The Last Hymn
Marianne Farningham
The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea,
The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly,
And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, lighted west,
And then hastened to their dwellings for God’s blessed boon of rest.
But they looked across the waters, and a storm was raging there;
A fierce spirit moved above them–the wild spirit of the air–
And it lashed, and shook, and tore them till they thundered, groaned and boomed,
And, alas! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed.
Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales,
Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling awful tales,
When the sea had spent its passion and could cast upon the shore
Bits of wreck, and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore.
With the rough winds blowing round her a brave woman strained her eyes,
As she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise.
Oh! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be,
For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea.
Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the beach.
Oh, for power to cross the waters and the perishing to reach!
Helpless hands were wrung in terror, tender hearts grew cold with dread,
And the ship urged by the tempest to the fatal rock-shore sped.
“She has parted in the middle! Oh, the half of her goes down!
God have mercy! Is His heaven far to seek for those who drown?”
Lo! when next the white, shocked faces looked with terror on the sea,
Only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to be.
Nearer to the trembling watchers came the wreck tossed by the wave,
And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could save.
“Could we send him a short message? Here’s a trumpet, shout away!”
‘Twas the preacher’s hand that took it, and he wondered what to say.
Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? Ah, no.
There was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of woe.
So he shouted through the trumpet, “Look to Jesus! Can you hear?”
And “Aye, aye, sir!” rang the answer o’er the waters loud and clear.
Then they listened. “He is singing, ‘Jesus lover of my soul,’”
And the winds brought back the echo, “While the nearer waters roll.”
Strange indeed it was to hear him, “Till the storm of life is past,”
Singing bravely o’er the waters. “Oh, receive my soul at last.”
He could have no other refuge–”Hangs my helpless soul on thee.”
“Leave, oh! leave me not”– The singer dropped at last into the sea.
And the watchers looking homeward, through their eyes by tears made dim,
Said, “He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn.”
–
This was one of the first poems I committed to memory, and, at seven years old, one of the most beautiful poems I knew. It still is.
November 4th, 2007
Pagninilay
John Enrico C. Torralba
May mga panahon at tagpuang
Wala tayong maipangalan
Na kahit anong salita o tibok
O mailarawang kulay o tunog.
Sapagkat naghahawan kita ng liblib
Sa sulok ng mga dibdib
At nag-iiwan ng init ng hininga
Sa mga hamog sa sapot ng gagamba.
Binabagtas din natin ang lahat
Ng bakas at landas ng ulirat
Upang muling magkaroon ng sindi
Ang mitsang matagal na nakubli
Sa talas at talim ng patalim
Ng mga lihim at malayong bituin.
Kinikilala natin ang pagtangi ng lupa at bato
Sa mahabang salaysay ng mundo,
Tumatawag sa apat na simoy
At sa mga sugat ay umaahon.
–
Will be at Puerto Galera from November 1 to 3.
October 31st, 2007
Instead of spending my Saturday at the 5th NWA con, where I was supposed to speak at a forum on science fiction, I was at home recovering from my trip to Los Banos. Despite my declaration that I was not going to the SPP congress this year, I ended up accompanying (read: tagging along behind) Dr. M, from the reception dinner (very fun) to the morning plenary sessions (also very fun) to an impromptu exploration of the places bordering Laguna de Bay (I don’t know if it was fun or not, since I was asleep).
While in Los Banos I endured (they were inflicted on me, I tell you) staggering realizations one after another, namely:
1) I am still in love with physics. And I honestly don’t think I can permanently stop doing it without doing some damage to myself. In that regard, I should probably get back to the old notebooks and equations.
2) P is still alive, still studying in the university, and remains as nice and… himself as ever.
3) Much as I may not care about getting published I do care about finishing my work, and so I have to finish some short stories soon — within the year — or I will lose a significant amount of self-respect.
4) I have a bleeping amount of work to do this year.
I spent two days recovering from all that physics and soul-searching — having epiphanies is exhausting work — and then went off to meet Dr. M again. Since I missed the physics session that morning, he told me that I was going to write my thesis instead.
…Right, yeah, that thing I need to graduate from college that I haven’t worked on yet because the topics I’ve come up with so far have had too little economics and too much physics/math. That… thing… I’m supposed to finish outlining and drafting in a week. Yeah, that thing.
Dr. M just verified that I work best under pressure, because under threat of not having dessert (and not being allowed to go to Puerto for my barkada’s vacation) I churned out an introduction and the outlines for two thesis chapters using material I read for the first time in my life. A few days ago I had no idea how foreign exchange trading worked; now I have the basic concepts clear and concrete in my mind — and even better, I can see for myself how to use turbulence to model currencies. Of course I was told the general principle way way back when I was a college sophomore, but now I understand why that principle works, I know where it came from, and it’s… It’s an incredible feeling, enlightenment.
Of course knowing that only showed me how much more I have to learn. Oh man, I’m working on the outline for chapter three tomorrow, and expanding the draft/outline for chapters one and two. This is crazy and I love it. I wish I knew more slave drivers like Dr. M.
