MEGApoem!

Window to the World

From inside, I looked

at the world through my window.

T’was not a good sight.

I wiped and cleaned the window,

world was beautiful again.

the poem above is Ed’s own poem. he wrote that for his cw101 class, i think. mind you, this is a tanka and follows strict form and structure. think of villanelle or sonnet. and in thursday (which ironically enough is also his birthday), he will be performing, er reading, that via a megaphone for the rest of the UPMin atrium to hear. i may be a bit too excited on this but i really would love to be there and listen to him render his poem.

glad we didn’t have one of these during our batch. haha. com’on torture those younger kids! oh well, that does not help. i still loathe the idea that they had the opportunity to take translation and writing through other forms of media (don’t think i got that right) class.

literary diversions

beauty in imperfection. it’s amazing how this poem by robert herrick has captured that idea.

DELIGHT IN DISORDER

A sweet order in the dress

Kindles in clothes a wantonness;

A lawn about the shoulders thrown

Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there

Enthralls the crimson stomacher;

A cuff neglectful, and thereby

Ribbons to flow confusedly;

A winning wave, deserving note,

In the tempestuous petticoat;

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie

I see a wild civility;–

Do more bewitch me, than when art

Is too precise in every part.

- Robert Herrick

hopeless romantic

Oh yes, you can break into a laughing fit. But I would proudly admit that I am easily swept away by poetic verses and a few gentlemanly acts. And my man almost always manages to hit the right spot when it comes to this department.

When I last checked my friendster account, I was greeted by a very nice (and yeah, mushy and cheesy) poem by Pablo Neruda that Ed sent me as a comment. Here goes…

In My Sky At Twilight

In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud
and your form and colour are the way I love them.
You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips
and in your life my infinite dreams live.

The lamp of my soul dyes your feet,
the sour wine is sweeter on your lips,
oh reaper of my evening song,
how solitary dreams believe you to be mine!

You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon’s
wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice.
Huntress of the depth of my eyes, your plunder
stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water.

You are taken in the net of my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin.

Pablo Neruda