The DOZENTH of a Dozen Verses
Photo taken in the morning of Sunday, March 20, 2005; front of the house, Surrey, British Columbia, Canada: Spring once again! Flowers for you, my Demure.
I never really thought
That I could reach this far!
Almost five months had passed
Since I began this ritual.
The dozenth of a dozen—
Oh is this a good omen?
Waka, mantra, kanshi, Zen
All of them inspire my pen.
At least, it's kind of telling me
That Time has, after all, been ticking,
Albeit still very sluggishly,
So I will forever be whining!
I am the master of mope!
I am the captain of tortured souls!
March 15, Monday
Bákit 'pag iká'y mahálay,
Bérde raw ang útak mo?
Mínsan namán ay símboló
Ng masagánang búhay.
Kung kayamánan ang 'yong pákay,
Sa luntíang búkid mamúhay.
Tungò sa tagumpáy ay panáy
Bérdeng halímaw, nakabantáy.
Kapág púso'y punô ng inggít at ngitngít,
Silakbô ng damdámin ay kúlay bérde;
Párang mádreng sinasapían ng d'yáblo—
Di mapigílan ang táwag ng líbido.
Ikáw? Bérde ba ang kúlay ng táe at súka mo?
Bastá akó, luntían ang lahát ng pangárap ko.
March 16, Tuesday
Namúmulaklák na namán
Ang mga haláman sa palígid.
Ang mga púno't damuhán,
Luntían na namán sa áking masíd.
Tahól ng mga áso't kakák ng mga íbon,
Diníg na diníg sa buóng maghápon.
Símoy ng kahangínan, amóy táe na namán;
Palibhása mga ámo't alágang áso, nagkálat sa lansángan.
Báwat hakbáng ko,
Taás ang ilóng at noó.
Pára bang ngumíngitì ang mga úlap,
Nagsásayaw sa alapáap;
Hábang akó at si Lólo,
Anímo'y pagóng sa pag-úsad.
March 17, Wednesday
Ang lakí ng túlong sa ákin ng kúmot:
Pambálot kung giníginaw ang áking katawán;
Panalukbóng kung liwánag ay áyaw masiláyan;
Pamúnas t'wing pagtúlo ng lúha'y di mapigílan;
Kauláyaw kung nangúngulíla't nangangailángan;
Kayákap kung nag-íisa't nahihíntatakútan.
Kayá namán kúmot ko'y alágang-alága ko,
S'ya'y nilálabhan ko nang 'sang béses isáng linggo.
Maáyos ko itong 'tinítiklop
Sa t'wína ako áy nagsisínop.
At kung sakáling máyroon kamíng mga bisíta,
Kasáma ng únan s'ya ay 'tinatágo ko múna.
Mawala ná ang káma at únan,
H'wag na h'wag lang ang kúmot kong tángan.
March 18, Friday
Than Spring your beauty is fresher.
Than flowers your smile's lovelier.
Than sunshine your warmth is more comforting.
Than caregivers you are far more caring.
Than love and lust melted together
Our passion's more intense and greater!
Than life and death defied altogether
Our courage is much stronger and braver.
Sweeter than love,
Larger than life,
Swifter than death,
More hackneyed than clichés—
Of adoring your face,
I won't run out of ways.
March 19, Saturday
More than a hundred candles
Were burning in March.
If only I could cover
My face with starch.
Ninety for Grandpa,
Four and thirty for Mike,
Seven for Amber;
Oh birthday candles I like!
More than a hundred candles
For my loved ones I shall burn;
To love and to cherish,
For wisdom and for hope.
And I wouldn't tarnish—
I'm the Master of Mope!
March 20, Sunday
A slice of cake we will partake,
Life's not a box of chocolate;
A snake's try'ng to devour a rake.
Why's it taboo to masturbate?
A few good books, and not a chaff of wood;
A quiz show's better than a TV food.
Come with me to a road forbidden,
And all your qualms will be forgotten.
A bonsai leaf, not a banyan tree,
Is what can give me delight and glee—
'Nough with which to carve my poetry.
A happy home, not a house in Bree,
With a lovely wife and family
Is what can bestow me gaeity.
March 21, Monday
Creamy-white lather on purple sponge
'Smooth and soft on my yellow-gloved hands.
