The Light on Christmas Eve

On my walk outside this Christmas eve
I saw no star but a glimmering Venus;
What magnificence it gleams through my eye

Others were clouded, left unseen and faded
But this light prevails amid this Stygian sky
To give us hope when every sight is despair
To give us life when nothing is sentient.

Before this cruel year we share pains and woe
This little Venus that shines
Against the voluminous darkness says
That we shall tread on
That we shall go on
To conquer the race we had started.

The Porcupine


Behold, the two days of life:
Azura, the days of Winter
Brita, the days of Summer

On these azure days,
When one feels cold
One feels blue and alone;
One longs for one’s company

On these bright days,
When one feels warm
One feels alive and great;
One needs each other no more

Till one realizes that one suffers
On snugging old cold Solitude
One feels feeble and destitute

Till one realizes that one suffers
On huddling his closest friend
One feels pierced and betrayed

Either way, who is to blame?
Lo, open your eyes and see!
Sharp quills are hurting me.

On Khayyam’s Quatrain

If this is but a sojourn here below
And all the gain we get is grief and woe:
Shall we starve ourselves of these gains
And let hunger fills us with ire and desire?

And if the riddles be left unsolved
And the Stygian caskets be full of rue:
Shall we stop solving trivial quandaries
And let one start admiring the unknown?

On Literature, Culture, Society, and Class Theory

Recently I was on my literature class, and my professor, possibly still working on the introductions on the subject, started teaching regarding on how the society ‘canonizes’, or recognize a certain work of writing a ‘literature’. He showed three criteria on how to verify:

  1. A literature must be printed/published
    • Obviously, to recognize something it must be accessible, and observable, either on print or published online
  2. A literature must be read by readers
    • At this point, having written and published your work, if it’s not publicized, it cannot be canonized along the glut of other literary works
  3. A literature must be critiqued
    • A critique is a detailed analysis and evaluation of something, particularly a literature. This is the crucial part of a written work. Though it was already published or read by many, without a critique, it cannot be ‘canonized’

We are aware that in this postmodern world, the populace of the entirety of the world is growing exponentially. The state of growing abundance of creative force derived from the growing population is worrisome, as the significance of every piece of work is getting, in actuality, more and more lesser, the more literature is recognized the less their prominence become. Continue reading “On Literature, Culture, Society, and Class Theory”

Caritas’ Avarice

“Charity” by Giotto

Alas, what piece of work is a gift!
Blessings from our sworn fathers
Yet to be brought away from our hands
Truly a magnanimous, humble decision
Not to acquiesce but to assent
Yet He robs us of his opportune gifts
For the meek—to the giver—he sifts
Yet He fills us full once more
Like a perpetual hollow vessel
Doomed to be filled and emptied
He mocks us as we receive
He laughs at us as we give
He laughs, He laughs, He laughs!
At the duly time he must take them all!
Alas, yet too soon we were enamored
Of the sojourn on the quintessential bliss
Of the solace on our mortal plight
A perpetual plight, from womb to tomb
We are the smirk of the matron
As she stomps on the Fruits of Labor
As she holds a receptacle of fruits and luxury
As she gives her worthless, deadened heart
To her infinitesimal Deity above her head
A head garnered with wreath of greed
And to her meek visage that is us:
Looking straight upward—to the Haloed One
His affable countenance—a subtle subterfuge!
Consumed! By the avarice of the worldly hand
Away from the sight of the minute God
He laughs! He laughs, He laughs!

The Sublime

“Wanderer above the Sea of Fog” by Caspar David Friedrich

I put myself atop a mount
Near a cliff—a sea of fog beneath
To see from as much a height
Obscured lest be seen…

I leer upon heightened creatures—creations
Across the immaculate mist—
As sublime as a pious porphyry
As radiant as a stained glass
on a Sunday morning.

Yet come, Night! Still be never brighter!
Misty fogs be colder—bleaker!
Lucid sight be weaker—feebler!
As the Sublime, lo, sings my departure!