Rogelio L. Ordoñez's Blog, page 6
December 18, 2013
Not The Month Of Flowers Is May
(Poem)
not the month of flowers is may
or the procession of flirting queens
it’s not also the month of lavish fiestas
in honor of numerous venerated saints
instead it’s the blood shedding
of the likes of crisanto evangelista
of the marxist labor party
it’s the revolt of the crispin beltrans
of the fiery may 1 movement
yes, it’s the unfurling of red flags
by the exploited working class
it’s the rumbling of thousands of feet
on the heaving street of mendiola
it’s the reverberations in the air
of the liberating message of the “internationale”
it’s the month the anger of clenched fists
would be dynamites loudly exploding
and the feverish wind would carry on its wings
the collective hatred of so many fathers
the lamentations of so many mothers
and the cries of twisted intestines
could the lords of sorrows hear
the grief of a race and the oppressed?
yes, may is not the month of flowers
it’s the decades of may of falling tears
sprinkling the yellowish grass
so the stunted growth of fervent hopes
may finally grow and bloom
it’s the month of continuing struggle
against the exploitative class
and the cohorts of injustices
it’s the month of strengthening the united front
for the coming dark nights of vigil
it’s the tight linking of arms
of the oppressed-downtrodden class
till they trek the mountain trails
and whisper to the hissing bullets
the laments of seething brains
and transform into piercing arrows
the class dignity of a race
and aim and shoot them deep
to the hearts of greedy demigods
who always embrace the vault of wealth
and see nothing but the glitter of gold
never hearing the pulsating bleeding hearts
of the long-oppressed wretched class.
yes, not the month of flowers is may
it’s our climbing up
the bloody mountain trails
and “we have nothing to lose but our chains!”
(My English version of DI BUWAN NG MGA BULAKLAK ANG MAYO)
The Landlord’s Horse
(Poem)
thirty-eight million pesos
the price of the horse
of the landlord’s daughter
nine pesos and fifty centavos
the worth of the peasant’s sweat
toiling on the vast sugarcane field
nine pesos and fifty centavos
the arms blood turned to sweet juice
of milled tons and tons of canes
the angolan antonio jacinto once said:
“in that vast land
“rare is the rain
“our forehead’s sweat
“is watering the sugarcanes…
“in that vast land
“tall now are the sugarcanes
“the blood of our bodies
“is their delicious juice.”
yes, nine pesos and fifty centavos daily
the price of the sweat and blood
of the sacadas toiling on the land
and miracle of all miracles
if the price would be right
despite their simmering minds
and persistent flaming protests.
can their patron saint hear their novenas
before the altar of grief and sufferings?
can the god of abraham discern
their decenarios for fellow-peasants
who succumbed to hunger and death
because only air and sorrows
then often dwelled in their bellies?
so many million times
they recited the rosary
but it’s not understood
even by the blessed horse
kyrie eleyson, kristi eleyson
christ please hear our cries
god the father in heaven
god the son the savior
god the holy spirit
virgin mary mother of god
divine head of all virgins
mother of the graces of god
we’re producing tons and tons
of sugar for our demigods
yet a few granules of it
swim in our brewed rice coffee
on greyish and chilly mornings
to whatever god shall we turn to
so our cooked rice
has a teaspoon of sugar
to satisfy our tongue
while on the other hand
the horse of the rich lady
is savoring milk and honey.
thirty-eight million pesos
the price of the horse
of the landlord’s daughter
a horse taught how to walk arrogantly
like a marching general of the army
running as fast as the landlord’s cars
the coveted porsche, lotus and ferrari
while dead-tired is the peasant pedro
in the sugarmill and canefield
yes, a horse trained to jump over obstacles
in the game of the rich and elitist
the equestrian of those with gold spoons
in their lovely mouths and desirable butts
almost crawling in climbing up is pedro
on the creaking bamboo stairs
of the kneeling-praying cogon hut
everytime he goes home at dusks
how can he still make love
with his newly-bathed wife?
thirty-eight million pesos
the price of the horse
of the landlord’s daughter
a horse when hardheaded
and refused to obey his master
is at once being caressed
kissed and cajoled
and when that blessed horse sneezes
the veterinarian is so patient
in giving him lots and lots
of costly medicines and vitamins.
