En.Citatepedia^®.ro

A composition in a ricefield

The white herons
Are commas
The carabaos are periods

An eagle flying over my head
Is the head note

The trees are the margins
And the fences

The nipa huts
Are footnotes

The rice field is one big
Pad of paper

And so this is the composition
Of a ricefield

Commas on top of periods
Two head notes will do
Four footnotes
Can make a story of a village

My hand is always the ampersand
And I think
Like there are no carabaos on this pad of paper.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Existences

Fenced carabaos of this Agricultural college Thrive on limited spread of grass Man-made They look forward To angles and rows of green hills and valley And clear flowing creeks To the other side The white herons, (wild ducks, sparrows, and mayas)
Fly above trees and (daffodils) And land on paddies with flecks Of surface mud fishes and tadpoles and mosquito larvae

I see The sparrows rest In flocks Lining up On electric cables Or Power Lines Watching army Worms and golden shells (kuhol) etching slowly, eating green greedily On rice and grass stalks

An owl hovers (the late owl, where was it last night?) On the island of twigs On an old mango tree (balding & ugly & dying)

No wonder The white herons (about twenty in all, I counted them patiently on digital cam) taunt The carabaos (muddy and thin as grasses were cut and cleaned by ROTC cadettes on Sundays, I can’t rationalize why the grass population be reduced) fenced On a limited supply of Manmade grass and Growth controlled

They wing finally when I got near them Lightly like blown leaves
This February wind And land on Carabaos’ backs Gleaning for lice Feasting on some pecking and swallowing & pecking again

Thriving on carabaos’ Hairs and skin some creatures though still

On the other side of the landscape A thin brown, woman With a buri hat And a rattan basket on one hand and a sack on the other Leans over A dry ricefield Gleaning for leftovers of palay

Beside her but not that really near The man drives the white herons Away to the other side of the island of banana trunks
Then he goes to the carabaos Their wet noses tied to an abaca roof and tied again to the cemented posts of this accredited agricultural college spreading about two hectares of stupidity

The questions about lice and herons and carabaos and grasses
And golden snails, tadpoles and mud fishes and sparrows died

The lice are free Feeding away from The eating white herons
They have flown away since then to the other side of my world

By now the flock of Sparrows On the electric cables or power lines Wing their way To a farther town as I leave them fast for lack of time for shortness of serendipity for lack of interest

There are pebbles inside my shoes.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Rural Scene

a line of carabaos grazing
on a newly harvested ricefield
behind an abandoned nipa hut
some wilted grass and dry leaves

shadows of hills and mountains
tall coconut trees and a footpath

two little boys holding each other's hands
bound for home on a late afternoon

sunset, red and orange, and then you
leave the place: your pain is subdued.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Upon this paper my life is written

Upon this paper my life is written,
a tree doubled over in pain.
The red ink flows over the skin,
full stops and commas are hair and stars:
eyes of sea left on ships,
destroyed houses, rusting girders.
This paper is as black as the storm,
destroyed villages where there is no fiesta.
This paper burns as reason does,
lightning in the sky flashes in its millions.
This paper is a sky where there is no God,
this paper is alone…
this paper does not fly…
this paper… it is I.

poem by Menotti Lerro from The Poetry of Menotti Lerro (2011), translated by Andrew Mangham, Maria Rosaria La Marca
Submitted by anonym
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Life is a series of commas, not periods.

quote by Matthew McConaughey
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sometimes it seems like there's more footnotes than text. This isn't something we're proud of, and over time we'd like to see our footnotes steadily shrink.

quote by Barry Diller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A View Of This Place That I Remember

the back space of this house
used to be a green ricefield
and there was that tall mango tree
where i used to sit underneath
shading me from the scourging sun
i always remember
the view
of the carabaos grazing
with white herons standing on their back
and blue cottony clouds drifting above

the place is now cemented
with a wall as high as three men added-up
high buildings rise from here
reaching the cottony clouds out there

and the river is no longer a hype
but a big silent hard steel pipe.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Simple life I live

An afternoon walk
Seeing the white birds again
On these green ricefields
And the carabaos wallowing
Refreshing their skins in mud holes

It is the beginning of the
Planting season again
The weeds are uprooted
The plows run again
To make this land arable
The rain comes and too
The sun and the wind

The hills are greener
The trees are blooming
And so are the flowers
Along the footpaths

My dog walks with me
And his friend dog too walks with us
The wind so cool touches my face

The man nearby pastures his carabao
The woman washes some clothes in the river
The waters are still clear reflecting bluer skies
There are no sounds of buses in here

Far from the city in this little village
Where people are still innocent about greed
And grief and self-made confusions
The complications, the sophistications

I can live on a cup of rice, this mudfish,
This glass of water from the rock’s spring
This big banana leaf on my head
And the moon above everything else
And some stars lighting this lovely darkness

