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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Related quotes
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
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Shadows And Tall Trees
Back to the cold restless streets at night
I talk to myself about tomorrow night
Walls of white protest
A gravestone in name
Who is it now
It's always the same
Who is it now
Who calls me inside
Are the leaves on the trees
Just living disguise
I walk sweet rain tragicomedy
I'll walk home again
to the street melody
But I know, oh no
But I know, oh no
But I know...
Shadows and tall trees
Shadows and tall trees
Shadows and tall trees
Shadows and tall trees
Life through a window
Discoloured pain
Mrs. Brown's washing is always the same
I walk street rain tragicomedy
I'll walk home again
to the street melody
But I know, oh no
But I know, oh no
But I know...
(Out there)
Do you feel in me...
Anything redeeming
Any worthwhile feeling
Is love like a tightrope
Hanging from the ceiling
But I know, oh no
But I know, oh no
But I know...
Shadows and Tall Trees
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Country
i let you drive
as i sit calmly on the rear side of the car,
i do not wish to speak to you
as i watch the countryside
on a very hot summer
rice fields newly harvested
cracking chunks of soil, brown grass, stacks of hay,
trees with yellow leaves, smoke from the house chimneys,
patches of fog hanging on mountains
behind us on this road towards home
dusts, dusts, dusts.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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
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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
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A Windy Afternoon At The Beachfront
under the coconut trees
a nipa hut
a boy on a swing
another boy pushing his toy cart
the little girl on the bamboo stair
hugging her doll
the mother is burning the dry leaves
the father is mending the nets
such a happy family
perhaps, who knows? i do not even know them
i am just passing by
trying to breathe trying to take so much salty air
inside my lungs
on this windy afternoon at the beach front
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mountain View
after the night of love
i sit on the bamboo stair
facing the wide expanse of
mountains before me
beyond the horizon of fog
and smoke from the tiny
houses five hills away
and down the plains the
winding river taking the
usual routes of least resistance
i have seen wild carabaos grazing
white horses running with the
winds and the black birds
flying high seeking their prey
of chicks unprotected by hens.
i am amazed by this macrocosm.
How can some be so greedy amidst
these bounty? Can his hands hold
all the mountains? Can his mouth
drink all the rivers? Can he catch
all the black birds and put them
inside his cage? I know he can't but
i know he will. And that is the reason
why we are here hiding in the bellies
of these big mountains, siding with the
shades of the trees, taking inspiration
from all the stars, the moon and the
boundless sea.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shadows & Tall Trees
Back to the cold restless streets at night
I talk to myself about tomorrow night.
Walls of white protest, a gravestone in name
Who is it now? its always the same.
Who is it now? who calls me inside
Are the leaves on the trees just a living disguise?
I walk the sweet rain tragicomedy
Ill walk home again to the street melody.
But I know oh no
But I know oh no
I know
Shadows and tall trees
Shadows and tall trees
Life through a window, a discoloured pain
Mrs. browns washing is always the same
I walk the sweet rain tragicomedy
Ill walk home again to the street melody.
But I know oh no
But I know oh no
I know.
(out there)
Do you feel in me, anything redeeming,
Any worthwhile feeling
Is life like a tightrope? hanging on my ceiling.
But I know oh no
But I know oh no
I know
Shadows and tall trees ....
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When That Flower Wilted
on the path
one late afternoon
that wild flower wilted
its life was too short
yet it bloomed in full beauty
that noonday
no one noticed it
except the sunset
fading in pastel orange
then the world turns
into a black sky
that flower remains so true
inside my mind
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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the Filipino Poem 1
As written by Bimboy a grade two pupil in
Olingan elementary school section sampaguita:
The sun comes to my barrio this morning
It peeps between two hills and on the side
Is our nipa hut and on the ricefield my father
Pasturing the carabao while mother cooks the
Mudfish in the kitchen while my sister looks
Out the window and waives at me who is
Holding this pen writing this poem on paper.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rat 6
do you remember
rice fields? try imagining
the green rice fields,
put some hills
more hills, and put a gap
between two hills,
and put the sun
shining brightly
and then put some black
buffaloes grazing at the
foot of the hills,
and then on the left side
try putting a nipa hut
a window and a little girl
looking out for sparrows
and on the right side
put the running river and
a jumping fish
do you still think that this
could be your home?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Over The Hills
The old hound wags his shaggy tail,
And I know what he would say:
It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills, and away.
