Of Fireflies and Falling leaves

Me: Why aren’t there fireflies by that tree anymore?

She: They must have gone to a quieter place dars.

Me: Why not here?Were we such a big bother to watch them at night?

She: Yes we were.

Me: How did you know?

She: I didn’t actually. It just an alibi so you won’t bug me anymore to watch them.

Me: What about luciferins you fancied talking about?

She: Forget about it. I don’t give a damn anymore.

Me: You won’t join to watch a firefly if i see one?

She: Nope. Sorry.

Me: I’d still enjoy watching their flickering lights without you by my side.

She: Okay then. Go. Find a firefly on your own.

Me: I will. You will see, I’ll be smiling soon.

Oh for the love of Treeplanting

that cruel Sun was ever itself

like it’s raining fire at the skies

burning the clouds to white

and it’s background a heat of blue.

a steam i’ve never seen fogs the air

then blankets my skin

with a warmth  you won’t dare think about

on a very snowy evening

because it had always been noon.

mornings were never mornings

but the extention of the sleep

robbed by the alcohol

hurriedly bought at 1:55 am

just before the liquor ban

and the empty bottle lies by the floor

just after dawn dies.

the day becomes night then

when my eyes pull down  the lids.

I then wake up to the sarcasm

of a great morning

and goes on all through out the day

which started without a bath,

for it will just come at me

as i bore holes to ground

with a big deal of iron

enough to fit our heads to it

for we always willed to come late.

yet this tardiness

could plant 30 trees

watered by sweats

running down from pores

widely opened by the days will

uttering the coming of the herbivores

ready to bring death

upon the little sapplings

who would’ve thrive better

on there plastic covered soil.

but they must be on the ground

for us to thrive for our future

seemingly dim for the haunting

thought of  soccerfields and courts

brought upon the feud of two faculties

playing us 32 caring less for the unfortunate.

we toil as the day ends,

but oh! for the love of treeplanting

i’m doing it again

for 100 trees more!

*************************

note: only my brods and sisses would understand this

Long Live UP Latagaw Lamdag Society!

Dried Out of Tears

rain

falls

down

from the sky;

like rejected angels,

soaked

in their tears

and covering their whole being

sadness felt within.

cold hearts

and loneliness

pushing them down

down

down to the ground.

and below the earth

they weep

with no more tears to shed.

Wanted(Now): Classical Composer!

The prevailing issue in the present, concerning the existence of art, is its appreciation. Its survival greatly depends on the taste of the public. They are the ones who choose them, whether what will be a hit or a flop, and decide whether to make it last or just forget them, like what had happened to many of the masterpieces that were considered as great before.

Today, it is yet even harder to make the world realize the value of an artwork, which is different from the scene of past decades and century. For the pressure, in the beginning of the revolution of art, was not a growing factor as there were just few varieties of art that existed. Michael Angelo, Da vinci and some other renaissance artists became famous for they have jived with the popular taste of the public, which had only one kind of taste. The music of Beethoven and Mozart became hits because it was only their genre that existed; there was not even a sense of difference of kinds of music before. Nowadays, particularly in music, kinds or genres have already been established. There is a very vast selection of the kinds of music: pop, jazz, reggae, rock, r n b and some other definitions of styles and approach to tones, rhythms and lyrics. From time to time, popularity shifts among these genres giving artists the difficulty to become famous and for their masterpieces to be appreciated. The same happens to other forms of art. It just depends where fame will swing its chance.

Having these many kinds of genres, classics, according to the genre they belong, can only be appreciated by the audience of its said genre. It is then so hard to make classic that can cover all the genres for there is a big difference among every person’s taste. For a composer, the challenge to make a classical piece has become a greater than before.

But we cannot deny the fact that there is still a presence art today. The recognition of it is just close to negligence. The blunted view of art slowly blinds the majority to what really art is. Who is to be blamed for the unsharpened scrutiny of the majority?

