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!

My Old Friend Soli

Wandering wayward wherever
Floating adrift—afloat on South Sea
Sauntering with my friend Solitude
Having had found a good coast on Freedom Isles
Had seen a slanted eye peering through a vessel
Lo, what a shorthand scat he could be!
And thus I stroll once more afloat—adrift on the West Sea
While chitchatting to good old friend Soli:
— Quiero sus gran platanos, quoth he
Neither did fishes aswim beneath the disputed rinds
Rebuff nor even understand this magical—
Not as majestic as my enlarged fruit—remark
From this wonderfully deranged queer
To whom I never really wanted to stroll with
And before I indulge myself with gluts of self-defeat
O Liberty, no heightened choice could have sullied thee!
What deliberate crimes have done through your name!
Forgive me for I have not chosen thee!
And to choose not choices but to have not!
Not a faint chance, not a minute chance to decide
Picking one’s fate I have had built mine not to!

Finding You

Before sleep, every night I pray
For a dusty piece of memory
And a lusty maiden aside
With hands smothering with words
And a heart engulfing my soul
Where shall I find you?
In the deepest of deserts?
In the coldest of tundras?
In the thickest of forest?
I know not.
For heavens forsake such a man
Deprived of quality and substance
Beauty buried beneath
Where shall I find you?

I’m back again! My apologies for the long absence, I’ve been very busy on my personal life and I can’t seem to find the time composing verses. But now on I shall try to become more active as things get looser and looser here. Good day everyone!