Sweet, sour crusty yellow mélange
Transcends me to erotic lands.
'Sprinkles of water from the sink,
A raindrop of tears makes me blink.
A taste of my Belovèd's syrupy saliva!
O how it inflames me, like the Gita Govinda.
You arouse me, my Lady Godiva;
Let me be your Peeping Tom.
Every time we kiss, suck, and fondle—Ahh!
I spin like a CD-ROM.
.....Sweet, sour crusty purple mélange,
.....Oh melt on my smooth, soft bare hands!
March 22, Tuesday
Tonight, you and I are cybersleeping in the clouds.
......My Belovèd, utter it aloud—
In my ears your soft voice is a rhapsody of sounds—
....."We'll make love in a merry-go-round!"
Oh Divine Fletcher,
......To Thee my gratitude I offer;
If not for Thine arrows,
......I could've been lost like shadows.
Practice never makes one perfect,
......It can only make one better;
Yet I'm blissed out by the prospect,
......'Stretching the length of my tether.
But tonight, my Belovèd,
.....We will sleep in the same bed.
March 23, Wednesday
The two great things for which I admire Imelda Marcos
Are her shoe collection and the beauty of Ilocos,
Then everything else about her stinks like asbestos!
I may not be political,
Yet I can be too critical;
Never been hypocritical
But def'nitely atypical.
The worst thing for which I disregard religion
Is its retarding effect on every nation—
It delimits the options and creates factions;
It promotes regression instead of progression;
Fear of the unknown is the beginning of ignorance.
Nah, just a few of my learnèd observations.
March 24, Thursday
Hot as blue flame my hatred is.
My eyes are burning red—malice!
Affection I no longer feel.
My wounded heart, will't ever heal?
Until when will I be burdened?
Do I deserve to be condemned?
Yesterday's ember is now fiery anger—
More acute and fatal than dengue fever.
Like a dormant volcano
I can spew an inferno,
So heed me when I say no.
I'm certain you'll believe that I've had it,
For this will be the first time I'll write it—
Fuck it! Fuck it! I'm sick of this bullshit!
March 25, Friday
My mind is seldom fertile in the morning.
I feel bardic usually in the evening.
After every breakfast while I'm dish washing,
The lush backyard trees make me go a-brooding.
That's when verses weave their way out of my head,
Letting me realize that I'm not yet dead.
If 'tis really magic, how come my brain bled?
Tomorrow I wish we are on the same sled.
As the backyard swing sways, my eyes go a-sailing;
'Squirrels sneak and crows cackle, my heart's singing.
Oh how the grasses missed Mr. Lawnmower!
Pardon moi, the rain was such a hinderer.
But worry not, my precious love,
You'll always be my lovey dove.
March 26, Saturday
'Gang díto na lang múna,
Mahál kong mambabása.
Mamámahinga láng ang pagód kong plúma;
Mulíng sasálok ng panibágong tínta.
Maglilímayon sa kabiláng pánig ng panitikán;
Magháhanap ng inspirasyón at mapaglílibangan.
H'wag magúlat; h'wag na h'wag mabahála't
Díwa'y mulíng tatamáan ng kidlát;
Ng tulâ muli na namáng susúlat.
Bálang áraw, mulíng aálon ang dágat;
Magbíbigay-ágos sa áking panúlat.
At sa pagsápit ng panahóng mithî,
Ikáw at silá'y kasáma kong mulî;
Ng bágong alamát táyo'y hahabì.
Upon sensing my exhaustion with this poetical odyssey that I've began almost five months ago, one friend had suggested that the dozenth of the series would be the best time to stop and conclude the series.
I paused and contemplated. I need a rest, I can feel it. But...
What if my mind is tenacious and the pen willing?
And what I wrote in the introduction of the first of a dozen is haunting me:
"I intend to indulge in this feat for as long as I have the words with which to express what I'm thinking and feeling...as a test of my literary courage and prolificacy."
What then shall I do? Stop shall I?
12 x 12 = 144
One hundred and forty-four! But still, it pales in comparison with the Tang Shi San Bai Shou, 英譯《唐詩三百首》, or the 300 poems of China's T'ang Dynasty; and especially with the Manyōshū, 万葉集, or the ten thousand leaves of Japanese poetry.
Never shall I stop! Until my mind bleeds.