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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

And, finally, we came up with a more compound one, attempting to study, if not defy, the limits of style, structure, and media, thus, departing from the margins while keeping space, as we know it, undefined, so to speak. With the book’s dynamic approach to an age when we are all subject to compartmentalized outlooks and fed with a prepackaged sense of identity, it’s a challenge to insist on finding meaning and value in ubiquity.

Lines of Lila Book Cover Art

Continue reading here.

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Sometimes, while you’re trying to outsmart time behind your work desk, you meet with your thoughts and ask questions you dare not ask your kitties. Then you try to find a way to impart that conversation to any surface you can find. And when you do find it, the universe simply opens up its doors to usher you in.

Lines of Lila Sketches and Scribbles Lost Rhyme

Lost Rhyme, ink on paper, March 9, 2017.

View more sketches and scribbles here.

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Piso pa rin ba?
O mas malamig pa sa piseta?
Ang agahan, pananghalian
at hapunan na pinagkasya
sa isang maliit kakarampot na supot
para ipagpalit sa pangarap
na papsikel, tutunawin lang
nang panandalian, isisikmurang
sa paparating na pantawid sa tag-init.

Pabili po ng ice candy…
Piso pa rin ba?

-Armineonila M., 2017

 

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A shelter of robins, his heart
breathes into mine flowerbeds
of ballads not thorned nor pitted
heartbreaks upon which spikes
may delay the casting of spring
when seasons run miles apart
to dance rivers with our thoughts
our fountains, deep in the roots
will meet among the shadows…

Now, if only…
these words were so a garden of ours
as if I were a Wordsworth, rhymed
and you, a village his, a path shared
with the daffodils in a dream without
but we are no such garden, still, under
the metal clouds, wired with gavels
silver chains to our roots, rust a staple
and time, our enemy, is a wall sprouted
by shallow ponds, pawns to vultures
for within its arms we’ll one day wither
and settle unto grounds, craving for rain.

-Armineonila M.

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Half-empty words wash away
the narratives, spilt favours,
modern fatigue —
we owe the landowners —
as our worn out pleas
flee in silence.
Our kins rode the wings of fate
in begging fashion,
shoveling their own
craving for death.
We mourn for old debts,
for we are tiny pebbles
in a shore of gluttons.
What purpose do our lips serve
when we speak pass the clouds?
While we cease to embrace
the pen with our tongues?
We dug out the snare, fist and spine.
They fed on our spirit.

-Armineonila M., 2016

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Green Dreams
Armineonila M.

I lost your grip
in the thunderstorm, and you,
likewise, lost mine
under the dragon’s breath –
a huge firewall stood
between us – a dead end’s curse,
cirrus clouds loomed
from a distance tainting
the sun’s rays, no illuminated path
the rainbow’s bend dared
deny us a destination.


Lunhaw
Tagalog translation by a friend

Nawala ko ang iyong kapit
nang bumagyo’t nagrilim, at ikaw,
ganoon din, nabitawhan kita
sa lilim ng dambuhalang hininga –
‘sang ga-bituing pader ang poder
nating sangga – sumpang sadya,
malabalahibong ulap ng kilabot
mula sa di-kalayuan ang lumimlim
sa mga sinag ng araw,
naglaho ang daang matuwid
arko ng balangaw ang tumindig
upang ipagkait sa atin ang tagpuan.

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It’s been a while. But I’d like to share this piece I especially wrote for Pluma’s third year anniversary (September 14). Visit Pluma’s official website and blog for more features.

If only the burning of bridges
remains an idiot’s idiom
and we could still dream of flowerbeds

and never hear gunshots
of freedom from a remote uproar

lay the sword to rest –
what powers does it hold under a child’s gaze?
even time halts for mourning
when the sharp edges of tyranny
dug deep down their tiny bellies

Telling them
Told me

why must we smell the flowers?
read people with dead shot eyes

after a while

the trees shall whisper
some so-called heroes’ anthem
who spoiled the soil that fed them

while our ruins
are traded for inorganic memories

or so history went
and thought free verse rhymes
or weaves a synopsis of the future

but we refuse to breathe
the putrid lies
our masked men feed
a gold miner’s poverty

we tread
alongside fragile footsteps.

-Armineonila M., 2016

Mini musing: The pen is mighty until its ink had dried out.

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