A Rural View Of My Village
today the women wearing buri hats are planting rice
on the muddy rice fields of Katipunan
the sun is up
the petals of white flowers are
still holding on to their dews
the finches are flying low
and hovering on the grass
the buffaloes are grazing on the field
the children are chasing chickens
and playing with the dogs
the amor secos are growing wild still uncut
as the some men are singing songs with their old guitars
a wooden sled filled with wood is hauled by a big spotted cow
the path is covered with stones that grate their sounds in the open air....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Southern California
how i wish to say:
'You are so beautiful
Southern California...
i see
In Southern California
the wine makers
Planting their grapes
in their fields '
but i have never been
to Southern California
and i would be lying
if not bluffing to say
the same,
but let me (see) er, SAY:
Barangay Dos, Katipunan
You are so beautiful to me
the muscled arms of
Filipino farmers are plowing
the brown muddy fields
while the women bow down
wearing their buri hats
planting the rice......
i am watching them
under a tree
the wind blows
on my luxury.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The White Herons And The Black Buffaloes
the harvest season is over
the women had gone to their homes
with their men and children
around the table of wood
dinner of fish and rice
the family eats as one
how close can a family be
in love and friendship
last night the rain poured heavily again
flooding the rice fields
this early morning before the sun rises
the black buffaloes graze and
then wade in the muddy waters
above their heads the white herons are flying low
gracefully hovering and landing
at their backs
some stand beside their thick skins
pecking for lice
how close can these creatures be
on friendship consistently
symbiotically designed
by nature's hands
sometimes i wish
we can be like all these
on a friendship without vested interest
on love platonic
in sickness and in health
......
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Counting
fifteen heads of buffaloes
grazing on the rice fields
twenty in all are the mounds
of rice husks
this harvest season
ten heads of men bowing
down to earth
sixteen heads of women
singing a summer song
a moon still up the crown
of mahogany tree
this early morning
a lone bird flies away
from me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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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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Inspired by Issa - your rice field, my rice field
your rice field, my rice field
the road between that leads
to our dreams in tokyo
your rice field, my rice field
the road between that leads
to our sons in tokyo
inspired
your rice field
my rice field
the same green
-Issa,1815
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Mountain Of Poverty
this is what i can tell you:
the children are running in the hills
looking for their favorite butterflies to play
chasing dreams, i suppose, who knows
what they really know and
feel, i was once a child myself, perhaps i have the right to guess
what simple wants they have,
freedom, but i can tell you about something else,
their breakfast today is only brown sugar and rice,
and they have not taken their baths in the river because
the water is dirty, and there is no water system in the hills,
primitive, and still undeveloped, the grasses are not cut
tall and wild, and the coconut trees are not bearing much fruits,
there is drought, and the tenants do not have a good harvest
of their upland rice and there are rats infesting the rice fields,
it rains so hard, the road is slippery and we all have to walk slowly
to keep themselves warm, the men drink wine and smoke
the women do not weave mats anymore, they're sold cheap
and they are so disappointed with what they are getting
sugar is a precious commodity here, no coffee,
salt is expensive, salted fish is a luxury,
bread is like gold here and children do not know what is bread all about
cookies do not exist here
stone age, this is stone age in the midst of an expanding world
the children here are left out
i stare at them as they throw stones at play,
dirt and foul smell, but on the other hand i look at the pictures
that i took on that day
less the smell, less the dirt on their faces,
they are so beautiful, and the mountains are still hopeful.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Have To Walk Away Again Looking For The Fresh Air
one finds a hard time nowadays
looking for fresh air
i step over a good view of the rice fields
from an Asian perspective
the rice fields are flowering
dews still sticking on the blades of grass
the sun is slowly rising from the mountains
a lot of fog hang on the sides
coconut trees are towering
not much winds today from the sea
a middle aged farmer stands under a tree
with his sweater on and his long bolo on his side
smoking his cigar
the woman in the house is cooking mud fish for breakfast
meanwhile she goes out and
starts a fire under the mango tree
burning a rubber tire
to drive some insects away
which she thinks are destroying
the tiny white flowers of
the tree
i smell the smoke coming from the cigar
it is floating in the air
the smoke from the rubber tire burning
is choking me
somehow that is what is being done to this world
brought about by ignorance and superstition and bad habits
i have to walk away again
looking for the fresh air
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Simply Like The Word Roost
and its variations,
refer to the latest poem i wrote on the word
ensconce, it is roost that you use, which signifies
about chickens
but honestly i prefer the pegions
which we had
once in my youth
the boy who chased and hit birds
feeding on our rice
drying under the sun
and i did not know what i did
stoning birds and killing them
not really thinking
that they would be happier
and nicer to see
when they are alive
and flying and feeding
on the pavements where
rice is abundant and
it woudl have been more
memorable if i feed
them myself
with rice on my palms
which i never really did
because in my place
a boy is a boy and he must
hit the birds with stones
from his slingshot
until i have seen real birds
and real people shot
and killed on the fields
like birds but
with real ammunitions
from government armalites
and brothers
killing brothers
which really bothers
me a lot
until now
when finally i get tired of thinking
when i simply write
poems and poems, not judgments
not commands, just feelings
like hot and cold, fever and the coldness
of death
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You rice-field maidens -
The only things not muddy
Are the songs you sing
haiku by Konishi Raizan
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Usual Human Situation
