Care of Light: The Ordered Life in a Disordered World

by Roger B. Rueda

There is a certain tyranny in order. This is not an opinion; it is a fact confirmed by history, by law, and now, by poetry. Gemino H. Abad’s Care of Light is not just a poem—it is a quiet rebellion against the inexorable decay of time, an analysis of the human struggle against entropy. It is about a professor who once ruled the world of her books and students with an iron sense of order, but who, in the twilight of her life, has become subject to the very forces she sought to control. If that is not poetic justice, I do not know what is.

 

Let us examine the central character. This professor is the embodiment of discipline, demanding the same unyielding rigor from others that she mercilessly inflicted upon herself. She is the kind of educator who could make the tardy tremble and the half-baked scholar wish for the sweet release of oblivion. But even the most formidable figures are not exempt from time’s ruthless march. The books she once guarded with an iron will now lie forgotten, buried beneath the dust of indifference. The house, once her bastion of order, is empty. She has been exiled from her own dominion, reduced to dependence—a fate that no self-respecting intellectual would wish upon themselves.

 

Now, let us consider the persona—the faithful lamplighter. He does not just turn lights on and off; he preserves the semblance of order that the professor so desperately clings to. The act is mechanical, yet profound, because it is not about mere obedience. It is about ensuring that, at least within the four walls of that house, the professor’s will prevails. If that is not loyalty, then what is?

 

And yet, beyond the locked gates of her former kingdom, the world continues in its relentless march forward. The street lamps continue their indifferent glow. The crickets go on whirring. The sun will rise again, as it always does. The universe does not wait for anyone—not for the young, not for the old, and certainly not for a retired professor who once thought she could impose logic upon life itself.

 

What is the lesson here? It is that control is an illusion. No matter how much we impose order upon our lives—whether through routines, rules, or sheer force of will—disorder will eventually creep in. Age will claim even the most formidable of minds. Books will gather dust. Streets will remain indifferent to the footsteps that once marched upon them with purpose.

 

In the end, the world moves on, whether we like it or not. And so we must ask ourselves: what is the point of all our strivings? Do we resign ourselves to the inevitability of decline, or do we, like the dutiful lamplighter, maintain the rituals of meaning in a world that so often forgets? That is the real question.

 

And as for the professor—perhaps she already knew the answer. Perhaps, in her forced exile, she has come to accept what she could not teach: that some orders are meant to last, and others are meant to fade.

 

But one thing is certain—when the lamplighter returns the next evening, flicking the switches, securing the locks, keeping the ghosts of discipline alive—he will not just be following instructions. He will be making a statement: that though time may erode all things, there are still those who will stand guard against the night.

 

What Poetry Dares To Unsay

by Roger B. Rueda

Ophelia Dimalanta’s What Poetry Does Not Say is not just a poem—it is a direct challenge. A slap in the face of those who believe poetry exists merely to be read, understood, and tucked neatly into the folds of polite society. This poem spits in the eye of the notion that poetry must be an obedient servant to language. Instead, it asserts that poetry thrives in the unspoken, the unsaid, the deliberately left out. And if you cannot grasp that, then perhaps poetry is not for you.

Dimalanta opens with an image of fragility: "All shades of what is held / Most dear most guarded / Are frailest, easily violated." Here, she unveils the paradox—what we cherish most is often what is most vulnerable, most susceptible to destruction. And so, what does poetry do? It does not preserve these delicate truths with a firm grasp; rather, it lets them slip through the fingers of ordinary language, escaping the "constraining ministries" of words. In other words, poetry operates in the spaces between, in whispers too soft for the untrained ear.

This is where the poet’s subversion becomes razor-sharp. We have been conditioned to believe that language exists to name, to define, to clarify. But Dimalanta scoffs at this idea. "For poetry never says; / It unsays." In that single line, she dismantles centuries of literary convention. If poetry spoke like the rest of language, it would be as pedestrian as a weather report. But true poetry, Dimalanta insists, does not state—it negates. To speak is to "confine, contain." To unsay is to unshackle.

