Verse Exercises

A portfolio for her verses

Archive for the ‘Pack rat blogger’ Category

Visiting Paco Park

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This is a revision. The first draft appeared in an older blog.

Various times, I have been motivated by wanderlust to go beyond ogling old buildings from within the confines of trains. In one occasion, a friend and I rode the train from EDSA to UN Avenue where we stepped off and looked for Paco Park using directions copied from Google Maps. The park turned out to be a very quick amble from the station. An archway greeted us at the entrance where a posted guard informed us that we had some thirty minutes to explore the place before the park closed at 5:30pm sharp. After paying a minimal fee in a small office to the right of the arch, we proceeded to make the best out of our half hour.

The park is enclosed in a thick circular stone wall. The passing of time and weathering had made the stone a rich habitat for moss and other fungal growth that mottled the wall as gray and black patches. From the inside, we noticed that arched niches had been bored into the thick stone. These looked like medieval ovens or overly large dovecotes. Round fluted column supports lined the wall in intervals. These also grouped the niches into sets of nine arranged in three columns and three rows. The first row from the top was only a few inches taller than I was, so it must have been a little over five feet. Some were empty and merely stored dusty darkness. Many others were sealed, and closer inspection revealed barely readable stenciled epitaphs. These declared their sleeping occupants to be the Spanish dead. The dates competed in age but I had been too hasty to note who trumped the rest in age.

Mossy steps led to a walkway on top of the outer wall. This we climbed. From there we spied a small church at the center of the courtyard enclosed within an inner wall. The chapel was octagonal, topped by a dome roof. Mosses and ferns grew wild in its nooks and crannies, even on the dome roof itself. It had an arched doorway flanked by four gray columns and two stained windows at either side. A low round fountain spouted water in front. It didn’t have the same mossy discoloration and so seemed to me recently installed. After having stared more than was deemed polite (for a wedding had been ongoing at the time), we decided to proceed on the walk way until a troupe practicing a dramatic performance below us caught our attention. We stood on the walk way observing them in their makeshift stage, until we were reminded of our limited time. We discovered that the walk way spanned the park’s circumference.

My friend had read in a blog that the national hero, Jose Rizal, had been buried there before he was finally interred at the Luneta and so like sleuths, we descended from the walk way and went in search for his tomb among the niches. We found a grave instead in the outer circle. It wasn’t difficult to find. A white metal fence about a foot high surrounded it. A white cross stood in the middle and a plaque anticipating our questions why the simple grave, why was he moved, and when. Our curiosity satisfied, we climbed back up the walk way and sat down on one of the small stone benches to transport ourselves in time with our imaginations. In my head, I peopled the park, then Paco Cemetery, with promenading Spanish mestizos and mestizas. I wonder though where they gazed at. Did they direct their eyes toward the inner courtyard toward the church, or did they look beyond the outer walls of Paco? If they did, what did they see?

Written by thedoe

October 21, 2013 at 2:25 am

Misinformed of your death, I wrote

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on the occasion of
hearing your death, D.

To this list
of names

of people     now
once here    no longer

lingering in
brief lives

I add one
more name

I lose
one more

friend to
symbols.

Written by thedoe

October 21, 2013 at 1:43 am

the first sore

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you take it back
that seed of anger before
it takes root
you haul it home,
back inside Pandora’s box
and seal the lid with
the lightest kiss
.
.
This has appeared in an older blog.

Written by thedoe

July 29, 2011 at 11:14 pm

what i figured was

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the best people
are the disinterested
.
unfailing trust
i adorn their sweeping gaze with
.
in which i am but a bit
of information the brain can forget
.
a dispensable pixel
blurred or cropped
.
out of the things that matter
out of that which must be won
.
the indifferent know a good joke
and wear their laughter
.
in the crow’s feet of their eyes,
nowhere is a more honest gaze
.
.
This poem is a revision of the first draft that appeared in an older blog.

Written by thedoe

June 19, 2011 at 4:00 pm

borrowing a word

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from the reader, to the author
dated this morning
on borrowing a word
.
.
dear author,
.
i just wanted to say that i picked a word from your book
because i quite liked the way it sounded. it is not a very big word, but not very small either.
i am writing to say i’m borrowing, just so. i wouldn’t want anyone thinking i stole a word
not so very small, not for talking with friends, it just isn’t that kind,
but something maybe that i can pick up like in a book,
like this morning. it isn’t a very big word but i wanted to be sure
that i could speak it, in that i meant it, like i’ve been saying it forever,
like it’s always been mine. you can tell when people sound their word if it’s theirs,
a word and a tongue can be very intimate.
so i mouthed it to myself a little in the bathroom mirror,
when the cat curious asked “watt arr yoo du win?”
and i said to him “Cat, I’m speaking a word.”
his brow quickly arched, pointing paws and said “a pro pre-ated word eef i saw wan,” mock hiss
and sat, languid metronome tail that sent me to the desk
citing my sources.
.
.
sgd,
the reader
.
.
This is a revision and has appeared previously in an older blog.

Written by thedoe

June 18, 2011 at 4:00 pm

The Game

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We could both play this game, dear reader, furnish the contract with signatures
where I offer the promise of convincing escape, subtly lull you into peeking at the world
through the little crack in the room I will build around you with a mellifluous tongue.
You, for your part of the bargain, will lend me suspension of disbelief,
win me a grant or a published piece to sit among the contented murmurs of the published
earnest in their ideology that poetry is nugget wisdom. But let us cut to the chase.
This voice that sounds so sure, too sure, belongs to no life guru. Imagine the poet
sitting at her desk, drumming her fingers, thinking of the next trick to beguile you with, licking her lips with a silver tongue.
But! Is there anything worth saying now that the act of putting to words overshadows what is?
I have no truths today, dear reader, and I tire of having to be spokesperson at humanity’s disposal.
Tell me, reader. Tell me.
.
.
This poem has appeared in an older blog.

Written by thedoe

June 16, 2011 at 4:00 pm

Conversations

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I.

My Japanese student once aspiring writer tells me I’m too young to give up. When we are not talking about natural disasters around the world for her conversational English practice, she tells me stories about her daughters and her grandchildren who now fill her days. I tell her it is not too late to put out the novel she had dreamed of writing. She shakes her head no at the other end of the line. I can hear it in her voice. The connection is unstable. Her reply fades in and out. I am afraid of making her sad. She tells me a common housewife has nothing interesting to say, matter of fact and humble. I could think of only one thing to do. I disagreed.

II.

This catalogue of conversations was first started in an older blog.

Written by thedoe

May 24, 2011 at 7:27 pm