Adonis Diaries

Archive for July 2009

408.  “Canto General” or Pablo Neruda: wilderness, blood, libertad, Americana; (July 23, 2009)


409.  Venomous quotes (July 24, 2009)


410.  You have a complaint? No problem; (July 25, 2009)


411.  Jane or love innuendos (July 25, 2009)


412.  A common sense project taking a life of its own (July 26, 2009)


413.  Dressed in multicolor gala attire (July 27, 2009)


414.  He is a responsible official: I made him so; (July 27, 2009)


415.  “Opus Pistorum” (porno) by Henry Miller; (July 28, 2009)


416.  This rude lacks sense of humor (July 30, 2009)

He is a responsible official: I made him so; (July 27, 2009)


            A responsible official should satisfy at least four necessary requisites: 1) he should be rational, 2) has a rational position, 3) and has the will to disseminate his position, 4) and has the courage to take responsibility for his decisions, including submitting to the consequences of his failed policies and individual mistakes, and including spending jail terms without hate to the commissions or justices.


            A leader is a responsible official who shake off his major setbacks with an alternative rational position and resumes the struggle.  Those who appoint themselves leaders with total impunity and with Papal immunity to mistakes are the responsibility of the citizens: they allowed their “leaders” to extend their stay and learn the ropes of abuse and sleazy loopholes.


            A responsible citizen is the one willing to bear the burdens; to critic the responsible officials and leaders for failing to abide by the necessary criteria; to prove to the elected officials and the appointed ones that the citizen is not living in an island; that he is active within his community and intends on exercising group pressures.  


The normal citizen has no obligations of pre-requisite criteria safe learning to acquiring rational thinking: the normal citizen didn’t apply to be a candidate to any office and he didn’t apply for a paid state job for the state to increase his taxes.

An Undertone of Joy and Fear


1.   Our last dreams with the living

Are the exact replica of our first dreams.

That’s how it should be

In the symphony of life.


2.   Our last dreams are edited out

Of people, trees and actions.

We don’t fall, fly, walk or run.

They are perpetual waves of motion

In a kaleidoscope of light and colors.

An undertone of joy and fear.


3.   Our first dreams are the same as the last ones.

In black and white.

Eternal Spirit


1.   Poets, philosophers and prophets

Have been telling us about

A common spirit to all mankind,

Eternal through the ages.

2.   I like to be clearer.

A common conscious and eternal

Regardless of cultures, races and climates.

We feel what is right and what is wrong.

We don’t need Books of wisdom to tell us that.

We don’t need Law and Justice

To remind us of what we feel.

We don’t need Religions

To put it down on paper,

To preach it and send missionaries.

3.   We all have common conscious

Of what feels right and

What feels bad and awful.

Law and Order won’t replace

Our conscious or improve on it.

4.   I can only change the world

When I care to change myself.

Decisions and ideas for change

Go hand in hand with changing ourselves.

Which is first?  Who cares!

“Opus Pistorum” (porno) by Henry Miller; (July 28, 2009)

I am reading a French translation of “Opus Pistorum” by Henry Miller, and I still don’t know what opus pistorum means, but the book is plainly porno. (A reader volunteered the meaning of “work of the miller”, how fitting and funny, thanks).

The epilogue explains how this book came to be published.

Henry Miller visited Larry Edmunds’ library in Hollywood (California) in 1940. Miller had spent many years in Paris and knew very few people in California.  Milton Luboviski was partner in the library and used to offer Miller some money and places to bunk.

By 1941 Luboviski started selling porno manuscripts for clients in the movie industry such as Joseph Mankiewicz, Julian Johnson, Daniele Amfitheatrol, Billy Wilder, Frederick Hollander, and Henry Blanke…

Henry Miller proposed to write short porno stories that should sell for one dollar per page; Luboviski was to keep the rights of the stories.  After a few months the stories were gathered in a book that Miller titled “Opus Pistorum”.  Luboviski typed 5 copies in 1942 and sold four of them and he saved the original.

When you are in need of money, had multiple exotic personal experiences and can write with humor then writing porno manuscripts is a legitimate business.

