- Early Depiction of Eros as Protogonus
Feeling Prolific Today
My telephone conversations went much better than expected today: My prescription insurance card has bee taken care of by the one really nice person in Human Resources, and my presecriptions were called in again and put on rush, so those two things are finally fixed. Hooray. Now I can start on another to-do list tomorrow.
But today I did something completely unexpected: I came home and wrote two poems. I’m not sure where they came from. I have a feeling that they were simmering under the surface, but with all of the emotions that have been tossing around my psyche lately, I didn’t realize that they were there.
So here they are; two completely different themes, well maybe not, but two entirely different approaches. I’m pretty happy with them because they reflect where I am at this moment, so I’m putting them out here.
The first one has a Greek mythological backgroud based on Heriod’s Theogeny that Eros is much older than the Greek gods, that he actually is one of the first four to rise out of chaos, so it’s important to remember that this Eros is not the equivalent of Cupid.
The other one, well, I’m really not sure where the other one came from. I think that it just arose from watching young girls try so hard to be different that they all look the same. And what they don’t realize is that a lot of this is permanent: tattoos on your face and neck? Those don’t go away. I mean I know that we all went through our rebellious phases, with whatever that entailed, but am I just out of touch here when I think that having piercings all over your body might hurt you on a job interview later?
Who knows? Maybe I am. Maybe I’m completely wrong about this. It’s not the length of the skirts. God knows I wore mine as short as I could. It’s not the wild colors. It’s none of that. Maybe what distresses me so is the act of being deliberately stupid. To what end? What can possibly be gained by acting as if you don’t have a brain in your head? I think that maybe that’s what I really take issue with. Or with issue up with which I will not put . . .
Okay, enough now. As I said earlier, here they are:
Conversations With a Son Who is Never There
Penia Speaks to Eros
What if I were to leave and never return?
Would you notice the lack of my presence,
or would you continue with your chaotic existence
a world that nothing penetrates
made for you and you alone.
What would you do if everyone around you
were as covetous as you,
feeling entitled to everything
without ever once contemplating
how it makes its way to you . . .
How would you feel if I failed to keep my promises
when you have always known that I would?
I wonder if it would be anything
more than an inconvenience to you
in your ability to continue to take when you please
bitter and sweet, or
indiscriminate charisma and charm.
What if I were to leave and never return?
What if the earth suddenly ceased
its eternal revolution on its axis
and you fell off because none of your anchors
remained to keep you grounded
to remind you
that you may be only human
after all,
and even humans need guidance occasionally
from mere demi-gods.
Lolita Liwag
February 6, 2009
*Eros is the child of Porus (Expedience) and Penia (Poverty). Like Penia, Eros was said to always be in search of something, and like Porus, he always found a means of attaining his aims.
Observations from the Sidewalk
Pink–Haired Gurl
Pink-haired gurl
your attempts to scandalize
are too simplistic—
having already gone there
with my red streaks, black hair,
black and red talons
silver rings on every finger
patchouli oil and incense,
offers to read cards and fortunes—why not?
Be more inventive, less marginal
You want to prove something?
Get a job, or lurn to spell,
be different from the fray.
All of those holes in your eyebrow, nose,
And all the way down both your earlobes,
paint on your neck and breasts—
nothing remains sacrosanct . . .
Only a sad animé now
where once you were a young gurl
who waited, wept about daddy
and dressed your Barbie
in pretty pink dresses.
But daddy left home
and Barbie was all alone.
Little gurl lost, perhaps
you had more to wonder about then,
in your black patent Mary Janes
and white lace socks,
More than you can ever accomplish now
in the tortured performance art
that your life has become.
So despondent and blue.
No tears shed for you,
Poor little pink-haired gurl.
Lolita Liwag
February 6, 2009
More later. Peace.
Lola's Curmudgeonly Musings 