Consider this: what do we remember most in life? The words spoken, or the words withheld? The grand declarations, or the silences that stretched too long between them? Dimalanta argues that the real power of poetry is not in its ability to define, but in its ability to evoke. That which is deliberately left out becomes the most haunting presence of all.

This poem is a challenge, an indictment, and a revelation all at once. It dares us to acknowledge that the most profound truths are not the ones we articulate, but the ones we sense in the spaces left vacant. It does not invite easy interpretation, nor does it tolerate lazy reading. And that, perhaps, is its most important lesson: poetry is not meant to comfort. It is meant to unsettle.

So the next time you find yourself searching for meaning in a poem, stop looking at what is said. Instead, listen to what is not. Because as Dimalanta makes brutally clear—what poetry does not say is precisely where poetry begins.

 

I Bottled the Gods, But They Bottled Me

by Roger B. Rueda

If I had a peso for every time someone tried to stuff the universe into a little vial, I’d be rich enough to fund another ill-advised government project. But here we are, courtesy of Leoncio P. Deriada, who in his poem I Vialed the Universe attempts the impossible: to distill divinity, to miniaturize mystery, to bottle the ineffable. And, surprise! It doesn’t work.

This is, of course, the kind of intellectual arrogance that belongs in the hallowed halls of Congress, where some men—and I use that term both literally and figuratively—believe they can legislate against poverty by merely signing their names on pieces of paper, or regulate corruption while their pockets jingle with ghost-funded coin. Deriada’s speaker, much like some of our dear lawmakers, starts with the hubris of thinking he can reduce the infinite into something manageable, something quantifiable. But as the poem tells us, the Genie—the trickster, the cosmic enigma—escapes. He will not be corked, will not be contained. And so, the speaker is left with riddles.

Ah, riddles! The lifeblood of the bureaucracy! The thing some of our politicians speak in when asked direct questions. But here, Deriada does not mean the evasive drivel of charlatans. The riddles are divine paradoxes, intellectual whirlpools that swallow simple minds whole. We are no longer in the realm of the cheap magic trick, the empty promise, the grandstanding of fools. We are in the domain of something larger than ourselves.

The poem then shifts from arrogance to exhaustion. The speaker is now sleepless, haunted by questions, besieged by the strangeness of discovery. Thoughts, once neatly confined to the limits of human intellect, expand into "new towns"—a beautiful metaphor for the disorientation of true understanding. The bottled God is now unvialed, untamed, ungovernable. What is left to do? Certainly not another Senate hearing!

And so, the speaker surrenders.

This is where Deriada’s poem exposes the true nature of human ambition: we begin with the fantasy of control and end with the truth of submission. Not to tyranny, not to foolish men who mistake titles for wisdom, but to something larger. To mystery. To awe. To the unbottleable.

For those who believe that the world is best understood through numbers and decrees, through rules and rigid definitions, this poem is a slap on the face. A reminder that the universe will not fit in your test tube, nor will truth cower before your committees. You may think you have bottled God, but in the end, it is He who bottles you.

And that is why some minds remain caged while others, like Deriada’s, soar free.

Here’s the poem—let it sear through your mind.

 

I Vialed the Universe

a poem by Leoncio P. Deriada

 

I vialed the universe
And laughed at the concentrated Gods.
But the Genie escaped with His halo of riddles.
I pondered anew and unslept.
Thoughts were strange with the strangeness of new towns
Thoughts were as vast as the unvialed God.
I could not bottle or battle Him.
There: I saw Him mark in the matutinal mist.
I surrendered.

 

 

 

 

The Pestle: A War Cry Against Mindless Toil

by Roger B. Rueda

Edith Tiempo’s The Pestle is not just a poem—it is a blistering indictment. It is a gut punch, a wake-up call, a damning verdict on what happens when strength and beauty are wasted in mindless, repetitive, soul-crushing labor.

