. He does not know when to stop petting. When Curley’s wife screamed at him to stop, Lennie panicked and accidentally broke the woman’s bone. In a way, Lennie’s greatest strength is also his weakness.
Curley, the boss’s son, is a small man. He compensates his size by bullying bigger guys who are weak-willed, like Lennie. Skilled with his fists, he uses larger men as a punching bag. He also considers other men as threats, especially when they are looking at his wife.
As the boss’s son, Curley thinks he has the right to do whatever he wants to the workers. He treats the workers as inferiors who should be thankful of having a job at the ranch, therefore should not complain if they are being abused.
In this manner, Curley gains power. 
Aside from surviving physically, another form of struggle is shown: the struggle of acceptance. This is shown by both Crooks and Curley’s wife.

Racism and How Blacks Survive
Crooks is the black worker at the ranch, separated from the rest because of his skin color. He bullies Lennie, telling him that George has left the ranch for good. Lennie doesn’t believe what Crooks says—and counters that he knows George enough to be assured his friend will return—but Crooks pushes it and insists George is really gone. By preying on Lennie’s weakness, he gains power and respect for himself, knowing that he is superior to someone else. He clearly relishes this moment. He works in a racist ranch; most of the time he is treated as a nobody because he is black. He compensates his isolation by being arrogant and imposing a “no Whites allowed” rule in his room.

Feminism
Curley’s wife gains power when she successfully controls Crooks, by telling him to mind his manners or he could get fired. She uses her status as the boss’s daughter-in-law to have power. Like Crooks, Curley’s wife loves this moment. The portrayal of women as threats in the novel is parallel to the nature of the sirens in the Greek epic Odyssey. The sirens sing a song that lure sailors to their doom.
 All the time, the workers consider Curley’s wife as a threat to their jobs. She flirts with them; the men fear losing their jobs whenever she is near them, since Curley is a jealous husband.

Mercy Killing
Another issue tackled in the novel is mercy killing. It is first shown by Carlson shooting Candy’s old dog because the animal is useless and it stinks. Though Candy refuses at first to let the dog be killed, he gives in anyway after Slim talks him into it. Carlson then shoots the old dog.
This event foreshadows Lennie’s fate. George knew that Curley would make death painful for Lennie. George’s decision to kill Lennie himself was reinforced by Candy’s regret that he hadn’t shot the dog himself. George then decides to give his friend a quick and painless death, rather than turn him over to Curley for a slow and painful end. This way, he was sure that his friend had indeed died painlessly, and he didn’t have the pain of regrets that Candy had with his dog dying in someone else’s hand.

Animal Imagery
Animal imagery is one contribution of the novel. Lennie’s characteristics are described through the use of animals: his strength compared to a bull, his hands to paws, and his size to a horse.
The comparison shows that even humans sometimes behave like animals. The behavior could be “in a good way,” like the strength. (But it could also mean that the attitude is close to savagery, depending on the animal used as point of comparison). 
Conclusion
The novel’s Marxist ideas are shown clearly in the characters and events. These are not made up, but the reality that society has. One contribution of Of Mice and Men is that it did not comment directly on the issues of society. John Steinbeck put forth his comment subtly by painting a picture of what is happening. The subtle manner of commentary is the absence of it. Steinbeck hasn’t uttered a single comment. He left the reader to decide for himself. However, the truths are well-established and the comment is put into the mind of the reader.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

A Letter to Dad

Let me fly on your wings,
To explore and learn things.
Propel me to greater heights
Urge me to take higher flights.

Live and let me watch you,
That I may learn from it too.
You’re someone I look up to,
Whether I’m two feet six or six foot two.

Be the torch that would take me far,
Like the headlights guide a car.
May I see God’s light in you,
So I’d walk a Godly path too.

Chase me ‘round the yard,
Let me rise when I sit down hard,
Sing with me and laugh out loud;
When I look at you, let me be proud.

When I’d be on my feet one day,
And people speak to me, I’d say:
“I’m as lucky as can be;
A Godly dad belongs to me.”

Saturday, May 21, 2011

S.O.S.

Help me to be kind
When other kids are cruel;
Help me to resist
Temptation in school.
Help me to be patient
When I’m about to lose my temper;
Help me to be calm
When danger’s signaled by the alarm.
Help me keep my head
When my day is much stressed;
Help me to remember
To count on You, Father:
That when I’m down to nothing,
You are always up to something.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

An Apostrophe

I once followed as your kid held the torch, high.
Fire lit earnestly, I heard the question, “why?”
Then the jet-black cloak gave way to light.
Your kid showed me something as I flew to a new height.
Your boy holds the torch everywhere he is
Even when we’re just enjoying some bliss:
He wears it always, your cloak,
And I see it even when he throws a joke.
Everything went blank again, I start from zero.
And I write something I should’ve written long ago.
I’ve got a brother in your kid who’s great.
He tickles me when I’ve got much on my plate.
It is no question, he got his gifts from thee:
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
We’ve never met—it’s something I regret:
Personally saying thanks is a chance I’ll never get.
You’ve done a great job raising him. My applause.
Your kid is serving a very noble cause.
In these verses, I let my message drift:
Thank you so much for my brother, your gift.

