| You Should Be A Poet |
You craft words well, in creative and unexpected ways.
And you have a great talent for evoking beautiful imagery...
Or describing the most intense heartbreak ever.
You're already naturally a poet, even if you've never written a poem.
|
I confess I was a little taken aback when I read the results of this test (I seem to be having this thing for Blogthings lately) not because poetry never crossed my mind, but because it triggered an instant nostalgic feel – almost like returning to my writing roots, actually. My very first entry into the literary sphere, armed only with a keen interest, was indeed through writing poems, mostly on nature, banking on grand hopes of eventually having these land on the pages of the school paper (luckily they did, three of them on one issue alone). That was way back to an eight or nine-year old me, and being raised on cassettefuls of nursery rhymes, I insisted on the typical, classic rhyme scheme; free verse was a total no-no.
Funny that almost a decade after, it was the complete opposite: I began experimenting with what was previously my childhood taboo and found out much to my delight that the name said it all – it made me “free” and allowed me to better explore the more distant horizons of poetry. This time around I wanted to cast my poems on vessels of thought and interaction, to somehow provide an audible voice to our hearts’ rumblings. It surprised me that topics just naturally drifted out of my head one by one – from the pains of writing an excruciating hand-written report to a faked bomb threat in school, from a next-door fire days ago to my personal chagrin at the R-18 label of the “Da Vinci Code” (unfair for prodigy minors like my younger brother). More to come, I guess, for flexing my poetic fingers that have finally broken the surface.
As for the test results, here’s what I really think: I believe everyone’s “naturally a poet”, even if one has never written a poem. You just need to write from the heart.
The Businessman
Who says making business is all bed of roses?
Nowhere was this a simple matter
to reckon with, not just mere counting
coins or bills that flow in and out.
It was a game of chance not even
you or I could keep up with, unless
acumen and alacrity pulls
us to our catch. So let’s see how things
work in this dog-eat-dog match
to rake profits. Here there’s no room
for error, nor is there space for
second chances. A single wrong move
can earn you pity glances. Therefore
it’s a must that you keep this in mind:
That before you raise prices, or fix up
the sale that would draw in more faces,
think of what lies beyond these surprises.
You are, after all, engaged in a trade
where there’s no knowing what comes
of the deal that you’ve made. As you stare
at the sheets that await your approval,
so too do you wonder if you’ll
strike gold, or find things plunging
down tenfold. Your signature is all
that spells the difference. Still it’s
business as usual, and everyday lies
in the palm of your hand, an option
to gamble those shares or not. If
the die is cast, there’s no turning
back to the step that had witnessed self-
contemplation; straddling the fence
between claiming your prize, and paying
the price, in this dog-eat-dog bout –
counting coins and bills that flow in and out.
R-18
The MTRCB has stamped an R-18 label on “The Da Vinci Code”, claiming that the movie is bound to shatter the faith of young Catholics. But I say otherwise, in behalf of those children whose faith and thinking are resolved enough to be easily shaken by just another supposed thriller.
It was clear from the start: They were
equivocal, blinded, blinkered,
lopsided. No philosophy
explains this, a question unasked –
though I’d say it was no more than just
a privilege of age; a secret
attempt to curb the hungry mind.
In between pleas and discourses
they never sought to know what you
had long known; except for the fact that
you’re not yet eighteen (or at least
that’s what they think), and because few
ever read the silent story,
they’ll settle for a label both
you and I detest with a firm
conviction. Sadly, no one bothers
to shake this hostile proposition.
