Song of Becoming...

Upon reading the poem Song of Becoming, the first image that flashed in my head is that one scene in the movie Kite Runner wherein childhood friends, Amir and Hassan are flying kites. The two characters spent most of their early childhood days playing, roaming the peaceful city streets and being just boys but then those days came to an end when war broke out. They were just like the boys in the poem "who used to frolic and play, launching rainbowed kites on the western wind".

Fadwa Tuqan is known for her representation of the resistance to the Israeli occupation. Though she is a Palestinian, she did not merely represented the Palestinian side in her poem. Because of the presence of the lines: "carried the love's messages like the Bible or the Quran" and "to become the worshipped and the worshipper", it is evident that she is aching and mourning in behalf of both Arab and Jewish boys. She is searching for good fate instead of graves and "sullen tanks" for the innocent ones. She fears for what the future may hold for these boys. She doesn't want the idea that they continue to live amidst the war and engage in war themselves, by the time they grow up; that consequences were shown in her poem to serve as a wake-up call.

A waring state is never a healthy environment for anybody. The word "war" is seemed synonymous with violence and destruction. It doesn't solely destroy ones' physical environment but the lives of the individuals as well. Nobody could be considered a real winner when it comes to wars.

Guests...

I, for one, know no sweeter sight for a man's eyes than his own country, that's what a homeland is for Homer; so does for Mahmoud Darwish. The concept of "watan" or homeland is the central theme of Darwish's poetry. All throughout his life he is in quest for a land which he can call his; for the his fellow Palestinian to be called theirs. Through poetry he made known what is life without a homeland. As what Naomi Shihab Nye put it:

Mahmoud Darwish is the Essential Breath of the Palestinian people, the eloquent witness of exile and belonging, exquisitely tuned singer of images that invoke, link, and shine a brilliant light into the world's whole heart. What he speaks has been embraced by readers around the world-his in an utterly necessary voice, unforgettable once discovered.

Every line of his poem Guests on the Sea revealed his personal experience as an exile; being one of the guests on the sea. He himself had savored the experience of being homeless, of being a nomad, just like any other Palestinians. Their venture of having a place for their own has grown long, so long that "the plants of the distance have grown tall" already. Why is it that the realization of that simple longing is so difficult? They are pleading to the sea, to those who are in power, not to give them the "song they do not deserve" which is the exodus from their homeland. Perhaps that's why that line is given stress and repeated.

Mahmoud Darwish gave us a clear view of what is in the heart of every homeless individauls, their wants and their needs. Though, he is a poet of resistance he believed that even there's struggle, there's also the ray of hope and that peace is attainable.

A Journey...

M-O-T-H-E-R

"M" is for the million things she gave me,
"O" means only that she's growing old,
"T" is for the tears she shed to save me,
"H" is for her heart of purest gold;
"E" is for her eyes, with love-light shining,
"R" means right, and right she'll always be,
Put them all together, they spell "MOTHER,"
A word that means the world to me.
--Howard Johnson (c. 1915)

Being a mother is one of the most exceptional role a woman plays. It is one of the greatest right a woman could have. She would always have a great impact on any child's life. This is because they share unique bond which had started since the day of conception. Bonding and attachment comes with a day-to-day unconditional love. This attachment is evident in the poem The Journey by Maxine Kumin. It reflected the different facets of this unconditional love. There's always a fear in each mother's heart of almost all the things concerning her child. In the poem, I just couldn't imagine the fear encompassing the mother's heart for what the future may bring to her daughter. But that fear is at a higher level especially with the fact that she wouldn't be by her daughter's side along the journey from that point of her life. But even if that's the case, being separated physically and geographically would not mean that the connection between them is completely gone.

I couldn't help but relate myself with the poem. The pieces of advice that my mom would constantly give me still rings in my head. But its frequency increased since the day I left home for college. I know that it was hard for her to me go and leave me on my one but I saw in her eyes that she trusted me enough to give me the opportunity to explore the world on my own and learn from the experiences that this new world could offer. It is really true that in any type of relationship it must always be a give and take process, and you must know that in your heart the love you share will surely cross any boundaries.

