Thursday, June 11, 2009
Saturday, June 6, 2009
"The Curse of the Winter Mist" - 20th Story for the Inspirational Book
By: BURAOT
Looking from the inside of my comfortable hotel room, I could sense the North American winter cold. I gazed at a few snowflakes stacked in the window pane and tried to imagine a million different kinds.
I couldn’t quite place where the west meets the east. Except perhaps that I do know that it is daytime, I couldn’t see where the sun was.
I decidedly went out the balcony to enjoy the skyline and lit a cigar. On the roof of the next building I saw a lone bird sitting on top of what looked like a mechanized chimney. I thought it was a bit funny because most birds do hang out together. I guess this one’s a loner.
Being a night owl myself, I hate the desert heat but I do welcome the winter cold. But not the winter freeze. So my coming here in Vancouver on perhaps the coldest time of the year was both a relief and a curse.
Before I even came here, I asked some friends what the city was like. One said it was indeed a highly urbanized city but cold. Adding that the city itself has more than just the “weather kind” of cold, but that it also had that coldness that is devoid of the warmth that you expect from breathing humans.
Of course, I decided to venture on my own. A little hesitant at first, I provided myself with my typical “we’ll see” defensive attitude. What I had found would weaken my entire array of defense mechanisms. I found something odd and surreal; I had rediscovered the winter mist.
On top of that building contemplating the last of my cigar, I saw her. Slowly at first… then a sudden flash. Without me knowing it, she had wrapped herself into my whole being…. into my consciousness… all the way into places within me that I never realized existed. I was totally powerless.
Making love on the balcony where I first gazed upon her enigmatic soul, I was the Romeo and she my Juliet. The whole of Vancouver stopped dead in its tracks. Time stood still like an old scratched photograph. There was just that moment, captured forever, carefully etched in the canvass of my soul. There was nothing else. It was just me and my winter mist.
I walked around the city and embraced whatever the mist had to offer. The big city was like in suspended animation. The streets were filled of people rushing to the converging point where the Chinese New Year parade was about to commence. What was odd was the fact that despite the hundreds of people and cars up and about, I could hear no sound. Not a single one.
I was like a spectator watching an old reel of silent movie. I was warped into a different dimension, my own twilight zone, sucked into a personal black hole and transported to an entirely different new world. It was eerie and strange and yet for some reason, it felt more than just good. There is not a word yet invented that could really fully explain it. If Einstein could come out of his grave he would describe it as metaphysical. I would call it as it is, magical. I became the tin man who fell in love with Dorothy.
I never thought that at my age, I will still discover something magnificently wonderful. But I did. I thought I felt all the things I man could ever feel, but this… as surprising as it was, is something new. And it made me ecstatically dizzy.
Just like my love affair with the moon, the winter mist is quite extra-ordinary. I guess I can honestly say… she was unparalleled. Her distinct smell fills my entire senses. In my vision, her shadows seem so refined. Her echoes whisper ever so softly in my ears. The cold and haze of her essence gives me warmth that could last a lifetime of winter.
And for that I was cursed…. with the longing of her presence. Now I yearn for her to come back… fill me again with her gaze… and quite hopefully… stay.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BURAOT has two blogs
that I'm familiar with I Am Buraot and Anak ni Kulapo.
Upon browsing; however, I found also the following blogs. Let me copy an excerpt from his blog.
Start of excerpt:
His description of himself is also so captivating and fascinating, I would not want to mar it with my own; so let me present another excerpt from his "About me" page:
It is an honor to have him here with us, and the chance to feature one of his many unusual, poignant articles; we can call the book an anthology of sorts.
Need I say more? Let's give a warm welcome to one of our prestigious contributors to the book - Buraot!
Photo 2 by Hans Vink
Photo 1 by :mrMark:
Looking from the inside of my comfortable hotel room, I could sense the North American winter cold. I gazed at a few snowflakes stacked in the window pane and tried to imagine a million different kinds.