As hoary adults saunter their
way to cushioned seats, we are never
content with our invasive sneaks – through
eyes that startle, divulging the lie
that could have easily earned us our
ultimate chance for a moment
of rapture. But now we must contend
with this corporal fixture: A face
barely lined, and hardly weather-beaten –
that if one of us dared touch and
caress it in earnest, the query
of time would erase itself and sink
beneath a sweaty forehead. Who cares,
by the way? Age was never an
absolution, except perhaps
a token for admission, an
issue of second thoughts that would’ve
otherwise led to a truce, an
agreement. But no, it was always
a cause for some infringement, a bone
of contention. While lawmakers dwell
on the pending criterion, we
linger at a loss and seek mutual
emotion. Though eyes and lips sealed and
muted in convention, our minds spin
wildly with the promise of a vision:
Should we get past those guards and hurdle
the gates with tickets clutched tightly,
we’ll find ourselves seated on rows
and seats, swapping bottoms too many.
The movie starts rolling, and all that
has been, is a somewhat blurred envy
of those not yet eighteen.
Next-Door Fire
Around early afternoon of May 25, 2006, the storage fan of our adjacent establishment caught fire and spread a cloud of smoke over the neighboring stores, generating public panic. The flames were fortunately halted a while later and there were no serious damages done to property.
At someone’s first mention of the
dreaded word, nothing was at a
standstill. One blurt was enough to buzz
in people’s ears, echo in their minds
and confirm fiery fears; symptoms of
a monotony unwillingly
broken. What we thought we hear only
of heroes and firefighters, we see
before us, tumbling from fire trucks that blare
with sirens decibels too alarming.
So starts another round of hormone-pumped
motions, adrenaline implosions,
a drastic plea for action. Though high-pitched
voices consume us faster than the flames,
we know there’s more than just smoke billowing
from across the next-door building. Nothing
here is certain: Since it’s almost well-known
that this zone’s fire prone. Perhaps even walls
may fail to do the job here, wooden as
they are. Otherwise we’re left with something
better than regret: The last reckless race
for a roundabout rescue. Yet suppose
it were all just déjà vu? A tinge of
news items safely tucked within our heads –
crossing the familiar: Smoldering homes,
fleeing families, tentative shanties –
going down in smoke. This time it’s for real.
We may have seen similar scenes, or felt
the same misgivings; an unforgotten
remembrance, somewhere in our histories.
Each time is always different, almost
another deterrent – extinguishers
dousing fire. Everyone’s eager to know
the story of what has sparked the first spark,
while time remained sleeping; afternoon naps
taking over full stomachs. Who hinted
the combustion sprouting minutes after?
A thousand possibilities conspire
for an answer, concealed out of sight in
the sweltering wake – mere wisps and whispers –
fires telling their own stories, constructing
theories, leaving behind embers in
someone else’s memory.
Funny that almost a decade after, it was the complete opposite: I began experimenting with what was previously my childhood taboo and found out much to my delight that the name said it all – it made me “free” and allowed me to better explore the more distant horizons of poetry. This time around I wanted to cast my poems on vessels of thought and interaction, to somehow provide an audible voice to our hearts’ rumblings. It surprised me that topics just naturally drifted out of my head one by one – from the pains of writing an excruciating hand-written report to a faked bomb threat in school, from a next-door fire days ago to my personal chagrin at the R-18 label of the “Da Vinci Code” (unfair for prodigy minors like my younger brother). More to come, I guess, for flexing my poetic fingers that have finally broken the surface.
As for the test results, here’s what I really think: I believe everyone’s “naturally a poet”, even if one has never written a poem. You just need to write from the heart.
The Businessman
Who says making business is all bed of roses?
Nowhere was this a simple matter
to reckon with, not just mere counting
coins or bills that flow in and out.
It was a game of chance not even
you or I could keep up with, unless
acumen and alacrity pulls
us to our catch. So let’s see how things
work in this dog-eat-dog match
to rake profits. Here there’s no room
for error, nor is there space for
second chances. A single wrong move
can earn you pity glances. Therefore
it’s a must that you keep this in mind:
That before you raise prices, or fix up
the sale that would draw in more faces,
think of what lies beyond these surprises.