I will offer a few excerpts and will skip the porno details. Miller calls his tail or prick John Thursday (Jean Jeudi).  The opening pages set the tones of the porno short stories.

“I have been living in Paris for so long that I no longer am surprised of anything.  Paris is not like New York; you don’t need to deliberately seek adventures. Life flushes you out in unbelievable locations and all kinds of incredible surprises track you down. I am visiting a shop and the 13 years old girls is masturbating her dad and then sucking ravenously his tail…”

“Her asshole agitates; it is alive; it contracts and breathes. You might not discover the secret of the universe through that path, but it is far more exciting than observing your own navel.”

Alexandra converted into Catholicism and her priest confessor initiated her to worshiping the devil too.  Alexandra got deeply involved in mysticism and exotic cults and confessed to Miller that devils would appear in her dreams pretty alive. All the devils were gorgeous young men; a few had three sexual functioning tails; one would be inserted in the mouth, another in the cunt, and the third would enter the rectum and extends to sniff the tail in the mouth…

Miller or (Alf in the stories) participated as witness to one of the devils’ worshiping sessions. The priest entered in his normal ceremonial attire; he was also wearing a red hat with two corns.  A lady undressed and lied on the officiating table; the priests slaughtered a coq and let the blood drip and smear the naked body.  A wood statue of the devil was carried inside with a tail ejecting red wine when activated by sucking. An orgy followed led by the priest.  It was not outrageous or out of the normal since no human sacrifices was offered.”

Toots confessed that she was initiated by a Chinaman.  Toots is very articulate and precise in her language: I figured out that the man was an old tiny Chinese who owns a Laundromat, leg bowed, chest curved inside…I even pissed in her asshole”

“You cannot take a walk with Arthur without incredible events happening.  Arthur usually tones down his stories to sound credible but the realities are far more hallucinating.  I am trolling with Arthur and he picks up a woman wallet off the street. It contains no money but a picture of a beautiful blonde lady called Charlotte.  We decided to knock at her door nearby: we needed a free drink and whatever other sexual freebies that might come along.  A kid’s voice answered.  We are facing a midget woman.

She works in circus and is taking a well deserved rest.  Charlotte brings us whiskey and we serve from the bottle as we need.  Charlotte is beautiful; her thighs are pawable; her behind and bosoms are normal with respect to her stature; I look at Arthur and I realize that he is having the same thoughts… One day Charlotte visited Arthur; he was not home and she left him a note.  Arthur joined me very agitated. He is curious how midget woman are but he is apprehensive of going solo.

We visited Charlotte and a monster German shepherd, big as a house attacked them. Charlotte attached the molosse in another room.  Arthur wants to know all the particularities of midgets and how different they are from normal people. It turned out that they are as different among themselves as normal people are among normal people; the hardest problem is finding tiny shoes.  The tails of the giant men were as big as the baseball bat that Charlotte uses. They had sex with Charlotte with exaggerated fever. Alf was apprehensive that his tail might do serious damages but Charlotte was pretty flexible and accommodating.

The monster dog got too excited as he was released from his prison and chains. The dog raped Charlotte as a piston sliding at 100 miles an hour.

The two men watched for a couple of minutes and then they figured out that the dog will be very famished after the exercise and they left in a hurry”.

Note: One night, I got up at 1 a.m. and could not go back to sleep because of a bout of sneezing. I read “opus pistorum” for three hours.

I did not finish the book that morning, but for 24 hours I lived with a hard on and could not sleep, though I felt weak and needed to get some sleep.

Miller would have described my walk “a limping gait” throughout the day. One reader of my blog translated the Latin “Opus Pistorum” as (work of the miller); how fitting, I should have guessed!

The rude lacks sense of humor (July 30, 2009)


            You have a sense of humor when you agreed and absorbed the fact, early on, that the sun is definitely not revolving around you.  A concrete example might aid in setting the tone of the theme.  There is this young lady (I try to be accurate in my wordings: a lady is not in her prime youth) preparing her thesis (definitely not the funny sort).  She has been patronizing a private library like me for its quiet environment; private libraries are the ideal places for contemplation.  We have been sharing a smoke on breaks and I thought we were friendly enough to sharing a few comments.  The library is to close for an entire month; I decided to ask the lady for her phone number. She said: “What for?” I honestly replied “In case of emergencies”.  She squeezed her dagger and said “There will be no emergencies”.