jUst a BoY

Do not suck your thumb; put your toys in this box, do not leave them scattered on the floor; cease mumbling; sit on that corner, be still; do not run around like a wild cat; this is the kind of food that you should eat; candies will give you a tooth decay; fruits will make you strong; this milk for your bones; you must not walk out in the rain and play in the mud; be sure you tie your shoe lace; do not cross a busy street alone; now learn your ABC's and 123's; learn how to pray; eat a power breakfast; did you belch? where are your manners? be sure you to lend your ears, now do your homework; do not just throw your stuff anywhere; be sure not to stay up late; enough for ball games, only on Saturdays; this is where you should keep your bike, this is how you should pile your sneakers; be sure to check your shirt because your soaking with sweat; enough for cutting classes; be sure to come home straight; this is the things that you should focus on, enough computer games and skateboards; stop picking at your sister; will your delinquencies give me a break? enough for texting, you seemed so engrossed with that girl; do not be an infantile fool; take alcohol in moderation, but never smoke; never start a fight; but when you're provoked, this is how you should fight back; get a degree; this is how to set a goal, pass the board; be sure you'll get the job; this is how you please the boss, this is how you do the trick; this is where you park your car; now is she your lady? be a gentleman; am I not? this is how you control your drives; be sure to handle your temper, don't be a fussy buddy; this is how to be a beau ideal like you dad; this tie should go with that tuxedo; when you say 'I do', say it with conviction; this is how to settle down; this is how to say what you mean and mean what you say; this is when to conform and when not to; this is how to contruct a house; this is how to build a home; this is how to rear your kiddo, it's never easy though.

In Blake's EyE; thy syMmEtRy

During the initial reading, the first thing that I've noticed in The Lamb is the gentleness which envelopes the entire poem. There's meekness and peace; a feeling of serenity. An idea about the lamb being Jesus Christ, for He is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world, had also crossed my head. On the other hand, reading The Tyger for the 1st time, the words such as fire, dread, terror, and spears caught my attention. Curiosity was aroused upon seeing that this poem is full of clamor and turmoil.

With these ideas in mind, I abruptly considered these poems contradictory.

But, is that really so?

The Songs of Innocence and of Experience are series of poems showing us how we view the world at each phase of life. They are, as what Blake put it, "Showing the contrary states of Human Soul". However, the word contrary must not be taken per se, symmetry and complementarity must also be taken into consideration. The two poems, The Lamb and The Tyger, embodied the seemingly opposing perspectives of the world and of life. His poems juxtapose the simple and the blemish free life of a child against the bruised and corrupted world of grown up. While The Lamb reflected purity, The Tyger radiated dark forces. These two states of nature are not to be seen independently because they are supplementary. They present the fuller view of life. It is not always full of joy but not full of sorrow either. You can never understand the true essence of one if you are not going to consider the other. We can never be considered experienced if we haven't gone through innocence because for you to become everything you must start from being nothing. As we notice in life, it is always in equilibrium.

The Fury of Overshoes

Anne Sexton is considered as a confessional poet. She fought depression all of her life and most of her works reflected this inner struggle.

Her poem The Fury of Overshoes reflected so much of her personal dilemmas. It's filled with anxiety, frustration and anger. With the inclusion of the word fury, it showed that she'd been through a several sorts of anger until the end of her life. Perhaps she just used this anger to mask the real emotion that is wanting to escape and that is--fear.

The poem showed how we wanted to grow up but then dreaded growing up at the same time. As a child, we tend to envy those '"big people'' and thinking when would be the time that we'll be part of their world. There's eagerness to also do the things that they are doing, to also experience the things they are experiencing. Because of this eagerness, we end up neglecting to enjoy the experiences as a child; we forgot that these "clumsy" childhood experiences are relevant in the transition stage. It is one way of preparing ourselves to the evils of the real world. Giving up the comforts of "your nightlight, and your teddy, and your thumb" may be hard but then, these changes, these developments are essential part of growing up. By giving up "your nightlight" you are then being conditioned to face the world where the big people are, which is dark-where fear is inevitable. The wolf is no longer under the bed but instead facing you straight in the eyes, ready to attack anytime.

Hanging Fire

This poem tells so much about how a 14-year old African American girl is having a psychological dilemma; identity versus role confusion. She's dealing with conflicts; internal-given that she's in the teenage phase constructing a sense of self; external-given that she's of a black race and is being subjected to societal pressures.

With the title "Hanging Fire", it seemed that the girl is in a certain point in time wherein she took a halt even just for a while because there are so much uncertainties enveloping her. It's like in that point of delay she is trying to understand the things around her, especially the things that needed consideration given that she's black. It seemed that the girl lived in an era where there is an intense civil rights movement thus increasing her anxiety level and skepticism of what may the future brings.

In dealing with all these changes, these uncertainties, these dilemmas and confusions, would it be easier if you hold on to somebody who would guide you along the way? In the poem, the girl is trying to reach for her mother, who is "in the bedroom with the door closed". That factor is really important in this phase. Perhaps that's why those last 2 lines are stressed and appeared to be incremental.

