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farewell tanka November 21, 2008

Posted by raincrystal in emo, literary thingy, love, musings, personal, poetry.
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scattered puzzle bits

used to being side by side;

wilted bunch of blooms

forgotten by you, by me —

how do we say our goodbyes?

the wild swans at coole November 20, 2008

Posted by raincrystal in literary thingy, poetry.
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(william butler yeats)

the trees are in their autumn beauty,

the woodland paths are dry,

under the October twilight the water

mirrors a still sky;

upon the brimming water among the stones

are nine and fifty swans.

the nineteenth autumn has come upon me

since i first made my count;

i saw, before i had well finished,

all suddenly mount

and scatter wheeling in great broken rings

upon their clamorous wings.

i have looked upon those brilliant creatures,

and now my heart is sore,

all’s changed since i, hearing at twilight,

the first time on this shore,

the bell-beat of their wings above my head,

trod with a lighter tread.

unwearied still, lover by lover,

they paddle in the cold

companionable streams or climb the air;

their hearts have not grown old;

passion or conquest, wander will they will,

attend upon them still.

but now they drift on the still water,

mysterious, beautiful;

among what rushes will they build,

by what lake’s edge or pool

delight men’s eyes when i awake some day

to find they have flown away?

tonight i can write the saddest lines.. November 18, 2008

Posted by raincrystal in emo, literary thingy, love, reviews.
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(pablo neruda)

tonight i can write the saddest lines

write, for example, ‘the night is starry

and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.’

the night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

tonight i can write the saddest lines.

i loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

through nights like this one i held her in my arms.

i kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

she loved me, sometimes i loved her too.

how could one not have loved her great still eyes.

tonight i can write the saddest lines.

to think that i do not have her. to feel that i have lost her.

to hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

and the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

what does it matter that my love could not keep her.

the night is starry and she is not with me.

this is all. in the distance, someone is singing. in the distance.

my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

my sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.

my heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

the same night, whitening the same trees.

we, of that time, are no longer the same.

i no longer love her, that’s certain, but how i loved her.

my voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

another’s. she will be another’s. as she was before my kisses.

her voice. her bright body. her infinite eyes.

i no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe i love her.

love is so short, forgetting is so long.

because through nights like this one i held her in my arms.

my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer.

and these the last verses that i write for her.

[the 1st time i stumbled upon this particular work by neruda, i could swear that my heart broke and i really wanted to shed buckets of tears so badly — not that i can relate though.. but awww, the said piece is probably one of the saddest love poems ever written in the history of history.. T_T]

PS: readthisreadthisreadthis..

a lot like love November 18, 2008

Posted by raincrystal in emo, literary thingy, love, personal, poetry.
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a single broken fork,

a couple of plastic cups,

lots of crumpled paper —

and you start to realize

that they’re all just clutter…

yesterday, they’re needed;

now, they’re useless.

and you squint at the same thought

because it’s a lot like love,

where one is left behind —

broken and utterly


twilight memories November 18, 2008

Posted by raincrystal in literary thingy, personal, poetry.
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pale crimson and orange palette

painted in that endless canvas

with the final rays of the sun

sinking over the horizon;

the blades of cogon grasses turn

into dark, dancing silhouettes —

the best twilights, i left at home…

now, i see no velvet sunsets

and no dancing cogon grasses —

just a lone lightpost by the street.

daybreak November 18, 2008

Posted by raincrystal in literary thingy, personal, poetry.
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in the east, faint streaks of lights start to show;

little by little, darkness fades away.

kissed by dewdrops, tiny forget-me-nots

cover your fresh grave… daybreak without you —

the silence is drowned by crowing roosters.

yesterday’s child November 18, 2008

Posted by raincrystal in literary thingy, personal, poetry.
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staring outside this glass window

on a monotonous Monday

and looking at the corn stalks in

the distance —

basking in the warmth of the sun,

dancing with the hum of the breeze,

all makes me think of

the child i used to know —

who always loved to feel

the kiss of the sun

and who always swayed to the

rhythm of the wind…

i try to make up my reflection

on the glass panels

if only to see

traces of that child left in me.

lord high banana of the dense and the existential milkmaid from nowhere November 17, 2008

Posted by raincrystal in fun, literary thingy, reviews.
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(plus 40 other cool stuff i learned from jessica zafra’s 1st edition of TWISTED):

mook wussy cretin frigging sleazoid weenie

dumbo godawful swinish harrumph scummy

snazzy muck bludgeon wimp crud whatnot

potty-mouth prudishness tart gofer kibitzer

decrepit rancid shenanigans stupendous

blimp dork kaput dummy klutz boinking

schmoozing flogging pestilential hirsute

crapola freakazoid grungy drivelling

note: i am still on the brink of finding out the meanings of the said words but judging from the way they are employed in sentences, 99.9 percent of them seems to have positive connotations (that is, if you have a sense of irony).. wahaha.. but one thing’s for sure though, jessica zafra is one cool — uhm, how shall i put this? one cool frigging witty writer..

haiku attempts November 14, 2008

Posted by raincrystal in literary thingy, personal, poetry.
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city rainshowers —

a garden of umbrellas

instead of flowers..

with the lullabye

of waves, a driftwood dances —

to nowhere, to shore..

water crystals form

by the clothesline — delicate

remnants of the storm..

