Being a writer

"Writing is easy, All you have to do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead."

The pundit who said that must have known whereof he spoke. To many, writing is an abstract undertaking that doesn't require any real work. It entails nothing more than furring the eyebrows, rubbing the chin, tapping the fingers, pacing the aisles, muttering incoherent words, fidgeting on a chair, sitting immobile for hours on end, staring at the ceiling or blankly into space.

It is a hazy profession that offers few tangible rewards, if at all; a choice not often taken as it barely puts food on the table or a shirt on one's back. It is a constant wrestling with thought that sucks strength and dissipates the intellect; an incessant grappling with words that emaciates the spirit and takes one's breath away.

On materialism

It doesn’t matter HOW MUCH you have or whether you COUNT your BLESSINGS. What you have would not amount to anything if you strip down to your soul and find EMPTY. 

What matters is WHAT YOU DO with what you have and your soul is FILLED by giving it ALL away. ‘Blessings’, after all, are meant to be SHARED, not to be OWNED and spoken of mindlessly as nothing more than a cliché.

On creating

Pablo Picasso said about the art of painting: "Matisse makes a drawing, then he makes a copy of it. He recopies it five times, ten times, always clarifying the line. He's convinced that the last, the most stripped down, is the best, the purest, the definitive one; and in fact, most of the time, it was the first. In drawing, nothing is better than the first attempt."

Robert Frost said about the art of writing: "It begins as a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness...a moment here and a moment there. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom...in a clarification of life."

In essence, the art of creating starts as a lump in the throat or a glint in the eye, a jerk in the knee or a spark in the belly, a wrench in the gut or a pinch in the heart. It is invariably referred to as a germ or a lead, a brainstorm that wouldn't leave; a Muse or an inspiration, an artist's sole excuse for being.

It is such a secret place, the land of tears, Antoine de Saint-Exupery said. You don't really know where it is coming from until it unravels. It can be the Little Prince's land of tears or some point of no return, a leisurely walk in the clouds or a mad dash up the hills, a long day's journey into night or just another day in paradise.

And it is a privilege to reside in that boundless, magical, secret place. Nothing compares to the aura that it radiates and the plethora of sensations that it kindles. The mind throbs, the flesh ripples, the heart jiggles, and the soul takes off to heights beyond belief. It is beautiful. It is free. And it is everlasting.

SPELLBOUND

Her face lit up
like a thousand blooms of summer
and the world stood still
for a while.

He was there
in front of her
staring his soulful stare
smiling his silky smile.

She sat motionless
gazing back at him
not blinking for fear
he would disappear.

When he spoke
she listened
and wished the moment
would last forever.

Don't you want someone to care about you?

“Why the indifference, the cold apathy?  Why the aversion to the lure of new sensations?  Don't you want someone to make you laugh when things become impossibly tough?  To squeeze your hand when sadness overwhelms you, or to wipe your tears when sorrow overcomes you?  You think that you're strong enough to sail through it all alone, because love has passed you by and left you dry, and once bitten twice shy.”

“What you don't have won't hurt you.  What you have forgotten, you won't miss.  There is no sense in resurrecting old pains, no logic in reviving unpleasant thoughts and ugly scenes.  Life is good without unnecessary complications.  Freedom is a priceless possession.  Why rock the boat when it is sailing smoothly?  Why fix the darn thing when it isn't broken?”

“You can run, but you can't hide forever.  You can demur, but you can't balk and balk for long.  You can delay the inevitable, but you can't say never ever.  For deep in your heart of hearts, you know.  When the night winds blow, and darkness creeps in, you long for that warm touch, that soft glow.  The gentle, calming presence that strokes your fears away, and makes you slither into restful slumber, tucked safely in their tight embrace.”

“What is essential is invisible to the eye.  What is important, only the heart can see.  Nobody knows the trouble you're in unless you tell them.  Nobody knows what you want unless they look beneath the façade.   If they can't rise from their shallow moorings, why bother?  Relationships, or the idea of it, are just an overrated piece of crap.  What makes you feel good inside is all that matters – no apologies, no worries.”

Hurry don't be late, I can hardly wait. I said to myself when we're old, we'll go dancing in the dark, walking through the park, and reminiscing.

When Last We Met

I have claimed you

Your sparkly eyes

Your toothy smile

Your rough shorn hair

Your warm body against mine.

