En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Rice Fields

newly dressed
by the plow's caress
the rice fields
regal themselves
in brown skirts

islets of water
from a distance
appear like dew

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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The Arrival Of The Sparrows

at first glance they look like stones raining
on the fields

my surprise is immense

i am stunned

when i get near
ah, these are the small brown sparrows
from faraway
landing on the
rice-fields of the fields of hay

the village sings again!

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Maya

little brown birds with grey beaks and a patch of black
on their heads
three of them
drinking water on a pond of water created
by the little rain this morning

as i go near them
they all look at me and then in a sudden
they all fly away leaving some ripples in the
muddled pond

i never think of them as my enemies
they all leave at once
i do not have a gun
or a club or a slingshot

what i have in my hands are rice grains, nothing but rice grains
yes, rice grains for all of them

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Complete Fool

'For clarification purposes...
Let me say this,
I am not an idiot.
Nor have I ever been an idiot!
I love brown rice.
I have always loved brown rice.
And those accusations to the contrary
Are hurtful allegations
To erode my many years of public service!
That I kept this to myself...
And away from those who trusted my decisions,
For more than fourty years...
I did so in the hopes that the gas I passed
Would go away!
It did so in past encounters!
When at the time,
I chose to wear my open toed sandals!
For that...
I regret.
I know now I should have worn my wingtips!

I repeat...
I am not an idiot.
I have never been an idiot.
I love brown rice.
I have always loved brown rice.
That I pleaded guilty...
I deeply regret!
And have since sought counseling
From a noted nutritionist,
To help me with my diet!
And decide how to best deal with this situation.

And again...
With the hopes that I am totally convincing...
I am not an idiot.
Nor have I ever been an idiot.
I love brown rice.
I have always loved brown rice.
I may be a complete fool...
But an idiot,
I am not! '

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Request To The Dead

I offer this water to you,
my father, grandfather and great grandfather,
and to you, soldiers and generals
who fought for us and who fought against us
and who were killed by this war.

I stand here, on this battlefield,
and give this water and this rice to you—
you must be hungry and thirsty.

Ask for nothing
other than water and rice,
don't add to the long list
of things I was not able to give;
be content with this water and this rice
and return
to wherever you came from.

Consider this: the years
I have spent with you were many;
and this: it will not be long
before I join you wherever you sojourn.
Had I possessed things
other than this water and this rice,
would I have denied them to you
and asked you to return ?
Whatever I have
other than this water and this rice
are surely not appropriate offerings
for departed souls.

True, I traverse everyday of my life
with this baggage of witheld things,
but whenever I look at them
I disintegrate and cry out
with a voice that rends
the heavens
and the underworld.
Tears fill my eyes
when I make this offering
of water and rice.
I know, when my turn comes,
I shall have neither.

Look, the sun has almost set.
Now, go back to wherever you came from
with the little water and the little rice I gave you.
Look, I myself do not have
either any water or any rice.
Look, I have nothing except the few things
I didn't give
and kept with myself.

[Translated by the poet]

poem by Ramakanta Rath
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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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Rice

Rice.
This time,
Spare us the gravy.
Eliminate the salt and pepper.
No butter or sweetened brown sugar to add!
Serve it up to nourish.
That's all we ask.
No need for the silver placements...
Or impressive china.
Nor the water goblets or crystal glass.
It is just rice!
What else to us has been passed?

We are here to get it plain and simple.
Direct and upfront.
And without the seasoned meat,
Promised and teased.
The rice we all once thought we liked...
Had been too disguised!
And this time...
We demand to know why,
The preparation took as long as it did.
Afterall,
Hasn't it been just rice?
And if not...
What was it?
Taking too long to surprise.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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For A While

i stop for a while on this morning walk
to see the ripening rice plants on the field
golden indeed like the blonde hairs
of the american woman
under the gentleness of the sun that has
newly arrived from the split sides of the
nearby mountain

my eyes were caught however
on this maiden with a brown skin
long black hair with an earthen jar
on her left shoulder held by her
small hands

she is just passing by to fetch
some water in the old stone-walled well

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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N2

listening to the softness of the rain
at dawn
opening the mind
for the seeping of understanding

how the rain falls on the roof
like a caress
how is the water redirected on the
gutter
towards the canals
of our limitations

canalized we survive the rigors
of what the laws expect
no overflowing
not a shortness of breath

at the middle of the hour of sorrow
we shall hear the festive
songs of the frogs in the rice-fields
the sun is up
but the rains do not stop