            Her ready made reply was not specifically intended for me; she had used it several times before.  The meaning was clear and irrevocable “I have no time to waste on chatting with irreconcilable mates.  I am seriously seeking potential comfortable life long slaves and time is of the essence”.

            People with sense of humor prefer same kind of friends: they know that in associating with other kinds of friends they will end up absorbing their limiting and mean characters.  People with no sense of humor also prefer, by far, to associate with people with a lot of sense of humor; they figured that they will have plenty of opportunities to lord it over their selected “best friends”. Smart people with sense of humor do not leave these leeches and tenias any chance to abuse of them; they tell them right away “the sun does not indeed turn around you.  Do not try hard to exhibit your self sufficiency”

            There are misconceptions. People believe that those sweet talkers, who have ready heart-felt laughs, and could crack jokes are necessarily potential people with sense of humor. Potentiality is always a positive start.  There is a difference between people with potentials to be stand up comics (who have the courage to make jokes of their limitations) and those who love to joke at the expense of others and go on a war path when targeted in their physical or moral deficiencies. 

            Appreciating a joke or retort and laughing within a duration commensurate to quickness of mind is an indication that the person is on his way to assimilating that the sun is not turning around him; now that is a positive sign.  The main problem is that you need to invest some time to knowing this potential ideal “friend”: actions talk louder than believing that the sun is not turning around you. 

            A person with a sense of humor is not necessarily devoid of any other principles, including the firm belief that we are all alike in characters and tendencies save for quantitative threshold of frequencies, but that he is mainly cool to enjoying the present and not unduly fussing over the tragic “deterministic” future.  The universe is pretty much chaotic and chance happenings are usually the rules; you have to consciously observe what you want to happen and the probability of success is much higher than normal.

            People with sense of humor have the great potentials of generating masterpieces in writing and all kinds of artistic endeavors. Masterpieces that withstand time are fundamentally introspections done by writers with strong sense of humor.  The main characters, bad or lovely, are aspects of the author’ honest description and analysis of his psychological complex constituents. The author might exaggerate his characters to drive the theme or idea through and this is a sure indication of the hard work of the author’s honest and determined study of the man that he is.

            You may ride on your high horses as long as you want; the odds are the longer you ride on the funnier and bloodier the observations and critics.  Rude people lack sense of humor; I sincerely have no patience with them. There might be a few brave souls with sense of humor; I should do a better job locating them. I have no sense of humor: my best friends are countable; I ended up with no one.

Jane or love innuendos : A mostly fiction short story, (July 25, 2009)

I was signing my latest book at “Barnes & something” somewhere in New York City.  I had decided to transform these utterly boring sessions into enjoyable events:  The insufferable planners and organizers were created for wrecking my nerves out of jealousy.  I had decided to invest an average of two minutes chatting with every fan who came for an autograph:  My intention is giving the impression that they were visiting with me at the library. 

Gorgeous women were submitted to over three minutes of investigations; women flooded with perfume not to my liking, were thanked with a polite smile and meeting cut short: it is good business to learn to smiling.

I recognized a tall figure in the line, but I failed to localize the circumstances: time is a vicious enemy and it does affect beauty of the body.  I reckon time affects the spirit far worse, but people do not communicate long enough to find out.  As her turn came, she hesitated for two seconds before giving her name; I sensed that she was hoping that I’ll recall her name too.  She simply said “Jane?”.  It dawned on me like a thunderbolt.

I roomed at her 90 years old mother while studying at the university. Jane mother was even then a tall, svelte, beautiful, and kind senile woman.  It was not Jane who hired me to stay with her mother, sort of just having someone there close by for emergency sake.   Heck, I was not even paid; I paid rent for a room in a smelly house.  I even had to take so many crap from two of the seven or eight grown up “children” gone for lovelier and greener pastures.  I could have been older than gorgeous Jane by a couple of years at the time, but she looked and behaved far more mature: she was no longer a student, no matter how high was the degree I was shooting for.

