Rogelio L. Ordoñez's Blog, page 5

2012 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

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19,000 people fit into the new Barclays Center to see Jay-Z perform. This blog was viewed about 90,000 times in 2012. If it were a concert at the Barclays Center, it would take about 5 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

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2013 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The Louvre Museum has 8.5 million visitors per year. This blog was viewed about 79,000 times in 2013. If it were an exhibit at the Louvre Museum, it would take about 3 days for that many people to see it.

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We’ll Sharpen Our Bolos

(Poem)

we’ll sharpen our bolos

when fear lurks in the heart

when the stars are bleak and sad

and the sun’s rays are cold and pale

we’ll sharpen our bolos

when withering are the flowers

when the trash is not on fire

when the dews glitter not on the grass

and not a single firefly twinkles in the night.

yes, we’ll sharpen our bolos

when more fortunate are the rats

than the poor like us

we, “the wretched of the earth”

we, the workers and peasants

enslaved by the soil and machine

of the gluttonous ruling class

yet our belly groans most of the time

while they wallow in the blessings

coming out from our sweat and blood.

we’ll sharpen our bolos

especially when feverish are our tots

their stomachs aching through the night

and not a drop of milk comes out

from the sagging breasts of their moms

long tormented by poverty and despair

we’ll sharpen our bolos

when even the cold cooked-rice in our pots

is devoured by our avaricious landlords

and our anemic coffee and arm’s sweat

are gulped by our predator ruling class.

we’ll sharpen our bolos

when your justice is elusive as the clouds

when slow-paced as the crawling snails

with no pangs for the rich and powerful

and plunderers of public funds

but repressive for the weak and poor

sharp spears they are piercing our hearts

bulldozers trampling upon our sacred rights

stunting our growth and dimming our hopes

for a better, peaceful, democratic life.

yes, we’ll sharpen our bolos

when our beloved la tierra pobreza

is rapaciously being raped

when foreign masters are mashing

her luscious milky breasts

and her sacred sovereignty

is being disgraced and sold

by the lords of power and gold

yes, we’ll sharpen our bolos

till social justice reigns

till our beloved land

is set free from the clutches

of injustices and penury

till the rampaging waves of change

and the hurricane of discontent

demolish and pulverize her prison walls!

(My English version of IHAHASA NAMIN ANG ITAK)

Invigorating To Walk Barefooted

(Poem)

at the intersecting roads

of via pescara and via firenze

mansions like in forbes

and alabang-ayala

the rows of houses

akin to gigantic coffins

empty of cadavers

once the morning yawns

do they sojourn somewhere

or suck up by planets

and would be coughed up

when the sun died at dusk?

then glaring would be

the huge electric bulbs

and in a procession

the cadavers would return

to the waiting empty homes.

i could not grasp life

in that territory of el diablo

always dying is the struggling self

like scattered decomposing trash

though would be alive again soon

i could not smell and appreciate

the fragrance of pierre cardin

or hugo boss or issey miyake

my nose still longs for

the armpits’ peppery odor

of workers and peasants

of the land saturated

by the blood and tears

of so many decades

of continuous heroic struggle

my senses still desire

to feel the harsh realities

of the lives of the unfortunate

of a long-oppressed class

here, in a foreign land,

robots and plastics

pass by the curtain

of my tired eyes wherein

swimming are so many bitter memories

of my native wretched land.

now like a magnet

is the hurricane’s wind

dragging my roaming feet

to go back home

to my waiting la tierra pobreza

two feet tired of traversing

criss-crossing unending roads

like my useless stupid life

not knowing when to suddenly end

and vanish in thin air

two feet made humid

by a pair of worn-out rubber shoes

in ascending and descending

mounds of soils and steep hills.

invigorating to walk barefooted

once again roaming around

in my la tierra pobreza

the cradle of my nightly dreams

to step on the muddy soil

of plowed irrigated fields

watered by tears and grief

and the pouring crying rain

invigorating to shove barefooted

the dewy jumbled wild grass

and shrubs of sugarcane fields

or to step on the oil and grease

spattered by machines of greed.

yes, invigorating to walk barefooted

on the heaving streets of protests

against injustices and grief

when blistering are the sun’s rays

nice to walk barefooted

on forests and mountains

on fields and urban cities

on the land springing are the tears

of an exploited enslaved race

on the land being watered

by the blood of revolutionaries

for the freedom and glory

of the oppressed-downtrodden class

yes, always there would be

rebellious longing hearts

in the breast of tormented lives

yes, you would barefooted feel more

the etched testaments of truths

in the masses wretched lives!

