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midnight-rose-09-blog · 5 years

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Literature: A Realization

"A pen is certainly an excellent instrument to fix a man's attention and to inflame his ambition."

This remarkable quote by John Adams leads us to one particular truth. Literature can be a form of awareness, awakening and inspiration. But most people often link Literature as a mysterious subject that offers nothing but boredom. They see it as something worthless. Something that will only lure them back to sleep. Especially one type of lit. This type is whst they consider a nightmare. I understand their perceptions and struggle. I was exactly where they are before. And that form of lit gave me a lot of headaches.

The poem.

Most of us would think this kind of literary piece difficile to create and understand. It is laborious to make because there's a dozen of rules that needs to be followed. Specifically the rhyme and the meter. But then if you're doing a free verse type of it, it can be less engaging for you but when it comes to deciphering the strangely worded literary work, it's another thing. The way the words were played and moved is hard to perceive at first glance. It requires a deeper understanding and concentration just to unravel the enigma of a poem. I have perused a lot of poems already; from Shakespeare's sonnets, Walt Whitman's creations other famous people in the world of literature.

The Third World Geography - a poem by Cirilo F. Bautista.

I came across with this poem days ago. It was introduced to me in our class. I haven't any knowledge about this and I wasn't very interested at it the first time I heard about it. But then a little information sparked my interest toward it. It was baffling to hear that the poet was a National Artist but I for one, don't recall his name from any of the written works or lits I have read before.

I was curious about this poem and this controversial author but when my eyes found its way to the poem's mesmerizing scenery, a realization hit me.

As a regular Grade 12 student, living in the land described as the pearl of Orient seas, I have known stories of a certain event in the history and a certain man named Ferdinand Marcos. I have listened to different sorts of narratives, read books about it myself and even studied it when the teachers enlighten us about it in a lesson.

But I wasn't there to witness all the suffering and atrocities they endured that time. I wasn't there when President Marcos wasn't there to hear their cries of agony and see the horrendous untimely deaths of the people. I didn't even know if I believed it because the story passed on to me was grave and brutal. No, that can't be it! They were just exaggerating.

I wish I can turn back the time. I'm regretting it now. I am feeling sick. It seemed that a force was pulling me back. It was burning inside me, I hated the fact that the sanguine visions my mind viewed for me. I shut my eyes hoping it would go away but the more I ran away, the louder the voices screaming and begging for their lives.

I have seen the torturous sight fed to me by his angry words of explanation, description and criticism. I watched how the people who sang for the crowd thrown away to some medical facility for them to undergo a glossectomy. I have seen the red water from the Nile from Moses' time flooding everywhere. I have seen people with their bellies growing fairly large by filth. They were fed by lies. I can see how the government pressed the mute button to eschew the complaints of the Filipinos. I have seen them raise their glasses, exclaiming "Cheers" while the citizens outside used their tears just to drink up.

I'm recovered now. Albeit, I can still smell the dried blood from the streets and the decaying bodies locked in a broom closet, I realized the things I saw was only a dream. A mere product of imagination. How can a piece of paper haunt me and let me question myself if I am deserving of the liberty I have today?

How can a piece of paper take me back to the time and give me the chance to see their pain and hatred? I couldn't believe that even a small piece of writing can be that powerful. It's influence? It's deadly.

I felt sorry for myself that I haven't been appreciating the thing I have which they lacked before. I felt shame crawl over me. Aside from that, it left me something. The poem left me something. A responsibility.

I would never ever let anyone take away from me my freedom. I should preserve and protect it. Not just for myself but for those who fought for it in order for me to experience it. To feel it.

I know I may read things about Marcos and the Martial Law thing knowing that I can only visit the pages of it and not the real event but this poem gave me more than I expected it would.

It's true, I wasn't there physically when it happened. I wasn't even born yet. Even my parents. But now, I can say that I was there during those days. For emotionally, I was there. I know.

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