I signed “Jane H” and looked up for the correct last name. Jane was surprised and had a slight semi-victorious smile.  She said “Jane H will do”.  I resumed my dedication “It feels stronger when love is shyly declared; no need to insert direct explicit “love” words for expressing friendly felt inclinations.”

I vividly recall sending Jane a feedback letter on her mother’s conditions; one of the paragraphs was a bare innuendo of love declaration, smartly injected within how a mother is missing her girl.  I am devoid of sensibility and lack imagination; with Jane, I somehow felt that my mysterious and tumultuous “love couched sentence” will drive Jane home. 

Jane replied a week later reminding me of that paragraph. The next week, Jane visited her mother from Santa something, maybe Santa Maria, in Northern California. I would love to get a copy of that paragraph: I must have been a good sneaky writer even then.

Jane went out on her evening jogging and returned to rub her feet with lotion.  I am crazy with strong large women feet; with athletic gable.  Jane demanded that I join her for a walk.  I dreaded that moment: I knew Jane needed direct and definite answers.  Writing is so much easier than face to face verbal challenges; especially in love matters; especially for me who lacks verbal intelligence.

In the first few steps Jane rushed right to her point; I valiantly avoided the question; I played it dumb which was not far from reality. I went on to state how confused I was; how I had no idea why I decided to resume my higher education and oh, how miserable I feel.

After I finished the dedication sentence, I looked up at Jane who was beaming with relief from the inside:  Confirmation of a doubt and revenge are always welcomed emotions to most people. I invited Jane to stay for the dinner party after the signing ceremony.  Jane needed five interminable seconds to nod: Closure was overpowering for her.  I can live without closure. 

You think that behavior changes with time; I was no longer kidding myself; I knew that my verbal intelligence was deteriorating at a fast pace.  I decided to learn mingling the hard way; I will obey my editor’s representative immediately.

Lillie, the editor’s representative, was a striking beauty and her frequent gazes at me convinced me that, definitely, we had a date after the official dinner. I told Lillie “I don’t know much of New York by night. I am terribly lazy for planning.  Would you arrange for a night out, just the two of us? You decide for the location of your predilection”  What else could I say? I forgot the American slang; as so many other formal words.

The general dinner was served in an empty restaurant with plenty of space; drinks were reflecting individual moods.  Lillie was greedy with her body heat: she kept her distance from me.  A man with haphazard hair (shaggy?) sat by me, and was highly interested in the Near East problems. He wanted confirmation that Palestine is the Jewish Homeland.  I replied: “You mean that before Palestine the Jews were living in a no-man’s land? That after they were transferred hundreds of years ago they still were living nowhere?” 

General history is stupid.  History book say that when a conqueror entered a town, people fled (connoting that they never returned to their villages and towns).  How far do you think common people could walk?  They just vanished for a couple of weeks for the frenzy soldiers to cool down from killing and looting.  Common people returned to their shelters in their villages, where do you think they would go?

Modern genocides, still an ongoing process in most region on Earth, forced the common people very far, with the understanding that they may never return to their habitat.  The Palestinians in 1948 fled with the understanding that they are returning within a couple of weeks: The UN promised that return.  Over 64 years later, Palestinians in refugee camps are amassing on the borders with Israel (in Lebanon, the Golan Heights, the West Bank, and Gaza), carrying the Palestinian flags in peaceful demonstrations, chanting: “We want to return to our lands”.  Israeli troops and snipers opened fire on the demonstrators and killed over 60 Palestinians and seriously injured 500  in two week-ends!

The man with crazy hair got heated and blubbered something of a God-given or assigned nation for the Jews.  I replied that the concept of nation is a new concept fabricated by the colonial powers to dividing the spoil and to fictitious increase of the number of their citizens by expanding their borders, until determined confrontations stabilized the limits. The colonial powers inforced that concept by all kinds of coercive means.

I went on: “The Zionists ideology was an idea of the time and found its expression in Palestine against all odds, and by using the British colonial ruthless means and with their blessings.”