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A sensual scribble

I was the scribe who woke up at dawn
Finding a clean sheet of paper
And this glossy sort of ballpoint pen
Having the urge to write
Something sensual
My fingers spread the paper
On this table
Where there is so much disorder
Some paper clips and
Floppy discs scattered
Scotch tapes and mail openers
And some still unopened mails
That I did not mind
Not my priority

I was into something sensual
On this clean sheet of paper
On an urge to write
Grabbed this glossy sort of ballpoint pen
And start scribbling
Some lovely head notes
“My dear darling”
Careful strokes in curves
Sliding on paper
My fingers are wildly
Caressing to the shapes of
Sensual letters and words
And breathtaking sentences

“You know that you make me
Hot and you make me wild
And I always remember you”

And I am at the middle
Of so much longing
Using such letters

U and I
And w and e

Lots of ohs and ahs

And s and e and x
L and o and v and e

To make sense
Without pretense

Some exclamations
And pauses of commas and
Semicolons spread on some
Corners of this paper
With so much
Unstoppable anticipation

Somewhere in the center
I pierced this paper
With this glossy ballpoint pen
Writing something
Emphatic
Clinching
And I was at the height
Of my desiring and
So much liking
Something ecstatic
And calming
At the end

It was a beautiful piece
Of a scribble
Written at dawn

And I wrote at the end part there
“With all my love I remain
Your faithful slave”

And a postscript at the tip
Of my tongue
Written with a nip

“When will I see you again? ”

The letter shall be mailed at once
She will understand that pierce
Somewhere at the center something
That was ecstatic and she will remember
Every letter every word was an ember embedded.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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One Last Letter

writing one last letter...
not sure who it's to
- dont think it matters!

the words are composed of
the things i've done... both
good and bad.

the commas are for my mistakes,
-Lord, we're gonna have a lot of commas!
mistakes both of omission,
and commission...

the periods are for the times
i gave up, quit trying,
lost my way...

but the body of the letter
is filled with hope....
hope that sees things as
they are, and still believes...

i dont have to sign this letter,
it looks, smells, and tastes
like me...

i'll put this letter in the mailbox,
addressed to occupant,
to whomever gets it...

address unknown!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Books

The universe (which others call the library). . .
-Jorge Luis Borges

Books which are stitched up the center with coarse white thread
Books on the beach with sunglass-colored pages
Books about food with pictures of weeping grapefruits
Books about baking bread with browned corners
Books about long-haired Frenchmen with uncut pages
Books of erotic engravings with pages that stick
Books about inns whose stars have sputtered out
Books of illuminations surrounded by darkness
Books with blank pages & printed margins
Books with fanatical footnotes in no-point type
Books with book lice
Books with rice-paper pastings
Books with book fungus blooming over their pages
Books with pages of skin with flesh-colored bindings
Books by men in love with the letter O
Books which smell of earth whose pages turn

poem by Erica Jong
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109

a view of this place that i remember

the back space of this house
used to be a green ricefield
and there was that tall mango tree
where i used to sit underneath
shading me from the scourging sun
i always remember
the view
of the carabaos grazing
with white herons standing on their back
and blue cottony clouds drifting above

the place is now cemented
with a wall as high as three men added-up
high buildings rise from here
reaching the cottony clouds out there

and the river is no longer a hype
but a big silent hard steel pipe.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Giving the carabao feelings of wings

The carabaos are grazing again
It is summer and
The white herons are teeming
On the green fields

Some take the usual sight
Of friendship
The white heron on top
Of the carabao’s back

They are so close I wonder
If there is this familiarity
Between them
Their friendship has lasted
For centuries

They say the white herons
Feed on carabao's lice
And to repay the kindness
The carabao gives the bird
Its free ground ride

I disagree totally
There is no pecking that I see
And there is no distance
Whatsoever that the carabao gives

This is friendship, this is a picture
Of friendship, the heron is giving
The carabao the feel of its white wings.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Home Sweet Home

sunday on a home sweet home
from the city
to this little nipa hut
on top of a hill
that father built

where the guava trees are filled
with ripe fruits
where i climb and gather and taste
the sweetness of its pink flesh

where the carabaos rest
in the coolness of mudholes
where i take my ride on them
in the river nearby

on crystal clear waters
where some fish swim on shallow waters
inviting me to fish and catch them
for lunch of pearl white glutenous rice

and with banana leaves as plates
and some wild chicken's barbecued breast
and with my bare hands and
some childhood friends
we shall take this simple feast