I couldn’t quite place where the west meets the east. Except perhaps that I do know that it is daytime, I couldn’t see where the sun was.
I decidedly went out the balcony to enjoy the skyline and lit a cigar. On the roof of the next building I saw a lone bird sitting on top of what looked like a mechanized chimney. I thought it was a bit funny because most birds do hang out together. I guess this one’s a loner.
Being a night owl myself, I hate the desert heat but I do welcome the winter cold. But not the winter freeze. So my coming here in Vancouver on perhaps the coldest time of the year was both a relief and a curse.
Before I even came here, I asked some friends what the city was like. One said it was indeed a highly urbanized city but cold. Adding that the city itself has more than just the “weather kind” of cold, but that it also had that coldness that is devoid of the warmth that you expect from breathing humans.
Of course, I decided to venture on my own. A little hesitant at first, I provided myself with my typical “we’ll see” defensive attitude. What I had found would weaken my entire array of defense mechanisms. I found something odd and surreal; I had rediscovered the winter mist.
On top of that building contemplating the last of my cigar, I saw her. Slowly at first… then a sudden flash. Without me knowing it, she had wrapped herself into my whole being…. into my consciousness… all the way into places within me that I never realized existed. I was totally powerless.
Making love on the balcony where I first gazed upon her enigmatic soul, I was the Romeo and she my Juliet. The whole of Vancouver stopped dead in its tracks. Time stood still like an old scratched photograph. There was just that moment, captured forever, carefully etched in the canvass of my soul. There was nothing else. It was just me and my winter mist.
I walked around the city and embraced whatever the mist had to offer. The big city was like in suspended animation. The streets were filled of people rushing to the converging point where the Chinese New Year parade was about to commence. What was odd was the fact that despite the hundreds of people and cars up and about, I could hear no sound. Not a single one.I was like a spectator watching an old reel of silent movie. I was warped into a different dimension, my own twilight zone, sucked into a personal black hole and transported to an entirely different new world. It was eerie and strange and yet for some reason, it felt more than just good. There is not a word yet invented that could really fully explain it. If Einstein could come out of his grave he would describe it as metaphysical. I would call it as it is, magical. I became the tin man who fell in love with Dorothy.
I never thought that at my age, I will still discover something magnificently wonderful. But I did. I thought I felt all the things I man could ever feel, but this… as surprising as it was, is something new. And it made me ecstatically dizzy.
Just like my love affair with the moon, the winter mist is quite extra-ordinary. I guess I can honestly say… she was unparalleled. Her distinct smell fills my entire senses. In my vision, her shadows seem so refined. Her echoes whisper ever so softly in my ears. The cold and haze of her essence gives me warmth that could last a lifetime of winter.
And for that I was cursed…. with the longing of her presence. Now I yearn for her to come back… fill me again with her gaze… and quite hopefully… stay.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BURAOT has two blogs
that I'm familiar with I Am Buraot and Anak ni Kulapo.Upon browsing; however, I found also the following blogs. Let me copy an excerpt from his blog.
Start of excerpt:
Literary Ekek is now mostly Buraot’s raves and reviews. From blogger friends along the way, to must-read books and movies and dvd’s to gizmos.
The Antisocial is where Buraot tries to combine politics, critical thought, and common sense.
Anak ni Kulapo is his wacky crazy blog. This site is totally in Tagalog, so if you don’t understand the language, I would not recommend it. Really.
Ibangon Ang Bayan is also using his mother tongue, but here Buraot lashes out at the traditional politicians and the rampant corruption that had been going on for decades in his native land, the Philippines.
End of excerpt.
His description of himself is also so captivating and fascinating, I would not want to mar it with my own; so let me present another excerpt from his "About me" page:
"The author is the quintessential skeptic but a not-yet-so-hopeless pessimist. Impatient most of the time, hence the name, he yearns to discover the magnanimity of the universe and the infinite folly of human stupidity.
Despite being born from Catholic parents and was raised and educated by Franciscan and Dominican friars, he now considers himself Agnostic.
