Happy First Anniversary Blogfellows!!! CARPE DIEM!!!

We're One Year Old Now!!!

To My Narcissus: An Elegy in Three Verses

I would've loved you

More than you loved yourself, but---

Too late have I come.

- suri nahunte

Last 12 March, we turned 11 months old, dear blogfellows! We'll celebrate our 1st Anniversary on the 12th of April 2009.

Carpe diem!!!

Happy 10th Monthsary Blogfellows!!!

Keep those creative juices flowing...
Carpe diem!

two black holes in my astronomy class

by anne agustin

two black holes
not even a glint of light escapes,
not a spark of recognition,
not a pale flash of delight
just two dark,
deep,
and cold blackness
whose center remains a mystery
even to great Einstein and Galileo themselves
but pulls this helplessly falling heart of mine
closer and closer
as each second passes every MWF
and though i try to clasp the empty space around me,
those black holes,
those merciless enigma in the center of galaxies
are right there in the cold silent classroom
creating a swirl of starry delight
among the eyeballs fixed on him,
but I wouldn't ever be an ordinary galaxy star
for as each body swirls and spreads away
my heart stays close
and will even be closer next meeting

to Sir

UNWRITTEN

I want to write you a poem, but
Damn, I can't find a freakin' pen!

So I take a long, hard look at the paper,
Concentrating real hard on its blank-ness...

And, there, out of the senseless papery void,
Appear your naked body:

Sinewy, corporeal bundle of muscles;
Biceps bursting boastfully...

And I become Michelangelo working on marble,
My chisel bringing my David to life;

And I run my fingers along the contours of your thigh
('Til I reach that spot in the middle where virgins dare not look...)

And you become flesh and blood
At the command of my caress;

And I, your creator, want you possess you consume you...
'Til I could want you no further

And I go back to staring at this dreadful blank-ness of the paper,
Not minding anymore that I don't have a pen...

Just because I don't have a freakin' pen
Doesn't mean I can't make you a poem.

-Suri Nahunte

illumination

What if the night sky was as dark

as dark as the snow white floor

And what if the stars twinkled brightly

as brightly as a bog in a moor

And what if the moon didn't reflect

but instead absorbed all light

And what if this is how we perceive:

night as a very bright light.

sigh.

vincent pido:

hello! i've only just now remembered the username and password after forgetting it months ago and failing to recall it despite doing my best... looks like nothing much has been happening on here..

haven't written any new poems to share, either.

if anyone's interested, i maintain my personal blogs at http://www.vincentpido.blog.friendster.com/ and http://www.vincentpido.multiply.com/.

merry christmas everyone! ^_^

Sometimes, Some Things Just Happen

(Poly talking to herself)
By:Shanna
When you are young and you know there is this vast horizon waiting for you, you couldn't help it but stare and gawk as if you're starting to understand what there is to be understood- then you unconsciously sit down on the nearby rock without closing your almost parched lips, not even bothering to lick them- for you just can't. You can't do anything else but sit there like a dumb little kid dropped on her head when she was a kid. You look dumb to any passer-by and to every dog running around yapping for some attention. You can't even say Hi nor Go away for you know there is this line that you simply couldn't cut at the moment. In other words, you are in a very deep concentration and you don't care anymore whether it's your Grandmother walking towards you with a stick or the Minister of magic himself threatening you with his tamed dementor. Then you look up after some intangible digging and wonder how you would explain to them such a phenomenon happening inside your head when you yourself couldn't convince your imaginary friend, because you're just broke to death without the appropriate words for such words were not yet known to men, unless you're just being lazy not bothering to check the dictionary. But how are you supposed to search the dictionary when what you're looking for is the word itself? Should you read every definition there is and decide which definition defines the phenomenon and decide that the word defined sounds right or else you'll be committing the deadly sin of misquoting, I mean semantic error?

