down once more into the gloomy night:
a promise waiting to be fulfilled
she, who once believed of an angel,
is bound to say farewell to a place
where angels fear to tread and wait
a tear rolls down her pale cheek
as she touches the ring on her finger
trembling, she enters his dominion
one painful gasp gives life to the gloom
but the sight upsets her when she sees him in bed
tears flood her eyes and her cheeks
when she takes his hand and kisses it
he tries to speak, she knows he is dying
he looks at her and smiles one piteous smile
as he takes his last breath and forever sleeps
she slips the ring into his finger in promise
and stays for what seems an eternity
a man carries his body to a spot
where darkness can still reach him
no epitaph, no reminder, but his memory inside her heart
08 January 2009
The Rose and the Nightingale
[The following is an excerpt from Susan Kay's novel "Phantom". This is one of my favourite scenes in the novel]
I often sit on a cushion at his feet, with my back resting against his chair, and beg him to
read to me, gazing into the flickering fire while his voice paints pictures in my mind. Sometimes he reads to me from the Rubaiyat, weaving the delicate, melancholy rhymes of Omar Khayyam into a rich tapestry, that I may touch the ancient poet's regret for the fleeting swiftness of life and love. Shakespeare . . . ancient legends . . . and then, tonight, an old minstrel song that made me close my eyes on tears . . . the story of the white rose who loved a nightingale against the will of Allah.
"Night after night the nightingale came to beg for divine love, but though the rose trembled at the sound of his voice, her petals remained closed to him. . . ."
Flower and bird, two species never meant to mate. Yet at length the rose overcame her fear and from that single, forbidden union was born the red rose that Allah never intended the world to know.
The thought of that white rose filled me with such bitter shame, made me bate my ignoble
cowardice, my unworthy physical shrinking, the childish, lingering revulsion for that face.
Teaming to turn and reach out to him, I remained unable to conquer that inner fear. It was a
chasm I dared not cross. And so instead I sat there, like the little mouse in Aesop's fable, not
daring to look upon the lion bound by cruel ropes. Chained by fate and shackled by pride, he
starved in silent pain; and because I lacked the courage of a rose, I could not set him free.
When the story ended we sat in silence for a long time until at last he leaned forward with
a sigh.
"It's very late, my dear, " he said gravely. "I think it's time you went to bed."
Drifting into my bedroom, my mind still revolving ceaselessly around that lovely Arabic tale, I caught a movement from the comer of my eye and turned to find upon the counterpane the biggest spider I had ever seen in my life. It was easily the size of my fist, and at the sight of its black malevolence I let out an unlovely shriek which brought Erik to my door.
"What is it?" he demanded in alarm.
Unable to speak, I simply pointed and he laughed as he went over to my bed.
"I'm afraid we get a lot of these down here. He is a big fellow, isn't he? I suppose his mate is in here somewhere too."
"Oh, God!" I said with feeling, glancing nervously across the floor. "Do you really think
so?"
"They're usually found in twos, " he said absently, bending to catch the hideous thing gently in his hands. "When I've put this one out I'll come back and look, if you wish. "
I stared at him in horror.
"You're only going to put it out? Won't it just come back?"
"That's not very likely, my dear. "
"But it might, " I persisted stubbornly. "Erik, I would die of fright if one crept over me while I was asleep. I've always been terrified of spiders. I'd feel so much happier if you just . . . well, just got rid of it permanently."
He stiffened, and when he turned to look at me there was something in his eyes which made me shiver.
"You want me to kill it?" he said expressionlessly.
"If—if you don't mind, " I stammered, suddenly unnerved by the pulsing venom of his gaze.
"Oh, I don't mind at all, " he said with an anger that was now unmistakable. "I rather think the spider might have one or two objections to make—but then, after all, it's only a spider, isn't it? Just a mindless, soulless, ugly thing that has no right to live and frighten people!"
Without another word he clenched his fist tightly, dropped the crushed insect on the carpet, and walked out of the room.
"Erik!" I cried after him, in alarm. "What about the other one?"
"Kill it yourself, if you can find it!" he said coldly, and shut the door on me with a savage
bang.