And yet, we—yes, we, the so-called resilient Filipinos—glorify this suffering. We sing praises of the worker who breaks their back, the farmer who toils under the sun, the teacher who works beyond her pay grade. We celebrate struggle as if it were a badge of honor. We romanticize hardship because we have been conditioned to accept it as our fate.

Let me be clear: This is not strength. This is surrender.

Tiempo’s poem drips with exhaustion. It paints the picture of two figures, once divine, now reduced to nothing more than cogs in a machine that never stops turning. Malakas and Maganda—yes, our so-called ancestors, the original Filipinos—were meant to be powerful, were meant to be great. But look at them now, burned in a thousand pots, broken by their own pestle, storing their treasures in a maggot-infested home.

Do you see the tragedy? They were never supposed to be slaves to their own labor. And yet, here they are. Here we are.

We wake up before the sun rises, commute in jam-packed trains like sardines in a can, work ourselves into the ground, and come home to a house that the government will never care to fix. Our leaders, comfortably sitting in air-conditioned offices, preach “hard work” and “sacrifice” as they pocket public funds and fly first class to Geneva.

The pestle is beating out time—our time, our lives, our stolen futures. And we, the so-called resilient, let it.

But why? Why do we let the system beat us into submission? Because we have been trained to believe that suffering is noble. That if we just keep grinding, keep sacrificing, keep enduring, someday, we will be rewarded.

Let me tell you the cold, hard truth: we won’t.

Tiempo knew this. That is why she wrote this poem—not as a lullaby, not as a tribute to the “virtue” of hard work, but as a brutal exposure of our collective delusion.

And yet, we still refuse to listen.

The last lines of the poem slap us in the face: Our tough hands shake and our sweaty lips smirk and lie, we had stored our treasures in a maggoty home.

We lie to ourselves. We pretend that our labor is meaningful, productive, fulfilling. We justify the injustice of our exhaustion. But in reality, we are burning alive in a system that does not care if we turn to ash.

So I ask you: When will we stop mistaking suffering for strength? When will we stop letting the pestle grind us into the dirt?

If this poem teaches us anything, it is this: Hard work without justice is just another form of slavery.

And if we don’t want to end up like Tiempo’s broken Malakas and Maganda—bent, battered, betrayed by our own efforts—then it is time to throw down the pestle and break the system that holds it.

The only question is: Do we have the courage?

 

The Pestle

by Edith L. Tiempo

… in the beginning the sky hung low over the earth … and the woman took off her head and her crescent combs and hung them up on the sky, the more freely to work. As her pestle struck the hard earth again and again, it began to rise, rise …
—The Origin of the Moon and the Stars, A Philippine myth

… the bamboo split and out stepped Malakas [Strong] and Maganda [Beautiful], the first man and woman.
—The Story of the Creation, A Philippine myth

On the bank the wash-stick is beating out time,
Time and wise words and riddles in a wooden ring;
Why should he listen, just to cross its dark message? If he,
A good smith beating his tempered muscles into plows,
And she (in powers), folding her mellowed safety between
bleached brows.

Once wrought for Beauty and Strength, if they be
Splinters from the cracked baton,
They shouldn’t listen to that crude tattoo!
To engrave its heresies through some crumbling bole—
Why should they? They, the divine stems? Yet strange, he
stones it free,
Burns himself in a thousand pots. He is not done.
And she?—he sees her through that fire while
White lice plucked, hopping thick in the smoke.
Old woman, let leave the wash-stick in the sun;
(The pestle sucked the thigh-bone comb
And the beads of baked clay high, too high)
Our tough hands shake and our sweaty lips smirk and lie,
We had stored our treasures in a maggoty home.

