Saturday, May 21, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
Seven Days in Vietnam - Extemporaneous Poetry
Dr Abe V Rotor
Ho Chi Minh University at your portals,
An emissary of peace and friendship I come.
Tell me how you have attained peace,
And now, progress.
Is it the hammer and the scythe enshrined?
Enshrined in books and laboratories, in the field?
Enshrined in the heart and soul?
Repression, back home we call your system;
For we would rather march down the street
Or pray on our own,
Or plant a flagpole at every bend, each color
A nation, we call united and free.
This is university we know, we own,
Maybe, maybe -
It is not really so, after all.
Roar a thousand bikes
Roar a thousand souls
Freed from the muted silence,
Now north and south are one.
If for any reason the trees have grown high,
Higher than buildings, e'en higher than the eye;
It was war, each tree a flag pole,
It was war, each tree a proud soul.
If for any reason the trees are bare and shrunk,
Their tops pruned, red flags nailed on the trunk,
It is peacetime, two scores after the battle cry,
It is peacetime, and people just pass them by.
I greeted, she greeted,
She flashed a smile,
I asked, "Where am I?"
She looked at my skin fair,
I looked at her eyes narrow,
Malay!
We nodded
Western connotes invasion
Yesterday and now
On TV, on the streets;
It is aculturation
Like wild wind seeking every nook
Blowing through the pages of a book.
Twelve - by chance or design:
Apostles all in a new land
Peering into a curtain partly open
Looking for the Phoenix of Vietnam.
When old and new melt like alloy,
Its temper is sharper and keener
Against the invaders; it shines in the night,
Toils in the day, rising over the chime,
And the people look back
To look up for a star,
A lone star once up high.
Why can't the Vietnamese speak English?
The GI spoke a different language
Never music to the Vietnamese ear,
He spoke with the gun, barked at passersby,
Through years he spoke loud day and night
In distant thunders, in fires
Raging in the forest and the sea;
He sopoke of heroes of another land,
Of gods cruel, foreign, unknown;
Yet the Vietnamese well know -
For who can't know blood in any tongue?
Grief, sorrow, pain - words not spoken,
They just spill, they just throb.
The Mekong River, oh, it's like our Pasig:
Full of boats and ships and monsoon silt
Leading to the sea and carrying
Now and then red tints of distant past
To tell the world a lesson in humanity.
The Mekong River, oh, it's like our Pasig;
They run out to sea to meet the world.
Motorbikes, wave after wave,
Roar on the streets
In deafening sound.
Where have all the silence gone?
I looked at the rider.
He is young.
She is young.
Buildings are rising everywhere;
Booms toil day and night,
Waking babies and the angels,
The spirits of old, the dead in their graves.
Where is the hammer and the scythe?
Barges on the Mekong lie still
Berthed along huge vessels
As booms load Vietnam's bounty,
Emissary of peace and unity.
Minh Tam, you are my home
Away from home,
For a week, you make it timeless,
A room you make for a hall,
An honor to a foreign soul.
I open my window on the third floor,
A tree greets me, its branches stir,
Birdsong sweetly I hear.
The sun weaves through its crown,
Quivers with the morning breeze,
I breathe the air in peace.
But beyond smog rises into a veil,
Below bikes roar, perhaps a thousand,
Towers and chimneys stand.
I close my window, switch on the aircon,
Draw back the curtain, the tree is gone,
Birds, bikes, chimneys - all gone.
How can I compose a Vietnamese song?
I ask Beethoven for Nature sound,
Bach for genius in organization,
Chopin for dexterity of fingers,
And Schubert for feeling that lingers.
But I must pass through the Cu Chi Tunnel,
And fly over the delta and trace
The Mekong meandering to the sea,
And relive the country's history.
To compose a Vietnamese song.
Progress, what is progress, if we may ask?
The World Bank may tell us of gains forecast;
The scientist, a discovery in a flask;
In Vietnam, sweet revenge of a hateful past.
Cu Chi tunnel, the resistance cover,
Copied from the termites sans dome,
And the early Christian catacomb -
Daedalus and Wright, please move over.
Only subtrerraneans can make such burrow
Where a colony can live for years,
Cu Chi tunnel a copy of this ingenuity,
And shall last with pride and memory.