I covered the spider with my shawl, so that I should not have to look at it, and when I had
glanced warily beneath the sheets, I sat miserably on the bed with my legs tucked up beneath my chin.
It was the first time he had ever spoken to me like that—as though he hated me!
Slowly I slipped into the lace-trimmed nightgown and ventured at last beneath the sheets,
exploring each fresh cool expanse with tentative toes. I lay awake for a long time, brooding on his anger, but I must have fallen asleep at last, for the sensation of something brushing my cheek made me wake with a scream.
I leapt out of the bed in a mindless panic and rushed into the adjoining room.
"Christine!" Erik laid his book aside and came toward me in concern. "Oh, my precious
child, don't cry like that!"
I covered my face with my hands; I was shaking from head to foot like a perfect fool.
"Erik . . . I know you 're very angry with me . . . but please, please, go in and find that
other spider. I know there's one still in there. . . . I know it!"
"You really are very frightened, aren't you?" he said quietly.
"Yes. . . ." My teeth were chattering with cold and terror. "Yes! I'm sorry, but I can't help
it. I know it's cruel, I know they have the right to live like any other creature, but I just can't bear them! If one touched me, I think my heart would stop. "
He gestured for me to take his seat by the fire, the same slow, rather elegant unfurling of
hand and wrist with which he often drew me toward him when he sang. There was something
infinitely powerful and irresistible in that movement; something that made me feel I would follow that hand even if it led me over the edge of the world.
He guided me into the chair, as though I were a marionette incapable of moving without
his aid, and yet still he did not touch me.
I sat and stared into the hearth while I listened to him moving furniture in the next room.
Presently he came back and threw a crumpled piece of paper onto the fire.
"It's gone now, " he said sadly. "Go back to bed and I will bring you something to make
you sleep without nightmares."
I got up in silence, like an obedient child, and returned to my room.
In the doorway I glanced back and saw him staring at the paper, which was shriveling and
turning black against the coals.
He made no movement and no sound.
And yet I am almost sure he bad begun to cry.
If you touched me I think my heart would stop.
She doesn't know it, but she's answered the question I dare not ask. This is a love that
Allah never meant to be. These are petals which will never willingly open, even for the song of a nightingale.
Once more I stand and watch her sleep. I did not need to give her so much laudanum. She'll sleep the clock around now, in a deep drugged, dreamless slumber that will admit no
conscious memories.
If I took her now, comatose and unresisting, in this very bed where I was born, she wouldn't even remember in the morning. . . .
I want her!
But I will not sink to the level of a mindless beast. Murderer, thief, unscrupulous
extortionist, contemptible drug addict . . . this is one crime I cannot commit. I can take nothing from her that is not given of her free and conscious will.
So I will close the door and return to my music and my morphine. Peace waits for me now
in that sweet, familiar needle. The price of the oblivion that drowns all thought and desire is a
simple pinprick and a single, welling drop of blood—the only blood-red rose I shall ever sire in
this world!
Good night, Christine! Look with tolerance, if you can, on the pale ashes of my indulgence
tomorrow.
Morphine is a vice that delivers me from greater sin.
I often sit on a cushion at his feet, with my back resting against his chair, and beg him to
read to me, gazing into the flickering fire while his voice paints pictures in my mind. Sometimes he reads to me from the Rubaiyat, weaving the delicate, melancholy rhymes of Omar Khayyam into a rich tapestry, that I may touch the ancient poet's regret for the fleeting swiftness of life and love. Shakespeare . . . ancient legends . . . and then, tonight, an old minstrel song that made me close my eyes on tears . . . the story of the white rose who loved a nightingale against the will of Allah.
"Night after night the nightingale came to beg for divine love, but though the rose trembled at the sound of his voice, her petals remained closed to him. . . ."
Flower and bird, two species never meant to mate. Yet at length the rose overcame her fear and from that single, forbidden union was born the red rose that Allah never intended the world to know.
The thought of that white rose filled me with such bitter shame, made me bate my ignoble
cowardice, my unworthy physical shrinking, the childish, lingering revulsion for that face.