(My English version of MASARAP IYAPAK ANG HUBAD NA PAA)

No More Will I Pay You A Visit

(Poem)

no more

will i pay you a visit

on your last moments

of heroic struggle

against the world of grief

i know now or tomorrow

or a day in this rainy

month of june

you’ll suddenly depart

from the bloody struggle

you’ve embraced against

the exploitative ruling class

no more

will i pay you a visit

though i still wish to see

your stares full

of sacred aspirations

those two emerald eyes

glittering with flaming

and undying love of country

those lips always expressing

the rebellious sentiments

of an oppressed race.

no more

will i pay you a visit

now that your breath

is being sucked

by the tender wind

kissing your haggard face

a face full of determination

to carry-on the struggle

for the freedom and glory

of the masses and beloved land

which you so fervently desired

during so many nights of vigil

for sure, i know,

you’ll not shed a tear

on your impending death

but you’ll consider it

your great honor

that you’ve poured

your sweat and blood

on the yellowish grass

and the land made barren

by the forces of darkness

of injustices and addicting power

i know the tender or whirling wind

will always be humming

the lyrics and melodies

of your heroic life

so gladly dedicated

for your beloved land.

no more

will i pay you a visit

now that the fireflies are gone

now that the rolling clouds

are embracing the breast of darkness

enough for me to be with you

in our intertwining memories

enough for me to be with you

in crimson gumamela flowers

in crawling cadena de amor vines

on hills and mountain slopes of hope

and in crying amarillos

jumbled cogon and wild grass

along the savannah of love

though your body

will soon be buried

in a waiting lonely grave

unmarked even by a wooden cross

nameless and no epitaph on gravestone

our eyes would still meet

our blood would still mix

our veins would still be conjoined

in every heart of the dispossessed

in every tear and sob of the enslaved

whether in fields or cities of grief

our rumbling voices still would sing

the fragrant lyrics of freedom

for our incarcerated and suffering

la tierra pobreza!

(My English version of DI NA KITA DADALAWING MULI)

Go Ahead!

(Poem)

(“It’s better to die with honor than to live in shame.” — Dr. Jose P. Rizal)

grinning is the gun’s mouth

to those whose conscience

is blemished by evil and greed

go ahead, go ahead…

put inside your mouth

the cold iron barrel

or point it to your forehead

or where your evil heart is

smiling is the trigger

at the hands that plundered

silver and gold

of a nation long devoid

of glory and happiness

of a country stunted by woes

castrated by the cohorts of mammon

and rulers dancing the rigodon.

go ahead, go ahead…

passionately kiss

the protruding gun’s clit

let the slaves hear

the bullets’ joyful shouts

let your brain and skull explode

let your breast and heart bleed

and wash with your squirting blood

the face benumbed by slaps

and blows of stolen wealth

maybe your tainted honor

would be cleansed

by the drops of your blood

on the yellowish thirsty grass

maybe for a while the sun’s rays

would even shower you with flowers

and thousands of fireflies and stars

fervently would be praying and twinkling

on nights of your lavish wakes.

go ahead, go ahead…

kiss hard the gun’s lips

caress-play-press

the protruding clit

let tragedy’s honor end

the darkness lingering shame

go ahead, go ahead…

don’t hesitate anymore

your tarnished honor would rejoice

once you end your gluttonous life

we’ll even graciously decorate

with wreaths of roses and orchids

your waiting coffin and grave

for the memory and peace

of your ice-cold cadaver

yet, we, the living dead

has long been entombed in the world

of unbearable suffering and grief

but with the sudden departure

of unprincipled mammals like you

reincarnated would be our hopes

and we the wretched of the earth

would vigorously pursue

our sacred bloody struggle

through the pitch-dark nights

till the moon and the stars

shine brilliantly

on our forsaken land

till we feel finally

the caressing relaxing wind

on our bodies and limbs

as the nation is

gloriously metamorphosing.

go ahead, go ahead…

put inside your mouth

the gun’s cold barrel

and lovingly kiss

and press hard

the protruding trigger!

