San Vicente My Hometown, and other Poems
"Happy they are who keep alive the inner vision, the music that lights the world."
Dr Abe V Rotor
St Vincent Ferrer is the patron saint of my town. He is also regarded patron saint of builders because of his fame
for "building up" and strengthening the Church through his preaching,
missionary work, in his teachings, as confessor and adviser. His feast day is April 5, celebrated on the last Tuesday of April which is the town fiesta. He belonged to the Dominican Order (like UST), highly educated and held a doctoral degree. More about St Vincent below.
In my childhood I saw
detours of footpaths
dividing the East and
the West, two warring niches
where the zone of
peace was the holy ground,
and beyond was
wilderness – and the unknown
beyond the confines
of Subec and the Cordillera,
the memory of Diego
Silang, or the Basi Revolt
on old, meandering
Bantaoay River.
In my youth I saw the
sun sitting
on acacia stumps and
on the tires landscape
but rising in dreams
and visions on the horizon,
and in the wisdom of
my forebears,
the old guards of
your fort.
Time has stood still
since then.
I come to pay homage
in your temple,
and into the arms of
my people, my roots;
I see the footpaths
of yesteryears,
now grown and
multiplied, and always fresh,
leading from the East
and West,
and the many corners
of the earth,
converging at your portals
in pilgrimage.
Memories of My
Childhood
Rain and stream end
up in Sabangan
Where play the
carefree and the young,
Where fish and
carabao are but one,
And dreams are far,
far beyond.
Childhood is when
nobody misses
The morning before
the sun rises,
Before the herons
stake the fishes,
While the birds sing
in the trees.
Frogs don’t croak at
the kingfisher;
Rain is read from a
friendly dragonfly;
Nests are secrets
only to the finder –
These lessons are joy
to live by.
War is solved in
kites and fishing poles,
In hide and seek and
barefoot races;
Faith is in the
seasons the sky extols.
And all virtues
friendship embraces.
Peals of thunder
break the afternoon
Driving the fowls
early to their tree;
The boys catch the
raindrops. And soon,
Across the field,
dash for home aglee.
Summer is short,
rainy days are long,
But it is only a
passing imagery,
For the young can’t
wait, and all along
The years are gone,
but a blissful memory.
Long had Freud and
Jung foretold
The man is the child
of many years ago;
What the seed was and
how it grew –
Lo, behold, it is
true.
A Place Time Forgot
They just stand
silent – these trees, river and hill
The water beams the
color of the sky, of autumn or spring,
The breeze clings on
mist, dewdrops on a train,
Dying beyond the
thought of dying, whispering, hushing.
The seed can wait,
unless fishing rods quiver and bend,
And the boys though
young forever aim at another prize,
While the girls like
flowers in the desert sweetly ask
For rain, and
lightning flashing, mushrooms will soon rise.
But do not make haste
unless the clock melts at the edge,
Hair turns gray, the
air sultry, neon light complain,
Unless the swivel chair
creaks in pain, forgetfulness, and chill,
They just stand
silent – these trees, river and hill.
Kakawate
You get thorough
shaving
twice or many times;
the poorer your
master,
the more you get,
You bear the sun and
rain
until you regenerate
to the joy of your
symbionts,
the gecko and mantis
who, too, protect
your master’s crop.
You twist in
ceaseless pain,
resulting in your
weird look,
Ah, but your ugliness
is the orchardist's delight
and your master’s
luck
that may bring about
your final sunset.
Caleza
They scrambled aboard
the carriage one Lent,
Breathless, sardine
packed, doldrums silent.
The cochero gave a crispy note,
Nodded his lifelong,
partner, mute.
The hame tightened,
wood strained,
The wheels struggled
and complained.
Rattan striking the
spokes was horn:
Like dull sound of a
xylophone,
Joining riotous
shouts and laughter –
Orchestral potpourri
altogether.
The past leaves
remnants to the future,
New to the young, but
dying bit by bit,
Flickering the last
rays of old adventure,
Like the old caleza bidding exit.
Church Ruins
Your eyes are empty,
and you sit like the
owl.
You are the shell
of a colonial past
to oblivion cast,
save your bell
pealing the essence
of the Rock
that cleanses
the soul.
Upland
You are a minuscule
of the Fertile
Crescent,
a far cry from
Euclid’s measure.
You run along the
margin
of the northwestern
coast,
were there are no
rivers that cross,
and lie at the heels
of the Cordillera,
where there are no
valleys in which to hide;
but you are a good
provider
to a kind and gentle
people
tanned with sweat and
soil
and tempered with
austere living
that speaks of their
heart and art:
the geometry of
functional beauty.