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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A New Beginning

the rain falls heavily
on the brown fields
the cracks of drought
heal and soften for
a new beginning

the farmer arrives
bringing his plow
the white herons
hover

the frogs croak
the fish are awake after
a long hibernation

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Rain On A Scarecrow

Scarecrow on a wooden cross Blackbird in the barn
Four hundred empty acres that used to be my farm
I grew up like my daddy did My grandpa cleared this land
When I was five I walked the fence while grandpa held my hand
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
This land fed a nation This land made me proud
And Son I'm just sorry there's no legacy for you now
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
The crops we grew last summer weren't enough to pay the loans
Couldn't buy the seed to plant this spring and the Farmers Bank foreclosed
Called my old friend Schepman up to auction off the land
He said John it's just my job and I hope you understand
Hey calling it your job ol' hoss sure don't make it right
But if you want me to I'll say a prayer for your soul tonight
And grandma's on the front porch swing with a Bible in her hand
Sometimes I hear her singing "Take me to the Promised Land"
When you take away a man's dignity he can't work his fields and cows
There'll be blood on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Blood on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Well there's ninety-seven crosses planted in the courthouse yard
Ninety-seven families who lost ninety-seven farms
I think about my grandpa and my neighbors and my name
And some nights I feel like dyin' Like that scarecrow in the rain
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
This land fed a nation This land made me proud
And Son I'm just sorry they're just memories for you now
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
This land fed a nation This land made me proud
And Son I'm just sorry they're just memories for you now
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow

song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Netherlands (fragment)

Water and windmills, greenness, Islets green;--
Willows whose Trunks beside the shadows stood
Of their own higher half, and willowy swamp:--
Farmhouses that at anchor seem'd--in the inland sky
The fog-transfixing Spires--
Water, wide water, greenness and green banks,
And water seen--

poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Gospel Plow

Mary wore three links of chain,
Every link was jesus name,
Keep your hand on that plow, hold on,
Oh, lord, oh, lord,
Keep your hand on that plow, hold on.
Mary, mark and luke and john,
All them prophets so good and gone,
Keep your hand on that plow, hold on,
Oh, lord, oh, lord,
Keep your hand on that plow, hold on.
Well I never been to heaven, but Ive been told,
Streets up there are lined with gold,
Keep your hand on that plow, hold on,
Oh, lord, oh, lord,
Keep your hand on that plow, hold on.
Oh, lord, oh, lord,
Keep your hand on that plow, hold on.
Oh, lord, oh, lord,
Keep your hand on that plow, hold on.

song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Back To The Usual Walk In The Rice Fields

i am back to this place
and i am feeling strange
there are changes
and some i can tell have been missing

a few meters from where i stand
under this mahogany tree
where the wind is cold and fresh
flavored by the newly cut rice stalks
over this spread of golden fields

the well is still there
but the brown woman with earth skin is gone

an island of coconut trees

(and some mango trees
and banana shrubs)

has turned bald
and the grasses claim another territory to its grassland

the sparrows must have migrated to the nearby forest

the cable lines run an empty length of a sigh
from one pole to another
endlessly clinging is this anonymous electricity

the twenty or so white herons are here again
pecking on some little frogs in small ponds

i walk under the sun
revisiting reevaluating rekindling perhaps
the reasons why i must go on living
a life unlived for quite a time

why are the fields empty? why are the blackbirds circling the tree?
why do people pass by this path unable to know the significance
of this human journey?

the sun is up like an absurdity triumphant
a dog comes near me

it is waggling its tail and i am calling him another name.

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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Bunker Soldiers

Trained bodies in coordination
Is that a better way for bunker soldiers
But its a nicer way to spend a war
On lava beaches and sandy seaside
The rusting bodies are surplus now then
We never taught them how to fight like that
The objects exercise is so compulsive
Its not a better way but it still suits us
Id give up rice fields to fight like you
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Its not a better way
Though we are here to stay
Well that might seem ok
Waves of people
In strange directions
Its no use talking
Theres no decisions
They gave up houses to be refugees
The mud in ditches is over their knees
The sand bagged trenches are over our heads
This kind of warfares become hide and seek
Though khaki uniforms are universal
Your propaganda is losing appeal
Id give up rice fields to fight like you
Id give up rice fields to fight like you
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Its not a better way
Though we are here to stay
Well that might seem ok

song performed by by Omd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rain On The Scarecrow

Scarecrow on a wooden cross blackbird in the barn
Four hundred empty acres that used to be my farm
I grew up like my daddy did my grandpa cleared this land
When I was five I walked the fence while grandpa held my hand
Chorus:
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
This land fed a nation this land made me proud
And son Im just sorry theres no legacy for you now
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
The crops we grew last summer werent enough to pay the loans
Couldnt buy the seed to plant this spring and the farmers bank foreclosed
Called my old friend schepman up to auction off the land
He said john its just my job and I hope you understand
Hey calling it your job ol hoss sure dont make it right
But if you want me to Ill say a prayer for your soul tonight
And grandmas on the front porch swing with a Bible in her hand
Sometimes I hear her singing take me to the promised land
When you take away a mans dignity he cant work his fields and cows
Therell be blood on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Blood on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Well theres ninety-seven crosses planted in the courthouse yard
Ninety-seven families who lost ninety-seven farms
I think about my grandpa and my neighbors and my name
And some nights I feel like dyin like that scarecrow in the rain
Chorus:
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
This land fed a nation this land made me proud
And son Im just sorry theyre just memories for you now
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
This land fed a nation this land made me so proud
And son Im just sorry theyre just memories for you now
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow

song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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