Jane joined us and grabbed my arm and offered an excuse for an important private matter.  I was glad for the first second, and then terribly worried the next second.  Jane claimed that I read minds. I retorted: “I don’t read the mind. You speak so loudly to yourself; I can almost hear you.  You speak a “fleur de peau”, kind of skin deep at best”.  Jane said: “Well, were you in love with me?”  I guess I was in the driving seat this evening and in a chatting mood. I replied: “At that period, you looked beautiful, healthy, dedicated, and determined. I was relatively ugly, short, confused, miserable, and I needed you.  If I were a somehow handsome and tall guy, then I am certain that you would have commanded me to follow you. The handsome guy might not have obeyed, but I, the not so handsome guy, would have at that time.  At least, to have the opportunity to travel to California and rediscover the milder weather”.

Lillie decided to make her move as our body gestures worried her that the conversation might drag on.  Lillie approached with her tequila sunrise glass; I like tequila if you skip the sunrise, but my acute thirst asked for a sip.  I had this quick idea (they are many, but far delayed in real-time) of selecting the location of Lillie’s purple lipstick stain on the glass and had a sip and gently gurgled.  Jane said: “How romantic” I said “I like to spread Lillie’s beneficial germs”.  I made a surreptitious exit with Lillie.  I was standing tall; I felt tall that night.

Note: This is mostly a fictitious story, but the feelings were not?

I visited my “Motherland” once; (July 28, 2009)


I read Ulysses once; it was all ancient Greek.

All languages are suitable for writing poems:

Poems are meant to express the spirit of the Land;

Long before languages were created or codified.

Samuel Butler demonstrated that Ulysses was written by a woman,

A young woman and single; I like that better;

It is more convincing.


Butler confirmed that Ulysses’ trip was around Sicily.

Seven years to tour Sicily is irrelevant.

Years in ancient times were measured by seasons.

The shorter year was winter; the longer one was the extended long dry season.


One systematic mind split the differences in moon rotations.

Another mathematical mind worshiped number three.

His enemy preferred the symmetrical number four.

Years kept shifting in length.


It was a time of confusion and rare standards.

It was a time of total freedom of ignorance

Mainly for the “free men”.

Slaves were redundant and obeyed the will of their masters.

They still do on a larger scales, number and ignominy.

The masters are mostly regrouped in “Secret Clubs” of free men;

Sometimes in veto power nations around a United Nation.


I visited my “Motherland” once.

I returned to my City-State of Itaca once.

I had no Penelope there waiting for me:

I would never care for a dumb witch waiting for a war man.

I have never been a war man: I fled the war zone for reasons.


I visited my “Motherland” once.

I visited my “Motherland” with my new family.

I called up my exiled friends to join me.

I didn’t care to face little men and little souls;

Petrified and perched on mountain peaks.

Petrified erect statues, line fishing in a dirty dying sea.

I toured my motherland solely with my family like a tourist:

Nature and natural phenomena are romantic and truer to my origins.


The children loved my motherland;

They had plenty of fun with super energetic and fun children.

They climbed trees, jumped walls and cliffs.

They played war battles with sticks;

On land, seas, and around the galaxies.

Fire crackers a go-go; makeshift guns and swords flailing around.

Many wounds and scars to mend;

Barely missing their folks; the tamed ones.

It was a dangerous habit experiencing natural chaos among the kids’ world.

I won’t allow my children this extravagant climate;

They won’t visit my motherland as long as in protection.


I visited my “Motherland” once.

I fled as quickly as the airport was re-opened.

I boarded the ships of my adoptive nation;

Evacuating its citizens from a worn torn dysfunctional society.


I visited my “Motherland” once.

Nobody cared to ask me about my life in my “adoptive” society.

They blabbered about stories and anecdotes of the dead and mostly the dying.

They recounted of newer generations, totally irrelevant to me.

Nobody cared to ask how much I suffered and struggled to survive.

Everybody mocked the caring soul who ventured to know the new me.


I visited my “Motherland” once.

I am currently living in a standardized society,

Highly organized and administered for just the free people:

A society every bit the dream of racist Plato in his Republic.


I visited with trepidation:

I had been given a medal of honor in my adoptive society.

I kept on my high white horse and barely mingled.

They insisted on raising me on shoulders and necks.