(My English version of SIGE NA!)

We’ll Pray No More At Gethsemane

(Poem)

no more we’ll walk kneeling

at the foot of the mount of olives

no more we’ll pray

at the garden of gethsemane

near the brook of kedron

we’ve been lashed repeatedly

by the centurions of the state

while laying flat on the ground

they violently kicked us

even expectorated on us

we’ve been made to swallow

their stinking holy bread

from the pungent toilet bowl

we’ve been forced to drink

yellowish holy water

from the murderer’s gallbladder

some of us were cemented in drums

and let the sea swallow us

beheading even a few of us

and our detached heads

were kicked like balls

rolling down the mountain slopes

because we’ve been preaching the truths

to the oppressed-downtrodden class

and vigorously we keep on fighting

for the sacred progress and freedom

of our exploited beloved land.

we’ll pray no more

at the garden of gethsemane

though our umbrellas are the swaying leaves

of the praying olive trees

firmly standing still

after so many hurricanes

after so many masses and rituals

of deceiving pharisees

though nine hundred years had past

at the calm garden of gethsemane

we’ll no more stare at and talk to

the stars on the ashen serene sky

we’ll pray no more

at the garden of gethsemane

venerated even by the crystal tears

of the brook of kedron

repeatedly we’ve recited the rosary

inside the bellies of gigantic temples

we’ve genuflected before the altar

of so many wooden sedentary saints

even took our communions

on holidays and sundays

offered hosannas to one merciful god

yet year after year after year

we’ve been carrying on our shoulders

a cross as heavy as the world

while patiently trekking our path

toward our calvary of broken skulls!

yes, we’ll pray no more

at the garden of gethsemane

near the heart of kedron

we’ll rest no more our backs

on the old sturdy olive trees

we’ve been repeatedly nailed

on numerous holy weeks

on our cross of sorrows and despair

we’ve died for so many times

but reincarnated again and again

because gyrating are our hopes

on the screen of our eyes

because our ideology of love

keeps marching on and on

its cadences hoping to silence

the shouts of injustices

its rebellious rumbling sounds

will be exploding bombs

desiring to destroy to smitterens

society’s inequalities

yes, the few demigods

of injustices and greed

will soon be buried

in the hills of broken skulls

their blood will overflow

on the crystal-clear brook of kedron

to finally submerge and drown

the golgotha of the poor!

(My English version of DI NA KAMI MANANALANGIN SA GETHSEMANE)

Intifada! Fight!

(Poem)

when seething

from the camp

of jabalia to gaza

and flaming

from the west bank

to east jerusalem

the first intifada

of the heroic palestinians

when the jews occupied

their sacred territory

a mother fell

on the heaving ground

bloody was her breasts and belly

with fresh bullet holes

her baby rolled like a ball

near the asphalted sidewalk

suddenly the baby crawled

toward the dead mother

and tenderly, so tenderly

grasped the bloody breasts

the baby’s lips hungrily tried

to suck even a drop of milk

would there be milk

from a dead mother’s breasts?

in our la tierra pobreza

flooding is the milk of nestle

from the blood and sweat

of underpaid workers

but their emaciated babies

could not take a lick of it

sagging now are their mothers’ breasts

devoid of even a drop of milk

after mashed by poverty and sorrow

while the rich and the elite

use fresh milk abundantly

to wash their rectum and urethra

inside the imposing mansions

of inhumane voracious capitalists.

intifada! fight!

