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epistola

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.

totomel

===============


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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