Teaming to turn and reach out to him, I remained unable to conquer that inner fear. It was a
chasm I dared not cross. And so instead I sat there, like the little mouse in Aesop's fable, not
daring to look upon the lion bound by cruel ropes. Chained by fate and shackled by pride, he
starved in silent pain; and because I lacked the courage of a rose, I could not set him free.
When the story ended we sat in silence for a long time until at last he leaned forward with
a sigh.
"It's very late, my dear, " he said gravely. "I think it's time you went to bed."
Drifting into my bedroom, my mind still revolving ceaselessly around that lovely Arabic tale, I caught a movement from the comer of my eye and turned to find upon the counterpane the biggest spider I had ever seen in my life. It was easily the size of my fist, and at the sight of its black malevolence I let out an unlovely shriek which brought Erik to my door.
"What is it?" he demanded in alarm.
Unable to speak, I simply pointed and he laughed as he went over to my bed.
"I'm afraid we get a lot of these down here. He is a big fellow, isn't he? I suppose his mate is in here somewhere too."
"Oh, God!" I said with feeling, glancing nervously across the floor. "Do you really think
so?"
"They're usually found in twos, " he said absently, bending to catch the hideous thing gently in his hands. "When I've put this one out I'll come back and look, if you wish. "
I stared at him in horror.
"You're only going to put it out? Won't it just come back?"
"That's not very likely, my dear. "
"But it might, " I persisted stubbornly. "Erik, I would die of fright if one crept over me while I was asleep. I've always been terrified of spiders. I'd feel so much happier if you just . . . well, just got rid of it permanently."
He stiffened, and when he turned to look at me there was something in his eyes which made me shiver.
"You want me to kill it?" he said expressionlessly.
"If—if you don't mind, " I stammered, suddenly unnerved by the pulsing venom of his gaze.
"Oh, I don't mind at all, " he said with an anger that was now unmistakable. "I rather think the spider might have one or two objections to make—but then, after all, it's only a spider, isn't it? Just a mindless, soulless, ugly thing that has no right to live and frighten people!"
Without another word he clenched his fist tightly, dropped the crushed insect on the carpet, and walked out of the room.
"Erik!" I cried after him, in alarm. "What about the other one?"
"Kill it yourself, if you can find it!" he said coldly, and shut the door on me with a savage
bang.
I covered the spider with my shawl, so that I should not have to look at it, and when I had
glanced warily beneath the sheets, I sat miserably on the bed with my legs tucked up beneath my chin.
It was the first time he had ever spoken to me like that—as though he hated me!
Slowly I slipped into the lace-trimmed nightgown and ventured at last beneath the sheets,
exploring each fresh cool expanse with tentative toes. I lay awake for a long time, brooding on his anger, but I must have fallen asleep at last, for the sensation of something brushing my cheek made me wake with a scream.
I leapt out of the bed in a mindless panic and rushed into the adjoining room.
"Christine!" Erik laid his book aside and came toward me in concern. "Oh, my precious
child, don't cry like that!"
I covered my face with my hands; I was shaking from head to foot like a perfect fool.
"Erik . . . I know you 're very angry with me . . . but please, please, go in and find that
other spider. I know there's one still in there. . . . I know it!"
"You really are very frightened, aren't you?" he said quietly.
"Yes. . . ." My teeth were chattering with cold and terror. "Yes! I'm sorry, but I can't help
it. I know it's cruel, I know they have the right to live like any other creature, but I just can't bear them! If one touched me, I think my heart would stop. "
He gestured for me to take his seat by the fire, the same slow, rather elegant unfurling of
hand and wrist with which he often drew me toward him when he sang. There was something
infinitely powerful and irresistible in that movement; something that made me feel I would follow that hand even if it led me over the edge of the world.
He guided me into the chair, as though I were a marionette incapable of moving without
his aid, and yet still he did not touch me.
I sat and stared into the hearth while I listened to him moving furniture in the next room.
Presently he came back and threw a crumpled piece of paper onto the fire.
"It's gone now, " he said sadly. "Go back to bed and I will bring you something to make
you sleep without nightmares."
I got up in silence, like an obedient child, and returned to my room.
In the doorway I glanced back and saw him staring at the paper, which was shriveling and
turning black against the coals.