Simple tools the Cu Chi people use
To hunt animals for food and game,
Against invaders they use the same
To defend their land from abuse.
Against weapon of mass destruction,
Indigenous technology on their part,
The Cu Chis re-tooled their native art,
The art to repel invasion.
All's quiet now, the Cu Chis did win,
Sounds of guns in the sky and below
Are no more, save the bamboo
Creaking with the passing wind.
A cathedral - but where is its door?
A barred gate, heavy lock at the rear,
Forbidden view not even the eyes can tour,
Footsteps only radar could hear.
That was before, the war is over now.
I knocked at the door. A kindly nun
let me in and showed me all around
Through the stained glass I saw the sun.
In the crypt I dared not treat,
My shoes dusty, I was in slack,
Yet dared I to ask from the dead,
And martyrs the courage I lack.
Bones and ashes of the holy ones
Remind us than even they
Pass this world but once.
Between two guards I pass,
Walk the aisle to the altar
To hear the holy mass;
I hear the heavy doors close
How deep is my faith?
I did not look behind.
I was going out, I heard a whisper.
I looked behind the heavy door.
John the Baptist baptizing Christ,
A painting bearing stains of war,
Imprimatur of a holy image.
I can't be an equal to this noble fighter,
He has more of suffering and pain and will.
I may have more from books and the pen,
Yet deserve only a chronicler to him.
At the museum the tanks, they are now silent.
Prison cells are ruins, they're mute as Lent,
And the living are busy, they just pass by,
Yet pause and sigh, even for a while.
I saw the French Guillotine in the museum,
The Huey Copter, the Howitzer'
I saw bamboo spikes and crude knives,
Side by side under muted whisper.
I saw the hammer and scythe
Sans worker and farmer.
Museum - repository of the past
Of answers often asked.
It is alive, it breathes of history
Reliving people's memory.
A Guardian, a chonicler it is
Yet never sets the mind at ease;
It digs into the distant past
And builds wisdom to forecast.
"Books, sir, buy books," a boy called,
Stopping me on my track
To the War Remnant Museum.
"No. no," my words are cold.
Back in time, the inhumanity of war
Unfolded beyond my relief:
Barbaric, groteque, pathetic -
At the end, stands the Red Star.
It is a star like David's indeed,
Goliath met his fate once more,
His sword broken, his armor rusted,
Another lesson of man's greed.
"Books, sir, buy books," he called back,
On leaving the sacred compound.
I read - in Iraq and Afghanistan,
It is the same that mankind lack.
Sister Marie paused,
I too, paused and looked up.
She pointed at an old building
And told stories of war.
As I listened, a bird was singing
Up in a nearby tree
Feeding her brood
And healing
A painful memory.
Saint Joseph, the Carpenter, stood on a hill
With Child Jesus lending a hand.
I, with a camera, stood still,
Waited for the cloud to unveil the sun.
A rainbow appeared behind the hill,
As the cloud burst into shower.
I, with a camera, stood still,
awed by a mysterious power.
Saint Paul, the Apostle in Vietnam -
You hold a book with your left hand,
A sword with your right.
I wonder why your book is open
and your sword out of its scabbard.
Where were you during the war?
Is is time you close the book
and lay your sword down.
What is civilization?
Ask the United Nations,
Ask the Vatican,
Ask the Conquitadores
Ask the Colonizers
Ask the white historians.
Continued...
Ho Chi Minh University at your portals,
An emissary of peace and friendship I come.
Tell me how you have attained peace,
And now, progress.
Is it the hammer and the scythe enshrined?
Enshrined in books and laboratories, in the field?
Enshrined in the heart and soul?
Repression, back home we call your system;
For we would rather march down the street
Or pray on our own,
Or plant a flagpole at every bend, each color
A nation, we call united and free.
This is university we know, we own,
Maybe, maybe -
It is not really so, after all.
Roar a thousand bikes
Roar a thousand souls
Freed from the muted silence,
Now north and south are one.
If for any reason the trees have grown high,
Higher than buildings, e'en higher than the eye;
It was war, each tree a flag pole,
It was war, each tree a proud soul.