You are, after all, engaged in a trade
where there’s no knowing what comes
of the deal that you’ve made. As you stare
at the sheets that await your approval,
so too do you wonder if you’ll
strike gold, or find things plunging
down tenfold. Your signature is all
that spells the difference. Still it’s
business as usual, and everyday lies
in the palm of your hand, an option
to gamble those shares or not. If
the die is cast, there’s no turning
back to the step that had witnessed self-
contemplation; straddling the fence
between claiming your prize, and paying
the price, in this dog-eat-dog bout –
counting coins and bills that flow in and out.
R-18
The MTRCB has stamped an R-18 label on “The Da Vinci Code”, claiming that the movie is bound to shatter the faith of young Catholics. But I say otherwise, in behalf of those children whose faith and thinking are resolved enough to be easily shaken by just another supposed thriller.
It was clear from the start: They were
equivocal, blinded, blinkered,
lopsided. No philosophy
explains this, a question unasked –
though I’d say it was no more than just
a privilege of age; a secret
attempt to curb the hungry mind.
In between pleas and discourses
they never sought to know what you
had long known; except for the fact that
you’re not yet eighteen (or at least
that’s what they think), and because few
ever read the silent story,
they’ll settle for a label both
you and I detest with a firm
conviction. Sadly, no one bothers
to shake this hostile proposition.
As hoary adults saunter their
way to cushioned seats, we are never
content with our invasive sneaks – through
eyes that startle, divulging the lie
that could have easily earned us our
ultimate chance for a moment
of rapture. But now we must contend
with this corporal fixture: A face
barely lined, and hardly weather-beaten –
that if one of us dared touch and
caress it in earnest, the query
of time would erase itself and sink
beneath a sweaty forehead. Who cares,
by the way? Age was never an
absolution, except perhaps
a token for admission, an
issue of second thoughts that would’ve
otherwise led to a truce, an
agreement. But no, it was always
a cause for some infringement, a bone
of contention. While lawmakers dwell
on the pending criterion, we
linger at a loss and seek mutual
emotion. Though eyes and lips sealed and
muted in convention, our minds spin
wildly with the promise of a vision:
Should we get past those guards and hurdle
the gates with tickets clutched tightly,
we’ll find ourselves seated on rows
and seats, swapping bottoms too many.
The movie starts rolling, and all that
has been, is a somewhat blurred envy
of those not yet eighteen.
Next-Door Fire
Around early afternoon of May 25, 2006, the storage fan of our adjacent establishment caught fire and spread a cloud of smoke over the neighboring stores, generating public panic. The flames were fortunately halted a while later and there were no serious damages done to property.
At someone’s first mention of the
dreaded word, nothing was at a
standstill. One blurt was enough to buzz
in people’s ears, echo in their minds
and confirm fiery fears; symptoms of
a monotony unwillingly
broken. What we thought we hear only
of heroes and firefighters, we see
before us, tumbling from fire trucks that blare
with sirens decibels too alarming.
So starts another round of hormone-pumped
motions, adrenaline implosions,
a drastic plea for action. Though high-pitched
voices consume us faster than the flames,
we know there’s more than just smoke billowing
from across the next-door building. Nothing
here is certain: Since it’s almost well-known
that this zone’s fire prone. Perhaps even walls
may fail to do the job here, wooden as
they are. Otherwise we’re left with something
better than regret: The last reckless race
for a roundabout rescue. Yet suppose
it were all just déjà vu? A tinge of
news items safely tucked within our heads –
crossing the familiar: Smoldering homes,
fleeing families, tentative shanties –
going down in smoke. This time it’s for real.
We may have seen similar scenes, or felt
the same misgivings; an unforgotten
remembrance, somewhere in our histories.
Each time is always different, almost
another deterrent – extinguishers
dousing fire. Everyone’s eager to know
the story of what has sparked the first spark,
while time remained sleeping; afternoon naps
taking over full stomachs. Who hinted
the combustion sprouting minutes after?
A thousand possibilities conspire
for an answer, concealed out of sight in
the sweltering wake – mere wisps and whispers –
fires telling their own stories, constructing
theories, leaving behind embers in
someone else’s memory.
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