And while he took up Psychology, Philosophy and Law, he is now trying to dwell into Astronomy and Astrophysics.
He is a jack of all trades master of none, a little bit of an OCD with matching eclectically-charged mood swings. So after his usually high energy OCD boost, his body would always end up half-dead and his brain half-empty."
He was born in Naujan, Oriental Mindoro and grew up in the streets of Manila. This reminds me of one superb blogger from Oriental Mindoro too - Jan Geronimo.It is an honor to have him here with us, and the chance to feature one of his many unusual, poignant articles; we can call the book an anthology of sorts.
Need I say more? Let's give a warm welcome to one of our prestigious contributors to the book - Buraot!
Photo 2 by Hans Vink
Photo 1 by :mrMark:
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Poets and Poems
By: Jena Isle
I once read a post stating that writers - specifically poets - do not really know the syntax and correct form of what they compose. The post also mentioned that poets should conform to these “rules”.
Well, I beg to disagree. To me, poetry is a creative form of writing. The “breadth” of ingenuity should only be limited by the poet’s imagination based on his own experiences and exposure in life. He is entitled to express himself the way he wants to, and in any form he desires. He has the freedom to create his magnum opus – that’ s why it is called a creative venture in the first place.
The written word should not however, encroach on anybody’s freedom and must not inflict harm to anyone. “There are three things you can never get back: lost opportunities, lost time and spoken words.”
Emotional wounds are more difficult to cure than physical wounds. This should be a vital consideration in the quest for that sublime work of art.
On a different note, the bond of trust should be kept and respected, no matter what the circumstances are. Now I'm starting to digress...
Back to poems! Allow me to mention two traditional types of poetry with an example for each.
The Tanka
Like the Haiku, this originated from Japan. It is composed of five lines. Lines 2, 4 & 5 are made up of seven (7) syllables, while lines 1 and 3 have five (5) syllables each. Here is my example:
Lost
Like a star, you shine,
Amidst the poets of time.
Deliriously you‘re
Lost in fame among new friends;
the old, forgotten and gone.
The ZaniLa Rhyme
This type of poetry has no required length as long as it is composed of 4 lines for every stanza. Lines 1, 3 & 4 are composed of nine (9) syllables each, while line 2 – of seven (7).
The second and fourth lines, rhyme with each other, while lines 1 and 2 don’t; however, there’s a re-arrangement of words in each of the 3rd lines. There is also an internal rhyming in this 3rd line. Here is my example:
The Cloud of Success
There you are, within my sight – afloat,
a mist, a soft miasma.
Glinting in a golden hue – rising,
a glorious vestige of a blue aura.
The mist grew tangible and formed,
a self-confident man.
Rising in a golden hue-glinting;
Fulfilled, successful in such short span.
Go forth, and search for your Holy Grail
a fervent wish I offer;
a golden hue, glinting and rising;
The challenges, for sure you’ll conquer!
Diverse styles were created by different poets and were then adapted formally. During the recent years; however, poets had dared to venture outside the confines of these structured poems and the free verse was born.
This goes without saying that, even if I don’t consider myself a genuine, gifted poet; no one can stop me from creating my own style!
I will name this type of poem as – ‘The Jenanian Verse”. Any violent reaction?
The Jenanian Verse
Basically, it would consist of 15 lines of free verse .
There would be 5 lines for each stanza.
Each line would be composed of 10 syllables.
The last line of each stanza would be a one - line summary of the first four lines.
All the 5th lines would be rhyming.
So here goes…
From a Mother to a Son
You tethered badly unsure of yourself ,
grasping for balance, on your baby toes.
It was a joy to grab your hand and hold
You upright, towards your goal and bright dreams
The murky, swirling waves of self-doubt gone.
You crave for my presence in all you did.
You asked, “Mother , is this okay with you?”
The treasured words, “I love you” ever there .
a day had never passed without your hi’s.
Your world, I was a part , just like a fawn.
But now you’ve sprouted wings and can stand straight.
