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Posts Tagged ‘Society’

I do not know

if modesty reciprocates economy,

if morality stands a chance,

let me think now.

 

The shape of your dress

suggests

the promise of contours

of valleys and hills,

rolled into

that voluptuous ridge

your cleavage reveals.

 

Your beauty maintained

on night creams

and anti-aging gels

to appear lighter

and paler. You dab

some talcum

or face powder

to shine

like a nacreous  pearl.

 

You glisten like marvel

of an immaculate gold

in the mirror. While

your perfume leaves

a scent to mesmerize

and hypnotize

on every man’s desire

lost in the art

of your seduction.

 

Your lips is an illusion

of an inner sanctum.

A prized conquest-

euphoria. Only the voyeur

dares to enter,

and touch without guilt,

and tickle

on every man’s fantasy-

its forbidden pleasure.

 

Your body as a trade

makes a woman’s secret

hard to accentuate

without showing,

without shedding

some skin,

some naked truth,

some coveted assets.

 

Like a midnight nymph,

hoping for some man

with happy hours to spare

to shape a dream.

But you know- like others,

he will not stay.

Longer before

the day breaks.

 

You, among the many

became one of every man’s

warm bodies to breed.

And it isn’t going to last,

no promises made.

As soon as his lust fades,

he runs away

taking the shimmer

from your moon.

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We’re always busy looking for happiness.

Busy making plans, mimic activities

of dispensing affection and raising children.

Busy in keeping the house tidy

and filed work lives in order.

 

Yes, we equate activity as success,

careers into trophies to loathe

and assume that life’s a real deal.

We’re all children, who’ve just counting

the numbers of our ages.

 

Assuming love instead of acceptance

of filling holes to our incompleteness.

Assuming eloquence instead of verbalizing

concepts we’re far about to understand.

Assuming spirituality instead  of an escape

to seek truth to which is not absolute.

Assuming entitlements instead of the reality

that we get them by returning favors.

 

When are we going to stop faking?

Appearing genial yet we’re bleeding.

 

Our bloods roll like money in the banks.

Cashing them out from the machines

to find that we spent money

on growing more money like trees.

 

And yet, the meaning of happiness

is as elusive as a slippery fish

which ventures deep into oceans.

We pretend as children who knows

how to swim. But we’re afraid

of drowning against the current.

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When my sisters began to marry their men,

I just stop talking to them. Eagerness

suddenly plummet into nil and I began seeing

an imaginary wall that divides me to them.

Those strangers’ hand snatching spaces,

of familiarity, never uttered a word about apologies.

Plundering the blood bond, the images of innocence

running away to far places where I cannot go… I hate them.

 

Suddenly somewhere appears picket fences,

territories, boundaries and cages

which were meant as a warning

not to encroach their line, their property.

And how then, for a split-second

they ruin the emotional investment

my sisters and I build relationships.

 

Ah, they would never understand

the weightier aspects more than

the union of two bodies to breed.

They would never understand how

my sisters and I share a lifetime-

that intimate part we found eversince

we are born, out of our mother’s womb.

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We walk along the beach to see

the happy couples like us staring at the ocean.

And see how the waves come and go

subduing our blues, buried under the sand.

Did we become a tourist of our own,

devoid of pleasure on being together?

We walk like solitary man and woman

glancing sideways, avoiding leisure

as if children were lost running both ways

chasing happiness out of sight. Dreaming

of lost balloons. Of lost kites. Of empty boats

bobbing, floating and drifting away.

We smile blankly and falsely wonder

about the beach umbrella blown in the wind

and the white surf racing past each other

to reach you. And me, while I am trying

to mute down my gaze towards a space

where shadows of people begins to fade

under the sheltering weight of the high noon.

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His muffled voice breaks

the long stretches of silence

while his hand guided

young and untrained hands

practicing calligraphy.

 

Watchful and demanding precision

of copied texts exacting translation.

As he unbuckles the leathery tome

of secrets in a wooden chest.

Tradition, theology and religion.

Diaries, recipes, scientific notations.

 

Inventories, census, receipts.

Readings of narratives and poetry,

astrology, proverbs and magic spells.

The volumes of letters, last wills,

songs and words of blessings.

 

Spending hours and hours sitting

among the piles of pages digging

for clues and answers to mysteries.

The labyrinth of a culture. A treasure.

Each of the fragile pages a wealth

weightier than silver and the gold.

