Astounding,..is the renovation of a soul,
Listen, closely,
You’ll hear it,
Close your eyes, you’ll see it,
Like a mother’s sweet lullaby,
Like the breaking hues of dawn,
A beginning to an end,
A new life, reborn,
It’ll baffle you,
It’ll render you speechless,
In your heart, it’ll whisper:
Believe,
In change,
Believe,
In people,
Believe, just believe,
PS, Im proud of you,
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
A tribute to one of the best storytellers I have ever known, One who turned his pain into an eloquent masterpiece: Frank McCourt
Frank McCourt introduced me to a world of misery and great brutality; a world where the lines between survival and cruelty were utterly blurred; where love exceeded fragility and dignity withered in the face of poverty.
His heart-wrenching memoir “ Angela’s Ashes” was a great tribute not only to his mother, whose existence was the pillar of his childhood, but also to the human experience as a whole. It transported me to a different time and space, to the lanes of limerick where Frank’s carton-made shoes soaked wet from rain and dirt, where his bloody scraped knees weren’t as numb as his heart; and where his loss and grief for his dead siblings didn’t even measure up to the moment he saw his beloved mother beg for money, swallowing every bit of dignity if not throwing it away.
He drew them, his family. He drew them out of words and yet, you could find them sitting right next to you, breathing into your neck, sneaking up behind you every now and then. His father, the drunken loser, who despite all his faults and flaws, made you want to weep. His mother, whose grief and sorrow slowly awakened her inner beasts. His brother, Malachy, the free-spirited Malachy, whose jokes concealed a bitter tragedy as black as the soles of his feet.
Frank’s memoir wasn’t his only tribute to the world. His teaching skills were beyond Grammar and punctuations; and beyond any method that had ever been used. He took off his shoes and walked in his student’s instead, saw through their eyes, and thought with their minds. His brutal honesty and black humor, is what kept him going on and on, walking on edges, and hanging on threads, and still landing on solid grounds.
Such an immense loss for the literary world, I wish I could have met the man who made me cry, gasp in disbelief and then laugh out loud, the man who took me away, gave me glimpses, and brought me back a different being. May He rest in Peace.
Monday, July 27, 2009
That’s his heart, on stage.
His pain, turned inside out, his sorrow, his grief, shattering every soul into existence, every mind into a deathly trance.
Poignant,
leaving no air, no words, no sounds.
Passion meant to be touched, talent to be breathed,
Friday, July 24, 2009
Such vivid beauty, waiting to be devoured, almost magical, divine, perfect. Green mountains reaching for the blue skies, blending together perfectly as if they were stroked by a brush. Wooden cabins are scattered around, tickling my childhood dreams. Would Heidi step out of that door clutching her milk bucket? And would I catch a glimpse of Huckleberry Finn in one of those trees?
Amidst such beauty, I am a poet, whose words are embedded in red bricks and smoky clouds. I am an artist, with a palette of mountains and meadows.
I am a child, whose spirit cannot be contained. A dancer, a lover, a singer, and a loner whose solace had finally been found.
There he is, the creator, all around, in the scent of greenery, in the crystal shadows, filling my void with a surreal sensation that makes my heart weep.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The apartment
Walls of black and Red, she would paint them herself. She will choose black because she knew, they thought of it as the color of evil spirits and jinn. But their reasons, were as empty as dusted wells, merely shallow justifications they made to oppose change. They weren’t aware that their hypocrisies lied in their reasoning..Black, is the color of devil, they couldn’t surround themselves with it and yet, yet they wore it proudly, and simply threw the card of “culture” in her face again. The evil spirits suddenly weren’t heard of, for culture was immune. Her walls, were to be black, black as the midnight sky she savored, black as the ink they enjoy to spill.
The window was to be massive, one that could make her touch the peaks underneath, one that would bring in life right to where she stands. One that would make her believe, there’s definitely something higher.
The bookshelves would be stacked with titles, with places her heart knew of but not her eyes, with characters her mind summoned into existence whenever and wherever. With moons and fairies, with churches and fields, with all the alternatives that she drew upon herself once upon a time when she heard “ You can’t”.
The red wall, was to be filled with imprints, of those who once brought her joy, of those who believed she could be, despite everything,
It would’ve been such a beautiful haven. If she hadn’t heard them shatter her being so loudly.
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