Feeling Baudelaire on a Monday

It's a Monday afternoon where I am right now. It's cloudy and for some reasons, I'm feeling ... yellow. (Why?!)

...as yellow as this boat, yep. Ma On Shan, 2007

And for some reasons, I feel like posting one of Charles Baudelaire's poems. This is the first poem by him that I have read, and I got hooked enough to ask someone to get me the original French version of Fleurs du Mal. (Thank you, Cristy.) I know, I really suck at French but I really appreciate reading poetry in its native form - the context, the meaning, and the lyricism are preserved that way, among other reasons.

J'espere que tu apprecierez les poesie de Baudelaire. (Ah, I tried so hard there, hahah.) That is, as much as I do. :) Happy Monday y'all.

Viens-tu du ciel profond ou sors-tu de l'abîme,
Ô Beauté ? ton regard infernal et divin,
Verse confusément le bienfait et le crime,
Et l'on peut pour cela te comparer au vin. 

Tu contiens dans ton oeil le couchant et l'aurore;
Tu répands des parfums comme un soir orageux;
Tes baisers sont un philtre et ta bouche une amphore
Qui font le héros lâche et l'enfant courageux. 

Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres ?
Le Destin charmé suit tes jupons comme un chien;
Tu sèmes au hasard la joie et les désastres,
Et tu gouvernes tout et ne réponds de rien. 

Tu marches sur des morts, Beauté, dont tu te moques;
De tes bijoux l'Horreur n'est pas le moins charmant,
Et le Meurtre, parmi tes plus chères breloques,
Sur ton ventre orgueilleux danse amoureusement. 

L'éphémère ébloui vole vers toi, chandelle,
Crépite, flambe et dit : Bénissons ce flambeau !
L'amoureux pantelant incliné sur sa belle
A l'air d'un moribond caressant son tombeau. 

Que tu viennes du ciel ou de l'enfer, qu'importe,
Ô Beauté, monstre énorme, effrayant, ingénu!
Si ton oeil, ton souris, ton pied, m'ouvrent la porte
D'un Infini que j'aime et n'ai jamais connu ? 

De Satan ou de Dieu, qu'importe ? Ange ou Sirène,
Qu'importe, si tu rends, - fée aux yeux de velours,
Rythme, parfum, lueur, ô mon unique reine ! -
L'univers moins hideux et les instants moins lourds.

 - Charles Baudelaire (extrait des Fleurs du Mal)

The Rejuvinated Blog Rounds (Yes!), And A Nice Poem

Some two or three years ago, a fellow named BoneDoc plucked me off my indifference to the virtual world by inviting me to The Blog Rounds. If you are wondering what the green banner at the side rail was all about the whole time, then your answer is finally here. The Blog Rounds is an aggregate of local (Filipino) doctors who took to the cyberspace to express their sentiments on a common topic, which is decided upon the week's host. The blog posts are then collated in a single article where the end-user (i.e., the reader) is treated to a melange of opinions coming from doctor bloggers of various backgrounds, exposures, and upbringing.

The Blog Rounds seemed to have gone into hibernation the past year, but it is now back, and hopefully this blog can participate as much as possible. I have had the pleasure of hosting TBR a couple of times, and it was fun, really, to be reading the posts (ditch the stereotype: many doctors are eloquent and introspective, and yes, creative - they're not all seriousness and science and boring stuff) and seeing the similarities and contrasts of opinions and such. TBR is yet another avenue for healthy forums, medical or not-too-medical.

If you are a Filipino doctor living in the Philippines or elsewhere you may want to participate in The Blog Rounds. It would be cool to have fresh faces! The mechanics for participating can be found in BoneDoc's site. Click HERE. Do drop a message that you are new and would like to be part of this lively group. Trust me, it is going to be fun. ^^

*****

My classmate in medical school, Lenn, a person I have come to know as tough and yet sensitive underneath all the trappings of a toughie, showed me a door to an opportunity to explore the works of Angela Manalang Gloria. She was said to be Jose Garcia Villa's rival in poetry, and her works were radical during the colonial times (in other words, feminist). I will write more about her next time.

For now, a poem by her.

WORDS (1940)
by Angela Manalang Gloria

I never meant the words I said,
So trouble not your honest head
And never mean the words I write,
But come and kiss me now goodnight.

The words I said break with the thunder
Of billows surging into spray:
Unfathomed depths withold the wonder
Of all the words I never say.

(Mots. My gift. my curse.)

Thank You, Thank You, Thank You :)

A few hours ago, I implored my friends to give me poetry books.

