Poetry

Title

Poetry

Language

English

Year

1960

Rights

In Copyright - Educational Use Permitted

Abstract

Flowers by Baltazar Sepe
The Tree by Manuel Satorre, Jr.
Resignation by Agustin P. Mendoza
April on the Hills of Summer by Rene Estella Amper
Vignettes by Carmen Quijano
The Caroler by Junne Cañizares

Fulltext

• POETRY 4 BALTAZAR SEPE Why are flowers fragrant? Mild and adorable? 1 O why are they enchant - Flowers, flowers, flowers, Ing? Spruce? So kissablc? Pink, while, blue, yellow, red. Behold, madams, misters: How they play, how they spread. They establish nations Along the lakes, on hillsides; They breathe with devotions 2 In trees, for happy brides. You put them on your hair, Or wear them on your breasts; Weave some to garlands fair, For champions, heroes, guests, Dawn’s fingers open them: Splendid in the sunlight: Night’s zephyrs fan them: Gentle in the moonlight. And you, and YOU, and ME. 5 Let us have days of cheers, Let us have hours of glee; Picnics with the flowers. Now it is time to fly To waterfalls and woods; Meadows and mountains high — 3 To floral neighborhoods. Some thrive in water, some, air; 6 Some, homes. Some grow on lands. Some are wild, some need care Of tender, loving hands. O why am I always Seeing some gold clover? Why is my love always 4 Likened to a flower? Flowers, flowers, flowers, My love is a primrose, For all ages, all places. Friendly with the river; Flowers, come all the years A trailing Arbutus, To huts and palaces. In the wind a dancer. Mine’s love is a Witch-hazel, Taciturn, mysterious; Also an Immortelle That yields not to sorrows. An adelpha’s my love, Scarlet as a meaning; Lilac coy as the dove, Yet regnant as a king. “Wait. That charming lady In the third floor above Is tearing a lily.” No, it is not my love. 7 Now my mind is full of Cadena de amor; Now my heart is full of Secreto de amor. Write on a canna petal, Darling, your note to me. I’ll send my pledge immortal Through the Dama de Noche. In that small earthen vase Blooms a bougainvillea. It is for your staircase Near the gumamela. I want the two shall flame Faithfully, side by side: A picture in the frame, I dream for us with pride. Page 6 THE CAROLINIAN POETRY • ^Tcee 9iesigna(i.on. How lovely this tree was last Christmas. All in multi-colors beautiful. .. with tinsels and stars of silver and golden paper. . . glistening with tiny lights . . . But time has killed my beautiful tree and I am sad; But December has come again and a new tree I have— This time, more lovely than ever. I shall not let time kill it again. by MANUEL SATORRE, JR. what if i couldn’t see you again— what if i couldn’t be sitting across a table from you again— what if we share no more jokes nor make plans together again— as long as i know that you miss me and that the days we shared are now a precious part of you as they are of me— l>eloved, i shall not grieve. by AGUSTIN P. MENDOZA philosophy III Vtpdl on. (fie <3fi((s o( (Siimmec J- - i w^telm^y april on the hills of summer— o< iPAfilFo ijp wMethem in regions i know not where. -HL JAL _Z_ 2A- V—JI .s 'bu,! showers are._neyer lost, \ tlipy aCe^rebo/n into^ flowers OF HAKVF^g t arms of dawn. jfetyEy ESTELLA AMPER 1 .X jasniins-evftrl i never thoji would cpjrye write on^-Bof i was Bjsarph flowers that would bloom in the night, there were none. They all bloom only in the sun. but now, jazmins-everlasting have finally sprouted in the garden of time, my hands shall no longer touch the petals of other flowers, from now on, they shall reach for only you. i j^ally love jaimins-^v^rlaeting. night i feef like> idling hileS away, ! pluqk them from ush nearby Ap^fenderly caress ih tbe hollow* lot' my hand. r»ya Jose my loneliness in Jplertt tenderness of XheiXsweeL and virgin whiteness. 'j ^ometimes wonder how far sweeter 'they could be if they could live and love back as much as i love them. . .if they could contain my love forever. . . . but then, when i think of the possible antithesis, i feel they’re better off the way they are. i can always love them with all the intensity my heart can muster without their reproaching, “let’s just be friends, we can never feel more than that to you. . .” by CARMEN QUIJANO CHRISTMAS, 1960 Page 7 • POETRY by JUNNE CANIZARES “You know well."’ He putted his forehead, dosing his eyes tightly. “I)o you think I ean stand this going on? This enrolling business of yours!” “Oh, that?” He smiled. “Tay, Tay.” His voice was heavy now. “Give us some little respect. Please, don't put us down.” “Have I done something bad. Lilo? Have I?” “It's not for me to say it's bad or good. Tay. my friends are laughing al my back. They laugh at me because of you.” “You conn1 to that again ...” “Don't you ever know what you are doing? Your voice is funny, you are old! you cannot sing now I .And your guitar, it's off-key! And old Christmas songs! Don't you realize that when you sing, people just don’t listen to you? And if they care, they just drop some five-centavo pieces in your palm and say, ‘That will do, manong'. You make us laughing-stocks!” “I understand you, my son. But there is something beyond all this, all this that you speak of.” “Tay, we shall survive. I'm grown up. 1 have a job. You don't have to spend all your nights at all singing to people for their loose coins, just because it’s Christmas and everybody is supposed to be soft-hearted.” “Lilo, do not say that!” He was shocked. There was anger in his voice, but he calmed himself, before lie could say something hurting. One Christmas long ago, Lilo, when he was that small, got very sick and was about to die. He spoke to the Lord and promised that if He would make his beloved son live, lie would sing praises to Him in all the Decembers of his life. He had already told this to Lilo. but he called it fanatic. It was near dawn, but inside a nipa hut two people were still awake, an old father and his son. “Now let me see HOW MUCH you got.” the son said. “You do not sleep and wait for me again,” the old man said. He paced towards the wall to hang his gone by guitar. Now lie liked to lie on the bamboo bed; but never In-fore had he wanted so much to talk Io his son. “Sleep? No. unless we finish this.” the son said. The old man's heart throbbed fast. Had his son also known what he felt would happen that night? When he slipped the notch of the guitar on the nail, his hands were trembling. “What is it?” be said. “What else can I say. Itay?” be almost shouted. “It's all right, my son, if you leach me more what to do. I'm already much advanced in age. and perhaps, I'm no longer using my reason well.” “I don't mean that, Itay. Okay, okay. We still have the morrow- for this. We’re both tired and impatient. Ix-l's r<-st now.” “(rood day, my son. Be good.” The old man went inside his little room and crawled into the bamboo bed. He lay restfully and watched the stars twinkle through the open window. In the morning, when the stars had gone out. the son found his old man dead. Page 8 THE CAROLINIAN

Media