The blame resides on both the artists and the majority itself. Artists are paid according to the taste of the majority. The majority’s taste depends on what the composers feed them. And so then artists have the power to make the majority realize what art is through the masterpieces that they believe to possess an intrinsic value of art. Yet they have still the responsibility to please them. So they end up making pieces for the delight of the public and not for the sake of art itself. In their endeavor to please the majority, the classical value is more often neglected. This became a fault in the history of art, and unknowingly, became a trend.

The selection of the art can be defined with the word trend. This word is a threat to the survival of the classics. The metaphysical poetry of John Donne and George Herbert was replaced by the free verse of new artists. New artists made it a trend for metaphysical conceit was yet hard to be created or it did not click to the taste of many readers. Just showing the fault of both artists and audiences. Sometimes, artists can’t compare with the classics so they just make something that pleases the audience. Or, the audience has paid less interest to deeper thinking, which sometimes makes literary arts great and noble, they just choose to read selections that delight their taste and level of comprehension but don’t possess any touch of art in them.

If something really has a capability to become a classic, it will last for a long time. Shakespeare was an artist who delighted his audience and his patrons but still manages to make himself immortal to this day through his works. But there is can no longer be another Shakespeare that can exist now. The problem is that, there is a wrong sense of taste among majority. According to David Hume, in his essay, the Standard of Taste, an object before it can be claimed as good or bad must be examined to its smallest component. But the thing that is happening now is that, people agree according to the strong taste they experience from the art they appreciate. Artists of their time, like that of the Beatles or Elvis Presley, had this strong taste, which made it possible for them to become an epitaph in music. Yet this strong taste is no longer effective to the generation of listeners of the present for they consider themselves so young to adhere to those oldies, a reason we can connect to trend.

There are two kinds of composers, the worthy and the abuser. The one that makes music for money sake, yet still is appreciated because he rode with the taste of the poisoned majority. The worthy composer makes music for art sake, but is not appreciated, does not earn money and fame, for he does not delight the paying public. The bad means now gets good ends while good means receive bad ends. This is true especially in the present. It is easier for composers to make music that has no classical value and delights the majority; he can be famous and have a lot of money. Yet, this must not be, for without the practice of art, it may die. If composers are given two choices, art or money, the current market will suggest them to choose money. It is a wise choice if these composers can make something that delights to art and the audience. Yet, often, composers end up with the wrong choice suggested by the influence to earn market.

Another problem for the survival of classical music is how it will make its presence seen in the midst of millions of albums and artist. Diamond, how beautiful it may be can still be hidden within a pool of dirty mud. As there are so many artists today, best ones are often unseen by critics as there judgments are blocked by some unworthy artists. Sometimes, the critics themselves are also poisoned by the blunted view of the world. They judge music according to taste of the public. When they do, the majority notes as good critics. These critics may also dictate the market. Their views affects the music industry to be economy-oriented, contrary to what music should be, art-oriented.

To pursue the value of art may cause efforts that are worth a lifetime. And even with that sacrifice, appreciation in return may still be so negligible. This endeavor is a real painful task. This is true among almost all artists. As they always say, there is no money in writing, yet there are still students who still study writing to make it as a profession. Painters must have to wait for a real long time for a painting that is worth of a thousand bucks to be sold. Composers must wait for his album to be released, may be months or a year without the assurance that it will become a hit. It will just then depend on the swing of fame if to which genre it will shower its promise of appreciation, and some grace of cash.

A true composer or an artist will not let the fads and showbiz rationality rule this world. He is entitled to make a new one. The world can’t just stay with Greek Classicism or the Renaissance Art. Yet, the 21^st century must not consider these economy-oriented-alone kinds of music to be said as the best in this period. The poisoned public will continue being poisoned if not a new classical music will arrive to change the view of the world. No matter how long the wait before it will be appreciated, the most important thing is that, there should be.