like the marcha intifada in bahrain

when colonized by great britain

intifada! fight!

like the zemia intifada

in the spanish sahara

against the colonialists

intifada! fight!

like the sidi bouzidi

intifada in tunisia

intifada! fight!

in the empire of nestle

at la tierra pobreza

though our mere weapons

are the sharp arrows of words

of rebellious liberating poetry

though our thunderous voices

are our exploding bombs

and the angry cadences

of thousands of feet

are the sounds of gunfires

on the streets of protests.

intifada! fight!

till millions of workers

in factories of greed

and the oppressed class

be finally emancipated

till the fortress of demigods

of exploitation and injustices

be completely pulverized

intifada! fight!

till billions of stars

shine brilliantly on the land

of darkness and fear and sorrows

cradle-land of our bloody memories

of our undying hope and love

you, you, the long-suffering

our beloved la tierra pobreza!

(My English version of INTIFADA! MAKIBAKA!)

Clinging And Swinging On Vines They Are

(Poem)

in the forest of darkness and fear

they are gorillas clinging and swinging on vines

beating their breasts and shouting at the wind

they who are the intellectuals of ivory towers

they who are castrated by regimented academe

they who are incarcerated by authoritative books

they who are blinded by words

oftentimes devoid of realities

they whose nostrils are with cotton balls

they whose heads are embalmed

by theories and ideas leading to nowhere

they who always want to masticate

every formula in all their thoughts

they who are entombming their latent talents

in the world of plato, derrida and focault

would they be always hanging on vines

they whose visions are blurred

and couldn’t see the glaring lights?

they who are clinging and swinging on vines

in the forest of darkness and fear

don’t want to immerse themselves

and swim in the turbulent sea of life

though they’re searching always for genuine pearls

they don’t even desire to enter, sleep and dream

in huts in hills, mountains and fields

nor even desire to stare at the dewdrops

descending on desolate blades of grass

to see the tears of the dispossessed

nor even step on clayish soil of irrigated fields

while swaying are the jumbled talahib grass

to feel the pulsating revolting breast

of the oppressed-downtrodden class

when would they dip their fingers

in vinegar and salty sauce

if their hands only used to touch and caress

smooth porcelain cups, glittering silver spoons

and crystal goblets of aged wines?

when would they mash the cold cooked-rice

so truths would come out from their swollen mouths

which used to eat and chew

the torn pages of antiquated books

evading to dissect and expose

the maladies of a society

ruled by the exploitative class

and gluttonous bureaucratic crooks?

they who are clinging and swaying on vines

in the forest of darkness and fear

don’t even want to see the squirting blood

of fingers cut-off by machines of greed

till the skin, flesh and bones are mixed

with ground meat of canned corned beef

they who are clinging and swaying on vines

in the forest of darkness and fear

they whose creamy soups are saliva of geniuses

like hume, heidegger, nietzche and freud

but could not distinguish a bit

if marinated or boiled or well-cooked

the theories they want to propagate

hence the masses pulsating throats

could not swallow the rhetorics

and blatant ideas of half-truths

so they are scavenging cats and rats

lost in the dumpsites of hogwash

and decomposing nauseating trash.

you who are clinging and swinging on vines

in the forest of darkness and fear

why not jump over the cliffs?

why not release the vines you firmly hold

and let the feet feel the soil of despair

and also smell the pungent odor

of exploding bombs and firing guns?

why not smell the peppery sweat

of emaciated peasants toiling

on the land not theirs?

why not gaze at the sacadas

while kneeling at enslaving haciendas

and reciting the prayers of grief

in sugarmills and canefields?

why not hear the lamentations of mothers

the cussing of rebellious fathers

the lyrics of poverty and sorrows

of victims of injustices?

why not discern the melodies of tormented souls?

then, yes, then,

the rampaging whirling wind

and the hissing of bullets and lightnings

could finally give meaning

to the persistent questions

of the obnoxious objective realities

that could not be answered and resolved

by antiquated wormy books!