He made no movement and no sound.
And yet I am almost sure he bad begun to cry.
If you touched me I think my heart would stop.
She doesn't know it, but she's answered the question I dare not ask. This is a love that
Allah never meant to be. These are petals which will never willingly open, even for the song of a nightingale.
Once more I stand and watch her sleep. I did not need to give her so much laudanum. She'll sleep the clock around now, in a deep drugged, dreamless slumber that will admit no
conscious memories.
If I took her now, comatose and unresisting, in this very bed where I was born, she wouldn't even remember in the morning. . . .
I want her!
But I will not sink to the level of a mindless beast. Murderer, thief, unscrupulous
extortionist, contemptible drug addict . . . this is one crime I cannot commit. I can take nothing from her that is not given of her free and conscious will.
So I will close the door and return to my music and my morphine. Peace waits for me now
in that sweet, familiar needle. The price of the oblivion that drowns all thought and desire is a
simple pinprick and a single, welling drop of blood—the only blood-red rose I shall ever sire in
this world!
Good night, Christine! Look with tolerance, if you can, on the pale ashes of my indulgence
tomorrow.
Morphine is a vice that delivers me from greater sin.
le français, quelqu'un?
i'm beginning to believe most people that French is one of the languages that's difficult to learn. lots of nasals, silent letters, and tongue-twisting pronunciation.
i've been trying to learn the language since Sunday, 4 January 2009. of course, i label myself as a beginner (i know nothing about it, totally). since it's new year, i decided to pursue learning for my convenience and, perhaps, fulfillment. with this, my mother bought me a basic French book authored by Filipino writers. she bought it because it's cheap and most of the others are authored by foreigners so they're a bit expensive.
as of now, i'm enjoying my lesson. i even sought the help of YouTube for pronunciation guides and how-tos. yesterday, i spent about four hours just listening to a French man pronouncing French words and phrases, beside me was my book.
it's hard, really hard to learn a foreign language. but i always think that learning such language is like learning English; i think of learning French as if i'm studying English, because i know that even English, for us Filipinos, is a foreign language, we were able to learn it and speak it whenever we can. same for French or Spanish or Italian. i'll just, you know, work hard and practise.
okie-dokie
au revoir, pour le moment...
i've been trying to learn the language since Sunday, 4 January 2009. of course, i label myself as a beginner (i know nothing about it, totally). since it's new year, i decided to pursue learning for my convenience and, perhaps, fulfillment. with this, my mother bought me a basic French book authored by Filipino writers. she bought it because it's cheap and most of the others are authored by foreigners so they're a bit expensive.
as of now, i'm enjoying my lesson. i even sought the help of YouTube for pronunciation guides and how-tos. yesterday, i spent about four hours just listening to a French man pronouncing French words and phrases, beside me was my book.
it's hard, really hard to learn a foreign language. but i always think that learning such language is like learning English; i think of learning French as if i'm studying English, because i know that even English, for us Filipinos, is a foreign language, we were able to learn it and speak it whenever we can. same for French or Spanish or Italian. i'll just, you know, work hard and practise.
okie-dokie
au revoir, pour le moment...
utopic fantasy
i look at tomorrow without a sigh
and see a picture of the nightly sky
i spy with eyes shedding not just tears
giving no hope but miserable years
winter comes not in this other side
only surreal seasons and baffled tide
wake me up and let me sleep
for me to possess what I couldn't keep
there is no destiny, only time
and everyday there's always crime
drawing near until we have none
only ourselves and our sanity gone
lo, I hear them the muffled cries
of tomorrow who'll witness nothing but lies
they sought for this moment, just wait and see
they'll all end up bewildered like me
and see a picture of the nightly sky
i spy with eyes shedding not just tears
giving no hope but miserable years
winter comes not in this other side
only surreal seasons and baffled tide
wake me up and let me sleep
for me to possess what I couldn't keep
there is no destiny, only time
and everyday there's always crime
drawing near until we have none
only ourselves and our sanity gone
lo, I hear them the muffled cries
of tomorrow who'll witness nothing but lies
they sought for this moment, just wait and see
they'll all end up bewildered like me
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)