Artist and his craft

According to Henry Ward Beecher, every artist dips his brush in his own soul and paints his own nature into his picture. I think every artist has his own unique craft, the purest representation possible for his soul. As to the hunger artist, it's on his way of fasting. Once renowned for his asceticism and his ability to fast, he is now looked upon as a mere oddity; just another circus attraction.

Sometimes it is so frustrating for an artist who has a deep passion and overwhelming desire to produce a craft but could not find the proper outlet. A life of an artist is like a struggle between expression and the appreciation of the art. It's so difficult to conform with the demands of the people but then this is one way of ensuring a continuous appreciation of the art. It is also this conformity, to the standards of society and the natural standards of beauty we are all born with, that makes the craft of the artist be considered as an art; a beautiful art. Without following these standards, never can an artist say they produced something that was truly beautiful. In other words, unless the artwork has followed some standard, no one will ever go up to it or hear it and think of it. Even how hard he tried to express himself there's always limiting factors.That's the dilemma of an artist with his craft.

Be creative and cross the boundaries of art.

uNtrAcEabLe Amontillado

Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavor, metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned. But by taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing over it, he is superior--a sweet revenge. This man, Dr. Niell Cox, had borne me exceptional jeopardy and I seek justice to it; wont just sit for nothing.

This man is but a great follower of his Hippocratic oath. Well respected and honored, not because of anything else but his miraculous scalpel touch. Being hailed as one of the most powerful men, no need to account the lives wasted and the happiness vanished, he holds their lives at his mercy. Who is happy and rich? He that is content. Who is that? Nobody.

It was about twilight, in one far-off corner of a busy street clouded with massive people and nobody seemed to care for anybody, I bumped with this friend of mine. There he was wearing his ever glamorous black coat with gray tie in contrast to usual immaculate white one. At last this is the time, the only chance. I was so pleased to see him.

I said to him, "My dear Dr. Cox , how nice it is to see you here. How remarkably well you are today. I have come up with this extra ordinary liquid solution but I have my doubts as to what is it.

"How?" he coerced. "It may be a breakthrough. How sure are you?"

"I doubt it though but this may be something relevant in your field. I will take it into consideration", I replied.

"A solvent."

"It might be."

"Sounds interesting!"

"Perhaps! I'm on my way to Dr. Adams, for him to see it" I said.

"No, no! Allow me." he insisted. "Come, let us go."

"But it's already getting late and I heard you are not in good condition."

"This is nothing. I just had good shots of wine with some friends. Let's proceed to your chamber."

Thus speaking, carrying with him a bottle of a genuine wine of Amontillado, we both went to my chamber in a secluded area in the heart of the forest of nowhere. This was made of bricks and of exotic style for the area becomes narrower and narrower as it goes downward. No one was there but us. Resembled that of a forgotten sanctuary, it was an artificial chamber built just for this purpose of research. It was a room of organized yet aged things. Bottles of solutions were everywhere and various research specimen on the long table; many specimens end up in one or more unsophisticated automated analyzers. But the most dominant and notable in the perimeter was that of huge drums of chemicals and solutions.

We proceeded to the inner suites of that chamber. We passed and nearly stumbled down on some clinical apparatus which were filled with interwoven cob webs and accumulated with dusts. I heard him coughed.

"This may not be a good idea. This place is contaminated of various chemicals and these may not be ideal for your condition." I said.

"Don't mind me." he said as he gulp some liquor from the bottle."Ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh!"

Poor man; so desperate! Desperate as I am.

"Well, there's still enough time to return. It may be much better if we do this some other time." I argued.

"Enough argument!" he said. "Cough virus wont kill me unless its of dreaded strain, I can distinguish it myself by profession ."

"Yes, of course I know that but if nothing seemed right feel free to tell me."

He then offered me some wine to drink.

"Toast to your breakthrough." he said.

"To your life" I replied

He again took my arm and we continued our way to the deeper, darker and more isolated portion of the chamber.

"This room is extensive." he said.

"The Moriarty clan was a great one.

"I forget your arms."

"A huge human foot of gold, in a field azure, the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are embedded in the heel."

"and the motto?"

"Ojo por ojo, diente por diente" (An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth)

"Good!" he then said.

Then eventually we continued with a little illumination coming from my flash light. We passed by so many old oak doors, huge ones as we went into the deeper portion. Stumbled down by some flask on the floor, tubes of various types for specific purposes and few burners. Some discarded electronic equipments are in one corner and another. Dropping of water could be heard somewhere.