If for any reason the trees are bare and shrunk,
Their tops pruned, red flags nailed on the trunk,
It is peacetime, two scores after the battle cry,
It is peacetime, and people just pass them by.
I greeted, she greeted,
She flashed a smile,
I asked, "Where am I?"
She looked at my skin fair,
I looked at her eyes narrow,
Malay!
We nodded
Western connotes invasion
Yesterday and now
On TV, on the streets;
It is aculturation
Like wild wind seeking every nook
Blowing through the pages of a book.
Twelve - by chance or design:
Apostles all in a new land
Peering into a curtain partly open
Looking for the Phoenix of Vietnam.
When old and new melt like alloy,
Its temper is sharper and keener
Against the invaders; it shines in the night,
Toils in the day, rising over the chime,
And the people look back
To look up for a star,
A lone star once up high.
Why can't the Vietnamese speak English?
The GI spoke a different language
Never music to the Vietnamese ear,
He spoke with the gun, barked at passersby,
Through years he spoke loud day and night
In distant thunders, in fires
Raging in the forest and the sea;
He sopoke of heroes of another land,
Of gods cruel, foreign, unknown;
Yet the Vietnamese well know -
For who can't know blood in any tongue?
Grief, sorrow, pain - words not spoken,
They just spill, they just throb.
The Mekong River, oh, it's like our Pasig:
Full of boats and ships and monsoon silt
Leading to the sea and carrying
Now and then red tints of distant past
To tell the world a lesson in humanity.
The Mekong River, oh, it's like our Pasig;
They run out to sea to meet the world.
Motorbikes, wave after wave,
Roar on the streets
In deafening sound.
Where have all the silence gone?
I looked at the rider.
He is young.
She is young.
Buildings are rising everywhere;
Booms toil day and night,
Waking babies and the angels,
The spirits of old, the dead in their graves.
Where is the hammer and the scythe?
Barges on the Mekong lie still
Berthed along huge vessels
As booms load Vietnam's bounty,
Emissary of peace and unity.
Minh Tam, you are my home
Away from home,
For a week, you make it timeless,
A room you make for a hall,
An honor to a foreign soul.
I open my window on the third floor,
A tree greets me, its branches stir,
Birdsong sweetly I hear.
The sun weaves through its crown,
Quivers with the morning breeze,
I breathe the air in peace.
But beyond smog rises into a veil,
Below bikes roar, perhaps a thousand,
Towers and chimneys stand.
I close my window, switch on the aircon,
Draw back the curtain, the tree is gone,
Birds, bikes, chimneys - all gone.
How can I compose a Vietnamese song?
I ask Beethoven for Nature sound,
Bach for genius in organization,
Chopin for dexterity of fingers,
And Schubert for feeling that lingers.
But I must pass through the Cu Chi Tunnel,
And fly over the delta and trace
The Mekong meandering to the sea,
And relive the country's history.
To compose a Vietnamese song.
Progress, what is progress, if we may ask?
The World Bank may tell us of gains forecast;
The scientist, a discovery in a flask;
In Vietnam, sweet revenge of a hateful past.
Cu Chi tunnel, the resistance cover,
Copied from the termites sans dome,
And the early Christian catacomb -
Daedalus and Wright, please move over.
Only subtrerraneans can make such burrow
Where a colony can live for years,
Cu Chi tunnel a copy of this ingenuity,
And shall last with pride and memory.
Simple tools the Cu Chi people use
To hunt animals for food and game,
Against invaders they use the same
To defend their land from abuse.
Against weapon of mass destruction,
Indigenous technology on their part,
The Cu Chis re-tooled their native art,
The art to repel invasion.
All's quiet now, the Cu Chis did win,
Sounds of guns in the sky and below
Are no more, save the bamboo
Creaking with the passing wind.
A cathedral - but where is its door?
A barred gate, heavy lock at the rear,
Forbidden view not even the eyes can tour,
Footsteps only radar could hear.
That was before, the war is over now.
I knocked at the door. A kindly nun
let me in and showed me all around
Through the stained glass I saw the sun.
In the crypt I dared not treat,
My shoes dusty, I was in slack,
Yet dared I to ask from the dead,
And martyrs the courage I lack.
