To My Dear Pablo
I do not want to touch
His things
It is almost like I hear
The voice of my grandmother:
“Much too precious for you,
Child”
With your soft
Young hands
So bare
So small—
Unbearably clumsy
Just—
Do not touch!
You might break it
With your ignorance
Are you sure you understand?
Sure enough
Try as I could
I could not touch it
Like
It was set high on a shelf—
Amongst old wine bottles and
Foreign drinking glasses
Hidden—
though I knew it was just there
Where a child’s curious eyes would not reach
How much I wanted to think
That I would have understood
That it all would somehow grow on me
And cause me to see the world
In profound and lively ways
But I could not touch it
With all my ignorance
My clumsiness
I just –
Could not bear to
---
This was my poem dedicated to Neruda, as a requirement in today's Poetry Appreciation class. I made this around 9:45 in the morning, finished it 45 minutes later, and submitted it to Sir Don at 12:35.
The response to my poem was encouraging. Oh yeah, Sir Don was all praises for it. Although I think he might have read too much into it. Even I was amazed my simple poem could take on such dimensions. I just made that poem as an excuse not to make a more difficult research paper. He however, saw a poem on a person who couldn't discuss Neruda because she has not experienced passion and love. He even called me the next Emily Dickinson too. Hmm, who is this Emily? Must read her. The poem's still with him, and he's thinking of giving it to Sir Mac for possible publication in Dagmay. Could this be the start of my poetic career? Wooh, scary.
Okay, that's the end of one hurdle. Now I have to worry about my Feature Writing project--which is, to interview a famous personality in the city and write a feature article on him or her. Man I hate interviewing people! It's a shy person's worst nightmare!!! Anyway, whatever--I realize that I just have to suck it all in and do this article--or else I won't graduate. I'm thinking of interviewing Mr. Celso Gempesaw of the Traffic Management Center, or maybe April Dayap (I think she's some sort of a junior councilor or something), or maybe the head of CENRO... Hmm, hmm, so many choices. Good: problem's halfway solved.
As usual, I rode a Maa-Agdao jeepney for the trip back home. The schoolgirl in front of me was eating sliced green mangoes; it just reminded me of the time I sat beside two women eating green mangoes with bagoong. Inside a small, cramped Multicab-of-a-jeepney, mind you. The stench nearly drove me to tears--no kidding. Anyway, it was a good thing the girl was eating her mangoes with vinegar; at least the stench wasn't as overpowering. Why am I writing about her, you ask? Well, actually it's because of what she did after deciding that the mangoes were too sour for her taste. She just threw it right out the window and onto the street!!!
I really, really, really hate people who have no regard for the cleanliness of their surroundings!!! Disgusting individuals! What are their schools teaching them anyway? Oooh...that incident really worked me up. I indirectly chastised her for her misdemeanor by throwing a shocked glance at the pieces of mango lying by the road--and then raising my eyebrows at her (ala Tita Celia Rodriquez).
Oh, but of course, my fellow Ateneans will not be spared from my tirade. You'd be surprised at the number of complete savages making their way into the school. Just consider these tell-tale signs of uncouth-ness in campus:
the mess of C2 bottles, Yakisoba containers, turon wrapper, empty sachets of Muncher, Ding Dong, at the numerous tables at the Finster building
neatly folded candy wrappers skillfully crammed into any available crevice on desks inside classrooms and at the library
clumps of tissue paper smeared with lipstick stains, foundation, or--God forbid--snot, beneath the 'vanity mirrors' at the Women's comfort room
Ugh, all savages I tell you. These students make me sick; acting as if the janitors should be indebted to them for giving them work to do.
I don't want to talk about trash anymore. I'll stop now.
Labels: poetry, school