It is established that it is even harder to pursue art in the present. If there exist true classical composers today, they will have faith in their masterpiece and face the challenge. No matter how big it may be. It is not possible for them to not care if their music would not sell but then more of their care must reside on the thought that the art in music must not die.

Art will still be art without its audience. It must not be created for the purpose of the audience’s delight for it loses its essence, its artness. It rather called audience then, than being called art.

broken hearts and concrete floors

(note: this will gored with purple patches)

(Ignition…Clutch…First Gear…)

The rain outside the window  seemed to never end as i hoped it would be. The sky’s not clouded but only dark. I was on my way home. The dashboard was the only view aside from the long road I was taking. I knew the directions but I was  going nowhere.

‘Pouring over photographs…I’m living in your letters…breath’, the stereo’s whining with the sad thoughts from the track it plays. I had no choice but to hear it over and over again for I was busy driving home. And the windshield wipers kept on waving with the music. The soaked pavement of the front lawn of my house drawn in mind’s still a mile away.

A postcard laid next to the lighter and the cigarette case. The sight of it tempted to light a stick. But, my head ache forbade me to. It’s the best thing to do at times cold like those but it was good as a filler on the dashboard’s empty space at that moment.

(Clutch…Brake…Reverse Gear…)

Looking back I remembered myself sitting by a chair holding a glass of vodka on my right hand and it’s half filled bottle on the other. The room was warm from the burning wood by the furnace. I enjoyed watching every twig turn to coal. I watched them while slouching on my favorite couch. And just as the last twig burned black, my back grew tired of my position and I started to sit erect. The window was the first thing I saw. I let my eyes see further.

It was starting to pour outside. It was the end of summer.

I bade the best season of the year so long as I raise my glass to it and took a sip. The liquor slid straight from my tongue, to my throat and down below leaving heat and made me feel the summer I missed for a while.

The room was poorly lit by a lamp shade next to an empty couch in front of me. I gazed around. I looked at the fridge for the second time. And this time, I took the courage to stare straight at the note stuck on it’s door. I filled my glass full until the last drop of the bottle I was holding. And then, I zoned out with my sight fixed at the note I haven’t read yet.

…Summer rushed in large amounts of memories within me, the heat first burned my body and then squeezed my brain. My skin perspired and my forehead dripped sweats to my temples. I let out a calloused sigh. ‘That was too much of head ache’, I said, ‘too much that it had my heart throbbed with pain.’

The bottle I held was on the carpet and the glass was already in pieces by the floor. It’s fall was not saved by the thick cloth an inch from it.

My watch struck 12 am. I had no time to clean it over for I had to go. I took the note and headed to the car.

I placed it on the dashboard and started the engine.

(Clutch…Gear First…Second…Third…Fourth…Fifth…)

I was in a hurry that I even forgot to close  the door. No time to waste. I had to drive fast to the station.

There were only empty seats when I arrived. It started to rain hard. I wanted to wait for someone but there was no longer no one to wait for. I just headed home.

‘If only that place never existed, there would have not been a great university there. That glass could have not been broken. It could have been a cloudless night. I could’ve stopped the rain.’, I realized myself talking while I tried to keep the car running straight avoiding the concrete road’s shoulder.

And everything was quiet inside. I hoped for the passenger seat to speak but it didn’t. I changed the speed to gear fifth and stepped on the gas like I was hoping the car had sixth gear.

I stretch my hand for a stick and the lighter. I ignored my aching head and lit it up. I was driving with only one hand on the steering wheel at top but still I felt I had to read the note again. ‘This distance seems terrible…’

CRASH!

My head was stuck at the steering wheel but my hand still held the paper ‘…there’s no need to test my heart with useless space. These roads go on forever, they’ll always be a place for you in my heart.’ It read.

I looked at the wall I just hit. It was dry. Only my blood  soaked the pavement wet. It made me realize that making up a false rain does not help an absence stricken heart.