Bones and ashes of the holy ones
Remind us than even they
Pass this world but once.
Between two guards I pass,
Walk the aisle to the altar
To hear the holy mass;
I hear the heavy doors close
How deep is my faith?
I did not look behind.
I was going out, I heard a whisper.
I looked behind the heavy door.
John the Baptist baptizing Christ,
A painting bearing stains of war,
Imprimatur of a holy image.
I can't be an equal to this noble fighter,
He has more of suffering and pain and will.
I may have more from books and the pen,
Yet deserve only a chronicler to him.
At the museum the tanks, they are now silent.
Prison cells are ruins, they're mute as Lent,
And the living are busy, they just pass by,
Yet pause and sigh, even for a while.
I saw the French Guillotine in the museum,
The Huey Copter, the Howitzer'
I saw bamboo spikes and crude knives,
Side by side under muted whisper.
I saw the hammer and scythe
Sans worker and farmer.
Museum - repository of the past
Of answers often asked.
It is alive, it breathes of history
Reliving people's memory.
A Guardian, a chonicler it is
Yet never sets the mind at ease;
It digs into the distant past
And builds wisdom to forecast.
"Books, sir, buy books," a boy called,
Stopping me on my track
To the War Remnant Museum.
"No. no," my words are cold.
Back in time, the inhumanity of war
Unfolded beyond my relief:
Barbaric, groteque, pathetic -
At the end, stands the Red Star.
It is a star like David's indeed,
Goliath met his fate once more,
His sword broken, his armor rusted,
Another lesson of man's greed.
"Books, sir, buy books," he called back,
On leaving the sacred compound.
I read - in Iraq and Afghanistan,
It is the same that mankind lack.
Sister Marie paused,
I too, paused and looked up.
She pointed at an old building
And told stories of war.
As I listened, a bird was singing
Up in a nearby tree
Feeding her brood
And healing
A painful memory.
Saint Joseph, the Carpenter, stood on a hill
With Child Jesus lending a hand.
I, with a camera, stood still,
Waited for the cloud to unveil the sun.
A rainbow appeared behind the hill,
As the cloud burst into shower.
I, with a camera, stood still,
awed by a mysterious power.
Saint Paul, the Apostle in Vietnam -
You hold a book with your left hand,
A sword with your right.
I wonder why your book is open
and your sword out of its scabbard.
Where were you during the war?
Is is time you close the book
and lay your sword down.
What is civilization?
Ask the United Nations,
Ask the Vatican,
Ask the Conquitadores
Ask the Colonizers
Ask the white historians.
Continued...
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Tidbits of Poetry
Abe V Rotor
1. Fossil
You are not only a historian;
you are part of history;
You live in the museum
and in the laboratory;
Else you remained obscure
if someone didn't find you;
And the earth's story different
and nobody ever knew.
2. Old Carillon
Your bells in the distance a chime;
Music on the wind, reminder of time,
Calling the lost lamb across the sea,
Linking the faithful with the Holy See
3. Stone Age Craft
Who still live in the stone age?
The Tasadays of Mindanao,
Taong Bato of Palawan?
Or trace of history's lost page?
But we still do in modern time
Neolithic art of Bulacan,
Romblom, Santa and Mactan,
Forbes Park and Corinthian.
4. Hull with Outrigger
Someone invented your hull,
another your outrigger
which comes one-sided
or in winglike pair.
While your arm rides on the crest,
in duo you conquer
the river and the sea,
bridging the islands in chain
since the time of the Odyssey.
5. A Pair of Wood Sawers
If Millet were to paint this scenario
In the masterpiece of Man with a Hoe;
If Markham puts meaning in this duo,
Then life is a see-saw, see-saw, see-saw
6. Mascot and Girl
Take her to Grimm's fairyland,
Madurodam in Holland,
To fabled Disneyland,
Or to holy Agape land.
Take her not to burger land,
Toy and vendo land,
Mall and game land,
Or any other wasteland.
7. Don’ts and Do’s in Life
Don't ride on the waves, and sail out. Ahoy!
Don't go with the wind in blinding rain;
Don't go out to the deep across the buoy;
Don't go on fast car, or bullet train.
Do find the crossroad, know where you're bound,
Do read stop or dead end on the lane.