So you're nailed right then and there not knowing how tell them that you just can't go home yet to water the plants or feed the scrawny dogs. You can't go on watering the plants when you're just in the unnamed phenomenon where plants are not watered by some dumb little girl. You can't feed the dogs for you simply couldn't understand why do you have to feed the dogs when they could just feed themselves or why does it have to be you? And among these stuffs that strike you to the point of blunt dumbness, there are yet a lot of discombobulating issues hurricaning within your small little head and all you want is more time to think until you couldn't think no more. All you want is to be left alone so that someday you could choose which path to take to explore the horizon but now you couldn't advance in your course for Grandma is ever present with her stick and the Minister of Magic torments you with his dementor and you exclaim oh God in Heaven whose approval matters most to me when can I ever have peace and quiet communion with Thee! Communion it is but not quite. You see- you don't really know what matters most and you don't want to complicate your adventure and trek with loads and loads of unnecessary comforts and discomforts. You just want to simplify it all but you find out that simplifying things can be the most complicated task to accomplish in this hustling busy world. But you don't want to be hustling busy all your life for you know a lot of old folks out there who have been hustling busy all their lives only to find themselves in the same spot when they where fourteen or twenty-two trying to have some quietness in life but their own grandma's hit them with a stick and they had to forget quietness and run for their lives. And so, on and on, people have been running for their dear lives finding themselves when they're dying that in running for their lives they left behind all those precious opportunities to live. Until it is too late.

Tonight in the Bathroom

The little mouse,

The poor little mouse –

It’s drowning in our tub!

It asks help from me, I know;

It follows my hand when I attempt to help it.

This wise creature befriends now

In desperation,

But for reasons, all auspicious,

I will not help it.

-robert ordeneza

HAPPY 4th MONTHSARY BLOGFELLOWS!

TEMPUS FUGIT. We're 4 months old last Tuesday. Carpe diem!!!

Farewell to Hemingway

Ernest Hemingway's solution
Is really simple.
As life is taking him into trouble
And trouble and more trouble,
He still finds himself in the sun
Before he ate the bullet of his
favored gun.

I was really shocked, but at the same time pleased to be a member of Ms. H's blog group. I was organizing my old stuffs moments ago when I found my reading journal. It was the last project we had in our American Lit., and nostalgic memories came rushing to me. This one is a poem(?) that I included in my journal. -jb

WE'RE TWO MONTHS OLD TODAY!!!

Happy 2nd Monthsary, blogfellows!
Keep those creative juices flowing.
Carpe Diem! - Miss H.

Letters -- revised on May 27, 2008

By Kimee E. Santiago

**I revised the poem, "letters"; i meant it to be communicated this way, not only as a nostalgic poem about snail mail. i realized the first draft needed a few more hints, so here it goes. =)

Hey.

I got your e-mail.

They’re more like notices

Getting shorter as they come

Like I am a transaction.

I’m sorry it took me a day

To respond.

Had to go through the letters

You used to send me. I keep them in a

Bundle, Dear, by my pillow.

Tied loosely with the rosepoint sash

Of my lingerie unwashed

Since you left.

How much do stamps cost now?

I knew you better when

Your illegible cursives would

Stroke me gently and lift my skirt

Then I would feel how you went

Through your day as your

Loops and tittles sigh with

The release of your pen.

And I would lean back, weakened

with the pages consumed by your presence.

Before resealing your letters

I’d taste you in the flap.

I Shut Myself to Oblivion

by: Shanna

I shut myself to oblivion,
slammed the door
and blew the tiny spark
of the dying candle away.
The light out there
has been radiant,
But its flares,
its prickly kisses
hurt.
Then I heard
some faint moonlight spilled
around the doorframe
Then the pitch-black silence
was shattered
into a wild syncopation
when I heard the thud
of my newly-awakened heart.

Letters

By Kimee E. Santiago
May 14, 2008
Hey.

I got your e-mail.

They’re more like notices

Getting shorter as they come

Like I am a transaction.

I’m sorry it took me a day

To respond.

Had to go through the letters

You used to send me. I keep them in a

Bundle, Dear, by my pillow.

Tied loosely with the rosepoint sash

Of my night gown unwashed

Since you left.

How much do stamps cost now?

I knew you better when

Your illegible cursives would

Stroke me gently and

Then I would feel how you went

Through your day as your

Loops and tittles sigh with

The release of your pen.

And I would lean back, relieved

With pages consumed by your presence.

Before resealing your letters

I’d taste you in the flap.

Hair in my Skirt

By Kimee E. Santiago
May 14, 2008

I tug at a stray thread

Dangling from my skirt hem.

