Poetry (or
balak in the native tongue), as we all know, is a very ancient form of human expression. Epic, tragic, comic, dramatic or whimsical --- poems were often recited in public and popular verses passed verbally on from generation to generation. Any aspiring writer would try his or her hand at poetry if only to be subjected to the rigors of iambic or metrical discipline.
This century, however, has seen poetry gliding gently off its lofty pedestal. Compilations of poetic verses are still published and faithful readers remain, but the art form, which Edgar Allan Poe equated with the "rhythmical creation of beauty" is,alas, slowly fading.
To Percy Shelley poetry is nothing less than "the very image of life expressed in its eternal truth". "Prose consists of words in their best order", Samuel Taylor Coleridge noted, but "poetry consists of the best words in the best order".
In celebration of a fading art, hoping for its colorful resurgence, I put in my two cents worth.
The Sage
I read about a sage
who long ago declared:
"When I was young and knew it all
my lifelong passion writ in stone
was nothing less than this --
to see the world transformed!"
Such lofty, wondrous whims
Had we not dared pursue?
As I got old, the sage recalled:
"My sight befogged, my aim brought low
'twas not my goal to change the world,
persuading friends, directing kins.
But, caring for a flow'r or two
That surely would have made my day!"
Ah, isn't that so true?
As farther I advanced in years
Rare pearls of wisdom kindly shone
along my way, the sage proclaimed:
"My heart with boundless joy would sing
if my beloved spouse and grand kids too
perchance I could convert anew!"
But now I'm old and grey
the weary tired old sage laments:
"The Lord may take me back someday...
Oh, how my soul in light might soar
If at the very least I changed
No, not the world, not friend nor foe
but poor, decrepit me!"
(Copyright 2008 by Dr. Ed Gamboa. All rights reserved)