“this house on buttercup street” December 7, 2007

Posted by raincrystal in literary thingies..., literary thingy, personal.
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Just like what I used to do every ordinary night, here I am again — taking slow paces towards my final destination… the 49th house on Buttercup Street. No matter how tedious my day at the university had been or how many barbecues and lemon squares I had eaten during all those foodie sessions with my boyfriend, the story always has the same ending: me going to the direction illuminated by an orange light post — and tonight is not an exemption. Other people would normally love the idea of finally going home after such a long day but I often wish that the sun would not give way to the moon. I never want to go home…

I finally arrived at this particular house on Buttercup Street and as always, closing the red gate was such a difficult task. It meant that I am now in my dreaded place, away from the world that I never wanted to leave. As always, the sight was totally unwelcoming… Like every ordinary night, all the lights are turned off and if not for the flickering light from the television, any stranger would easily mistake the place as desolate. “Home again,” I sighed.

Grandpa is on the sofa again, totally immersed in his favorite basketball show. My aunts are in their bedroom again, equally immersed in their favorite TV sitcoms… They don’t even notice me coming back from school. As I entered my bedroom and switched the light on, I could see grandma sitting on the lower deck of the bed, glaring at me… again. “Why do you always come home late?”… “Turn off that light! You’re not the one paying the bills!”… “How long do you plan to stay here? How many times do I have to tell you to go away?”… It was always the same — nothing has changed. I can’t exactly figure out why but grandma was always so selfish, so wicked. We’re not really a family — we just happened to be related by blood.

Almost 200 kilometers away from here, the scene would have been entirely different and I would have had a different perception of going home…

“Really? A playhouse? A permanent one? Father’s going to build it?” my eight-year-old self couldn’t stop my mouth from throwing all those questions. It was one of those times when my eyes would glitter with a different kind of excitement. “Yes and you’ll be helping me put up the curtains as soon as it’s finished, okay?” came my mother’s reply. I could only nod in delight as I already started to imagine what I’ll be doing with the playhouse.

It was such a nice house — with bamboo flooring, wood slabs for walls and a “nipa” roof. Father even put a sink just so it would look like a real house and it was spacious. It was even more wonderful after all the curtains that mother had sewn were put up. Most of the time, me and the other kids would spend our afternoons there. I’d bring all my stuffed toys and a couple of pillows and there would be lots of partying. On weekends, my mother would even take time to stop doing her laundry just to prepare some snacks and there would be bread and orange juice in replacement of our usual fare which consisted of “santan” petals and leaves.

At other times, when I’m totally hooked up on the TV screen, my two younger brothers and the neighborhood boys would play soldiers and the playhouse would serve as their headquarters with all my stuffed toys as hostages. Then, on certain occasions, when our place is experiencing blackout, mother would gather the three of us to the playhouse where she would share all those scary stories — from grandpa’s encounters with the unknown to urban legends to pure fiction. Later, my brothers would be obliged to accompany me either to the comfort room or bedroom and father would occasionally grumble, “Tsk tsk… You always ask your mother for those stories and now you can’t even pee alone.” Mother would just chuckle and sometimes, she would sneak outside the house while covered in a blanket and stand outside the window. Then, me and the “brave” boys would end up screaming and scrambling in all directions until I end up crying. Father would then fold his arms across his chest and cast my mother that “I-told-you-not-to-scare-them-to-death” look. During those times, I’d be mad at her and pretend to resist each time she tried to hug me but mother would always find ways to make my anger fade away — tickling sessions and an extra allowance would be equally effective.

But as days turned into months and months into years, the playhouse became less and less visited. I became preoccupied with all those school stuff and so were my playmates. All those parties and storytelling sessions just seemed to be long-forgotten dreams — until the playhouse eventually fell into ruins. “You don’t understand! It’s our Music project and I just have to be there. You’re angry because it’s so late? It’s also your fault — you keep calling me and you don’t know that there are feedbacks on the sound system,” I managed to utter between sobs. It was the 1st time I learned to answer back. “It’s dangerous out there… We were worried. You’re a girl and something bad could happen to you…” But I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t understand them — I couldn’t understand my mother.

That was many moons ago and I’ve finally grown up. Now, as I lie in bed trying to fall asleep despite grandma’s tongue-lashing, I couldn’t help missing that woman who never really ceased to care though she was often misunderstood and taken for granted. She was very much different from this other woman in the lower deck — as if they were made of entirely opposite materials.

I am yet to be a mother but I’m quite sure that I’ll be following the steps of the woman living almost 200 kilometers away from here — and my future home would be anything except this house on Buttercup Street.