{"id":559,"date":"2017-11-16T12:48:52","date_gmt":"2017-11-16T12:48:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/?p=559"},"modified":"2023-12-21T13:14:16","modified_gmt":"2023-12-21T13:14:16","slug":"ernesto-p-santiago-philippine","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/sq\/ernesto-p-santiago-philippine\/","title":{"rendered":"Ernesto P. Santiago, Philippines"},"content":{"rendered":"

Ernesto P. Santiago, Philippines\u00a0<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

Ernesto P. Santiago<\/strong><\/em> says, \u201cHe is too small for his ego. He is enough for himself.\u201d He thinks, \u201cPoetry is a global temperature that will always surprise us.\u201d His poetic thought has been widely published and anthologized, in print form as well as online. He is the author of two poetry books The Walking Man, 2007 and The Poet Who Asked The Birds How To Fly, 2009. He lives in Athens, Greece, where he continues to explore the poetic myth of his senses, and has recently become interested in the study of haiku and its related forms.<\/p>\n

Tongue And Word<\/strong><\/p>\n

You know the journey of word
\nfrom the breath of tongue so keen
\nis like mastering the sword
\nin the dance of the wandering wind.<\/p>\n

Every tongue is a word
\nand every word is a tongue,
\nuse both with such accord
\nto bless the old and young.<\/p>\n

Fear and excitement hold
\nour tongue and word exactly
\none and the same as told
\nby the feel of the eyes that see.<\/p>\n

If the tongue is a good father
\nwho arouses the land in noble deeds,
\nthen the word is a good mother
\nwho welcomely fills in his seeds.<\/p>\n

We are the tongue and word \u2014
\nshould be a grace in prayers,
\nin prints or in letters, where martyrs often honored
\nby a salute of silence that matters.<\/p>\n

Tongue and word reveal the heart
\nlike a song of lips in flames,
\ncreating the perfect rhythm and art
\nfor the country that never crosses out our names.<\/p>\n

Being Human Is Not A Miss Or Hit Thing<\/strong><\/p>\n

On my rugged lips your fevered faith
\nkeen to the licking of my curiosity,
\nwhen with silence abound
\nour words become our hands<\/p>\n

clinging to the limitlessness
\nof divine touch. Keep your eyes
\ntowards heaven, wish for rain
\nto lift our redundant prayers<\/p>\n

to God. While I acquaint myself
\nwith your firmness my thirst you satisfy
\nwith sap of gladness that my tongue
\nkeeps seeking out the last. Dip into<\/p>\n

my dawn, and then understand
\nthe first light, the journey of a child
\nfrom womb a poet loves to honor
\nwith music like cry and sigh verses. Your<\/p>\n

so warm body makes me feel where being
\nhuman is not a miss or hit thing, but an objective;
\nand I realize I am poet too, not endangered
\nspecies. Ah, loving you, I see my purpose!<\/p>\n

Bashful Mimosa<\/strong><\/p>\n

To live life, no one is born with a contract.
\nAnd just like you, I also came out from
\nthe rose womb of a woman plucked from God\u2019s own act.<\/p>\n

Although I am not of such a royal ham,
\nstill I\u2019m entitled\u2014 to play snowball thing
\nand mate myself with winter night in fairydom,<\/p>\n

to smell the aroma of colorful spring,
\nto sway my tongue with the leaves of autumn,
\nor maybe, to see what crazy summer will bring.<\/p>\n

Of course, I want to live my own myth and bloom
\nlike bards who write and write, rewrite and rewrite,
\nbut who\u2019s this fatuous finely creating my tomb?<\/p>\n

Will I have a day without a fear in might?
\nis exactly how I start to lean on
\nsolitude, for these tears are now dimming the sight<\/p>\n

of my life, which I so thought a concoction
\nof best breath and sweat of your flesh and bone.
\nMay the Lord of distribution feel my vision,<\/p>\n

for I desire not to be the free-verse clone
\nof a man laced in immorality,
\nnor be the legal inheritor of the throne<\/p>\n

of fool, \u2018cause I know and sense the \u201cI\u201d in me
\nis a tiny mimosa, though bashful
\nyet it has a great curio for the world to see.<\/p>\n

I can fill the air you breathe with song so cool,
\njust touch me not and let me wear my smile.<\/p>\n

My Life, My Body<\/strong><\/p>\n

Not so pleased
\nWith my DNA,
\nSo I call God, the Mightiest,
\nTo inherit the dark
\nSide of my poetry.<\/p>\n

Intently reciting Our Father,
\nRepetitively I feel the shivers
\nOf my name cultured by lust
\nOf men, unbeknownst to contentment
\nAs my silence craves for me.<\/p>\n

Ah, in my thirst
\nAll angels
\nAre beautiful\u2014
\nI pick the one not hesitant
\nTo lead my soul<\/p>\n

To her wet tundra
\nThat can remould the seeds
\nOf love that photographs
\nThe memories
\nOf my blood nearer to peace.<\/p>\n

Untitled Love<\/strong><\/p>\n

Don’t let the busybodies see you cry,
\nand even if I come to say goodbye.
\nNo matter what daily gossip gives you,
\nthis untitled love born within my heart
\never steadfast to labors of virtue.<\/p>\n

Come, oh dawn of my life, sit by my side
\nand I will tell you where my words reside.
\nYou a cuddler of laughter, hear me sigh;
\nas you trust my lips, as you trust your mind,
\noften I like soul as high as the sky.<\/p>\n

Claim me hard to a joy of heaven’s yell,
\nand let the twinkles of your brown eyes tell,
\nso what if I love you like dew to grass.
\nThere’s no more time for inessential lie;
\nreal death, it’s kind of lush, like poetry . . .
\nof wine and roses, only I refuse to die!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Ernesto P. Santiago, Philippines\u00a0 Ernesto P. Santiago says, \u201cHe is too small for his ego. He is enough for himself.\u201d He thinks, \u201cPoetry is a global temperature that will always surprise us.\u201d His poetic thought has been widely published and anthologized, in print form as well as online. He is the author of two poetry […]<\/p>","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":3497,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[162],"tags":[],"book_author":[],"book_publisher":[],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/sq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/559"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/sq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/sq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/sq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/sq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=559"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/sq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/559\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3496,"href":"https:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/sq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/559\/revisions\/3496"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/sq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3497"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/sq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=559"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/sq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=559"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/sq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=559"},{"taxonomy":"book_author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/sq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/book_author?post=559"},{"taxonomy":"book_publisher","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.iwabogdani.org\/sq\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/book_publisher?post=559"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}