And the song on the stereo went until the end, ‘…Cause turning to you is like falling in love when you’re ten.’

ooOoo

Dashboard Confessional. “Broken Hearts and Concrete Floors” Swiss Army Romance. Fiddler Records, 2000.

…for those who did not understand this piece of flash,.just leave a comment.

a past that is psychofreak’s

Looking back as it was the only thing he could do for the moment. The door creaks closing back. And darkness was all that was left on that gloomy night. The rain seemed to ignore his cold wrapped body and there was not a star to look up to for hope. But there was none to look back for. ‘To leave away from hell to suffer the coldness of what I thought was heaven’, his mind whispered a thousand times as he stood by the lawn staring regretfully to the house he never wished to live in.

He didn’t know what time it was as he never did and never will. The wait for a sun-dried morning that is not to come was the only thing he was sure of.  In the darkness of that evening, the street light was the only thing standing out. Yet he did not know it was; as all he could see was red. At that, he didn’t even know it was red forgetting what it was.

The rain stopped.

And the only sound disturbing the stillness was falling leaves taken by the wind from the twigs. Some fell upon him but he did not bother to notice. He was suffering a pain that cannot be disturbed.

‘You did it. You finally did it. It was all his fault. It is right that he is gone.’

He scream but not a sound was heard. Lacking the strength to stand, he fell to the soaked ground.  He was crying, but his eyes could no longer shed a tear. ‘Why?’, he asked but there was none to answer his cry.

‘Who killed ma?’, the next question that bugged his mind as she saw her lying by the doorstep. ‘Ma, i’ll saved you ma. Dad won’t you again’, he said as he stared straight at his lifeless mother’s eyes dripping red. ‘But…but…but you tried to kill me!’ and he was filled with rage, ‘you did! this is the knife you stabbed me with!’ He looked at sharpened steel held by his hand,’this is the evidence! I tell the police.’

‘But Dad’s the police!’

‘Haha, he’s already dead.’

‘He can’t get me anymore!’

Like the sudden change of the weather, his laughter broke out into the night. ‘At last! It feels good to be alive!’

The pavement he laid his frailed body was still wet with the rain and his blood when he started to walk away from it. He didn’t notice it was from his wounds as all he could see was black on it. Struggling with a pain he tried to avoid noticing, he fell again. Yet his right chest dripping blood couldn’t help him for it. He can’t stop it. He fell to the ground.

The cloudy sky was the last view before he closed his eyes.

He opened his eyes to wake up from the thoughts he hated the most.

‘And now! Did you realize why you don’t have the right to live!?”, he shouted at a girl tied on a seat. She couldn’t answer back not only that fear stopped her from gathering any thought but also her tongue was cut out along with her teeth. ‘Your eyes, they’re beautiful’, he said to her while pointing a knife straight to her forehead, ‘No! They’re not yours! They’re mine now.’

‘Thud!’, a sound of a stab and the sudden beat of her heart seemed to be same, ‘Thud!’

‘Thud!’

…

You know what happened next.

[enter] I look around my room realizing the many points I missed to tell you.

But, I’d wish you’d not ask for it. You might be robbed of your right to live.

If your not a insane you’ll agree with me, ‘I don’t want that to know either.’

oOOOo

You might think I’m making up an excuse for lack of writing skills. It’s just that. I don’t want to die yet.

Thirsty UPMin Student’s Wallet (for Structuralist Criticism)

What would you do

if you have a violet bill

with an emotionless hero’s face printed on it

On a hot day at school?

 

Cease your thirst for

2  liters of C2’s Cool and clean tea,

but 500 ml of Nestea has a cooler bottle

and Fit n’ Right’s

the new drink in UPMin.

But who would dare forget

about a 6-peso cost

for a homemade lemonade

at the Castillo store?

Buy yourself two glasses.

 

Or settle with the softdrinks;

Coke Zero’s mirror image

of Pepsi Max’s sugarless,

diabetic friendly carbonated water;

and Sprite is the freedom from thirst

and lousy commercials

with the new idea

of the dessert turning to a pool.