Do heed the whistle and the siren sound
Do heed the old, the wise and the sane. ~
1. Fossil
You are not only a historian;
you are part of history;
You live in the museum
and in the laboratory;
Else you remained obscure
if someone didn't find you;
And the earth's story different
and nobody ever knew.
2. Old Carillon
Your bells in the distance a chime;
Music on the wind, reminder of time,
Calling the lost lamb across the sea,
Linking the faithful with the Holy See
3. Stone Age Craft
Who still live in the stone age?
The Tasadays of Mindanao,
Taong Bato of Palawan?
Or trace of history's lost page?
But we still do in modern time
Neolithic art of Bulacan,
Romblom, Santa and Mactan,
Forbes Park and Corinthian.
4. Hull with Outrigger
Someone invented your hull,
another your outrigger
which comes one-sided
or in winglike pair.
While your arm rides on the crest,
in duo you conquer
the river and the sea,
bridging the islands in chain
since the time of the Odyssey.
5. A Pair of Wood Sawers
If Millet were to paint this scenario
In the masterpiece of Man with a Hoe;
If Markham puts meaning in this duo,
Then life is a see-saw, see-saw, see-saw
6. Mascot and Girl
Take her to Grimm's fairyland,
Madurodam in Holland,
To fabled Disneyland,
Or to holy Agape land.
Take her not to burger land,
Toy and vendo land,
Mall and game land,
Or any other wasteland.
7. Don’ts and Do’s in Life
Don't ride on the waves, and sail out. Ahoy!
Don't go with the wind in blinding rain;
Don't go out to the deep across the buoy;
Don't go on fast car, or bullet train.
Do find the crossroad, know where you're bound,
Do read stop or dead end on the lane.
Do heed the whistle and the siren sound
Do heed the old, the wise and the sane. ~
Make your own antifungal cream from Calamansi fruit pulp
Make your own antifungal cream from Calamansi fruit pulp
Based on a masteral thesis of Socorro Batac, (MS in Pharmacy) at the UST Graduate School: Preformulation, Quality Control and Clinical Study of an Antifungal Cream from the Fruit Pulp Extract of Citrus microcarpa Bunge (Rutaceae)
Although diminutive in size among members of the orange family, Calamansi or Citrus microcarpa, could be the practical solution to maintaining personal hygiene - from ringworm (Tinea versdicolor), candidiasis caused by Candida albicans, to the bothersome mold Trichophyton mentagrophytes - notwithstanding other fungi that cause athlete's foot, body odor, itchiness and the like.
After squeezing the fruit to obtain the juice, the otherwise spent pulp that is usually thrown away as waste, can be the source of an antifungal cream, at 40 percent dry pulp to cream (carrier) ratio. Efficacy test on Tinea versicolor compared to commercial Clotrimazole cream recorded a cure rate of 86.6 percent after two weeks of daily treatment.
Owing to its being a plant derivative, the cream did not elicit on the test Guinea pigs problems of erythema, scaling, pruritus, burning and pain. However, it is highly unstable to light and direct exposure so that the cream should be kept in air-tight aluminum containers and stored in a cool and dry place.
In general, the locally formulated calamansi (fruit) pulp antifungal cream or CPAC exhibited lower efficacy compared to the imported commercial brand. Nonetheless, CPAC is safer, practical, and economical. Potentially it can be improved through further research and improvement in its manufacture.
Next time you use calamansi for souring your food (kilawin, pansit, bagoong), and as beverage (calamansi juice), save the pulp to make a home made antifungal cream.
NOTE: Calamansi is a handy home remedy against higad (spiny caterpillar). Gently apply the affected area of the skin with the juice to dissolve the embedded hairs. This is the same principle involved in treating wound from the sharp spines of sea urchin The acid in the juice reacts with the alkaline compound in the spine and dissolves it in the process, thus saving one from hospitalization, and possible surgery. Traditionally calamansi pulp is directly applied on fungal infected foot, armpit, and skin. It is used as stain remover on fabric and housewares, and in removing fish order after eating with bare hands (kamayan).