From time to time, he is taking some more gulp from his bottle of Amontillado.

Then there we are. Surrounded by huge drums of solutes, he stood there bewildered and stupidly thinking what is the best thing to do now. I asked him to check the one closer to us as to what it contains. Hurriedly securing a rope on his waist as he went up that drum of 10 feet high and 3 feet circumference. He peeped down and that's the chance I grasped.

"Go down." I said. Then released the chain.

"This is just plain H2O and nothing is unusual about it." he called out.

"There is!"I shouted back. "Wait until you feel it, until you finally know it's finished." That I told him as I adjust the knob of one drum. I turned and continued, until it reached it's maximum concentration. The sulfuric acid is now on its effect. It would appear that nothing was submerged in there, nothing at all. The more concentrated, the better.

No trace. Nothing!

"Ha ha ha-he he he! this isn't a good jest my friend" he called aloud.

"No, it isn't! Now, no mercy lies on your hands."

"Have mercy!!" he begged

No, it is never enough compensation for stealing the life of my beloved thus stealing my chance of life as well. I thought to myself.

"Dr. Cox." I called again.

There's deafening silence.

My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the room that made it so. Covering the drum with concrete steel and turning the adjustment button on the danger level. He is such an extraordinary person with extraordinary wit thus might as well give him an extraordinary execution. There I made a one of a kind mixture of solution, sorpredente! Que en paz descance.




*Dr. Cox in real life is a British doctor who was convicted of attempted euthanasia.
*Moriarty means noble or exalted.

SEEing through bLiNdNeSs

So when the time rolled around, I was in the depot waiting for her to pick me up. Amidst the clamor of the crowd, I could still distinguished her voice as she called out my name. I've missed her so much. It was not quite a long ride, sitting with her in the car and trying to fill-in the details of our 10-years separation. Her saving grace of humor didn't change over time. Her laughter sent a ringing sound on my head and a pounding beat on my heart. I haven't even noticed that we arrived until I felt a sudden halt. We both started our way out of the car. Not waiting for her to guide me, I reached for my suitcase and dragged it out. I felt her hand wrapped around my arm as we started to walk towards her house.

As we reached the top of the steps, I sensed that somebody had opened the door for us and I already had an idea as to who could that be. An affirmation was made when we were already introduced to each other. So he's Lucas, her husband. As we moved inside, I have this interest to know what kind of person she married. On the course of our small conversations, rudeness and insensitivity was evident. Or could he be just ignorant? That I do not know. Left-handed compliments were thrown on my face. But I wont give him a damn! Doesn't he know that I despise him more then he despises me? Perhaps my cold responses was interpreted to be appealing ones. That's better if that's what he thought.

When we sat down at the table for dinner, we had another drink. I was somehow overwhelmed for having her attention, filling my plate with food. As we ate, i made it to the point that I behave normally, as if I don't suffer from any impairment. From cutting the pork, getting the beans, to tearing my bread until the last gulp of my milk, I could feel his gaze following my every move.

After finishing everything, everybody seemed stunned as we just sat there. Finally, we got up and went to the living room. While having few more drinks, she and I continued to talk about the things that had happened to our individual lives. In between our discussion, several thoughts came across my head. Could we possibly have a wonderful life if we spent those ten years together? Would that be easier than sitting here with you and narrating the things that transpired since the time you stepped out of my life? Easier for me but difficult for you. I just don't know. I am not being cruel to the memories of my wife because she knew.Yes, she do know.

From time to time, her husband was joining in the conversation. I've tried so hard not to give him a hint of my grudge. Though he sounded so bored yet he never left the room. Then suddenly, I heard a familiar roar coming from elsewhere. I guessed he must have turn the TV on. Maybe trying to cope for what her husband did, she asked me whether I have one. Not wanting her to feel any guilt, I said yes and that I do have a colored and a black-and-white when in fact I don't have any. I could feel the silent devastation of her husband. But I didn't mind it at all. I lit a cigarette. How good hostess she was for she always made sure I'm comfortable. I said yes in her every questions even if I felt a little uncomfort because of her husband.

While he's watching the news reports, I'm into analyzing what had gotten into my head since the day I received her invitation. Is there something wrong with me aside from being blind? Or maybe there is something right there and then. My stream of thoughts had been interrupted when he asked me if I wanted to smoke a dope. Of course, I said yes. I don't want to turn down his dare.