it rains today
the dogs are inside the house
resting their heads on
beige tile floors
outside the roads are
busy with cellophane covered
pedicabs
women with colored umbrellas
men with their hats on
some children are playing under the rain
and as usual
i am in my own comfort zone
watching
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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6 o'clock in the morning at KNAS gym
i sit on the tenth stair of this public gym
of this university overlooking an oval
a field of green grass
circled by this road of sand and gravel
and muddy on some occasional rains
three men all covered, head and body and feet
from a distance carry the sprayers
on their backs, the usual pesticide
to kill the army worms that attack the rice plants
the air has turned poisonous, i can see the killer mist
around them as they keep on pumping the tubes at their backs
i ponder on the significance of men
poisoning its atmosphere, adulterating the freshest air in the morning
that nature has freely given
some white herons come flying on some green spots of the field
perhaps eating the worms and bugs killed by the poisoned droplets
i guess with the poisoned worms for their diet
i have read sometime
their eggs will turn off-white, and the shells are weakened
and the chicks feed by their poisoned blood
may not even grow to be stronger birds
some eggs will not experience hatching and the white herons
cannot do a thing about their misery
some dogs too come by perhaps curious about the smell of the
morning air,
a black dog runs around the oval, a white dog stays lying
on one of the manmade dikes
the poisoning takes about an hour and when it is over
the men take of their clothes and wipe their bodies
on the same clothes
some of them i heard have suffered diseases
like bloated livers and soft bones and they die without having
seen the right doctors,
they are poor hired workers of this college
i look around me, the sun finally comes out
it is still a very fine day i suppose, the mist is gone, the rice plants
are greener than ever,
and then i take my usual walk, thinking again,
for all that men do, poisoning and destroying nature,
will there be revenge? retaliation? repercussion?
i am crazy. How can nature ever speak?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poverty
he is arrested today on a charge of grave threats
against his very own aunt who owns a store selling rice and salted fish
and sugar and coffee and eggs and mongo beans
he has nothing to eat and hurt his back and cannot really walk straight
like an ordinary man
yesterday he asksed a little help from his aunt for he was so hungry and had not eaten his breakfast as last night it rained so hard and his lamp went out andcould not catch the american frogs on the pond that taste like chickens for his supper with his mother and two other siblings who are very hungry too and there are no more bananas and potatoes in their farm which did not yield a good harvest of rice as the cost of fertilizer has gone more than twice their price last month and they have nothing to spray to kill the army worms
and the clerk asks if they have no chickens and there is none as all died
because of bird flu that came too early this year
and he was too angry because his aunt would not give them a little rice
or at least let them borrow for the meantime that they have no work
because the municipality is laying off all the casual employees that dig
the ditch along the muddy road
and so he threatened his aunt as he was so hungry and he took the chupa of
rice and a cup of mongo beans and a piece of salted fish for home
and so he is arrested today not just for grave threats but also for theft
he is the thief
that hunger and anger have successfully molded before our very eyes
that know no pity no compassion, and we shall now ask:
what is the verdict your honor? is he guilty as charged?
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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Open For A Moment, Even Just For A Moment
open your hands you may soon close them
like the child playing his fingers to the moon.
open your mind you have nothing to lose
there is everything to gain even for a moment
i have seen how the flowers open their petals
during the rain and how some petals even fall
to the ground and get crushed and muddy but
oh, i have seen how meaningful it was, how
beautiful the surrender no matter how poignant.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Traditional Panorama
cows spotted thick
skins grazing on the green
field with golden rays of
sunshine
early morning
birds flying hovering
on tree branches
fences, and boundaries
cottage of a farmer
blue clouds now starting
to hover in place
a girl singing butterflies
mother milking the cows
and father beginning
to plow the corn field
no plane above the skies
no rockets
at night some meteors
fall,
wishing stars and
zodiac escapades
from the numbing routine
of traditions
no one escapes
the panorama is closed and
strict
the characters are born
marry, beget children,
and then they die
and get buried
years and years
leaves fall, there are no questions.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Day I Hate Rice
The day I hate rice
Is several rare day in a year
When I don't eat rice
I don't want to eat rice
I don't want to see it
Because I hate its taste
And I hate to think about it
If I have the day I hate rice
Then you'll know that I don't feel well
I'm bored of this procession
I want to run from this life
Because I begin to hate myself
...just a little while
And everything will be back to normal again
That's the meaning of
The day I hate rice
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Plow Of My Papa
today is the last day to sell the plow of my papa
it is a necessary part of his lifetime
in fact
his lifetime is the plow itself that made the lines
of his own poetry in the fields
of rice and corn
today another man shall have it
at the price we all wanted
we have sold all that he had
the land, the house, the trees he planted
when he was still alive
when he was still strong and cruel and so imposing
this is his only plow
and we have dedided to dispose it finally
to any man
we are now at the stage of reconstructing our lives
and the plow of papa must go
we shall have our own fields now of rice and corn
on a white canvass we draw
the new sun, its color shall be warm, something new really
to the feel of our skins
the darker ones shall be replaced by the flowing color
of the clouds like feathers of birds always ready to fly away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Even though you tread slowly over your rice field it will become muddy.
Muddy
The rice planters
Are all muddy
Except their dreams
of rain and songs
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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