 

 

Kindness: The Last Refuge of the Human Spirit

by Roger B. Rueda

Kindness. A word so simple, so universally lauded, yet so pitifully rare in practice. It is the virtue that politicians fake, salesmen exploit, and the naive mistake for weakness. But Naomi Shihab Nye, in her devastatingly beautiful poem Kindness, tells us an uncomfortable truth: before you can understand kindness, you must first be gutted by loss.

And that is where humanity fails. We live in a world of convenience, where empathy is as disposable as single-use plastics. We avoid discomfort like a corrupt official dodging an indictment. We insulate ourselves from pain, refusing to acknowledge the desolation of others—until, inevitably, life brings us to our knees.

Nye’s poem is not some saccharine Hallmark sermon. It is a diagnosis. She tells us that kindness is not something you can learn from a self-help book or an inspirational TED Talk. It is forged in sorrow, hammered in the furnace of loss, and tempered by the realization that you, too, are fragile, fleeting, and wholly insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe.

Take a moment to absorb that. Before you know kindness, you must lose things. You must feel the future dissolve in an instant, your plans reduced to ash. You must be that traveler, riding endlessly on a bus, uncertain if the journey will ever end, staring blankly at a world that moves on without you.

You must look at the dead man by the side of the road and see yourself in him. This, perhaps, is the most brutal revelation: kindness is not born out of privilege, but out of the knowledge that you are not immune to tragedy.

And yet, despite its painful origins, kindness is the only thing that makes sense anymore. Once you have seen the cloth of sorrow, woven with the suffering of all mankind, what else is there to do but be kind? When everything else has failed—governments, ideologies, economies—it is only kindness that will tie your shoes, raise its head from the crowd, and walk beside you like a friend.

But let us be honest. Kindness is not glamorous. It is not the fiery spectacle of revolutions or the grandstanding of power-hungry demagogues. It is quiet. It is the teacher who buys her student lunch because she knows he hasn’t eaten. The nurse who works a double shift because there’s no one to cover for her. The stranger who holds the elevator for you even when they’re in a rush.

It does not demand recognition. It is not performative. It does not wait for applause. It simply exists, moving through the world like an invisible force, refusing to let humanity collapse under its own weight.

So, to the skeptics and cynics who scoff at kindness as weakness, I say this: It takes no strength to be cruel. Any fool can wield a whip. But to be kind in a world built on indifference? That takes true power.

And if we must go through sorrow, if we must be stripped of our pretensions and reminded of our shared mortality, then let us at least emerge from the wreckage armed with kindness. For in the end, when history has erased our names and time has reduced our ambitions to dust, it is only kindness that remains—the last refuge of the human spirit.

 Kindness

a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things,

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved,

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness.

How you ride and ride

thinking the bus will never stop,

the passengers eating maize and chicken

will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,

you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho

lies dead by the side of the road.

You must see how this could be you,

how he too was someone

who journeyed through the night with plans

and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,

you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

You must wake up with sorrow.

You must speak to it till your voice

catches the thread of all sorrows

and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,

only kindness that ties your shoes

and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,

only kindness that raises its head

from the crowd of the world to say

it is I you have been looking for,

and then goes with you everywhere

like a shadow or a friend.

***

Kabuot

binalaybay ni Naomi Shihab Nye

ginlubad ni Roger B. Rueda

Bag-o mo mabal-an kung ano gid ang matuod nga kabuot

kinahanglan mo nga madulaan sang mga butang,

mabatyagan nga ang buwas nagakatunaw sing hinali

kasubong sang asin sa naglas-ay nga sabaw.

Ano ang ginkaptan sang imo kamot,

ano ang gin-isip kag mahinalungon mo nga ginkinot,

tanan ini kinahanglan nga magpalayo para mabal-an mo

kun ano kasubo ang kalaparon

sa tunga sang mga kahilitan sang kabuot.

Kun paano ka magsakay nga magsakay

nga sa hunahuna mo indi magdulog ang bus tubtub sa katubtuban,

ang mga sumalakay nagakaon sang mais kag manok

nagalantaw sa gwa sang bintana sing dalayon.