You no longer need a firm, guiding hand.
But how delightful it would be for me,
If you just ask sincerely, “How are you?”
I miss you son, I hope you’ll visit anon.
Now, shoot me or sue me!
Kudos to all our gifted poets, Zorlone, Roy, Luke, Jim, Francis, Ken, Fiendish, Justin, and Joanne.
And yes, poems are universal! Wanna try your hand?
I once read a post stating that writers - specifically poets - do not really know the syntax and correct form of what they compose. The post also mentioned that poets should conform to these “rules”.
Well, I beg to disagree. To me, poetry is a creative form of writing. The “breadth” of ingenuity should only be limited by the poet’s imagination based on his own experiences and exposure in life. He is entitled to express himself the way he wants to, and in any form he desires. He has the freedom to create his magnum opus – that’ s why it is called a creative venture in the first place.
The written word should not however, encroach on anybody’s freedom and must not inflict harm to anyone. “There are three things you can never get back: lost opportunities, lost time and spoken words.”
Emotional wounds are more difficult to cure than physical wounds. This should be a vital consideration in the quest for that sublime work of art.
On a different note, the bond of trust should be kept and respected, no matter what the circumstances are. Now I'm starting to digress...
Back to poems! Allow me to mention two traditional types of poetry with an example for each.
The Tanka
Like the Haiku, this originated from Japan. It is composed of five lines. Lines 2, 4 & 5 are made up of seven (7) syllables, while lines 1 and 3 have five (5) syllables each. Here is my example:
Lost
Like a star, you shine,
Amidst the poets of time.
Deliriously you‘re
Lost in fame among new friends;
the old, forgotten and gone.
The ZaniLa Rhyme
This type of poetry has no required length as long as it is composed of 4 lines for every stanza. Lines 1, 3 & 4 are composed of nine (9) syllables each, while line 2 – of seven (7).
The second and fourth lines, rhyme with each other, while lines 1 and 2 don’t; however, there’s a re-arrangement of words in each of the 3rd lines. There is also an internal rhyming in this 3rd line. Here is my example:
The Cloud of SuccessThere you are, within my sight – afloat,
a mist, a soft miasma.
Glinting in a golden hue – rising,
a glorious vestige of a blue aura.
The mist grew tangible and formed,
a self-confident man.
Rising in a golden hue-glinting;
Fulfilled, successful in such short span.
Go forth, and search for your Holy Grail
a fervent wish I offer;
a golden hue, glinting and rising;
The challenges, for sure you’ll conquer!
Diverse styles were created by different poets and were then adapted formally. During the recent years; however, poets had dared to venture outside the confines of these structured poems and the free verse was born.
This goes without saying that, even if I don’t consider myself a genuine, gifted poet; no one can stop me from creating my own style!
I will name this type of poem as – ‘The Jenanian Verse”. Any violent reaction?
The Jenanian Verse
Basically, it would consist of 15 lines of free verse .
There would be 5 lines for each stanza.
Each line would be composed of 10 syllables.
The last line of each stanza would be a one - line summary of the first four lines.
All the 5th lines would be rhyming.
So here goes…
From a Mother to a Son
You tethered badly unsure of yourself ,
grasping for balance, on your baby toes.
It was a joy to grab your hand and hold
You upright, towards your goal and bright dreams
The murky, swirling waves of self-doubt gone.
You crave for my presence in all you did.
You asked, “Mother , is this okay with you?”
The treasured words, “I love you” ever there .
a day had never passed without your hi’s.
Your world, I was a part , just like a fawn.
But now you’ve sprouted wings and can stand straight.
You no longer need a firm, guiding hand.
But how delightful it would be for me,
If you just ask sincerely, “How are you?”
I miss you son, I hope you’ll visit anon.
Now, shoot me or sue me!
Kudos to all our gifted poets, Zorlone, Roy, Luke, Jim, Francis, Ken, Fiendish, Justin, and Joanne.
And yes, poems are universal! Wanna try your hand?
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
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