opiniojustinemae - Tumblr blog

[opiniojustinemae]

Poetry Scavenger Hunt

Moonlight on Manila Bay

By Fernando M. Maramag

A light, serene, ethereal glory rests Its beams effulgent on each crestling wave; The silver touches of the moonlight wave The deep bare bosom that the breeze molests; While lingering whispers deepen as the wavy crests Roll with weird rhythm, now gay, now gently grave; And floods of lambent light appear the sea to pave- All cast a spell that heeds not time‘s behests.

Not always such the scene; the din of fight Has swelled the murmur of the peaceful air; Here East and West have oft displayed their might; Dark battle clouds have dimmed this scene so fair; Here bold Olympia, one historic night, Presaging freedom, claimed a people‘s care.

Six Word Impression:

It gives like a peaceful feel.

The Sick Rose

BY WILLIAM BLAKE

O Rose thou art sick. 

The invisible worm, 

That flies in the night 

In the howling storm: 

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy:

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

Six Word Impression:

The meaning is very well hidden.

Jolography

By Paolo Manalo

O, how dead you child are, whose spoiled Sportedness is being fashion showed

Beautifuling as we speak -- in Cubao There is that same look: Your Crossing Ibabaw,

Your Nepa Cute, Wednesdays Baclaran, "Please pass. Kindly ride on."

Tonight will be us tomorrowed- Lovers of the Happy Meal and its H,

Who dream of the importedness of sex as long as it's Pirated and under a hundred, who can smell

A Pasig Raver in a dance club. O, the toilet Won't flush, but we are moved, doing the gerby

In a plastic bag; we want to feel the grooves Of the records, we want to hear some scratch-

In a breakaway movement, we're the shake To the motive of pockets, to the max.

The change is all in the first jeep Of the morning's route. Rerouting

This city and its heart attacks; one minute faster Than four o'clock, and the next

Wave that stands out in the outdoor crowd hanging with a bunch of yo-yos-

A face with an inverted cap on, wearing all Smiles the smell of foot stuck between the teeth.

Six Word Impression:

The poem is very oddly familiar.

Death, be not proud (Holy Sonnet 10) John Donne - 1572-1631

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die

Six Word Impression:

A little hard to mentally digest.

Dream of Knives

by: Alfred A. Yuson

Last night I dreamt of a knife I had bought for my son. Of rare design, it went cheaply for its worth–short dagger with fancily rounded pommel, and a wooden sheath which miraculously revealed other, miniature blades.

Oh how pleased he would be upon my return from this journey, I thought. What rapture will surely adorn his ten-year princeling’s face when he draws the gift the first time. What quivering will most certainly be unleashed.

When I woke, there was no return, no journey, no gift, and no son beside me. Where do I search for this knife then, and when do I begin to draw happiness from reality, and why do I bleed so from such sharp points of dreams?

Six Word Impression:

Our dreams reflect our darkest fears.

ORDER FOR MASKS

Virginia Moreno

To this harlequinade

I wear black tight and fool’s cap

Billiken*, make me three bright masks

For the three tasks in my life.

Three faces to wear

One after the other

For the three men in my life.

When my Brother comes

make me one opposite

If he is a devil, a saint

With a staff to his fork

And for his horns, a crown.

I hope for my contrast

To make nil

Our old resemblance to each other

and my twin will walk me out

Without a frown

Pretending I am another.

When my Father comes

Make me one so like

His child once eating his white bread in trance

Philomela* before she was raped. I hope by likeness

To make him believe this is the same kind

The chaste face he made,

And my blind Lear* will walk me out

Without a word

Fearing to peer behind.

If my lover comes,

Yes, when Seducer comes

Make for me the face

That will in color race

The carnival stars

And change in shape

Under his grasping hands.

Make it bloody

When he needs it white

Make it wicked in the dark

Let him find no old mark

Make it stone to his suave touch

This magician will walk me out

Newly loved.

Not knowing why my tantalizing face

Is strangely like the mangled parts of a face

He once wiped out.

Make me three masks.

Six Word Impression:

The feminism in me is mad.