But they’re the same,

7-up and Mountain Dew.

 

Or keep it for tonight at Lenar’z

Redhorse beer ‘Ito ang Tama!’

for the happy-go-lucky spenders:

55 pesos for every liter.

And Emperador brandy

Sa Totoong Tagumpay:

finish 375 milliliter of alcohol

and you’re the best drunkard ever.

And spare the ten pesos left is for 6 sticks

of Marlboro sold discreetly

at the stores on the side.

 

Now tell me you did not imagine

anything I said. Just save that 100-peso bill

to buy yourself a new T.V.

 

°ooOoo°

  

            “The pictorial image is closer to the real thing”, as the semioticians would say it. The poem advertises commercials products that can fill a person with a 100-peso bill thirst for spending his cash. As much as possible, I go along with the concepts of signification so that the readers would easily identify the signified, signifiers, and the referent. The sign, which is divided into two, the signifier and the signified, is the one that would play inside the readers’ mind. For example, when I stated, C2, a reader would immediately think of that stout, half-slender plastic bottle of tea-tasting factory made tea-like drink. The concept, or the signified, is C2 green tea and the word ‘C2’ is the signifier for it. And of course, the referent is the object that the sign points to, the tea sold with a handy plastic bottle itself.

I have always been troubled with the arbitrary relations of words, so then, I incorporated the descriptions of the products I mentioned to the culture in UPMin and also the ones that Filipinos see in their T.V. For example, Red Horse ‘ito ang tama!’, therefore the reader would not think of any Red Horse but only the Red Horse that says ‘ito ang tama!’ In that way Red Horse beer = Red Horse beer ‘Ito ang Tama!’ ≠ Any other Red Horse beer in the world. Or Fit n’ Right that was recently sold in the canteen is new at our school, therefore that is the Fit n’ Right that I mean and not any other Fit n’ Right (Fit n’ Right = Fit n’ Right that’s sold at the canteen.) And the same goes for other products that I have not elaborated so just bear with your understanding. I am 90% sure that you would not be lost with the signs in this poem.

The cost of the products I mentioned in 2^nd, 3^rd and 4^th stanza are equal to 100 pesos. E.g. 1^st stanza: P50 (2 liters of C2) + P19 (500 ml of Nestea) + P19 (Fit n’ Right) + P12 (two glasses of lemonade) = P100. The poem just tells the readers how to spend 100 pesos but if they don’t want to agree with me, they can just keep the money and watch T.V. so that they’ll know what more things they can spend their money with. It’s all about the thirst for spending a big deal of cash for a normal college student.

Ang Kamalas sa Itoy nga si Junar (Marxist Criticism)

 

Usa ka adlaw sa akong paglatagaw ning syudad nga wa nako ma-ilhi, aduna koy namatikdang mga iro nga arno nga nag-riot sa tunga sa dalang walay ubang nag-labang, ako ra. Kalingaw ra ba jud tan-awon sa ilang pagbinigyanay. ‘Tsoy, unsa’y hinungdan aning gubota?’ nangutana ko sa isa pa ka iro nga nagsabay sa akong pagtan-aw sa mga arno. ‘Aw, nadakpan ni Browny si Lassie nga nag-jer jer kay Barbie kagahapon. Palag kaau mga tribu ASPO bai.’

Sa tunga sa kagubot sa mga baba nga nagkinagtanay sa dalan, sa dihang ni-abot si manong nga taga-dog pound. ‘Gashong! Dagan pareng!’, ang tingog nga wa nako nadunggan kay akong mata napuno sa kahadlok sa kadena ni manong.

Kasamok ba aning higot. Ganiha pa naglingaw ug tu-ok sa akong nag-pula pulang li-og. ‘P*ta! Scooby! Pandak! Tol, asa na man mo?’, ang akong walay pulos nga pag-singgit, kay dili makalusot akong tingog sa baga nga ding ding sa salakyan nga nagdagan. Ang akong kalagot misurok padulong sa tumoy sa akong mga dunggan sa pagkabalo nga si Browny kauban sad nako didto. Ug sa kamalas na lang jud sa akong kalag, sabay pa jud niya iyang mga batos nga mga dagko’g lawas inig mubarog pareha sa ilang leader.