I lamely fought this uncalled for barbaric show of substituted glory.

Another medal of honor was attached on my lapel.

The officials never cared to investigate if I was proud of my origin.

I was a sample of men worthy of the motherland’s origin.



I visited my “Motherland” once.

I visited with hesitation; I am back almost broke financially.

A life of learning and struggles is irrelevant.

I kept my silence, wrapped in mysteries.

I created my own island.

With inexistent public transportations

It is so easy and comfortable creating islands;

Alongside islands of communities.

I returned for good to my island.


Many poets toured the world for inspirations.

They returned to keep silent.

The world was too gruesome to laud humanity;

Miserable beings were no inspirations for chants and songs.

Pablo Neruda was also frustrated and lived in solitude abroad.

He clawed to his roots, the toiling and brave workers.

His “Canto general” was a culmination of the spirit recounting its origins;

Of dirt, mud, forests, rivers, sand, wind, wilderness, and the survival of man.

Neruda returned to chant the dignity of South Americana.


All languages are suitable for writing poems and the best ones.

It is the spirit of the Land that chants through the soul.

No need to be ashamed of traditions and customs;

All civilizations had almost similar traditions and customs.

Cultures that banished theirs for the sake of modernity

Are not bearable communities for the living.

Cultures that banished theirs for the sake of modernity

Transferred them to exclusive clubs, secretive associations,

The guardians of the customs and traditions

To rule, govern, and safeguard the continuity of the “Free elected Men”

Dysfunctional “Global Villages” or visual politics platforms; (July 26, 2009)


Hands off.

Lebanon is not a Nation: it is a message (Pope Jean-Paul II).  Nice try. What message again? We never believed in any message in the first place for us to transfer and disseminate our messengers.


Lebanon is not a Nation: it is a Carrefour of civilizations (Maurice Gemayel).  Nice try. What Carrefour again?  I see; a state of the art infrastructure with a Space Center; a human potential incubator for foreign investors to select from, use, abuse, and milk dry.


Lebanon is not a Nation: it is a project of communication facilitator, an audio-visual plateform (Joanna Choukeir). More likely a project that could fly. Sort of a guinea pig laboratory of dysfunctional people living in a dysfunctional barely “recognized” state to study the feasibility of a futuristic dysfunctional “Global Village”.


Lebanon is not a Nation: its leaders never believed it as such; they tailored made their concept of a State recognized by the UN.  Lebanon’s sectarian leaders lived the good life of organized chaos within their castes; they forced Lebanon’s citizens out in disgust; seeking the bare minimum of dignity and potentials for survival among stable societies with sustainable institutions. 


Lebanon is a comprador Carrefour; governments systematically taxing the poor with modern high tech taxing facilities to aid the comprador noble caste to fructify their businesses out of Lebanon. We are fleeing for individual professional recognition; we may receive recognition for anything but the dignity of a worthy society that could generate worthy citizens.


The cup of dignity always overflows of the spirit within. We have proven to be meant plain catalysts for potentials of change that could never materialize in a sustainable spiritual survival of any kind. Our thin and porous shell never protected; what was inside never germinated to full bloom; it disintegrated prematurely.


The only spiritual dignity left is growing in south Lebanon; the least attended to part by our successive governments because they gave up on that land since independence in 1943.  The disinherited neglected “citizens” of the frequently bombed and displaced land are returning, holding on in observation posts, monitoring the pre-emptive war plans of the enemy of occupation, resisting for a whole State in their trenches; never relinquishing their faith in a sovereign Nation commensurate to their worthy dignity.


Lebanon’s national resistance is setting the right tone and basis to satisfying a meaning of why Lebanon should exist among nations.  Lebanon the message, the Carrefour of civilization, of communication among cultures, and of human potentials could still be feasible if our internal enemies plainly desist of continuously maligning our resistance of liberation, land, and spirit. 


Hands off Lebanon; you foreign interests never had good intentions for Lebanon; save us your traveling officials.  We are to suffer another injury: the head of our Parliament want to save the Lebanese of the ignominies and the intricacies of forming a national unity government claiming that total blackout on news is the solution; as if our leaders are the ones suffering from insomnia, misery, and a bleak future.