You didn’t know

I took you home that night

And sleep wouldn’t come

In the muggy air of dawn.

At work in midday

I long for my bed

To find the sleep I lost.

But you are there

Disturbing me in restive slumber.

I’d like to return you

Along with the borrowed dreams

But how do I rub off from my skin

The memory of when last we met?

Denn A. Meneses

020514

The universe in flight

Cramped thoughts and enveloped expressions.
Crumpled hearts, indomitable souls.
What's the fuss, it's written in the sky.
Starlight and moonshine, the universe in flight. 
Lilies of the valley never looked so pretty.
Young love, gad, it's so passé.
What's the dope, the fairies are singing.
Somnambulating, the rainbow they're chasing.
Rejoice, exult, the wind blows!
Calliope smiles, and the tale grows.

My sun sets to rise again. (Robert Browning)

Skepticism is the mother of conversion, curiosity the progenitor of discovery, restlessness the catalyst for change.

Doesn't the thrill of adventure usher one into heretofore inconceivable worlds, at once trifling but nonetheless exciting, at times mind-boggling but awe-inspiring all the same?

What would life be if we didn't have the courage to venture into the unknown, one time or another, whether or not it be worth it in the end? 

Pardon me. Haven't we met?

God's mercies are new every morning. The sun is up, the sky is blue, it's beautiful and so are you!

Is poetry still relevant in the Age of the 'Selfie'?

Why do poets write the way they do? What sets them apart from the rest of humanity? They seem to dwell on a different plane, loftier than those who articulate their thoughts in plain language. I think that poets write like, well, poets because they are; and they are because they couldn't be any other.

I also think that poets are humans who live in ivory towers, glass-encased so they can see through and feel the pulse outside, as it were. They are different from John and Jane, in the sense that while John and Jane will see the world as it turns, poets see it in a grain of sand or in a flower's slow blooming. Humanity is enriched with their gift of 'speaking in tongues', and that's why they dwell on a loftier plane.

And then a question begs to be asked: Does poetry still have a place in this highly-visual world where it is easier to take a picture that, ahem, says a thousand words than to write a thousand words that no one might have the patience, let alone the empathy, to read? In the not too distant past, people wrote about their thoughts and memories on personal journals or diaries, and they kept those little notebooks in table drawers, away from prying eyes. Today, they let their hiccups and farts known to the world through their so-called blogs, sometimes ranting, sometimes raving, but mostly about themselves. Egocentric venting? You bet.

But how does one distinguish self-centered writing from writing based on personal experience? Would writing about simple childhood longings be called plain nonsense, while writing about the universe and all its vastness be called profound? If I see a rainbow in all its bright colors in the sky and I write a poem about it, saying... 'rainbows no longer amaze me, they're just pale-colored lines across a listless sky that's been from crying senseless tears'...does that make it egocentric because what I saw is the opposite of what I wrote?

'I, me, myself' is not in the same vein as 'I came, I saw, I conquered', yet there's a thin line that separates one from the other. As the word itself suggests, ego(centric) comes from self. Writing about personal experience is part of human existence. One human being is part of humanity, and if one doesn't write about personal experience, what else is there to write about apart from the stars in heaven and the planets in the universe?

That is, to each their own perspective. I live in a square box with a round hole, and the universe might be too complex for me to sing paeans to. I mean, one can find profundity in a mustard seed, and claptrap in big, black holes. Intellectuality has little to do with it, more of looking at things and finding the right words to say.

However, vis-a-vis topic and emotion, self-obsession is entirely another matter. Still, there is that thin line which determines whether one has gone the way of personal aggrandizement or has stayed within the bounds of topical discourse without being overly emotional. I should know. I write mushy stuff.

And the’ drivel’ that seems to proliferate these days which might be passed on to our children's children – I say, drivel don't last, as they are quickly consigned to oblivion even before their requisite 15 minutes are up. Then too, who's to judge whether what one writes is gibberish or thoughtful? Again, I go back to the Dickinson experience. When is a body of work worth a treasure, and when is it better kept in chests and drawers?

If the reader identifies with the poem or understands what the poet is saying, even just a teeny weeny bit - I guess then the purpose has been served. What is poetry but a message presented in a manner slightly removed, as it were, from everyday lingo. The world would be nothing but noisy chatter if there were no poets to mold thought into words in ink that makes us, incessant noisemakers, stop to ponder and fall silent.