Nipahiyum si Browny sa ako sa iyang pagsulti, ‘Tsoy, barkada man daw mong Lassie daw?’ Apan kalit nako namatikdan ang tudlo sa akong inahan, “Dong, ayaw jud pamakak kay ma-impyerno ka.” Ug nisulti ko kang Browny sa akong kahadlok sa mga pangil niyang nag-siwil sa kangit-ngit sa gabii. ‘Ay, kuys, dili gud.’

Abi nakog kalusot nako sa iyang kalagot sa akong bati nga dagway. ‘Uy, tsoy, nagsabay baya mu tong gi-jer niya si Barbie, kita ta ka sa kiliran sa dalan’, ingon ang dakong baba sa yawa nga akong kaatbang. Sa tinuuray nga storya ako miingon kaniya, ‘Kuys, nilabay ra ko ato.’

‘Ay, ay, sa imong kabayot, palusot ra ka.’

‘Kuys bitaw kuys, wa jud koy labot atong affair nila.’

‘Bakak! Dagway nimo, wa koy makit-ang kamatuuran.’

Wa na nakatubag akong ba-bang nagkurog kay kalit ra ko niya gi-bigyan sa tiyan. Ug iyang mga batos nitabang ug kulata sa akong lawas nga ilang gikaliwa’g pa-ak pa-ak. Usa ka kilo nga karne na ilang nawagtang nako pero wa pa sila napul-an. Kagat diri. Kagat diri na sad. Kagat. Kagat. Kagat.

Ang akong lawas napuno na sa kapula sa akong dugo ug sa kabaho sa ilang mga laway. Kanus-a pa man ni mahuman akong paglisod? Kapait na lang jud ani sa kinabuhi sa irong latagaw. Walay balay. Walay pagkaon. Tripan pa jud sa mga arno. Ma, wa man ko namakak pero ngano man ko na-impyerno??

Wala pud koy mama nga mag-tubag sa akong pangutana kay gipatay pud siya’g kulata ni Browny sauna human pila ka bulan ko niya gi-anak. Mama man gud ba, uyab man unta to sila ni Browny nya nisabay pa jud kay papa. Awa, naanak na lang ko. P*ta! Ngano gi-anak pa ko?

Agay! Agay! ‘Kuys, tama na kuys. Husto na! Husto na!’ ang kapila nako gisinggit sa mga nag-pista sa akong kaluoyng lawas. Ug at last, ni-abot si manong. Ambot unsa iyang gisulti pero naundang man sila.

Nya, gi-isa isa mi’g kuha sa sakyanan ug gidala sa lugar nga wa na sad nako ma-ilhi kung asa. Apan nakasulat sa entrance,

“Polomolok City Dog Pound:

Pagbantay sa Iro,

Iro, pagbantay pud.”

 

°ooOoo°

  

            We can see here the struggle of Junar as a wandering teenager dog with nothing else in life but only himself. And also the hierarchy of the dogs in the neighborhood with Browny at the top because of the respect they owe to his strength and his many friends. In a way, a sense of political capitalism is owned by Browny and it serves him the privilege to scorn other dogs’ life. Junar could not do anything with the tormented fate he did not choose to have. The same would be the picture of the millions of Filipino under the poverty line. They did not choose to be poor but still they could not do anything to rise above the many capitalist that continues to intensify their struggle and push their status down in the pyramid of class struggle.

            By the way, I made a flash fiction and used the bisaya language as medium with some kanto terms (e.g. arno, which is similar to the term ‘bugoy’ and equivocal to ‘buang’). Since the characters are stray dogs comparable to the ‘tambays’ and the OSY we see lingering around the streets of the city. Forgive me for the comparing the dogs to the situation of the people in the streets but I guess it’s the closest situation for the story.