Huh?

Not only does this seem to be a sign of boredom, it appears to be the handiwork of someone whose skull is thick. (I think I heard someone say, "Ang kapal mo talaga!")

But you see, I do not mean to be makapal (*laughter*); it is more like, lambing (**more laughter**), and it is not too often that I (pardon the colloquial term) "make lambing".

It is just that I have this increasing urge to read more and more poetry lately, and much of the good stuff cannot be found in commercial bookstores here.

Take for instance, Wislawa Szymborska, a Polish poet who in 1996 was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. I only came across a few of her works online, and the wit and irony that characterise her poems are both endearing and thought-provoking. I am, once again, hit by a compulsion to get hold of a physical collection of her poetry.

While I still try to figure out the best way to get a copy of this poetess' works, please allow me to share a favorite piece. Enjoy. :)

A "Thank You" Note
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Maria Trzeciak


There is much I owe
to those I do not love.

The relief in accepting
they are closer to another.

Joy that I am not
the wolf to their sheep.

My peace be with them
for with them I am free,
and this, love can neither give,
nor know how to take.

I don't wait for them
from window to door.
Almost as patient
as a sun dial,
I understand
what love does not understand.
I forgive
what love would never have forgiven.

Between rendezvous and letter
no eternity passes,
only a few days or weeks.

My trips with them always turn out well.
Concerts are heard.
Cathedrals are toured.
Landscapes are distinct.

And when seven rivers and mountains
come between us,
they are rivers and mountains
well known from any map.

It is thanks to them
that I live in three dimensions,
in a non-lyrical and non-rhetorical space,
with a shifting, thus real, horizon.

They don't even know
how much they carry in their empty hands.

"I don't owe them anything",
love would have said
on this open topic.

*****

More about Wislawa Szymborska HERE. Photo also comes from the said site.

Rilkean Heart, Rilkean Reality (This Is...)

Xtin, my friend and favorite ultra-petite foodie, sent me a link to a video of "Rilkean Heart" by the wonderful band Cocteau Twins. Cocteau Twins is a favorite, and so is Ranier Maria Rilke, the great German poet who gave the band inspiration for the song.

The link was given to me after I posted my status on Facebook. (Yes, darn it, hahah, I have a Facebook account. So sue me.) The status is a stanza off this poem:

I live my life in widening rings
which spread over earth and sky.
I may not ever complete the last one,
but that is what I will try.

I circle around God, the primordial tower,
and I circle ten thousand years long;
and I still don't know if I'm a falcon, a storm,
or an unfinished song.

(Ranier Maria Rilke, 1875-1926)

I was watching the video, and the lyrics, as it is wont of most of the group's songs, grip me like it is my reality being sang to me. (Video below from TIMOL69.)

Rilkean heart, I looked for you to give me transcendent experiences
to transport me out of self and aloneness and alienation
into a sense of oneness and connection ecstatic and magical.
I became a junkie for it. I came looking for the next high

I'm sorry I've been putting the search on the wrong place.
I understand that you're confused, feeling overwhelmed.
Well that's a feeling state from then, the reality.

One entity on the planet, becoming truly self reliant
and become connected with something beyond me.
That is where I have to go.

I still cannot get over the song. I wrote Xtin about it, feeling wondrous, bothered, and mystified at the same time, as if serendipity has come to visit me in the form of a brilliant blinding light.

Xtin was quite amazed, apparently. She knows of only a few people who have even heard of the Cocteau Twins, much less listen to them. Hah. Pity the majority. :)

Back to my own musings. Part of my unusual reaction stems from the fact that I have been re-reading Rilke lately and exchanging poems with someone who likes Rilke and poetry too. Understandable. However, the rest of my awe lies somewhere. I just cannot put a finger on...

...almost unidentifiable, like many of the most beautiful things that can only be seen, not by vision, but by faith.

Faith is to believe what you do not yet see; the reward for this faith is to see what you believe. [La foi est de croire ce que tu ne vois pas encore, la récompense pour cette foi est de voir ce que vous croyez.] - St. Augustine

A similar post appears at Trash Radio Manila.

Pour mon grand ami ... tu étais dans mon esprit quand j'ai écrit ce post.

A Small Video Footage, For A Change

A friend directed me to a page that contains this very quaint video.

The title: La poésie comme l'amour n'est que foi

La poésie comme l'amour n'est que foi
[Merci beaucoup, mon ami. Très intéressant. ]

Read more here. The person in question is Silence Sonore.