nine pesos and fifty centavos
the price of the peasant’s sweat and blood
who when disgusted and protesting
is being dragged, mauled and lashed
or showered with bullets
to keep his mouth shut
so pathetic and revolting
his family could not afford
to buy a cheap wooden coffin…
and if fortunate enough to survive
through the prayers of fellow-peasants
or through drops of holy water on his face
he could not even take
such common palliatives
like cheap decolgen or aspirin…
kyrie eleyson, kristi eleyson
christ please hear our cries
god the father in heaven
god the son the savior
god the holy spirit
virgin mary mother of god
divine head of all virgins
mother of the graces of god
save us from sufferings and sorrows
save us from unbearable tragedies
so our folks will not utter the decenarios
oh, god of abraham
we might be forced to firmly grasp
saint michael’s sharp sword
and slash and cut
not only the sugarcanes
when will the hot bullets
pierce and crack the head
of the thirty-eight million peso-horse
of the landlord’s daughter
so we can finally feed our emaciated kids
the blessed horse’s honey and milk?
(My English version of KABAYO NG ASENDERO)
December 16, 2013
Hijos y Hijas de Puta
(Poem)
hijos y hijas de puta, caramba!
not yet ended is the era
of fathers salvi, damaso and camorra
lamenting before european wooden saints
are the likes of pia alba, juli and maria clara
permit the hijas
to take artificial contraceptives
like the nuns
during the civil war in the sixties
in the former belgian congo
so should they be raped by soldiers
their bellies would not bulge a bit
though covered with holy cloth
but por dios por santo
que barbaridad, caramba!
you’re not a nun
you’ve been fabricated only
in the ovary of petra the horse
daughter of the indios
what’s your right not to be impregnated
by the holy ghost?
hija de puta!
the holy pope will get so mad
you’ll be cursed by monsignor sgreccia
like the kosovar women in the nineties
when at its height the war in serbia
hijos y hijas de puta, caramba!
let the semens meander carelessly
or do the lambada or samba
inside the mother’s ovary
till the baby cries
and the tot be sprinkled
with drops of holy water
hijos de puta, never use condoms
hijas de puta, never take pills
never use intrauterine devices
just wipe-out the liquid from the urethra
with the priest’s vest
and loudly recite the rosary
of our fathers and hail marys
the lad might be a belltower’s boy soon
calling for million devotees
to always fervently pray.
hijos y hijas de puta, caramba!
i don’t want to hear from you
the hyms of devotion and love
the lyrics of sorrow and despair
i could not contain in my hands
the waves of poverty in rural areas
the tornadoes of grief in urban cities
don’t slap me with the pallid moon
or blind me with billions of stars
hijos y hijas de puta, caramba!
just cover my whole body
with the easterly wind
while am holding vigil
on sad pitch-dark nights.
hijos y hijas de puta, caramba!
i don’t want to hear the chorus of ave marias
in the pulpits, altars and sacristies
just fill my ears with the cadence
of marching rebellious feet
on the cemented street of mendiola
just let me hear the hissing of bullets
and hymns of exploding bombs
my soul has long been incarcerated
bleeding from the lashes of injustices
we’re still slaves, hijos y hijas de puta
of the father salvis, damasos and camorras
we’re still monkies, hijos y hijas de puta
of the tafts, harrisons and obamas
we’re still slaves, hijos y hijas de puta
of exploiting capitalists and landlords
in various haciendas and factories of greed
we’re still prisoners, hijos y hijas de puta
in every bastion and fortress
of the rapacious ruling class.
hijos y hijas de puta
when blooming is the “talahib”
in the hills and savannahs
come over, yes, and gallantly struggle
hijos y hijas de puta, caramba!
let us join hands
like the wind and the sparrows
and with unity of purpose
on dewy mornings
or pitch-dark nights
while our blood simmers
and the fire blazes
amidst the sonnets
of lightning and thunder
hijos y hijas de puta, caramba!
let us tread the liberating path
for our freedom and glory!
(My English version of HIJOS Y HIJAS DE PUTA. The “talahib” is a tall, wild grass with white flowers when blooming.)
On The Shore Of Consciousness
(Poem)
on the shore of consciousness
am waiting for the tsunami
of hatred of the dispossessed
on the high seas of awakening
surging and rumbling
the waves of tears and blood
of the “wretched of the earth”
will it be a storm surge
bashing the wall of greediness
drowning the scribes and pharisees
the rulers and demigods
of a society trampling upon
our sacred dignity and rights?
will the deluge of change
demolish to ground zero
the deceiving temples
and oppressive palaces
of the exploitative class?
on the shore of consciousness
revolting is the naked picture
of extreme poverty and grief
grieving hopeless souls they are
prostrate inside miserable “condo”
under the bridge of despair
living with insects and rats
under an unjust loony system
daily smelling the pungent canals
on the city’s shoulders and arms
daily eating “pagpag”
from worm-infested trash cans
faceless-nameless shadows they are
holding vigil in the darkness of night
in some haciendas and factories
unrelentlessly enslaving them.
yes, on the shore of consciousness
am not bored, am not impatient
waiting for the tsunami
of hatred of the dispossessed
sooner exploding bombs it will be
on the table of ruthless power
and detestable extravagance
while heartless big thieves
even steal the lonely coins
inside the pockets of the poor
and the god of mammon
joyfully smells the fragrance
of their hugo boss, miyaki
bulgari and pierre cardin
yes, a limit there is
and everything will soon end
when the tsunami of hatred
of the dispossessed
unmercilessly surge to smash
the wall of injustice and greed
deluge of radical change it will be
and the tsunami of hatred
of the dispossessed
will drown and pulverize, at last,
the rotten worm-infested
unjust exploitative society!
(My English version of SA PASIGAN NG KAMALAYAN. “Condo” is an improvised miserable dwelling of those forced to live under some city’s bridges of Metro Manila. “Pagpag” is left-over food inside trash bins being picked-up by scavengers to be cooked again so they can appease their hunger. Hugo Boss, Miyaki, Bulgari and Pierre Cardin are expensive perfumes of the rich.)
December 12, 2013
Tita Cory Has Already Been Entombed
(Poem)
tita cory has already been entombed
in the cemetery of the blessed.
former president of the republic
former landowner of hacienda luisita
wife of ninoy with his monument in ayala
because he fought the dictatorship
and murdered later by the fascist state.
tita cory has already been entombed
in the cemetery of the blessed.
alleged mother of democracy
acclaimed defender of justice
mother also of the chattering cristeta
and amiga of majong aficionados
in the mansion of merriment and joy.
tita cory has already been entombed
in the cemetery of the blessed.
in the hospital then
prayers reverberated
masses were held
in many chapels and churches
while the camera focused on
the rich and the famous
the saintly mammals
recited their novenas
“please god the merciful
prolong the life of our tita.”
tita cory has already been entombed
in the cemetery of the blessed.
after she was showered
with expensive flowers
inside the manila cathedral
after being rained with praises
and adulations by those
she had shared her blessings
during her rosy journey on earth
her memories were solemnly refreshed
and petals of tears fell
slowly crawled on the lovely faces
of ladies with very smooth skin
like a rare porcelain
also with silk underwears
from the waist
down to the sacred mound
from the bulging breasts
down to the sexy belly
with candle-shaped fingers
forbidden to even dip in sauce
or to mash the wet-sticky soil
“oh, god the merciful
please take care of our tita’s soul.”
tita cory has already been entombed
in the cemetery of the blessed.
shameful were not to peep
at her cadaver and bronze coffin
the hypocrites in government
forcing themselves to look piously
amidst the glaring lights
of so many cameras of publicity
even the national welfare’s traitors
and notorious plunderers of public fund
remorseful were not to gaze
at her seemingly saintly face
they even expressed
their masqueraded sympathies
to the grieving rich family
“oh, god the merciful
please bless our tita’s soul.”
tita cory has already been entombed
in the cemetery of the blessed.
along the long stretch of road
to her final resting place
she was sent off by the stares
of the masses of people
who didn’t mind the falling rain
or the sun’s irritating rays
they who massed then at edsa
to support the prime leaders
against the dictatorial regime
they who abandoned their laundry
they who deserted their factory
they who did not drive their jeepney
they the fishermen and farmers
they the students and intellectuals
who were so worried and concerned
about politics and society
they who were slaves of the bureaucracy
they who all offered everything at edsa
to end the despicable
reign of terror and fear.
tita cory has already been entombed
in the cemetery of the blessed.
up to now she’s being idolized
offered with incense and perfume
showered with praises and admirations
she who was so religious
always taking then her communion
she who was so helpful and humble
she who was so forgiving and loving
she whose words were holiness full
that’s why the chameleons
keep on saying
she’s a national hero
the hypocrites keep on drumbeating
she deserves to be a saint
but the poet who wrote “gera”
keeps on asking:
what about those farmers
massacred at mendiola?
what about those murdered
at hacienda luisita?
what about the peasants
at hacienda san antonio in isabela?
what about the isneg in dumalneg?
what about those in lupao in nueva ecija?
what about the natives of marag in paco valley?
what about the “ora pro nobis” of lino brocka?
what about above all else
the billions of dollars foreign debt
which could possibly be absconded
when she established then
a revolutionary government?
“oh, god the merciful
please forgive our tita’s soul.”
tita cory has already been entombed
in the cemetery of the blessed.
from then on till now
despite the enshrined spirit of edsa
still suffering and wretched are the masses
bombarded with illusionary hopes
by a few demigods
of patronage politics
and foreign-oriented economics
struggle we must… fight!
even the deceiving elitists
and defenders of bourgeoisie democracy
keep on shouting back
continue the struggle…fight!
till the emancipation of the masses
from bondage and injustice
continue the fight
till vigorously unshackled
the mannacles of servitude
till violently cut-off
the tentacles of exploitation
and genuine social justice reigns
continue the struggle
until a nationalistic, progressive
and democratic society prevails.
tita cory has already been entombed
in the cemetery of the blessed.
“oh, god the merciful
we are the ones you should
help and bless now”
in every dramatic scenes
we, the masses, are always the extras
faceless and nameless
and mere shadows in the dark
trash in the eyes of leading men
after every scripted film showing
blessed always are they
but we, the masses, are nothing
“oh, god of abraham
is it really true
blessed are the poor
for they will inherit
the kingdom of heaven?”
to hell if the rich on earth
enjoy your abundant blessings
though the rich and exploiters
gluttonously feast on the blood
and flesh of the wretched masses.
tita cory has already been entombed
in the cemetery of the blessed.
let the struggle go on…fight…
even we, the miserable masses
are daily being repressed
tortured and buried
in the graveyard
of injustices and servitude
of hunger and grief
of sorrow and despair
while dancing joyfully
society’s demigods and exploiters
and tolling clangorously
the big bronze bells
of money-filled churches!
tita cory has already been entombed
in the cemetery of the blessed.
(my English version of NAILIBING NA SI TITA CORY)
December 11, 2013
Why Slay Us?
(Poem)
we’re planting your rice
cleaning your sugarcane fields
of wild grass and shrubs
we’re taking care of
your mango trees and vegetables
to satisfy your lips
to make your bellies laugh
we’re working the whole day
toiling on your land
for you to enjoy an abundant life
and be blessed all the time.
why slay us?
we’re your factory slaves
running your machines
manufacturing your clothes
and so many cans of milk
so many bottles of softdrinks
so many capsules of medicines
we’re the companions
of wood, saws and chisels
of cement, gravel and sand
so your buildings rake wealth
we’re also the ones shouldering
numerous unreasonable taxes
that keep on multiplying
to feed the rich and the elite
and for big thieves in government
to always squander and plunder.
why slay us?
we’re your dishwashers
we’re your household helps and cooks
we’re your masseurs and masseuses
we’re your car drivers and laundrymaids
we’re your babysitters
we’re your all-around fixers
doing myriads odd jobs
yes, we’re your life’s support
so you can happily wallow
in wealth and extravagance
and enjoy to your heart’s content
the blessings of this loony world.
why slay us?
we are really worth
your countless blessings
why don’t you treat us
as true human beings
in a virtuous society
where social justice reigns?
till when will you trample
our sacred rights and dignity
and deprive us of a rosy future?
would you blame us
when someday
we opt to mercilessly slay you?
why slay us?
(my English version of BAKIT KAMI’Y INYONG PINAPATAY?)
with
Why Do Kill Us?
(Poem)
we’re planting your rice
cleaning your sugarcane fields
of wild grass and shrubs
we’re taking care of
your mango trees and vegetables
to satisfy your lips
to make your stomach laugh
we’re working the whole day
in toiling your land
for you to enjoy an abundant life
and be blessed all the time.
why do kill us?
we’re your factory slaves
running your machines
manufacturing your clothes
so many cans of milk
so many bottles of softdrinks
so many capsules of medicine
we’re the companions
of saws and wood
of cement, sand and gravel
so your buildings rake wealth
we’re also the ones shouldering
numerous unreasonable taxes
that keep on multiplying
to feed the rich and the elite
and for big thieves in government
to always squander and plunder.
why do kill us?
we’re your dishwashers
we’re your maids and cooks
we’re your masseurs
we’re your car drivers
we’re doing your laundry
and taking care of your kids
and doing many menial jobs
yes, we’re your life’s support
so you can happily wallow
in wealth and extravagance
and enjoy to your heart’s content
the blessings of this loony world.
why do kill us?
we really deserve from you
many justified blessings
why don’t you treat us
as true human beings
within a righteous society
where social justice reigns?
till when will you trample
our sacred rights and dignity
and deprive us of a rosy future?
can you still blame us
when someday
we do mercilessly kill you?
why do kill us?
(my English version of BAKIT KAMI’Y INYONG PINAPATAY?)
with
December 10, 2013
Where Are The Gumamelas?
(Poem)
where are the gumamelas?
on the wall of memories
crawling now are
cadena de amor and thorny vines
where are the red petals
crimson as the morning phlegm
of enslaved workers and peasants
crimson as splurged blood
gladly shed by warriors of love
on the land of aspirations and hope
made barren by injustices and sorrow.
where are now the gumamelas?
where now?
my hands could not lovingly touch
its blooming red flowers.
not a single firefly
could rest on its leaves.
much more i could not even patch it
on a bloody wound
nor the birds
atop the mango tree
could glimpse at it.
the lurking sparrows
in the ashen sky
see it no more
faceless shadows
and unmarked graves
have deserted the bosom of memory.
am searching for you
in the stretch of every road
in the poetry of every dew
as every morning yawns.
am searching for you
in the breathing dusk
in the snoring darkness
in cornfields and ricefields.
am searching for you
in the swaying talahib
of the hinterlands.
where are the gumamelas?
i don’t want to see
a wreath of thorny roses
or leis of rare orchids
in the garden of the elite
of crooks and thieves
pungent is the breath of sampaguita
terribly hot is the acacia’s shadow
if you always hear misery and sorrow
of a race beastly enslaved.
where are the gumamelas?
flower of a revolting brain
red petals of undying dreams
blazing torch of simmering blood.
where now? where can i see you?
in roaring violent wind
or in embers of flaming trash?
in angry waves in my mind
or in lashing hurricane in my being?
in the gazing sun at noonday
or the twinkling firefly at night?
when the east bathes in blood
i hope i can finally see
in the valley of my soul
at the edge of memories’ wall
the blooming of the crimson flowers
of so many gumamelas!
(my English version of NASAAN ANG MGA GUMAMELA? The gumamela is a crimson flower with large petals, believed to be medicinal and, as a sturdy plant, usually grows in rural areas.)
December 8, 2013
In Juan’s Land
(Poem)
in juan’s land
being a nationalist is a mortal sin
you might be abandoned in a shrubby lot
or in some pungent dumpsites
feasting on your butchered corpse
with exposed brain and entrails
troops of murmuring flies
and crawling hungry ants.
you might be lost forevermore
when cemented in a drum
left to rot and decompose
in the ocean’s grave-like mouth.
always remember, in juan’s land
never tell the truth.
just believe the economy’s good
though porridge and salt
often fill-up the belly
of so many unfortunates.
though daily multiplying
the scavengers of trash bins
to eat anything and survive the day
though many parade in tattered clothes
and seem lost in poverty’s jungle
or the grassy parks their waiting bed
or sacrifing to be enslaved
in some cruel foreign lands
just always think life is sweet
in every rising of the sun
in juan’s land.
make it a habit to raise your hands
praise to high heaven the demigods
as they always say
glorious is life
in the land of juan.
in juan’s land
never reveal to the masses
the mystery and hocus pocus
of the plunderers of public fund.
never let out from your throat
injustices and greediness
of the bastardly ruling class.
your tongue might be slashed
teeth sawed-off
eyes gouged-out
lips screwed and bashed.
in juan’s land
never, never emphatize
with the liberating aspiration
of the toiling workers and peasants.
never unite with the exploited class
being continuously enslaved
by the rotten, loony system
never be one
with their reverberating protests
against society’s pests
you’ll be branded
a subversive and terrorist
a grave threat to the security
of the jelly-like republic.
in juan’s land
brutal are the state’s centurions
so don’t be hardheaded
when picked-up and arrested
and fortunate enough
to be incarcerated
nameless desaparecido you’re not
you’ll be tortured by the fascists
and the forces of evil
forcing you to admit you’re a rebel
against the sanctity of the state.
your face will be shoved into
the toilet bowl full of vowels.
you’ll be made to lie down nude
on a block of thick ice.
you’ll be forced to drink more and more
yellowish liquid germs-full
till your belly bulges and rebels.
then the devil will stomp on it
till you admit the fabricated charges.
electrocuted sometimes are your balls
or inserted in the penis hole
a newly-lighted matchstick
or tied tightly on its soft head
the string of an old broken guitar.
oh, god of abraham
lascivious are the state’s centurions.
if you’re a lady inside
a stinking detention cell
they’ll fondle your vagina and breast.
they will rape you repeatedly
after the bastard gasped for breath
and done with his uncontrollable lust
he would even insert
and leave inside your genital
any empty bottle he so desired.
it’s really common in juan’s land
to torture and repress
the lovers of justice and righteousness
and deny them the democratic processes.
only the men of the exploiters
scheming lords and greedy rulers
even the clowns and magicians
in the palace of mammonism
yes, they are all blessed
while bleeding dry the people’s blood
and masticating their flesh and limbs
by always masquerading as nationalists
on the stage of brazen lies
continuously hoodwinking the people
through empty promises
of an illusionary good life
and sweet-scented future for all
in juan’s barren land.
yes, very usual in the land of juan
those traitors to the national welfare
and interests of the common man
those thieves in towns and cities
are the ones feasting on the table
of detestable power and privileges
and arrogantly proclaiming still
they ardently love this wretched land.
in juan’s land
that’s the order of things
love of country is a mortal sin
much more to speak the truth.
but it will not prevail forevermore
in the land of juan.
glaring is the blazing fire in the east
and rising from the darkness
of the past and gloomy night
the long-oppressed slaves
to finally liberate themselves!
(my English version of SA BAYAN NI JUAN)
December 6, 2013
Where’s The Alpha And Omega?
(Poem)
in the forest
of sacred aspirations
am searching for you for so long
between darkness and light.
am scouring for you
when at dusk
bloody is the face
of the dying sun
am searching for you
when at dawn
pallid is the moon.
where’s the alpha and omega
of our unceasing struggle?
on the wall of memories
moss-covered now are the decades
with the onslaught
of injustice and whirling wind.
so many sturdy trees had felled
as nameless-faceless shadows
kept vigil in the darkness of night.
still piercing in the horizon
the moans of an enslaved race
in every drop of grief’s
petals of tears.
where’s the alpha and omega
of our prolong struggle?
is it in the yelling street of mendiola
with the cadence of thousands
and thousands of feet of protest
against the exploitative class?
or is it in the forest of love
while metamorphosing is the grass
and blazing are the shrubs?
or is it in the melodies
of bullets and bombs
the glory and freedom
of our beloved land?
where’s our struggle’s alpha and omega?
chase it, yes, grab it…
even among the rolling greyish clouds
never permit the howling wind
to diffuse the fury
of the “wretched of the earth”
will flow still in the veins
of the unfortunate masses
the collective revolting blood
of so many decades
and will soon bloom in the garden
of our sacred dreams
the red roses of our alpha and omega
through our ceaseless struggle
yes, for our beloved la tierra pobreza!
(my English version of NASAAN ANG ALPHA AT OMEGA?)
