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.
Continue reading here.
Piso pa rin ba?
O mas malamig pa sa piseta?
Ang agahan, pananghalian
at hapunan na pinagkasya
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
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.
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
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
alongside fragile footsteps.
-Armineonila M., 2016
Mini musing: The pen is mighty until its ink had dried out.
I’m sharing here my recent blog entry at Lines of Lila. Nothing much, just something I thought I’d write to critic and contradict myself. And yes, it’s about the self, hence, the title “selfie”. I hope you enjoy reading it.
(An excerpt from A selfie of an artist amid a day job, an e-store, bots, and trolls)
And a blog, too! I cringe at the thought of having to balance between life as I know it and life as I imagined it to be. But there’s barely a thin line between imagination and reality. Oftentimes, you jolt out of your reveries from a dog’s bark to find your actual place in this world. Well, frequently at this time and age, you locate yourself with a little help from Google map.
Selfie with a day job
I am aware that there are artists who keep their “day jobs” as visual artists, which is admirable, hence, as some would say, I’d fall under the category of a Sunday artist. Only problem is, I barely have a concept of days. My week comprised of a Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Yesterday, and Today. While on my “day job”, I’d daydream my way into believing that all the task I do is for the betterhood of art. Henceforth, the betterhood of the whole wide world. I’d weave around this mental cult without disbelief. I’d strive to reach the pinnacle of creativity, as a copywriter a la social media trumpet and a lot more. I’d suck art’s soul to its last breath. But a little empathy would grab me from the neck with a reprimand: “Leave the last breath for tomorrow. The rice is now boiling”.
Balancing the life of an artist and an employee, I’d realize at first that in my case, there’s really not much of a borderline…continue reading.
The room lifted up to the sounds of footsteps and a can opener. The day has come. It was only for a moment when she recollects her scavenging days five years ago in an abandoned parking lot. I wish someone would take me home, she whispered. Her wish was granted.
Welcome home, Koultessa!
She had reclaimed her birthright, Koultessa S. Grugwiv, and in the next few years she’d be sharing a room with three more abandoned individuals who would eventually become her adopted siblings.
Fast forward to the not so distant future, she’d be welcoming her nephew, Klyntzo F. Zacona, whose mother, Lunifah, expecting a baby, found a pair of tiny, almost paw-like, cuddle generators amidst the bustling night life of Kuwait City three years ago.
It was on that same dreadful day that she saw herself wandering off famished under the scorching daylight; a youngster living on fastfood scraps and cardboard, pleading for snuggles. But she’s anxious to blot out all memories of those hostile days…
Happy birthday, Koultessa and Klyntzo! Her thoughts popped out like bubbles. It’s the cuddle generator dangling a freshly caught artificial prey. I love you!
It is, indeed, one fine, ordinary day.
~ O ~
Mini Musing: Not all scientists are linguists, just as not all doctors are nutritionists. – AM
Haiku No. 1:
dreams of rainbows—
Haiku No. 2:
umampon sa mga bubuyog
births hiveless bees