It stretches, as the cloth

Ripples with resistance.

It breaks to coil into a frizzed

Ringlet and announce

It is hair, not thread.

For a year of wears-and-washes

My skirt kept a secret:

It has life stitched in it

Peeking into me, into a spot

Most honest and pure.

Saturday

By Kimee E. Santiago

So it’s another Saturday when hanging on to your bag

As your most accessible companion you

Pore over bestsellers only to put titles down

Denouncing bookstores for selling rubbish

Bound, reviewed and shamelessly called books that

Shuffling through racks of clothing

is a better mind-feed of tasteless effects magnified

by snobbish brands branding you nameless

no more, hiding subordination under skirt

tucking fucking bills and bosses into belt loops with

your fingers like one hooks index and thumb

on a cup of coffee and company, where you wish these

bills bosses boredom would all go swirling and

dying in dilution but hell no---

your coffee has more water than coffee

your table for two is table for you

alone after another Saturday of fruitlessly shopping

for good conversation.

On "Gollum's Song"

From Robert Vladimir Odeneza:

Hi blogfellows! Sorry to have been away for quite a while, but now I’m back with another song interpretation, and this time, “Gollum’s Song” sung by Emiliana Torrini, written by Fran Walsh, and music composed by Howard Shore. You can hear this on the credits part of your “Lord of the Rings the Two Towers” DVD. Here’s a copy for you:

Where once was light
Now darkness falls
Where once was love
Love is no more
Don't say goodbye
Don't say I didn't try

These tears we cry
Are falling rain
For all the lies you told us
The hurt, the blame!
And we will weep to be so alone
We are lost
We can never go home

So in the end
I'll be what I will be
No loyal friend
Was ever there for me

Now we say goodbye
We say you didn't try

These tears you cry
Have come too late
Take back the lies
The hurt, the blame!

And you will weep
When you face the end alone
You are lost
You can never go home
You are lost
You can never go home

The song has no word too deep to comprehend. The language is even colloquial. What makes it difficult to process though is its confusing point of view or narrative; it makes use of the pronouns I (first person singular), We (first person plural) and You (second person.) Now, just whom is this persona talking to? Or, do we just have one speaker here?

Perhaps a little review of who Gollum is would help. Those of us who have (at least) watched the LOTR trilogy would know that Gollum is the meaner side of Sméagol. They live together in one body, and what’s amazing is that they talk to each other secretly as if unaware that they are just one. They normally get to do this when Sam and Frodo are asleep.

I believe that the inconsistent point of view in this poem (or song) is rightfully reflective of Gollum and Sméagol’s dual personality. It is also an expression of the misery that Sméagol has gotten himself into after possessing that “precious” ring; thus, Gollum says “Where once was light, Now darkness falls. Where once was love, Love is no more.” And Gollum seemingly blames Sméagol to be solely responsible for their wretchedness – “These tears we cry Are falling rain For all the lies you told us…”

The last part of Gollum’s song would suggest that he is already bereft of hope for Sméagol to get his old life back – “These tears you cry Have come too late…You are lost, you can never go home.”

The entire song, to me, is an expression of Gollum’s disappointment of Sméagol or (actually) of himself, but since he never wants to admit that, he used “You” instead of “I” or “We” in the lines, “The lies you told us...” and “You are lost, you can never go home” among others.

I would humbly accept any corrections or suggestions from Tolkien readers regarding this interpretation. Thank you for reading!

As Dali Puts It

I've been aching to write this art-inspired poetry after being charmed by the Spanish painter Salvador Dali's surrealist painting called The Persistence of Memory. This painting has been haunting me for years like an obsessed ghost. - Suri Nahunte


As Dali Puts It

a still life of

jell-o - like clocks

spread

randomly

against a

psychedelic landscape.

It blows your mind --


like Prozac and poetry


on canvas;


like the lost love, which


Time cannot find;


like a bitterness, which


tears cannot wash away;


like this indelible


Memory of Memories, which


as Dali puts it, is




Persistent.





[Author's Note: Well, this is just about the best way I could verbalize Dali's work here. I'm not sure, though, if "like Prozac and poetry on canvas" works here as a metaphor...or simile. What do you think, blogfellows?]