 

Piecing each fragment in a mosaic

mapping an ancient civilization

long forgotten. He believed, it was

here  in his hands lies the fiber, sinew

and muscle of generations of man-

the society is ought to remember.

 

So he became a warrior, obsessed

with the written word wielding

weapons of passion and wisdom.

With his small army of juvenile scholars

continuing an unpopular legacy.

 

Waging the classic battle against time,

earth bugs, heat, rot and decay

slowly finding its way like marauders

pillaging the essence of our humanity

into oblivion and brink of extinction.

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A Moth In The Flame

Idealism is one glorious

iridescent flame-

a magnet to young blood

swathe in innocence. How

with our simplicity,

our winged resistance-

singed and burned. Died

 

until our ashes will mix

in the wick, obliterated

by mediocrity and irrelevance.

Our lives wasted and fading

to wisps of smoke-

in a country where poverty is

a usual sight. Everyday

 

like cockroaches,

we swarmed the sewers of society

and its livid pavement. Of placards-

waving vituperatives.

Flaunting invectives for a change

we vaguely understand. We

 

solicit publicity.

We paraded wearing black

signifying protest. While

those frigid walls, we painted red

in grafitti seeking sympathy-

disguising under the mask

by being a pro-masses. A peasant.

A proletariat. Civil

 

disobedience. We clasped

our fist imitating Che.

We lined up first against

tear gases and waterbombs,

provoking a phalanx

of uniformed men.

Maximum tolerance.  How

 

dangerous, how close

we have trodden

by knowing so little.

We advertise poverty

as a face to a cause,

bannering struggle for

autonomy, sugar-coated

manifesto of national democracy.

A sovereign common rule. Blindly

 

we morph

into mouthpieces. And fronted

as cynical puppets,

high decibeled in echolalia-

against powers in the high places.

Contending reasons

constricted within the bounds  

of our manufactured rhetoric

on utopia. We are

pre-conditioned

 

to see the world

as our oyster. We read

in our books a twisted history

of our beginnings. Taking

a stand by that rostrum

endlessly kvetching

the capitalists.

We became subservient,

as willing subjects to-

 

a coward. Who

shielded himself in

the backdrop of its

Nordic friends.

An ailing lion,

such an imperialist-

remotely controlling

his serfdom, extending

influence. Like a poison

to the minds of the horde

of pseudo intellectual-

moth as we are.

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The world is one big classroom, I must say.  And we are all the students learning how to figure out life’s great lessons.  Just as we are looking at that big greenboard of countless possibilities of reading, of thinking, of testing ideas, of talking and of course, communicating.

We all sit there in our own chairs and desks doing what is required by our society. Taking up life roles quite unique to us and doing what is expected of us to do. And the challenge, is for us to contribute. To open up. To understand. To question. To clarify. To accept.  To be better.

And like most of the students, we have varied approaches to learning. Some diligent, some irresponsible, some bookish, some drifters, some enthusiasts etc. Same as true as how we do in our lives. No one in the class can contend who did well or who did not, but only the teacher, who had the lesson plan. The teacher who has the pen to write down the grades.  The teacher who is in the front like a mighty warrior quelling ignorance among us. 

They say, a teacher is a great influence to your well-being, second to your parents.  If the teacher has inspired you, there you’ll get inspired.  If the teacher has empowered you, then you’ll be of power.  And if the teacher make you see wider than you are used to, I bet, you will go a long way than you could ever imagine.

And the success of the teacher is not on how many doctors, lawyers, CEO’s and government officials they had produced.  But teachers who produce another set of responsible teachers and mentors in other fields enriching and nourishing.  The workplace. The community. The church.  The government.  The society.

Even after university life, we all have mentors in our workplaces. We have elders in our churches to encourage us.  We have community leaders who prod us to be responsible. We have fathers and mothers, whose voices are still relevant. In this life, no one survives on his own. We need teachers, who can tell us the difference between right and wrong.  We need teachers, who had a definite view of what is acceptable or not. We need teachers, who have a strong moral ethic and can’t be compromised.
That is the worth of a teacher.  That was how their profession is simply the noblest.  You might say, that it seems like forever their turf is in the classroom.  Staying there as long as they have the energy to teach. But can you imagine, how their ideals travelled the world, among their students?  Can you imagine how the society at large being built by their minds among the movers and shakers of this generation?

The world may boast of its many achievements.  But these rest upon the shoulders of the teachers whose influence help shape it.  The teacher whose idea fire an imagination.  The teacher whose life becomes a beacon of hope between the present and the future. 
 

 

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