Dressed in multicolor gala attire (July 27, 2009)


“The larva of yesterday is dressed in multicolor gala attire”; you may have as well said the butterfly looked sensational in her dress but that would sound insipid and boring static descriptions in the world of poets. It does not mean that plain talk is not the job of poets: imaginations carry through the purpose of reminding the people of the spirit of the Land far better than logic and reasoning. 


It might be useful nowadays to add butterfly in parenthesis as people have no time or patience to figure out anything unless spoon fed; that would not be a bad idea if it encourages reading splendid poems and retaining magnificent imageries.  Kids should be encouraged to memorize imageries.  Imagery in poems is the foundations of affordable imaginations: poets are down to earth and have keen eyes to see the horrors and ugliness of the “As is” and are impatient to refuting the miseries of reality, ugly behavior and customs, and transmitting the urgency for a change, always feasible changes; at least of worthy poets.


Every survivor on earth, plants, insects, or mammals, is constantly fighting the good fight to surmount the difficulty of living on earth.  Long lasting changes are not done by exhibiting fire works or victory celebrations but the daily struggle to live for another tomorrow.


Earth atmosphere and environment was noxious to everything we could be seen with our naked eyes. After millions of years of evolution and catastrophes anything still surviving was incredibly lucky to exist today. Heck, oxygen was meant to be a poisonous gas to man until he adapted to a certain mixture. Earth was not created for man; he evolved against all odds, in an almost improbable continuous string of lucky hazards.  Yet, we cannot withstand a tree blocking a stupid view, birds chanting by dawn and disturbing our unnatural cycle, a flower not looking as pretty as a rose, a neighbor less fortunate or more wealthy.  Yet, we resent someone who decided to rest on a Wednesday instead of a Friday, Saturday, or a Sunday.


Poets need to be unsatisfied; they carry the message to communicate the will of reducing inhuman realities to a human order of acceptability.  Poets are frequently revolting on the world of “as is” and changing life according to affordable imaginations. The value of poetry is essentially to be present in the center of time and space.


Imagery is to agree for passionate re-conquest of nature and our standards of living.  The main ingredient for poets is the potential to creating a sustainable life by offering imageries that make changes feasible and attainable by the spirit.  Poets are infusing this hope that inhuman conditions of nature or man-made could be interacted with to accommodate humanity and its surroundings.


Man has been struggling for all kinds of emancipations that cover forms of liberations such as slavery, exploitation of the masses, women rights, oppression of minorities, domestic brutality, colonized people, and so many other forms of social domination that restrained the blooming of human spirit. 


Maybe one of the major factors for the failure of successive attempts for social and individual liberation was the failure to regularly read poems to the illiterates who were shouldering the entire burden of reforms and revolts. The masses of workers and peasants respect and appreciate poems that talk to their spirit far more than the well to do.  If the people managed to be that patient and sustained misery and daily toils for too long it is because they were free to recite poems and sing love songs and songs of freedom after a hard day of labor. External political changes for reforms fail to mature and take roots simply because the internal changes in the people were forgotten or not taken seriously.


Pablo Neruda, the poet of Chili and South America recount the dignity of the hard working people and how they sheltered him and fed him during his escape to exile:

            Along the grand night, throughout the enitre life,

            Tears on paper, from attire to attire,

            I marched in those misty days,

            The fugitive to the police:

            I was handed over from hand to hands.


            Grave is the night but man disposed of his fraternal signs.

            By blind roads and plenty of shadows

            I reached the lighted tiny star that was mine.

            I don’t feel alone in the night.

            I am people, innumerable people.

            My voice carries pure force

            To cross the silence and germinate in the obscurity.


Neruda recites a poem to thousands of miners who instinctively removed their hat and head gears in respect:

            I write for the people.

            Many cannot read my poems with their rural eyes.

            Time is soon; a line,

            Air that disrupted my life;

            Will reach their ears.

            They will say ”He was a comarad”

            That is enough; this is the crown of laurel that I desired.




July 2009

Blog Stats

  • 1,518,768 hits

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by

Join 764 other subscribers
%d bloggers like this: