Pen, un-resting

Slumber shamelessly enticed and beckoned
and my pen, tired from scuffle, succumbed.
In the abyss of dreamlessness she lodged
frozen, lying there totally unperturbed.

Precious solitude, my pen found in the chamber;
Wailing, none was heard; not a single whimper.
But in there too, was a whole army of rust
Nourishing my pen with its scrumptious crust.

The quietude of the chamber, my pen found
it safe; its silence, she deemed profound.
The quandary of wakefulness, she now abhorred
This new life she’d found, she so adored.

But alas, the sun just won’t let it be
“Rest,” he told my pen, “is dangerous to thee.”
Slumber moved aside, its anch’rage now gone;
The treacherous moon had sold my pen to the sun

whose bright rays hugged my pen, his goddaughter.
“Please darling, no more crumpled paper,” he coaxed her.
“No more broken lines, nor reverence for gloom
For my sunrise and sunset are now yours to write on.”

My pen nodded; smile slowly brightening her face
as she pirouetted round and round the blank page
whereupon dots of sorrow vanished and waves of spasm
painted themselves bright; Ah, gone is the chasm.



For my Dungngo, my Sun.

© Sherma Espino Benosa
[June 25, 2006 3:36 am; in my “chamber”]

Mother Nature’s pathetic joke

Either Mother Nature was in a sour mood or that her being a pathetic joker took over her better judgment on the day she chose and mixed the ingredients of her experimental specialty that was me, that she made such a terrible, irreversible mistake for which I will never forgive her: She poured her concoction into the mold she used for my father! So I came out not only looking like my dad, but also exhibiting one of the characteristics that so define him: inability to differentiate the lower from the upper “DO.”

Needless to say, Mother Nature’s product was such a letdown that, when I saw it and I have thoroughly read the manual that came with it, I was so annoyed with her I challenged her to resign from her post, and threatened to sue her. And I would have, had she didn’t have the decency to apologize and to offer to make up for her despicable, tasteless joke. Her making me somewhat like a female version of my Dad, I considered a tremendous slight upon my person, and so I demanded something grand as payment — paper for a playground, pen for a toy, and words for playmates.

So that is how it came to be that, like my father, I also play hide-and-seek with words; and, more important, that I am Daddy’s girl.

Oh well, what can I do? I am his unica hija; his wicked princess. The better looking version of himself. Ha ha!

(This is dedicated to my best friend — my ever understanding, loving and supportive father, Mr. Manuel Domingo Benosa. I love him so much, that’s why I have bestowed upon him the highest honor he could ever hope for in this life. Yes, friends, I named him the recipient of my bullying in its worst form. Hehehe!)

Teaser for my photoessay

If a picture could paint a thousand words, what would you get if you put together ten pictures and a captivating prose?

That's right. An enchanting story.

That's the project I am working on as a gift for my "dungngo" who very badly needs sunset. Right now, I am still in the process of collecting my materials and am also waiting for the words to whisper their names to my pen. It might take me years to finish it, but I am patient. After all, the irksome word "rush" never appears alongside "art" in a sentence, unless a negator is also present.

Dr. O's verdict

1.25 for me.

Damn!

I know, I know! A grade of 1.25 should not be so awful. But when you know that a non-deserving soul got 1.0, it is.

Hah... biatch!

The music of Conroy's pen

Last weekend, I almost learned to love poetry.

And it was by reading a narrative: Pat Conroy’s “The Prince of Tides.”

The book had been sitting idly in my bookshelf for more than a year before I decided to scan it for lack of interesting thing to do. Its title failed to suggest a captivating read so that if I had other options besides the classics I have lined up for myself, I would not have spared it a single glance, much less touch it. But as it was, the only books in my possession that remain unread are “oldies” so I decided to make do with it. Better that than have Mr. Boredom for company for a whole weekend.

Or so I thought.

The first sentence of the novel was so powerful it made me read on and on and, before I knew it, I was already hooked. Pat Conroy is a master storyteller; his sentences, a fusion of prose and poetry. Never in my rather bookworm life had I read a novel so melodious that, in more than one occasion, I’ve caught myself wondering if it was indeed prose, not poetry, that I was reading.

And the plot — intricate yet craftily woven. A story of a grotesque past, the novel presents how times of yore shape the future. And more important, how it is possible that sometimes, the only way to move forward is to re-trace one’s footsteps; and how healing could be had by coming to terms with the things we’d rather commit to non-remembrance.

For these reasons, I think I’d soon add works bearing the music of Conroy’s pen to my list of must-reads.