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Twelve Volt Man

Twelve volt man
By: jimmy buffett
1983
For nez and baja bill at alphonsinos
I never got a grip on penmanship
Could never make the small ls flow
Seldom found the trick to arith-a-metic
Three plus two be faux, pas
But ask for some palm trees
Or tales from the south seas
And I just might turn your head
I never had the clout to knock one out
But hitting was the name of my game
Standing on third as the coaches conferred
Close to my first claim to fame
Just give me the steal sign
And Ill make home plate mine
And I just might turn some heads
Sometimes I may get a little drastic
Sometimes I just let my feelins show
Sometimes I may be a bit sarcastic
Most times thats the way the story goes
(instrumental)
Now I now this joe down in mexico
He went there to work on his tan
For years hes been plugged into blenders and songs
They call him the twelve volt man
He dont need no charge card
Just give him a die hard
And hell makes sparks fly round your head
Oh just ask for some palm trees
Or tales from the south seas
And Ill make sparks fly round your head
round your head
In your head
In your head
In your head
In your head
In your head
In your head
In your head...
- notes:
Background vocals: timothy b. schmit

song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Inside The Puppet Head

As your body floats down third street
With the burn-smell factory closing up
Yes its sad to say you will romanticize
All the things youve known before
It was not not not so great
It was not not not so great
And as you take a bath in that beaten path
Theres a pounding at the door
Well its a mighty zombie talking of some love and posterity
He says the good old days never say good-bye
If you keep this in your mind:
You need some lo-lo-loving arms
You need some lo-lo-loving arms
And as you fall from grace the only words you say are
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Ads up in the subway are the work of someone
Trying to please their boss
And though the guys a pig we all know what he wants
Is just to please somebody else
If the pu-pu-puppet head
Was only bu-bu-busted in
It would be a better thing for everyone involved
And we wouldnt have to cry
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Memo to myself: do the dumb things I gotta do
Touch the puppet head
Quit my job down at the carwash
Didnt have to write no-one a good-bye note
That said, the checks in the mail, and
Ill see you in church, and dont you ever change
If the pu-pu-puppet head
Was only bu-bu-busted in
Ill see you after school
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head

song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Put Your Hand Inside The Puppet Head

As your body floats down third street
With the burn-smell factory closing up
Yes its sad to say you will romanticize
All the things youve known before
It was not not not so great
It was not not not so great
And as you take a bath in that beaten path
Theres a pounding at the door
Well its a mighty zombie talking of some love and posterity
He says the good old days never say good-bye
If you keep this in your mind:
You need some lo-lo-loving arms
You need some lo-lo-loving arms
And as you fall from grace the only words you say are
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Ads up in the subway are the work of someone
Trying to please their boss
And though the guys a pig we all know what he wants
Is just to please somebody else
If the pu-pu-puppet head
Was only bu-bu-busted in
It would be a better thing for everyone involved
And we wouldnt have to cry
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Memo to myself: do the dumb things I gotta do
Touch the puppet head
Quit my job down at the carwash
Didnt have to write no-one a good-bye note
That said, the checks in the mail, and
Ill see you in church, and dont you ever change
If the pu-pu-puppet head
Was only bu-bu-busted in
Ill see you after school
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head

song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Goya's Dog

1

in the
two-story
Quinta del Sordo
Goya deaf man himself
(like unlikable Beethoven)
73 now
lives
painting, painting on the walls

2

there is a
dog
just the head looking up
half-submerged
what is it?
is it earth, a hill?
just a dog head,
dog looking up
there is light and shadow
like light behind a child’s lantern
like light golden, shades of dark

there is the indefinable matter below
dog head looking up
the rest is but lantern paper
with the light struggling to show itself
the dog looks up, just its head

poem by Raj Arumugam
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Freedom Bound

Beneath my fingers I feel the smooth silky paper.
Somewhere within my head, a poem’s carefully strung.
Then one will be committed to join with the other,
When it has been carefully sprung.

Beneath my fingers I see the strong tough paper.
Somewhere within my head a poem’s shining through.
Then one will be exhibited, joined with the other,
Where they will be seen, shining new.

Beneath my fingers I hear the crisp firm paper.
Somewhere within my head a poem’s freedom bound.
When one will be entrusted to join with the other,
Then freedom will at last be found.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Reality...two

three well covered farmers
plow the rice fields
beating the carabao
under a drizzle of soft rain
this november

at the right side of this scenery
a herd of carabaos graze
vast expanse of grass and
beside them two children flying kites.

on the telephone wire
two finches watch

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Brain Damage

The lunatic is on the grass.
The lunatic is on the grass.
Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs.
Got to keep the loonies on the path.

The lunatic is in the hall.
The lunatics are in my hall.
The paper holds their folded faces to the floor
And every day the paper boy brings more.

And if the dam breaks open many years too soon
And if there is no room upon the hill
And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.

The lunatic is in my head.
The lunatic is in my head
You raise the blade, you make the change
You re-arrange me 'til I'm sane.
You lock the door
And throw away the key
There's someone in my head but it's not me.

And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear
You shout and no one seems to hear.
And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.

song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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