There's nought for us here save to count the clock,
And hang the head all day:
But over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
Here among men we're like the deer
That yonder is our prey:
So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The hypocrite is master here,
But he's the cock of clay:
So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The women, they shall sigh and smile,
And madden whom they may:
It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
Let silly lads in couples run
To pleasure, a wicked fay:
'Tis ours on the heather to bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The torrent glints under the rowan red,
And shakes the bracken spray:
What joy on the heather to bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The sun bursts broad, and the heathery bed
Is purple, and orange, and gray:
Away, and away, we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
poem by George Meredith
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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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A Sort Of A Poem Upon Arriving At The Mountain Hut
where it is? the native points to the place
using his nose. It is just near he said while chewing his betel nut.
we pass three winding rivers
and five hills on footpaths with mud and grass as tall as us along the way.
we finally arrive at the foot of a hill
below it a nipa hut
there is no one there
i curl up and take my sleep
meanwhile the fog swallows everything
just us.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Shall Not Look For You
you are gone
and you leave no note on the bed
i stare outside this room
and sees a field of grass
shadows of mountains
and a sunset
i shall not look for you
i am confident that now you have finally found a home
deep inside yourself you shall sing
and knowing that at last you are happy with yourself
i, too shall move on, close the door and take the walk
on the other side of the fence
it is nighttime and there are stars in the sky
i lay myself on the cold grass and i do not shiver a bit.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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136 Syllables at Rocky Mountain Dharma Center
Tail turned to red sunset on a juniper crown a lone magpie cawks.
Mad at Oryoki in the shrine-room -- Thistles blossomed late afternoon.
Put on my shirt and took it off in the sun walking the path to lunch.
A dandelion seed floats above the marsh grass with the mosquitos.
At 4 A.M. the two middleaged men sleeping together holding hands.
In the half-light of dawn a few birds warble under the Pleiades.
Sky reddens behind fir trees, larks twitter, sparrows cheep cheep cheep
cheep cheep.
poem by Allen Ginsberg
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Shallow Thoughts...
along the shores
where the salty vines have covered our tracks
the coconuts are growing tall
and being so nearly planted
their leaves reach for each other
in a little distance
the heaps of dry leaves and husks
make a mountain
and now covered by the vines
and so concealed
beyond this place is a grass-less space
it is where most of the strangers stay
the mass of people gather
and bask under the sun
the gates here are closed more often
there are no kids
neither are there old people who take
their leisure here
this is my own place
so private and so deserted
i would like to call it another solitude
but the coconut trees without nuts
on this rainy December
signify otherwise
it is lonely, the hut speaks.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Old Nipa Hut In Shambles...
in the middle of the rice field
after the harvest
March, wet days, the nipa hut
stands alone
the grasses have grown tall
no one arrives neither someone leaves
abandoned, the heart sometimes
cannot anymore remember
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Lonely Bird On The Electric Wire
this afternoon i take a walk leading to the farm
it is harvest time
and i see the harvesters cutting the rice stalks filled with golden grains
they would group what they gather at a certain place
mounds and mounds of rice grains this time of a bumper year
on the other side are carabaos grazing
lots of grass to graze adding the recently cut rice stalks
i look at the clouds white and blue and shades of both
my attention is however caught by a single bird perched on the electrical wire connecting two poles about 30 meters apart
it is alone there
and i move closely to see whether it is really a bird
indeed it is one of the sparrows in the ricefield
but so unlike the rest it
it is sitting there alone.
our eyes met.
and i tell my wife about this lonely bird.
she says i am just making a metaphor
i sit alone in my garden now after dining
and i wonder if the bird flew back to its nest or to some territory of its own
where their species also live
and i wonder if the bird must be also telling the other birds that it saw
a man walking alone on that path leading to the farm
and unlike other men he prefers to walk alone
and i also think that perhaps the bird would also take issue about the fact that indeed
our eyes met
and i know the other birds would say
that it is nothing but also a sort of metaphor and to the least that
it is nothing but a kind of fable.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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