San Vicente My Hometown, and other Poems

         San Vicente My Hometown, and other Poems 

"Happy  they are who keep alive the inner vision, the music that lights the world."

 Dr Abe V Rotor

St Vincent Ferrer is the patron saint of my town. He is also regarded patron saint of builders because of his fame for "building up" and strengthening the Church through his preaching, missionary work, in his teachings, as confessor and adviser. His feast day is April 5, celebrated on the last Tuesday of April which is the town fiesta. He belonged to the Dominican Order (like UST), highly educated and held a  doctoral degree. More about St Vincent below.  

In my childhood I saw detours of footpaths

dividing the East and the West, two warring niches

where the zone of peace was the holy ground,

and beyond was wilderness – and the unknown

beyond the confines of Subec and the Cordillera,

the memory of Diego Silang, or the Basi Revolt

on old, meandering Bantaoay River.

In my youth I saw the sun sitting

on acacia stumps and on the tires landscape

but rising in dreams and visions on the horizon,

and in the wisdom of my forebears,

the old guards of your fort.

Time has stood still since then.

I come to pay homage in your temple,

and into the arms of my people, my roots;

I see the footpaths of yesteryears,

now grown and multiplied, and always fresh,

leading from the East and West,

and the many corners of the earth,

converging at your portals in pilgrimage.

Memories of My Childhood

Rain and stream end up in Sabangan

Where play the carefree and the young,

Where fish and carabao are but one,

And dreams are far, far beyond.

Childhood is when nobody misses

The morning before the sun rises,

Before the herons stake the fishes,

While the birds sing in the trees.

Frogs don’t croak at the kingfisher;

Rain is read from a friendly dragonfly;

Nests are secrets only to the finder –

These lessons are joy to live by.

War is solved in kites and fishing poles,

In hide and seek and barefoot races;

Faith is in the seasons the sky extols.

And all virtues friendship embraces.

Peals of thunder break the afternoon

Driving the fowls early to their tree;

The boys catch the raindrops. And soon,

Across the field, dash for home aglee.

Summer is short, rainy days are long,

But it is only a passing imagery,

For the young can’t wait, and all along

The years are gone, but a blissful memory.

Long had Freud and Jung foretold

The man is the child of many years ago;

What the seed was and how it grew –

Lo, behold, it is true.

A Place Time Forgot

They just stand silent – these trees, river and hill

The water beams the color of the sky, of autumn or spring,

The breeze clings on mist, dewdrops on a train,

Dying beyond the thought of dying, whispering, hushing.

The seed can wait, unless fishing rods quiver and bend,

And the boys though young forever aim at another prize,

While the girls like flowers in the desert sweetly ask

For rain, and lightning flashing, mushrooms will soon rise.

But do not make haste unless the clock melts at the edge,

Hair turns gray, the air sultry, neon light complain,

Unless the swivel chair creaks in pain, forgetfulness, and chill,

They just stand silent – these trees, river and hill.

Kakawate

You get thorough shaving

twice or many times;

the poorer your master,

the more you get,

You bear the sun and rain

until you regenerate

to the joy of your symbionts,

the gecko and mantis

who, too, protect

your master’s crop.

You twist in ceaseless pain,

resulting in your weird look,

Ah, but your ugliness

is the orchardist's delight

and your master’s luck

that may bring about

your final sunset.

Caleza

They scrambled aboard the carriage one Lent,

Breathless, sardine packed, doldrums silent.

The cochero gave a crispy note,

Nodded his lifelong, partner, mute.

The hame tightened, wood strained,

The wheels struggled and complained.

Rattan striking the spokes was horn:

Like dull sound of a xylophone,

Joining riotous shouts and laughter –

Orchestral potpourri altogether.

The past leaves remnants to the future,

New to the young, but dying bit by bit,

Flickering the last rays of old adventure,

Like the old caleza bidding exit.

                              Church Ruins

Your eyes are empty,

and you sit like the owl.

You are the shell

of a colonial past

to oblivion cast,

save your bell

pealing the essence

of the Rock

that cleanses

the soul.

                              Upland

You are a minuscule

of the Fertile Crescent,

a far cry from Euclid’s measure.

You run along the margin

of the northwestern coast,

were there are no rivers that cross,

and lie at the heels of the Cordillera,

where there are no valleys in which to hide;

but you are a good provider

to a kind and gentle people

tanned with sweat and soil

and tempered with austere living

that speaks of their heart and art:

the geometry of functional beauty.

