Posts Tagged ‘letters’


November 20, 2008 5 comments

Dear Dabubu:

When words are not enough to address you, let me greet your art nonetheless.

I had the chance lately to read your notes and they were all wonderfully written. Based on your exceptional prowess, I can adjudge that hardly anyone could imitate your style. Sometimes I question myself why I continue to write despite of my incapability to capture my subject with adequate adjectives and to animate my character with lithe verbs. My compositions are obviously far inferior than yours- a carrion in the state of literary writing. Yet you never wanted me to speak of this because you believe that I could do it well like everybody else. But with humility, I admit that there will never be another you and never will have the chance to acquire your skill; your style is not of Filipino but of European litterateurs. I know that you labored much to perfect  your this and to my own assessment, nobody could ever do it better than you. So with your books-oh particularly your collections-have never ceased to give you the edge of intelligence.

Oh Colette of the new age, your dexterity constantly impresses me. I wish to cry because I could never be like you nor just even rest on your shadow for you are holy and I am profane . If its really true that you got some blessedness in your being, please sprinkle me with graces  that I may also hold my pen with  artistry; but let it not be out of pity that you address me but with altruism instead. I only wish nothing but to have the patina, at least a tinge of your blessedness, to write not just by memory but by heart as well. With so much reverence for your existence, let you be praised by a lowly admirer who got nothing but a dying pen.

When this letter is inadequate, let this be just a pure laurel.



My Pen’s Anguish

Shame on me, who writes from the pit and not from the clouds,
When your words are ethereal mine still lies in the cocoon of maturing
And why do I write when I have nothing but humiliation
That rather me nor the pen I’m using that is wrong;
You speak of Paris, I my barrio-
I have no doubt that I will never hold on to you.
The respite to think may not suffice the struggle,
But your beauty of hand will serve to revere
That I may praise behind  but never the chance to touch you
For you speak of Paris and I my barrio.
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