October 30th, 2007
(crossposted from Another Miyaw)
Ang Bagong Libro (official site)
An art exhibit featuring reinvented, reimagined, remixed book covers for Filipino books. I’d like to encourage you to participate :D (Please note that we’re requesting people to send in sample work/portfolio links first.) Any suggestions of books to feature in the book “wish list” are very welcome.
–
I’d also like to ask you guys if you know of any local artists who might be interested in submitting artwork for the exhibit. We’re soliciting pieces from some people and I’d like to know of any more artists I can contact.
Comment here or e-mail me: ephemere at gmail.
Thanks!
October 27th, 2007
I’ll be gone for a few days, maybe even a week. The heart (or whatever remains of it) demands space and silence: a little room in which to mourn, a little time to walk around and lay flowers on a grave.
My arrangements of time (little discrete blocks, shifting positions, defying good sense) have always been too full for grief, but now I have been emptied, and maybe — maybe — now I can weep.
October 21st, 2007
Between Going and Staying
Octavio Paz
translated by Eliot Weinberger
Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.
All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can’t be touched.
Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.
Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.
The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.
I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.
The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause.
October 18th, 2007
Initial concept: fluffy parody of ridiculously thin and long-necked girls with stylized faces and pouty lips, sitting pretty in gorgeous lacy dresses. It just so happened that I had exams this week, and I get obsessed with detail whenever I’m stressed.
And wings! Well, black wings make everything better!
Ink on watercolor paper. Click the picture to see the image in full (without the overlapping text).
Will color eventually. I have to decide what colors to use for this. Very transparent ones, most probably.
October 16th, 2007
If I ever sound angry when I talk about physics, it’s because I am.
Because I gave up a dream. Because I miss it like people miss amputated limbs. Because the lack of it is a thorn in my side, a sword through my heart. Because I’ve never forgiven myself for leaving. Because I’ve never forgiven myself for not letting go. Because I didn’t let go. Because I can’t forget. Because I loved it so much. Because I still love it just as much.
And also because I’m only one person. Because there is little hope here. Because I can’t leave this place. Because I could do other things. Because I’m human, and a coward, and in love, and I thought that it was better to become someone who could help others dream than pursue that dream myself.
That anger is there, simmering beneath the stories I write. It’s there in Mir’s fall and the unnamed astronaut’s letters, in the shadows beneath R’s eyes, in the sound of bodies colliding. It’s there in the equations with which I cover whole pages, talismans against my despair. It’s a white fury, a crimson rage, and it comes to me every night like some warped brother of Jacob’s angel, grappling and wrestling and twisting, until dawn breaks or I collapse out of exhaustion.
I will not forgive half-heartedness.
October 16th, 2007
Air for Mercury
Brenda Hillman
I.
After the double party
for the poorly loved
when the gleam in the hound’s eye
fell like glass rain on the south
lawn of the countergarden, when
the image of false flags sank
in the mirrored plaques,
when the mirrored plaques
had been passed in, they took
your days and gave them back,
before you unsnapped first
the crenellated shoulder wings
then the fumbling then the little
ankle wings and sent them back
to the wing patrol, in the box,
in the metal box, in the genital
mouth of the rose (the open forms
of the state left so
undone that you were stranded
on the nonimperial coast having
a boat unnamed for you)
you were free, you were
having a bout of meaning
II.
A leaf hurried by on its
side. Of what is knowledge made?
A season stopped by without your
noticing, saying, lost file, breath boy;
the sun had leaked its power
into things, and all notation had
become inaccurate suddenly, you’d been trying
to talk to them from this
coast, you’d been trying to help
them in their small groups
III.
Monsters of will and monsters of
will-lessness confront the garden; a dragon
crow greets the dusk with its
prow. Rhyming is a tool of
friendly desperation. The spirits will return
though they’re not here now.
IV.
Oracles, iron, the misuse of fire
under the young earth, and this
business of being infinitely swept up
in possibility so when you put
your hand down on something white
you noticed that detail, punctuated by
luckless forms. But night had been
deployed: see-through parts of the moon:
lace, anima mundi; and weren’t there
two forevers, words and space, between
which more experience might ride, unremembered?
You were supposed to tell them
what they’d missed; they’d read your
logics, your letters. So little space
between your letters, the words couldn’t
easily air themselves. Remember going back
and forth between the rooms? Blue,
green; the wings had been adjusted.
You were meant to take black
netting off a face or two. Take
something. Passion brought you
here; passion will save you.
October 15th, 2007
So let’s talk about how Mia is a glutton for punishment.
I meant to do a fluffy piece to poke fun at the absurdly long-necked, stick-thin stylized pretty girls so popular in some online art communities. Some basic inks and contrasts, then watercolor. I was going to add lace to the skirts when I thought, “Hey, it’d be cute if the skirt had multiple layers with different lacy patterns…”
Aiya. I’m about… one-third done with the inking, I think? And then watercolors (ohman).
October 14th, 2007
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