It is the reader who determines whether a poem, or any other piece of writing, is mere drivel or rare gem. The job of the poet, or the writer, is to create – and time will tell if what is created will end up in bookshelves or the trash bin. It all boils down to whether they are appreciated or not. People's tastes change with the times, for better or worse, and maybe – just maybe – feeding the mind rather than the ego will win this dubious war of wasteful attrition.

So, yes, poetry in all its forms and meanings is still relevant in this age of me, myself and I.

Silence speaks, ever so eloquently, but no one stops to listen...

Fossil-like objects from a now-distant past (the 90s: the world was so much younger than today)...first published poem, incubus-ed...first book published, historied...nom de plume, nom de guerre...pages brittled, but the message is the same.

Fides, spes et caritas

A faith is a necessity to a man, Victor Hugo said. Woe to him who believes in nothing.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, wrote Emily Dickinson.

And, charity begins at home, we were taught in kindergarten.

Faith, Hope and Charity, such as they are, the three theological virtues that inexorably link man to God.

Believing without seeing, hoping against hope, giving love just because.

Many are called, but few take heed. Some speak in tongues, but few practice what they preach.

There are mountains that touch the sky holding secrets in their bosom; where springs flow without ceasing and flowers bloom with no weeping.

There is a path that leads to salvation, but who treads it?

Vindictiveness leads to disaster, the straight road to redemption notwithstanding.

“Do not take revenge, my friends, but leave room for God's wrath, for it is written: ‘It is mine to avenge; I will repay,’ says the Lord.”

Forgiveness is not easy for the heart that is impure.

And now these three remain - fides, spes et caritas. But the greatest of these is Love.

Trying to set off a little brainwave, unsuccessfully. Lovely just the same.

Rainbows no longer amaze me. They're just pale-colored lines across a listless sky that's been from crying senseless tears.

Romance and all its tragedies

Do matters of the heart still matter in this period of too much rationalism and excessive materialism? Does romance, in all its varied forms and meanings, still have a place in our increasingly automated, power-driven existence? 

Man's humanity is inexorably diminished when the soul is badly dehydrated. A creature molded in the likeness of its Creator does not exhale granite and steel, iron and stone. In an ideal world, cold pertains to the climate, passive most probably refers to an inanimate object, distant is an area between two points, and indifferent is a God-forsaken word.

We climb our mountains all alone.

Clouds, love and life in one metaphor of a song

Of politics and politicians

Plato, the Greek sage, said:  Those who are too smart to engage in politics are punished by being governed by those who are dumber. 

The best and brightest among us stay away from the “dirty” world of politics because they don’t want to be tainted by the grime, they don’t want to be “eaten by the system”, they don’t want to “stoop to their level”. Thus, we get stuck with what are derisively called traditional politicians, trapo (rough translation: rag) in the colorful lingo, who get voted into office time and again for reasons that are far from noble.

However, we conveniently forget the fact that politics is not dirty, per se. It is the people in it who make it so. Politicians have distorted one of ancient civilization’s most important teachings, and we are definitely not the richer for it. Politics being dirty is like saying democracy sucks. Dirty politicians don’t make politics dirty, and democracy works for people who value freedom and equality.

The tragedy in the Philippine setting has always been that the most qualified candidates often lose because 1) they don’t have the wherewithal; 2) they don’t have the logistics and machinery; 3) they are not known to the masses; 4) they are perceived to be elitist; 5) they are political greenhorns; and 6) all of the above.

Thus, the smart ones don’t dare venture into politics anymore and we end up, deservedly or not, being governed till kingdom come by those who are dumber.

Places in the heart

There are places we remember with a sparkle in the eye, a twinkle in the heart, a glimmer of light in some forgotten corners of our mind.

There are places that take us back on a vicarious journey to more pristine times; to a less complicated existence, perhaps; an otherworldly experience, one might say; or moments here and there stored deep in bygone remembrances – moments that touch a faint cord from within, inexorably leading us to a wistful sigh or a fuzzy feeling.

And there are places in our past that helped shape us as individuals, not so much for the roots that they gave us from which to grow our trees but for the branches and twigs that ultimately make up our tree. Those places occupy certain recesses in our subconscious for the varied ways they added up in molding our personality, in casting our destiny, in appreciating what we have become and still dream to be.

Those are places that we want to return to – once or twice, maybe again and again – because of the memories attached to them, or the possibilities that still lie in wait. One can never have enough of what one beholds even if the place has become familiar. Always, there are nooks and crannies yet to be explored. There are hills and mountains left to climb, shores and foot paths to comb, stone walls to tear down with one’s eyes, ruins and monuments to muse upon, caves to enter and marvel at, lakes and rivers to navigate, waterfalls to draw inspiration from, people to meet and perchance bump into old, familiar faces once again…

Then we discover, perhaps to our heart's most pleasant chagrin, that even as appearances change with the passing of time, some things truly remain the same. We breathe the same old languid air, eat the same old piquant dish, love the same old nifty knickknack, pray to the same old God of perfect mountains and eternal sunshine. And it behooves us to think, those places and their moments are not simple acts of coincidence. They became part of our lives for a reason, they served a purpose one way or another, they are fragments of our whole that we cannot cast aside.

And we are presumably the better for it. They taught us a thing or two about growing up and surviving. They nourished our thirst for adventure and new things. They led us to uncharted seas as well as to oft-traveled pathways. Much like train stations and bus stops that we would pass by on the way to our eventual destination. We can’t avoid them, much less delete them from our life’s itinerary, lest the journey be not complete.

Those are special places that we cherish. Places in the heart, if you will. Or pretty postcards in tattered shoe boxes that moths haven’t destroyed as yet. They visit our reverie when the occasion calls for reminiscing – begging, almost cajoling, to be found again and rediscovered, like a long-lost lover that won’t go away…

Manila, my Manila

Towards the light...

This used to be my playground

On to rugged trails...

,,,and empty restaurants...

...life passes by untouched, unsullied, unchanged.

Lessons in life we are still trying to learn (2)

I believe that there is a good side to every person and every situation. The 'evil within' perception works both ways, and a choice between a rock and a hard place can't be beyond redemption.

For what it's worth, the dark side of the moon bears watching too for its mystery, and the expectation that goes with it once it turns itself around. Meaning, evil can turn into good and a desperate situation may actually be just a state of mind.

The above statement comes from my conviction that we should not be too judgmental of others because we are capable of being judged as well. In the eyes of other people we could be worse. In the same way that we should just count our blessings instead of whine endlessly on the things or circumstances that bedevil us.

First love never dies. It just fades away and then comes back with a paunch.

A poem inspired by a haunting song and a fallen rockstar

It's never over

You are a sigh

that echoes and lingers

long after the rainbow

has faded.          

There is a tear in your soul

that waxes and withers

in winter’s cold dawning,

intoxicated.

The wrinkle in your heart

glares from the dark

scorching and fluxing,

like nothing.

You should have come over.

I am too old not to know

how to keep good love

from going wrong.

Everyone has someone

even if they wake up with

no one.

Every tree bears fruit

even if the robins don’t sing.

It’s never over.

It singes the flesh

like opium.

Flummoxes the spirit

like vice.

Cracks the bones

in mindless torture.

Besieging

tormenting

yet blissfully

awaking.

It comes and goes

like nobody knows.

It ebbs and flows

in seasons’ throes.

But it’s never done.

And it’s not too late

to break free and run.

Denn A. Meneses

The center of your being is yours alone, and everything that's you they cannot have.

Lessons in life we are still trying to learn (1)

No man is a barren desert island, no creature exists for itself alone. People need people, and beasts could do with the warm, familiar tug of other beasts.

Which is why, there are things on earth that we can’t do without. Objects of affection that stay in our subconscious even when separated by walls made impregnable by time and distance, due to choice or circumstance. Fixtures in our daily grind that allow us to breathe a little easier, think a little clearer, move a little lighter, and steer our way through rough patches and thorn bushes with peace in our minds and joy in our hearts.

Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "I didn't find my friends, the good Lord gave them to me." While it is true that we can choose our friends, we only get to choose from and keep those that fate allows us to meet.

Reaching out to someone signifies trust, and trust is a requisite to true friendship. Reaching out to the wrong people is basically just that -- a wrong choice. We won't know it unless we take the risk. And that's when we know who our true friends are.

Pondering on friendships, memories, honesty and strangers who speak in forked tongues...while listening to Joe Cocker.