I was set to 'kill time' in school today. Made sure my journal was packed neatly in my bag. But lo and behold, as I was set to write, my lovely pen was nowhere in sight, thus the silly prose poetry. Tsk.
Woe to the Writer
by: RJ
Woe to the writer who is caught without a pen,
When the train of thought starts flowing
He's but a helpless, crying baby in a hungry lion's den.
How else will he appease upset dragons breathing fire?
How can his words satisfy this insatiable desire?
How else will he rationalize, hypothesize or theorize
Streams of musings that go swiftly in between blinks of his eyes?
In earnest ramblings of metaphors? Pitiful twists, ironies in disarray?
In incomprehensible assertions -- all that cause the reader sure dismay.
The writer caught without a pen,
like a naked soldier amidst a fierce battle
Is left to either run, hide or foolishly surrender.
What to do then, pray tell, when all you have is the 'here and now'
And when neither yesterday nor tomorrow will ever soothe you somehow?
When there is no time to waste searching for an elusive pen
Lest the ideas before you fly in haste like silly men.
How does a writer write when mere fingers can barely make a line?
When what's in your head is sure to leave you in no time.
Woe indeed to the writer caught without his trusty pal,
When words come raining on a summer day's lull.
If he misses this chance, this one perfect trine,
Tomorrow might pass him without passion or rhyme.
How will he pocket letters, mix and match, confound and clarify?
When nothing seems a blessing but these words from on high?
Such waste of time, such waste of thought,
Such moving tragedy for a struggling, stupid moth.
A loss indeed, a loss in need.
For what glory does a knight have
apart from his noble steed?
About the same time, six years ago today, I have watched my father let go of his last breath after five days in the intensive care unit -- 4 days of which he spent lying there comatose.
It was his third stroke. The first was very mild, hardly a stroke as I call it. But like all people who have hypertension and diabetes, each stroke episode gets worse each time.
The second stroke left him bedridden, speech slurry, both feet numb for days. Of course by that time he knew he had to be more careful. But caution was not in my father's vocabulary. He was too stubborn and too smart for his own good. Continue reading →
For 27 years I've been trying to believe and confide in
Different people I've found.
Some of them got closer than others
Some wouldn't even bother and then you came around
I didn't really know what to call you, you didn't know me at all
But I was happy to explain.
I never really knew how to move you
So I tried to intrude through the little holes in your veins
And I saw you
But that's not an invitation
That's all I get
If this is communication
I disconnect
I've seen you, I know you
But I don't know
How to connect, so I disconnect
You always seem to know where to find me and I'm still here behind you
In the corner of your eye.
I'll never really learn how to love you
But I know that I love you through the hole in the sky.
Where I see you
And that's not an invitation
That's all I get
If this is communication
I disconnect
I've seen you, I know you
But I don't know
How to connect, so I disconnect
Well this is an invitation
It's not a threat
If you want communication
That's what you get
I'm talking and talking
But I don't know
How to connect
And I hold a record for being patient
With your kind of hesitation
Oh I need you, you want me
But I don't know how to connect
Hmmm. I think we can both agree -- yes, you and me -- that this blog has been out of the limelight for far too long (and by limelight, I don't mean the fabulous kind, blame it on my recent writing vacation, I used the word for lack of a better term).
Anyway, for all those visiting this puny space of mine in the virtual world, and who does so every so often, let me begin by saying that although I am not really sorry, (because that is not the proper term -- the word I'm looking for, the term that aptly describes my feelings towards this issue, my dear, escapes me), I am nonetheless, almost always heartbroken. Maybe I will remember the exact term after a paragraph or two, who knows? God knows how much I need your patience right now because I have run out of it for myself. I guess what I'm trying to say is that a writing/blogging vacation isn't really good for me or for anyone else for that matter. Even for those people who stumble across my posts once in a while, either by choice or by divine intervention. And each and every time I see the same IP address arriving on my page on a different time, different day, my heart stops and bleeds -- because the truth is, I never really wanted to stop writing, regardless if nobody but myself gets to read what i write. You see, what many people (bloggers) have discovered (whether they admit it or not) is that there is joy enough in publishing content for all the world to see (and read). Nevermind the prospect of fame or appreciation -- those are just icing on the cake. The real joy of blogging is the act itself -- sitting in front of a pc, with nothing but your thoughts running through your fingers, pressing each letter on the keyboard -- that poor thing trying to absorb whatever emotion comes with each press..
You start with practically nothing -- from scratch. And after the whole affair is through, which lasts variably from minutes to hours to days, the "publish" button eagerly waiting for your click seems to bat its eyelashes at you, teasing you, taunting at you, as if to shout "click me if you dare!" and the blogger spirit in you, the writer heart that you wear ever so proudly but traceless of arrogance, finally gives in -- click you I will! Click you I dare!
Posts are made up of paragraphs. Paragraphs of sentences. Sentences of words. Words of thoughts. Thoughts of sparks -- images conjured up by one's valiant heart. There is apprehension, yes. But will I let it get me down? No. Will it stop me from writing? No.
The blogger of today is not so different from the prolific writers of the past, if only for the fact that once they start writing, they no longer belong to themselves, but to those who "read" them.
So yes, this blogger is yours. Apprehensively, yes. But yours just the same.
Ah yes, that "term" I was looking for? It got away. :)
RJ is a technology and politics enthusiast. She doesn't blog or comment anonymously and her opinions are not for sale. Know more about her and this blog.
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March is Women’s Month
Phenomenal Woman by: Maya Angelou
Many people wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
When I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
The flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
The joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Men themselves have wondered
what they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Now you understand
just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palms of my hands,
the need for my care.
Because I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's my mother and all your mothers
And my grandmothers and your grandmothers
And my great grandmothers and your greats
And my great greats
And yours
And all you women
And Me!
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