A Poem at the Courtyard

I attend your class every other day. You
Discuss things and make students do some stuff too.
Sometimes confetti is in the air. A happy song
Is heard. Sometimes the period just seems so long.
A dirge is playing, then I would console myself
By going to the Muse. Right there, I write a poem about an elf.
Another subject required me to think like you, see through
Your eyes. Facing the blank Word, I rack my brains
About how to start a lesson, but all I think is airplanes.
How do I crack the ice and stop the dirge from playing?
Every idea I think of gets worse, my creativity waning.
Then I see you in your office, absorbed in your own
Business, preparing perhaps, for another class. I should’ve known
You’ve got more to it than signing the square cards. It’s true
It is not that easy, the task assigned to you.

John Hay Poem

I always see you walk home when a cab I take.
You and your colleagues talk of GSIS over that thin steak.
Then I see you in your office, head bent on papers, the red pen
Moving to and fro. You glance up now and then.
Now in this breezy, comfy place I see you again
In my mind’s eye: you’re at home, reading, then
Your little girl asks help for her homework. A meal
Is to be cooked for supper. Work doesn’t stop for real,
Not even away from that four-walled room. You punch
The calculator: bills, food, loans. Paycheck not enough.
You’ve got lots on your plate, yet you
Teach with energy and passion, easy as the old one-two.
To think that I sometimes clench my fists silently
Because of your rules and requirements. How silly
Of me to miss that when I’m done, I’m done. No need
To think of ways to make tomorrow colourful. Indeed
I sometimes see things only through my eyes.
I miss it: your path, it’s a life of sacrifice.
I’m sorry for sometimes thinking crap and not being nice.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

A Poem on the Fourth of May


The voice I heard was yours,
Speaking to me while doing chores—
Or when in the office—
The warm caress, telling me this:
That I’d be a fine child, and
That you’ll wrap me without end
In your warm embrace: unlimited
Love and care. You assure me.

The voice I heard was yours.
The first to rejoice, of course,
As I had my first fumbling
Steps. And when I was uttering
My first incomprehensive word.
You excitedly showed me the world.
You said “Well done” when
I received my first star from school.

The voice I heard was yours,
When from my young eyes water pours.
You tell me to rise and walk again.
From the sidelines you say, “No pain, no gain.”
You let me rise on my own, to deal
With my first wounds and to heal.
You let me learn the lesson of life,
Something I could not find in books.

The voice I heard was yours
When it was time to select the course,
The path I would take. At the forks
You showed your wisdom, and though lurks
Danger, you reminded me of Ithaca and the journey
I must take. Of Cyclopes, you said to me:
“You will not meet them, I am sure.
Unless you would call them out.”

Now these words you read are mine,
Written as the Muse visits my mind.
From my first steps and words
To my exploration of my world, and other worlds—
“Thanks” is but a cliché, a word used too much,
I try in vain to search for another. As such,
Please know I am grateful you are here,
For your love and care. I end with cheer.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Silver Laptop

Silver Laptop, you saw me write
My first poem, a poem right
In its symbols, not just having rhyme—
I felt fulfilled. Yes, it was a good time.

Silver Laptop, you heard me laugh and cry,
Bellow repeatedly the question why.
You knew my secrets, my thoughts and my fears:
You closed your mouth, opened your ears.

You kept me company during cold nights—
Courting the Muse, scrounging my brain for insights.
You gave me friends who make my day,
Who light up my mind in every way.

Silver Laptop, you gave me a funny brother,
We shared stories and laughed together.
He shared his wisdom, as big brothers do;
I had him, thanks to you.

You brought us close together. Then I
Seemed to have driven a knife into him. Why
Was he cut up, then? Sad as I am, hoping he
Would heal, you gave us a funny space to be.

Silver Laptop, you nurture the life I’m living—
Through the things I find peace in doing.
I write to the child in blue, from miles and miles away,
Thinking if she read this, she’d make my day.

I love to write for her and to her, it’s what I do:
She is a picture of innocence; I paint her through you.
To write as she grows and discovers the world too—
I can only do that with and through you.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Inside the Vault

Four beeps, a sudden click:
Door opens. That’s the trick.
A stack of cards, in plastic sealed,
A pack of discs in a clear jacket revealed.

A sturdy blue book in one corner
Houses thoughts of a scribbler.
Triumphs, failures, boredom, and fun
Provided by a torch that lights the way for one.

A white minuscule object says hello. “Heigh ho, Heigh ho!”
This little fellow has a light that would glow.
This mini big brain stores things that wouldn’t be
Printed if one asked for the owner’s biography.

Beep here, beep there. A contented smile:
A pair of brown balls glance around once in a while.
Click! And the doors are closed. Surely it is not a fault—
Nobody knows anyway, that a life’s hidden inside the vault

Another Word for Love

You protect me with your strong arms
In your hands I feel secure from harm


My every need you give
Nice footprints you leave

You cradle me in your warm love,
Like our Heavenly Father above


Dad, today is your day,
I cheer hep-hep hooray!

You are one of the best gifts I have
Indeed, you are another word for love.