Bullcart
(Ann and Matt in front of their ancestral home)
They wait for the
buffalo
That pulls he cart
As I search the
fields,
Cross the rivers,
Gaze over the hill,
Onto the prairies of
old, repeating the call
that reverberates
\over the plains
where a great
civilization relished.
What will I tell my
children
now that the
buffaloes are gone?
In time they will
understand.
Bagworm
on a Duhat Tree at Home
Sheepishly a
caterpillar peeps,
from under a pagoda
she built;
like the turtle she
hides and creeps,
until she finally
ceases to eat.
A Venus de Milo she
soon emerges,
but without wings she
must wait,
as her love scent in
the air urges,
a winged moth to be
her mate.
She lays her eggs in
the tent,
broods on them until
they hatch,
and leaves them with
heart content;
soon she dies after
the dispatch.
The Great Maker has
shown
a biology of
sacrifice and obligation:
the mother keeps the
young and home
for this is the
species’ bastion.
Young Musicians
Marlo, Ann and Leo at Home
I imagine young Haydn
mimicked
a strolling fiddler
with pieces of stick,
a young Beethoven,
writing music
from birds and lambs
at the creek.
In Messiah, Handel saw God’s image,
while Mozart excelled
before the king,
and Chopin, the
piano-poet of his age
saw neo-classic music
emerging.
Happier are those who
play the tune,
than he who stops at
the chord,
they who keep alive
the inner vision,
the music that lights
the world.
Bougainvillea
Wearily I walked the dews of grassy
fair,
and hung my foot to flip off the weed,
“Amorseco,
you degenerate spear,”
murmured I, as darkness gave up its
bid.
The green sprung into life –
birds, buds, chilly air, and all;
and I, whose world always a strife,
found and shred a momentous joy.
A brook in murmuring music called
a flock which came by wing,
as my feet drew close o behold
a spray of petals in early spring.
Flowers lined to greet the world,
one half happy, the other half atear.
“Flowers, your beauty has lured
men to your side to revere.”
Beneath the petals my fingers met
to steal her beauty and hidden pride;
blood stained the thorns, and I, in
sweat,
shrank in thoughts ready to chide.
Like a sword drawn to settle guilt,
I rose to strike, but shrinking
and silent, I paused, then knelt
over bougainvillea sweetly smiling.
Legume
Cecille in her Home Garden
You are Nature’s builder,
a God-sent life-giver;
the sun and air you bind,
feed life of all kind.
In your care the Rhizobium
sets chemistry in action,
from the bean or Mimosa,
to the giant acacia.
Give us our daily meat and oil
and nourish the soil;
keep Ceres’ bounty,
Oh, Leguminosae.
My Little Prince
Pao at Home
You came with the
Word
To mend a broken
world
In the story of a
sheep,
As I, too, mended my
ship;
But when at last I
set to sail,
Resolve never again
to fail.
You left me groping
for reason
As I stared at cold
gray stone.
Now my grief is gone,
Though I’ll never
understand
The mystery up afar.
I know you are in
your star
In the promise of
your laughter
And the joy of this
life after.
Old Bell of San
Vicente
I have outgrown the
old bell of San Vicente
my hometown;
Its toll no longer
made me sad, for my friends
have long been dead.
Dancing on its
fulcrum its sound brought
nothing but frown;
And if Angelus is a
dirge, what my fate is
has been said.
‘Til one day I
thought I saw an old gate and
a garden covered with vine
Appeared, and I
thought I heard the old bell
and my cane fell down;
The old bell rang and
danced on its fulcrum,
its call was divine;
I climbed the belfry
and through the cloud
once more saw my old hometown.~
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About San Vicente Ferrer (Internet)
Born
|
Religious, priest and confessor,
called the Angel of the Last Judgment
23
January 1350
Valencia, Kingdom of Valencia
|
|
|
Died
|
5
April 1419 (aged 69)
Vannes,
Duchy of Brittany
|
Venerated in
|
Roman Catholic Church, Anglican Communion, Aglipayan
Church
|
Canonized
|
3
June 1455, Rome
by Pope Calixtus III
|
Major
shrine
|
Cathedral
of Vannes
Vannes,
Morbihan,
France Bogo City, Cebu Philippines
|
Feast
|
5 April
|
Attributes
|
tongue
of flame; pulpit;
trumpet;
prisoners;
wings; Bible
|
Patronage
|
builders, construction workers, plumbers,
fishermen
(Brittany) and orphanages (Spain)
|