            For all the things that happened to our pitiful character in the story, he was innocent. He did not choose to be born, and it is true that when Browny saw him with Lassie f*cking Barbie, he was just a passer by, like how he was in the riot when the guy from the dog pound caught him. But he could not do anything anymore; they had arrived at the dog pound where he will spend more time mauled by Browny and his company and the ‘Repressive State Apparatus’, the dog pound.

            If only, the spirit of communism rules the dogs in the neighborhood of Junar, he could have not struggled with his life. Browny could have used his strength to help other dogs. Everyone could have fair to everyone. Say for example, Browny could have listened to the defense of Junar that he was just a passer by because the little teenager dog had the right to speak and to be listened to.

A Hell Tale of the Crows, the Demon and the Tree (Psychoanalytic Criticism)

Last night I dreamed of crows

perching upon a beautiful tree:

her slender trunk that goes down

in a graceful flow to the ground

like perfect curves of a fairy goddess;

smooth and lustrous like velvet cloth.

And her leaves of green that sways

with the slight blow of the wind.

 

But my dream was about the crows

perching upon that beautiful tree.

Waiting for the green drupes hanging by

her branches that are strong enough

to hold the prettiest fruits I’ll ever see.

I saw in my dream the red berries

she would soon have:

they glittered with rays of the sun

resting on her pleasing stance.

 

Oh that beautiful tree,

standing in her innocence

upon the verdant meadows.

Helpless in her solitude,

not a knowledge of the crows’ desire

crossed her mind:

they waited perched and caressed

her innocent branches

to slaughter her berries

with no mercy at all.

 

And there shined a shiny demon

in the middle of that grassy field.

He was black with anger

and became fiery

on the sight of the evil crows

perching upon that beautiful tree.

He thrust his sharp claws

on the crows that perched only

to devour the beauty of that tree.

He grasped them with a clutch

that separated them from their feathers,

tore their flesh and plucked their eyes out.

 

He opened his mouth

and shouted to all

who would dare go near the tree

“She is mine! Only mine!”

 

He burned while he hugged

the tree’s trunk and burned her.

 

He sent her soul to hell

to be with her forever.

Burning the whole place

with an passion immeasurable

 

even with the heat of the sun.

 

I then woke up from that dream

with a smile I did not understand why.

 

°ooOoo°

 

            It is obvious that this piece would belong to the psychoanalytic criticism, not only for the identifying phrase that I enclosed within parentheses above but also for its elements that would define itself. First and foremost, it is a dream. Which Master Freud mostly concentrated his time on, which, in the more popular term, it is obviously the unconscious state. I did not make this poem while I was unconscious; I just stated that it is a dream to seem like it was such. The events that happened could also make it seem like a dream, the exaggeration, the unity of scene that do not complement each other; e.g. verdant meadows + shiny demon = distorted image.

As I have used the definition dream in this poem, I would like to state about latent content and manifest contest. Latent content is the real desire of the author, and manifest content is the reported dream. Therefore, manifest is the plot while latent is the true meaning based on the author.

            So what is my desire? (We’re talking about author psychology here). Before I answer that, let me state that I am the Demon in this hellish tale. Therefore, my desire is the tree. Or let’s say she (she-who-must-not-be-named). And also to kill the crows that always perch upon that angelic tree(they also correspond to real people in my reality). I don’t know what’s in their minds or what their desires are I, as the demon, just want to kill them and own the tree. Nah, I just don’t want to see them around her. Is this obsession? Yes. And I am mad. And so, that’s a good example for psychoanalysis. (I need a psychiatrist).