By the way, include calamansi in the list of Backyard Plants. It is easy to grow, even with just a half-barrel base. You can purchase a fruiting sappling two to three feet high from landscape and garden suppliers, and pronto! You have a calamansi tree that can continuously bear fruits for several years. ~
Living with Nature, AVRotor; acknowledgment, photo credit Wikipedia
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Ruins of Bacarra Belfry
Sun in the Well
Abe V Rotor
I dug for water
and looked to Heaven
Clouds I found none
but heard a voice instead,
“Deeper”.
So I dug and dug.
without let up,
but with no avail.
I looked up to Heaven again,
and asked, “How much deeper?”
And the voice came again.
“Until you see the sun, my son.”
I dug and dug and dug,
A spring I soon struck
reflected the sun above. ~
I dug for water
and looked to Heaven
Clouds I found none
but heard a voice instead,
“Deeper”.
So I dug and dug.
without let up,
but with no avail.
I looked up to Heaven again,
and asked, “How much deeper?”
And the voice came again.
“Until you see the sun, my son.”
I dug and dug and dug,
A spring I soon struck
reflected the sun above. ~
Go, Leave the Dungeon!
Abe V Rotor
Go, leave the dungeon, follow the light seeping through...
Little do you know of the sun, how it sets and rises,
As the rhythm of life in moments of joy and sadness.
Lo, the li’l boy all day sings like Aesops’ fabled locust;
In summer belittles the ant, and what had he to boast?
The rains came, torrid the winds became, dark was the night.
And groping he went his way, battling with all his might.
But he was not Paul and neither was he Man enough
To weather the test, a game played rough and tough.
The wind with the sail, they go like birds gliding free,
And life is like that, wanting of nothing on calm, old sea,
Like a tree untested by storm, its idle roots are shallow,
Its branches are lanky, its unseasoned limbs hollow.
What purpose is war then, El Niño, the apocalypse men?
Darwin has the answer, but can man break the omen?
Tolstoy and Hugo tell of the goodness of man distilled,
Not in time of plenty and peace,but in the battlefield.
If you wish to reach Heaven alone, do not bother,
For the Flood has purified your kind, everyone now a brother.
And salvation awaits all brethrens, more so the least,
And bless he who saves him from the fury of the beast.
Go, leave the dungeon, follow the light seeping through
The walls of ignorance and fear, indifference and hate.
Pry open and run for the woods; make haste.
There is not enough tears and time to waste.
Ah, where does the sun shine brightest, you no longer ask,
Neither where the blue sky and the blue sea wear gray mask.
From Prometheus’ exile you came and how you got here
Is immaterial now, for the gods have joined the cheer. ~
Living with Nature, AVRotor; Acknowledgment, Dungeon Photo from Internet, Wikipedia,
Go, leave the dungeon, follow the light seeping through...Little do you know of the sun, how it sets and rises,
As the rhythm of life in moments of joy and sadness.
Lo, the li’l boy all day sings like Aesops’ fabled locust;
In summer belittles the ant, and what had he to boast?
The rains came, torrid the winds became, dark was the night.
And groping he went his way, battling with all his might.
But he was not Paul and neither was he Man enough
To weather the test, a game played rough and tough.
The wind with the sail, they go like birds gliding free,
And life is like that, wanting of nothing on calm, old sea,
Like a tree untested by storm, its idle roots are shallow,
Its branches are lanky, its unseasoned limbs hollow.
What purpose is war then, El Niño, the apocalypse men?
Darwin has the answer, but can man break the omen?
Tolstoy and Hugo tell of the goodness of man distilled,
Not in time of plenty and peace,but in the battlefield.
If you wish to reach Heaven alone, do not bother,
For the Flood has purified your kind, everyone now a brother.
And salvation awaits all brethrens, more so the least,
And bless he who saves him from the fury of the beast.
Go, leave the dungeon, follow the light seeping through
The walls of ignorance and fear, indifference and hate.
Pry open and run for the woods; make haste.
There is not enough tears and time to waste.
Ah, where does the sun shine brightest, you no longer ask,
Neither where the blue sky and the blue sea wear gray mask.
From Prometheus’ exile you came and how you got here
Is immaterial now, for the gods have joined the cheer. ~
Living with Nature, AVRotor; Acknowledgment, Dungeon Photo from Internet, Wikipedia,
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