                                    Bullcart

(Ann and Matt in front of their ancestral home)

They wait for the buffalo

That pulls he cart

As I search the fields,

Cross the rivers,

Gaze over the hill,

Onto the prairies of old, repeating the call

that reverberates \over the plains

where a great civilization relished.

What will I tell my children

now that the buffaloes are gone?

In time they will understand.

Bagworm

on a Duhat Tree at Home

Sheepishly a caterpillar peeps,

from under a pagoda she built;

like the turtle she hides and creeps,

until she finally ceases to eat.

A Venus de Milo she soon emerges,

but without wings she must wait,

as her love scent in the air urges,

a winged moth to be her mate.

She lays her eggs in the tent,

broods on them until they hatch,

and leaves them with heart content;

soon she dies after the dispatch.

The Great Maker has shown

a biology of sacrifice and obligation:

the mother keeps the young and home

for this is the species’ bastion.

Young Musicians

Marlo, Ann and Leo at Home

I imagine young Haydn mimicked

a strolling fiddler with pieces of stick,

a young Beethoven, writing music

from birds and lambs at the creek.

In Messiah, Handel saw God’s image,

while Mozart excelled before the king,

and Chopin, the piano-poet of his age

saw neo-classic music emerging.

Happier are those who play the tune,

than he who stops at the chord,

they who keep alive the inner vision,

the music that lights the world.

Bougainvillea

Wearily I walked the dews of grassy fair,

and hung my foot to flip off the weed,

“Amorseco, you degenerate spear,”

murmured I, as darkness gave up its bid.

The green sprung into life –

birds, buds, chilly air, and all;

and I, whose world always a strife,

found and shred a momentous joy.

A brook in murmuring music called

a flock which came by wing,

as my feet drew close o behold

a spray of petals in early spring.

Flowers lined to greet the world,

one half happy, the other half atear.

“Flowers, your beauty has lured

men to your side to revere.”

Beneath the petals my fingers met

to steal her beauty and hidden pride;

blood stained the thorns, and I, in sweat,

shrank in thoughts ready to chide.

Like a sword drawn to settle guilt,

I rose to strike, but shrinking

and silent, I paused, then knelt

over bougainvillea sweetly smiling.

Legume

Cecille in her Home Garden

You are Nature’s builder,

     a God-sent life-giver;

the sun and air you bind,

     feed life of all kind.

In your care the Rhizobium

     sets chemistry in action,

from the bean or Mimosa,

     to the giant acacia.

Give us our daily meat and oil

     and nourish the soil;

keep Ceres’ bounty,

     Oh, Leguminosae.

                              My Little Prince

                                                   Pao at Home

You came with the Word

To mend a broken world

In the story of a sheep,

As I, too, mended my ship;

But when at last I set to sail,

Resolve never again to fail.

You left me groping for reason

As I stared at cold gray stone.

Now my grief is gone,

Though I’ll never understand

The mystery up afar.

I know you are in your star

In the promise of your laughter

And the joy of this life after.   

                                

Old Bell of San Vicente

I have outgrown the old bell of San Vicente

          my hometown;

Its toll no longer made me sad, for my friends

          have long been dead.

Dancing on its fulcrum its sound brought

          nothing but frown;

And if Angelus is a dirge, what my fate is

          has been said.

‘Til one day I thought I saw an old gate and

          a garden covered with vine

Appeared, and I thought I heard the old bell

          and my cane fell down;

The old bell rang and danced on its fulcrum,

          its call was divine;

I climbed the belfry and through the cloud

          once more saw my old hometown.~

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About San Vicente Ferrer (Internet)

Born	Religious, priest and confessor, called the Angel of the Last Judgment 23 January 1350 Valencia, Kingdom of Valencia
Died	5 April 1419 (aged 69) Vannes, Duchy of Brittany
Venerated in	Roman Catholic Church, Anglican Communion, Aglipayan Church
Canonized	3 June 1455, Rome by Pope Calixtus III
Major shrine	Cathedral of Vannes Vannes, Morbihan, France Bogo City, Cebu Philippines
Feast	5 April
Attributes	tongue of flame; pulpit; trumpet; prisoners; wings; Bible
Patronage	builders, construction workers, plumbers, fishermen (Brittany) and orphanages (Spain)