I have already said that this poem is just a dream, a desire. Therefore, if we would have this explanation reach the ‘Tripartite model’ in Psychoanalysis, you know, the famous Id-Ego-Superego thing, it is purely Id. Id is the irrational part of a person’s psychology; it is unconscious, which contains secret desires, wishes and fears. Ego is the rational part or the logical, the part that is awake and corresponds to the reality principle. In the dream, ego could not regulate the Id. But when the speaker was already awake, then the ego claims its part. Superego was also absent since social norms mean nothing in the dream.

But why did the speaker smile at the end of the poem? He was just happy that what he desired happened in his dream. If only there is no such thing as ego and superego, the death of the crows is already done by now.

A Family’s Saturday Morning (Reader-response Criticism)

8:00 AM

lots of chores posted on the fridge

the dishes stacked on the sink

the tiles in the bathroom are stinking

dusty cabinet tops and windows

and the duster’s misplaced

the curtains are unchanged

everything’s topsy-turvy in the living room

starving pet dogs howl outside

dried leaves scattered on the ground

the plants in their pots are not yet watered.

8:05 AM

just rose from the bed

a breakfast waits on the table.

the t.v.’s available

no one’s around.

it’s time for morning cartoons

but the remote’s nowhere to be found.

a glass of juice is in the fridge

and ice cream is waiting in the freezer.

everything is a mess.

mom’s out to nowhere

and Dad has gone working

my sister’s inside her room

11:00 AM

it was hot at the market

the ukay-ukay was interesting

new shirts for my son

and a set of blouse for my daughter

the vegetables are not fresh anymore

the fish stinks and water drips on the floor

the pots not boiling yet

the clothes line’s empty

some clothes are yet to be hanged

could not work because of a head ache

but everyone’s still asleep at eight

so then went to the market alone

11:35 AM

have to come back to work at 12

the rice’s still hot

and the soup’s not so tasty

no time to nap

work’s waiting to be done

tired hands and feet

my wife’s sleeping

must have slept her head ache again

today’s salary day

everything’s in order

have to reward my son and daughter

Oopps! have to go now

°ooOoo°

            This poem needs an implied reader to understand it. What I mean here is the ‘implied reader’ that the reader-response critics mean as they define it as someone who is established by the “response-inviting structures” of the text. I assumed that this type of reader would be created to anybody who would try to understand my poem. But if ever, I had not succeeded, let me explain my poem more to you.

            The focus here is on the reader himself. So I made a poem where they no longer can have time to think about the author because they would think more for what is happening in the poem. I would like to force the reader to fill the gaps in this work since that task lies on them in that way, the text would guide them or constrain them. Spoon feeding is a no-no in this criticism. And notice that the first person pronoun ‘I’ was never used. It is so, so that any reader could fill this gap with imagining their selves in the poem as they relate their own experiences to it.

            Since this is an explanation and not the poem, I’ll elaborate the poem. Subjective interpretation is not a crime against reader-response criticism, so assume whatever you want.

But let me clear things out here. There are four characters speaking in the poem, where their minds are being spoken out randomly and with no punctuations, which I guess is how most people think. 8:00 AM, the daughter or the older sibling woke up, noticed the lots of chores in the house and eventually came back to her room. 8:05 AM, the son, the other sibling, woke up, ate breakfast, and watched t.v. 11:00 AM, the mother came back from the market, did the things she had to do, most importantly, his husband’s lunch. She had a head ache earlier but she had to go to the market, forgot about it when she became interested with the ukay-ukay and bought clothes for her children. 11:45 AM, the father came back from work, a 15-minute break, ate lunch immediately, he had no time to think of anything but noticed the good work of his children. Nothing was said from 8:05 AM to 11:00 AM, we can assume that the two siblings did the chores at this time since the father noticed order in their house. Everything’s connected in the poem actually, just read closely to it as a reader who has the role to fill the gaps.

And that’s reader-response criticism for you readers. I believe, as the reader-response critics also believe, that literature should be treated as coexisting with experience. So, in every reading of literature, read with your eyes wide open to fill the missing pieces through the help of your experiences and preoccupations as you read. They are all in you mind.