I've taken to carrying this book of poetry from my sister's library, a book that she won from a poetry recital thing in her course. It's titled "Six Filipino Poets". I realized that the book was initially published in the 1950's as the introduction stated that but I only recently realized that the book says that its published in 1955. A fact that I find so hard to believe as the book is in such good condition.

I'm researching it now. I have a sinking feeling that I'm going to feel guilty for not taking better care of it. My 2D anim prof, Sir Gilbert saw me reading the book and he commented that one of the poets used to be his teacher at UP. I think I found the poet's son's blog. Incidentally, Taking back the word Filipina.

I think I wanted to write more about the profundity of carrying around a book with more than half a century of history but I believe my words will be an epic failure so instead I will abstain... holy crap I carry an $81 book like its nothing. *commits seppuku* Is it bad that the realization hits me more when I find out the price? I'll post one of my favourite poems from the book since I can't seem to find it online: 

Love Poems For Vi
By Oscar Zuniga

1. Room with April Rain

Once I was the punctual lover, the tenant
of your room,
Whose walls are yellowed by other men's
sulphurous dreams.
I was desire, the essential need to your
dancer's body
Which took passion as wine pressed from
summer fruits.

But now you are no longer what you were,
the beloved,
Who traded hours of sleep for moments
of harried love.
And yet I could not let you go, not while
the heart
Still remembers the room fragrant with late
April rain.

2. Remembrances

Now we are strangers in this room,
A sheltered world thick with mold of love;
The old arm-chair, the pillowed couch
Are hollow graves where dreams have died.

We dare not speak: harshness of speech
May flay the flesh with memores;
The lamp between us, we are as shades
Mingled with the night's flowing darkness.

The heart having felt your indrawn cry,
I flee the room, its walls quivering with hate,
Once outside the gate, remembrances of love
Accompany the jar of closing doors.

3. Red Rose

Then it was over, I had become a stranger;
My name a bitter food to a woman's
hunger.

Now a woman with a dancer's body
Walks teh streets of loneliness,
Lost to the memories of youth,
Exiled from home, love, and day.

She feels the night's dissolving darkness
Seep through her love-strained flesh;
Hears the silvery sound of wedding bells
Once set in an April that never came.

All is past: it's over now: in the morning
She meets a man with a red rose in his hand.

4. Graveyard

Since I can only love you when April violets
bloom
From your fingertips and your tongue of rotten
dust
Turns into white sand, I can only love you
when death
Walks into my house with green leaves
in his mouth.

My hate is a man's dying dreams
That creep through the shades of moonless
houses;
My hate is a concubine's melting kisses
That taste like ungathered poppies.

I should then slay you in the mesmerized waters
Of a darkening moon, amid the green,
Choking weeds in a graveyard with salty walls,
With the spine of a naked fish for knife.

I feel inadequate after that.