(My English version of SILANG NAGBABAGING SA GUBAT NG DILIM)

A Night Of Dreams At The Piers Of Havana

(Poem)

one night, i dreamt of

the clouds passionately kissing

the pallid dying moon

at the piers of havana

all were dancing through the night

with the rhythms of guiro

of maracas and marimba

at salon rojo and la cecilia

at gato tuerto and la farandula

their bodies flaming

with the cadence of salsa

mambo and rumba

music of son from africa

lurking inside one’s nose

was the odor of vultabajo

or pinar del rio cigars

thompson or don pepin garcia

arturo fuente or vegas de fonseca

adoring the breath of garlic

oregano and cumia

while the tongue was licking

the nipples of the moros

and sucking the juice of ropa vieja

meandering was my mind

crazy with the spirit of rhum and cola

wanting to rest at el vedado

saratoga or melia cohiba.

yes, one night i dreamt of

the moon died and buried soon

when the dawn yawned

at the piers of havana

when the ships blew their horns

onrushing was the water of memories

of a history bathed in blood

from the ovary of once was isla juana

since the cross of the colonizer columbus

had arrogantly docked

on the shores of baracoa

the criollos enslaved the land

in the name of gold and god

exploited the native ciboney and taino

even the manacled africans

the criollos raped rapaciously the land

till their navel’s lust was gone.

yes, i dreamt of

the decade of rebellion

of the race of the carlos de cepedes

but was never at once destroyed

the fortress of colonization

and for four centuries

poverty and grief ruled the cubans

for a while the nationalist rebel

the socialist jose marti

placenta of a conceived liberty

held ground in new york

then went home to write

the manifesto of montecristi

set aflame the collective hatred

of a race long enslaved

bullets roared and hissed

and the machetes glared

but, unfortunately

marti shed his blood, offered his life

in the relentless fight at dos rios

the land became crimson as the gumamela

when the revolution engulfed cuba.

yes, i dreamt of, yes

when bluish was the moon’s light

at the piers of havana

the ship u.s.s. maine exploded suddenly

killing two hundred or more sleeping crews

charred were their lifeless bodies

allegedly the colonialists plotted the tragedy

instigated by scheming greedy capitalists

so war against spain could be declared

the offshoot was the treaty of paris

and colonized were cuba, guam

and my la tierra pobreza

freed in 1902 was cuba

but the machados, graus and socarras

metamorphosed into mere puppets

till fulgencio batista became a dictator

had plundered and raped the wealth of cuba

had sowed injustices on the whole island

had sold the sacred sovereignty of the land

and had entombed the masses

in poverty, despair and sorrows.

yes, i dreamt of, yes

the docking of the granma

when swaying were the sugarcanes

in vast haciendas of servitude

aboard were eighty-two great souls

when ambushed by the military

only but twelve survived

fidel castro, camilo cienfuegos

and the argentinian che guevarra

held camp at pico turquino

of the liberating sierra maestra

they set ablaze the land of penury

from matanzas to sta. clara

from camaguey to oriente

from las villas to las tunas

until they entered havana

cowering later in their escape

were the plunderer batista

and his cohorts of evil men.

yes, i also dreamt of, yes

full of lights and brilliant

was the piers of havana

when cubans established

and ran a socialist society

private ownership was soon abolished

and the peasants took over the haciendas

nationalized were foreign businesses

the principles of socialism guided them

till in tantrums were the imperialists

trying to invade the bay of pigs

but the state of the masses did not retreat

in the famous la batalla de giron

fidel castro did not move a bit

and never knelt before the altar

of exploitative and enslaving imperialism

though cuba was manacled

by an inhumane embargo

on trade and diplomacy

known as operation mongoose.

when will the granma’s armada

dock at the piers of la tierra pobreza?

when will the fleets of dewey

roosevelt and obama be turned to clay?

finally in my dreams

i will clearly hear

the harmonica’s and guitar’s

melodies of freedom and glory

in my beloved la tierra pobreza!

(My English version of SA PANTALAN NG HAVANA, ISANG GABI NG PANAGINIP)