The Grief of Mt. Makiling

It was on this steep earth
that I once stood upon,
when she spoke of the sweetest secret
that made the night the happiest of
Mt. Makiling; the blooming flowers
swayed with the blowing wind
and went on with the rhythm
of the sweet scent of the summer.

But the love she told me of
caused her a regret equal to the years
that wrapped it hidden in the forest.
For she learned of my foes;
their Spanish greed that could stop
the dancing of the leaves of the bushes
and the lies in their stories
that deafened the sound of the wind.

And the truth that she kept
must be said to her suitors
upon the promised light of the full moon,
and She had no choice left.
And my fairy saw a prophecy of
death to come upon my soul.
It stunned the shrubs and left them
a darkness that went on to the break of dawn.

It was in the shed
of this tree that she waited
for me to come. And we two
would float away by the river in a raft
to a pasture of our own,
where tall grasses and thick
bushes hid me from the eyes of death.

In the silence of that day
she was seated on this rock
under the shed of this tree,
far from the stabbing lies
by my rivals. For these,
they caused me a death I could not
stop by firing bullets that
shattered the serenity of Mt. Makiling.

I could no longer feel breathing,
Yet there was no time to grieve
For I must go to that rock
where she waited for me but
Maria was no longer there;
She ran to my body soaked in her tears.

And the silence of the wind
among the grasses
and trees heralded
to Maria’s grief and loss
a sound not heard but
felt by the heart.

cigarette tanka

A flickering fire,
Its last heat to light my stick.
I inhale the smoke
And realize the dried leaves
Would later be my own self.

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!

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

dig,.dip,.die,.

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.

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.