"What do I smell?", I heard her say. Her husband's reply seemed blurry because it was her scent that blocked my head. Did she use a lavender scent of soap? I think so, because my olfactory nerves could never be mistaken. Her scent intensified as she sat right next to me on the sofa. How such a caring person she is. From time to time, asking me if I'd like to have some pie, if I'm comfortable, and if I'm exhausted and ready to hit the hay. I had a real nice time being with her again, this re acquaintance beats the tapes and this means a lot to me; that I told her. She just doesn't know how pleased I was when she said she felt the same way too. After that talk , she then dozed off to sleep.

Well, even if I don't happen to like her husband a lot but still there's something in my unconscious that drives me to know this man in a deeper perspective. So I chose to stay up with him. Maybe, he too felt a little awkward for I could hear that he's switching the television from one channel to another. After telling him that anything he'll watch is fine with me, he settled on the first channel. The room was filled with silence again aside from the sound coming from the set. I wasn't really giving full attention on the television when suddenly something about skeleton which the narrator mentioned caught my attention. Yes, I know what a skeleton is. After that, the narrator talks about a cathedral then a hush. I wondered what was shown on the screen. "There showing the outside of this cathedral now." I heard him say. Then memories lights a corner on my head. I remembered the only time I was inside a cathedral. That was ten years ago before she left. I could still picture-out the fiasco painting that she described for me. I also told him all the things I knew about a cathedral but then, that's it. Nothing more . So I asked him to add some more details. I could hear a bit of hesitation from his voice but then he continued. Hearing such kind of description that he made, my curiosity towards him grew deeper and it even clouded my angst on him. I doubted if he has into religion. Well, coming from him, he is not. Synchronously, she sighed in her sleep as if reaffirming that fact. There's something in her sigh that gave me an inkling as to who this man is.

Now all my rancor towards him has completely vanished. Perhaps, she married a nice guy after all. She had known that already but on the other hand, he did not. I think I just have to accept that she is not for me and that she's meant for him. I thought of something that might help him reach her, to reach her heart for it seemed that he's aloof and detached. Gripping on something that he couldn't let go. I must do something to set him free.

I asked him to bring me some heavy paper and a pen. He moved on to search for those things. I was left alone in the middle of that room with intertwining emotions and thoughts. Then he's back with all the stuff needed. We will draw. I wanted him to connect himself with his drawing. With my hands on top of his, we began.

He's not uttering a word. He seemed to be lost in his work. Yes, I think he needed to be lost first before he could find his complete self, his inner self.

I heard her voice. She must have woke up. I heard interest in her queries. She asked but no response from him. "We're drawing a cathedral," that's all I've said and we proceeded.

We continued until he had finally seen it.

That very thing, that I would want him to see.

SHORT STORY...wrapped in an enigma

According to Gilbert K. Chesterton who is a journalist, novelist and short-story writer himself, "there is no such thing on earth as an uninteresting subject; the only thing that can exist is an uninterested person". The same is true when it comes to short stories or any literary works, there is no uninteresting story; only an uninterested reader. It was evident in the article of William Boyd that it was the interested people, not the uninterested ones, who brought short stories into being. It seemed that interest breeds invention or development, so to speak. It was because of the readers' demands that triggered the writers to unconsciously derive a new form. It was those writers who pioneered the establishment of a literary development and brought it to the exaltation of its genre, giving rise to its distinct types and varied categories.

William Boyd had revealed how the short story undergone arduous evolution and persistent revolution until it was finally been recognized as a new literary form and became a tiny, perfect narrative. This narrative, as what Edgar Allan Poe pointed out, gives a sense of full satisfaction and there is something about their unique frisson escapes or defies analysis. We should understand that the shortness of the short story does not indicate its lack of essence nor infer its deficient content, but this just denotes its length of construct. Though it may be lesser in details compared to other discourses, still, it has the power to entice and convey its underlying message to the readers and we are even "given the rare chance to see in them more “than in real life”.

However, most people cannot appreciate the essence of a story. They merely watched it from afar, admire in dull silence without even attempting to travel into the world of the story and feel the emotions, savor the happiness, share the sorrow and partake in the actions. I admit, I'm one of them. When I first read the "Cathedral" of Raymond Carver, I find it inarticulate maybe because I did not read between the lines. But on the second time around, I did felt its awesome effect, didn't you?

The character of the blind man gave a very relevant appeal to me. Upholding the exact meaning of the word, what if I am in fact blind? I could possibly be as "blind" as the husband or even worse. I have realized how I was blinded by the sparkling glamour of what I see which shattered my view of reality and failed to experience its underlying meaning. The story had shown me how life could be that dramatically ironic. I think, it's time for us draw the line between living for the sake of merely living and living for the sake of life, per se.