This post resurrects my lost love for poetry. Poems bring to life that hidden voice in our psyche on thoughts, both real and abstract.
Last week, I received a special gift from Lau, a friend and colleague. It was a book of poems Things Happen, written (and signed) by his father Cirilo F. Bautista, the National Artist for Literature. I thank Lau not only for the book, but also for reawakening the lost poet within.
And while I can only dream of having my own anthology published, I meanwhile bask in this little world for a few seconds of fleeting attention.
Starting with this poem I wrote in the late 90s.
Last week, I received a special gift from Lau, a friend and colleague. It was a book of poems Things Happen, written (and signed) by his father Cirilo F. Bautista, the National Artist for Literature. I thank Lau not only for the book, but also for reawakening the lost poet within.
And while I can only dream of having my own anthology published, I meanwhile bask in this little world for a few seconds of fleeting attention.
Starting with this poem I wrote in the late 90s.
Fear
I smelled fear.
Yours.
Veiled contempt
cloaked in blank stares
and aggression.
But then,
I see what is real.
And I saw your fear.
I smelled fear.
Floating adrift
with the stale air.
Trying
to cut through me.
But instead it cut you.
I smelled fear.
Crouching in your darkness.
Fleeing.
But then,
you cannot hide from me.
I will find you.