Rogelio L. Ordoñez's Blog, page 8

Rajima Jamal, 19

(Poem)

skeletal now is the firetree

staring at the sky

the flaming flowers no more

green was it last january

but gone are the leaves now

blown by the feverish

march and april and scattered

on the parched earth

by the sun’s burning breath

rajima would no longer see

the crimson blooming

of the firetree

rajima would no longer hear

the melodious muslim prayers

when dusk kisses the air

in the land made fallow

by the exploitative class

rajima would no longer taste

the ecstacy of durian

rajima would no longer smell

the sweet-sour scent

of pineapple and kumquat.

dismal for three months now

in the morgue

of saif obaidullah hospital

at ras al-khaimah

the cadaver of rajima

only nineteen years old

when death grabbed her

after mohammad sala sultan

cruelly enslaved her

her head repeatedly

slammed upon the wall

her skull cracked

her brain bled

when she refused to be

her master’s horse.

somber for three months now

the remains of rajima

in the morgue

of saif obaidullah hospital

at ras al-khaimah

could not be brought home

to her beloved mindanao

for her lifeless body

to just embrace

the skeleton of the firetree

for her to just be showered

with ilang-ilang petals

and sampaguita leis

for her to just be gifted

in her bucolic wake

some biscuits and toast bread

before her earthen body

depart to nowhere

amidst the elegy

of the cadena de amor

cogon and wild grass.

abandoned still is rajima

in the dampness of the morgue

while snoring in his sleep

the fucking filipino consul

dreaming, cohabiting maybe

with the said miraculous

well-known virgin de buenviaje

inside the palace of the indios

grinning like a horse

the inutile egoistic king

toying in his scheming mind

how to stay in power forevermore

who is rajima jamal?

only a domestic helper from mindanao

neither a member of a royal family

nor a kin of “honorable” men

in the abominable bureaucracy

why bother to crack your brain

if her body could not be returned

to her beloved homeland?

may pity spring from the emir’s heart

sheik saqr bin mohammad al-qassimi

maybe he’s the only hope

so rajima could go home at last

to her dear la tierra pobreza.

how many are the rajima jamals

strewn like debris by the hurricane

of injustice and poverty

who decided to migrate

in whatever foreign land

to escape from the bastion

of grief and hopeless dreams

in their barren la tierra pobreza?

bleeding is my brain

everytime the world’s rajima jamals

swim in its veins

boiling is its squirting blood

like when elham mahdi shuee

the twelve year-old yemeni gal

was forced to marry at once

her ovary burst and later died

after three days of truculent honeymoon

fortunate was elham mahdi shuee

unlike the migrant rajima jamal

in yemen already elham’s remains.

when will the embalmed rajima

be brought home at last

to our la tierra pobreza?

(My modified English version of RAJIMA JAMAL, 19. Rajima was a domestic helper from Mindanao who died in the United Arab Emirates after being beaten by her master when she repulsed his sexual advances.)

Am Hearing Your Lamentations

(Poem)

am hearing your lamentations

la tierra pobreza

land of poverty and sorrow

land saturated by the blood

of the oppressed class

disgraced by injustices

enslaved by exploitation

your cries reverberating

on the wings of the easterly wind

yes, am hearing your lamentations

even on the chirping of the sparrows

piercing and slashing my soul

on nights the pallid moon prays

on mornings like tears

the dewdrops descend

on the yellowish grass

on middays the asphalted streets

groan under the burning sun

on dusks the angry waves

bash the lonely shore.

yes, am hearing your cries

la tierra pobreza

in the thunder’s rumbling

in the ashen sky

in the lightning’s hissing

in the darkness of night

in the flowing of water

down the mountain’s heart

yes, am hearing your sorrows

la tierra pobreza

in the mumblings of wives

who lost their husbands

shrouded in hidden graves

am hearing it

in the orisons and novenas

of so many sisa*

crispin* could be found no more

buried somewhere

by the forces of darkness

or left to rot

in a stinking jail

or abandon to decompose

in the sea’s bottom

not a mere shadow

of his skeleton

looms no more.

yes, am hearing your lamentations

la tierra pobreza

in the flowing sweats

of emaciated workers and farmers

in the growling of empty stomachs

in the clanking of tin cans

in some garbage dumps

in the creaking

of torn galvanized sheets

on roofs of demolished shanties

beside the murky canal

from tripa de gallina

to canal de la reina

am hearing your grief

la tierra pobreza

in houses bulldozed

in some public lands

now your wretched offsprings

are mere stray dogs and cats

roaming around the black night.

yes, lurking in my ears

your lamentations

la tierra pobreza

anywhere in this planet

your unfortunate people are

strewn by the wind of poverty

scattered like debris

in cruel foreign lands

as hope is now skeletal

and joy is shattered to pieces

in your land made barren

by the exploitative class

yes, la tierra pobreza

“not all are sleeping

“in the darkness of night”

they also are hearing

your calls

their eyes burning with desire

to pulverize, at last

your prison walls!

(my modified English version of my NARIRINIG KO ANG IYONG PANAMBITAN. *Sisa is a poor mother — a character in Jose Rizal’s novel Noli Me Tangere or Touch Me Not — who lost her son *Crispin after being beaten to death by a sacristan of a Spanish friar)

Am No Writer

(Poem)

am no writer

unlike those glorified in books

or showered with praises and perfumes

on a glittering, dignified stage

am just a simple encoder

of an unjust society’s realities

a narrator of the wretched lives

of slaves of injustices

of those hanged by exploiters

on the calvary of tears and grief

of those whose rights and dignity

are mere piece of tattered cloth

for wiping the rectum and feet

of political and economic lords

on the altar of mammonism.

am no poet

talkative only is my tongue

weaving plaited words

to curse evil demigods

plundering by the hour

the people’s hard-earned fund

they who are great bandits

masquerading as nationalists

in the city’s palaces

always entombming the masses

in revolting, despicable lives

always selling the people’s future

by licking the scrotum and anus

of scheming rapist foreign masters.

am no writer

am just a composer

of notes lingering in my ears

sobs of praying mothers

laments of dying fathers

who can’t get hold an aspirin

outcries of orphans

who can’t afford buying

miserable wooden coffins

yes, lingering in my ears

the rumbling of a twisted stomach

the crunching of bones

in some factories of greed

the blasting of a demolished house

beside the stinking putrid canal

the chattering of galvanized sheets

on dilapidated peeled-off roofs

the hissing of breath

of sweating emaciated farmers

in haciendas and fields of grief

the wailing of hungry children

prostrate on cemented sidewalks

of criss-crossing city streets

yes, the lamentations of the poor

anywhere injustices and oppression reign.

am no writer

am just a painter

of decaying wounded images

lurking in my memories

the brush kissing the canvass

through reddish paint

detailing nauseating scenes

in the land of discontent

worm-infested limbs

termites gnawing someone’s chest

guts quivering, bleeding

stomachs with bullet holes

faces skinned every inch

butchered naked bodies

devoid of sacred dignity

while the ruling class

sucks the blood of the poor

and feasting madly

in the fort of addicting power

masticating boiled flesh and bone

stewed heart and liver

beveled noses and gouged eyes

of the exploited, oppressed class.

am no writer

am no poet

am just an encoder

am just a narrator

am just a composer

am just a painter

am just a singer

of revolting realities

in this pus-inflicted society

with neither civility nor dignity

due to the predator ruling class

obssessed to make

their pockets and bellies

bulge forevermore

with stolen blessings

and repugnant wealth!

(my modified English version of DI AKO MANUNULAT)

Shedding Tears Of Blood Are The Flowers

(Poem)

blossoming now is the cadena de amor

on the grave’s tin can marker

of ka pedro the peasant

who died with phlegm

as crimson as gumamela

every morning

he incessantly coughed it up

he passed away

with a bitter, wrinkled face

and tired fungi-infested feet

the fireflies on the acacia leaves

held vigil for a few nights

the shuddering old carabao

mourned his death beside

the mango tree’s protruding roots

he was offered coffee, biscuits and toasts

on his miserable, ignominous wake

blessed he only

by the moist flowers of the poor

and the candle’s tears of servitude

faded blue denim pants

collared polo toyed by time

and ashen memories of yesteryears

embraced him within the black world

of a wooden coffin so weak and thin.

now kneeling is the plow

under the nipa hut’s shade

the prickles and grass

praying in the desolate field

in muddy backyard and paddies

hope now has broken knees

with ka pedro’s abrupt departure

from the barren earth of discontent

angelus now in the dark

are the bird’s haunting songs

reeking of exploding gunpowder

is the sunset’s breath

living skeletons roaming around

in every ricefield

the plow’s notes humming

the melody of the dead

shedding tears of blood

are the flowers

in every lamenting night

in desolate fields of broken dreams

when shall the sharpened cutlass write

the elusive freedom on the earth’s breast?

when shall the sickle harvest

the sacred thousand dreams

so no longer would the flowers

shed bloody tears?

for a long time now

ka pedro’s daughter

has been washing

heap and heap of clothes

and mopping so many marble tiles

inside the landlord’s mansion of greed!

(modified English version by ROGENE A. GONZALES of my DUGO ANG INILULUHA NG MGA BULAKLAK)

To The Writers

(Poem)

you, you who cohabit with the pen

where really are you going?

look far beyond the window of your soul

and pierce with your eyes

the wall of misery and despair

look inside every room

of palaces and mansions

and learn to dissect

intestines and biles

you, who thinks as a writer

must enlighten yourself

with the wounded images

on the canvass of life

gloomy eyes gazing at a scoop of rice

bitter lips salivating

for an imaginary slice of meat

on a table street

of gaunt cheeks

of scrawny fingers

and tattered shoes

and palms blistered by servitude

once you squeeze

the bitternes and grief

of scraggy hands

once you feel the message

of the raindrops on the nipa roof

once you understand

the beads dropping on the bamboo floor

once you grieve over

the oil and grease that sting the eyes

the wriggling veins of thinning arms

the blood spilling on streets

mountains and barren fields

then and only then

realize you will

the blazing road to trek

you as a writer

of glaring realities

you as the conscience

of an oppressed race

must heroically tread

the welcoming path

of freedom and glory

for your beloved land!

(modified English version by EMMANUEL V. DUMLAO of my SA MGA MANUNULAT)

A Teaspoon Of Tears

(Poem)

i can’t help myself

from offering you

a teaspoon of tears

when you were embraced

by amarillo and dewy shrub

only a chorus of crickets

bade lamenting goodbye

to your fallen earthen body

which gloriously shed blood

in the long struggle

to advance the sacred cause

of the oppressed masses.

yes, a teaspoon of tears

i can only offer

on your heroic departure

and when i retire

on the bamboo bed

vivid memories of our struggle

will keep coming back

and i’ll search

for a slice of heaven

by peeking through a hole

on the cheeks of a thatched roof

i will paint on the canvass of my mind

the naked beauty

of a society without chains

free from exploitation and oppression

of the ruling class

with breath as sweet-scented

of a newly harvested grains of palay

pounded on a molave-made mortar

of sacred everlasting freedom.

yes, only a teaspoon of tears

my sincere gift on your departure

but always within it

the undying revolting consciousness

of an oppressed race

and the simmering blood

like flowing rivers

meandering in the land of discontent

to awaken the violent west wind

to smash the fortress of misery

in the rotten empire of the exploiters

in the land they made barren

yes, a teaspoon of tears

will soon transform

into beautiful sparkling pearls

of our dream for a just society!

(modified English version by ROGENE A. GONZALES of my ISANG KUTSARITANG LUHA)

The Ruling Class Will Also Crumble

(Poem)

demon! son of a bitch!

in la tierra pobreza

will also crumble

the empire of the demigod ruling class

in like graveyard ricefield and hacienda

in like coffin factory and shop

in like morgue church and chapel

demon! son of a bitch!

hail mary, mother of god…

in every gear’s turn

in every bolt’s twirl

in every hammered nail

in every sawn lumber

in every fitted hinge

in every poured cement

in every erected edifice

demon! son of a bitch!

i hear the grating of teeth

the hissing of breath

and the howling of gut

being crushed is my brain

by the ode of anguish and grief.

god the father

god the son

goddess the holy spirit

in every bite of the plow

into the soil to make a furrow

in every slash of the machete

through the jumbled grassland

and vast sugarcane field

in every ground plowed

demon! son of a bitch!

for heaven’s sake…

i see the springing sweat

on a laborer’s forehead

cascading to his temple

crawling over his breast

down to his abdomen

treading along the spine

and slacking on the tailbone

yes, god of abraham

holy water it will be

to bless the indio’s scrotum and groin

yes, my revolting heart is tormented

by the unceasing thrust

and assault of injustices!

demon! son of a bitch!

the ruling class will also crumble

the fortress of servitude

will be finally torn down

in vast haciendas

the landlords will grovel

in factories and companies

the capitalists will all wail

the talahib grass will soon bear flowers

on mountain slopes and plateus

on swiddens and savannas in every valley

even if repeatedly burnt to ashes

it will live like a phoenix

will be transformed again and again

in the rustle of spasming westerly wind

again and again will dance

the immaculate flowers

the slaves will not remain blind

upon the pealing of the surging dawn

in la tierra pobreza

the ruling class will be deafened

by the resounding shrill of trumpets

and the clanking of shattered chains!

(modified English version by EMMANUEL V. DUMLAO of Magwawakas Din Ang Naghaharing-Uri)

When You Bade Goodbye

(Poem)

when you bade goodbye

not a tear fell

on the dew-filled blades of grass

not a single bead

merged with the spattering rain

not a sob moaned

with the creaking bamboo plants

not even an acrid smile

dawned on your lips

the cruel breeze tossed

your waist-length hair

our hands clasped not

our bodies mingled not

in a tight embrace of farewell

but in our warm stares

lingered the granite of our oneness

with the sacred aspirations of the masses

i had nothing to offer you then

save a few pats on your shoulder

and some implied messages

as you set your journey

toward the waiting liberated mountain.

when you bade goodbye

you didn’t express

what was in your heart

you didn’t explain

your firm decision

your lips locked

with the chilly and crying dawn

but ablaze were your eyes

which made me understand

the whip of thunderbolt in your mind

the surge of blood in your vein

that drained not only into your body

but into each fiber of the flesh

of the oppressed class

of those chained in haciendas

and vast ricefields not theirs

of those enslaved by machines

in every shop and factory of greed

of those whose dreams were crumbled

by the injustices

of an inhuman society

and corrupt bureaucracy

yes, neither a speck of doubt

nor a prayer of safety

you needed then in your heroic march

towards the peoples’ liberation and glory!

when you bade goodbye

i humbly bowed before your leaving

i don’t expect i could still hear

your reverberating voice

in the streets of protests

i could see no more

the flicking of your hands

as you stressed your points

and explained the moss-covered

society’s maladies

that cry out for urgent remedies

yes, we could no longer share

a plate of rice and simple viand

in the canteen of discontent

yes, amanda de los reyes

am expecting no longer

you’d still come back

as long as our time remains

veiled with gloom

as long as the bleak dawn

is not yet an scarlet morn

as long as grayish is the hour

like when you bade goodbye.

(modified English version by Emmanuel V. Dumlao of Nang Magpaalam Ka)

Dance We Will

(Poem)

dance we will

by the blazing fire

set aflame by shadows

now mere heap of skeletons

our memories will merge

times can’t pluck

the flowers of a dream

that blossomed in our heart

petals they are

of million gumamelas

red petals

on the wall of memory

a leaven in the undying pledge

of our unyielding bloody struggle.

dance we will

by the blazing fire

like the zulus of south africa

like the incas of manco capac

in tahuantinsuyo’s empire

like the mayas of chiapas

yucatan and tabasco

of mesoamerican’s civilization

will pierce through our heart

like an arrow

the gaze of eyes welling

with the tears of sorrow

of a race long oppressed

will flow through our veins

the wrath of emaciated limbs

the revolt of scrawny breasts.

dance we will

by the blazing fire

and in our blood will writhe

the smoldering dream

carried by the wings

of the spasming wind

either on barren hills

or on lonely shores

we will awaken the slaves

in the night of wake

of the flickering stars

while across the sky

wanders a mound of clouds

of moss-covered dreams.

yes, dance we will

by the blazing fire

until the flying embers

spread our radiant hope

until the leaves bear

our unsullied love

until our raging breath

chases the elusive freedom

dungeoned by the lords of misery

the fire will not die

its flame could not be put off

by the hissing of bullets

from the garrison of injustice

yes, the fire will die not

while we are dancing!

(modified English version by EMMANUEL V. DUMLAO of Magsasayaw Kita)

In The Veranda Of Memories

(Poem)

the whole days and nights

are passing by

in the veranda of memories

drifting in the sea of consciousness

frames glaring with gory pictures

like rebellious scenes

through the pupil’s screen

breaking the skull of my mind

why? why?

the pustulous images terrify

slamming my dumbfounded face

drumming my heaving chest

howling in my sweltering blood!

perpetually present are

in the veranda of memories

pictures as forlorn as naked corpse

sharp lancet slashing my flesh

images engraved in my mind

by a vicious sculptor

imprinted in my eyes

by the greedy painter

butchered bodies

blood with crawling ants

brain torn to pieces

skeletal arms

muddled garbage

sunken eyes

emaciated cheeks

withered legs

fungi-infested feet

blistery palms

worn-out shoes

children lying in the sidewalks

children barefooted in the streets

innocent lad with no milk

mothers weeping

fathers praying

hut genuflecting in the backyard

house in the crawling canal

spring of sweat

in the forehead and body

of workers and peasants

cracking bones of the poor

all these are gray sceneries in the afternoon

black paint in the pallid moon

gory images that refuse to leave

my battered sanity and consciousness.

why? why?

whether in the chilly morning

or in the night of ave marias

ever lingering

in the veranda of memories

the pictures i abhorred to see

never, never visit me forevermore

never, never appear before my eyes

pictures orphaned by joy

the blood in my veins will boil

the tissues in my brain will be aflame

the fingers crushed by misery

desire not to strum a guitar

the voice turned hoarse

in the streets of protests

rejects to hum lingering love songs.

in the veranda of memories

may the painters of new justice

draw new sceneries

may the fortress of joy

be sculpted

in the city’s bosom

in the breast of hill and mountain

in the barren land

of a desolate field

in the veranda of memories

i am fervently waiting

for the violent deluge

the surge of blood

in palaces of greed

the whip of lightning

on the barbaric monsters

the burst of flame

on the demonic rulers

then, and only then…

will burn down

will vanish forevermore

the images i abhorred to see

in the veranda of memories!

(modified English version by Laurence Marvin S. Castillo of Sa Beranda Ng Mga Alaala)