Bago mo mabal-an ang kalolo nga kasangkul sang kabuot

kinahanglan mo nga magpanglugayaw kun sa diin ang Bombay nga nagasuksok sang puti nga poncho

nagahayang sa kilid sang dalan.

Kinahanglan mo nga mahangpan nga pwede ikaw ini

nga sia isa man katinuga

nga nagapanglakaton sa tunga sang gab-i kaupod ang katuyoan

kag bunayag nga ginhawa nga nagabuhi sa iya.

Bag-o mo mabal-an nga ang kabuot pinakamadalom nga butang sa alibutud

kinahanglan mo mabal-an nga ang kasubo iba nga pinakamadalom nga bagay.

Kinahanglan mo magbugtaw kaupod ang kasubo.

Kinahanglan mo nga estoryahon ini tubtub madakop

sang imo tingug ang hilo sang mga kasubo

kag mahangpan mo ang kadakuon sang henero.

Amo palang ina mangin mapuslanon ang kabuot,

kabuot lang ang nagahigot sang imo sapatos

kag nagapagwa sa imo sa adlaw para maghulog sang mga sulat kag magbakal sang tinapay,

kabuot lang ang mag-alsa sang iya ulo

sa sinumbali sang kalibutan kag maghambal

ako ang imo ginapangita,

kag dayon maupod sa imo sa tanan nga hilit

nga daw isa ka landong ukon abyan.

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Hope, Fear, and the Art of Delusional Survival

by Roger B. Rueda

Hope, that glittering little liar, has been the favorite muse of poets, dreamers, and desperate students staring at a blank exam paper. Thomas Oldham, in his "Ode to Hope," paints it as a celestial, all-powerful force, a kind of cosmic pep squad captain rallying humanity to keep moving forward despite life’s many injustices—like waking up early for work or discovering your favorite street food stand has vanished overnight.

Oldham describes Hope as a “cherub fair,” which immediately suggests an angelic, chubby-cheeked figure whispering promises of brighter tomorrows. But here’s the catch: for every time Hope lifts us up, it also sets us up for a spectacular fall. It tells us that if we send that risky text, we might get a loving reply instead of getting left on read. It promises that if we work hard, we will be rewarded—only to find out that the promotion goes to the boss’s nephew who can’t even format an email properly.

The poem indulges in the grand idea that Hope triumphs over Fear, as if life were a dramatic boxing match and Fear were some mustache-twirling villain, while Hope, all dressed in white, comes in swinging. But let’s be real—Fear is often the smarter contender. It keeps you from touching hot stoves, signing bad contracts, and making regrettable life choices at 2 AM. Meanwhile, Hope can be that overenthusiastic friend who convinces you to audition for a singing contest even when your vocal range is best suited for shouting at people in traffic.

And yet, despite its deceits, we cling to Hope like an addict to caffeine. Oldham’s poem celebrates Hope as the reason we push forward, even when life hands us lemons—and, let’s face it, sometimes those lemons are just rotten. He suggests that Hope invites “Fancy” to create “fair images of Happiness,” meaning that our minds, when guided by Hope, can imagine futures far better than our current realities. This explains why, every January, people make New Year’s resolutions with such conviction, as if they won’t be broken by February.

In the end, perhaps Hope isn’t a liar but a necessary illusion. Without it, we’d never apply for jobs we’re underqualified for, never fall in love despite the obvious risks, and certainly never believe that diet plans work. Oldham, in his elegant 19th-century way, reminds us that Hope keeps the world turning, even if it sometimes forgets to mention the fine print. After all, without Hope, even poets would run out of things to write about—and that would be the real tragedy.

Here’s the poem, freshly re-toasted and ready for your intellectual consumption—may it not give you a migraine.

Ode, To Hope
by Thomas Oldham

Thou Cherub fair! in whose blue, sparkling eye
New joys, anticipated, ever play;
Celestial Hope! with whose all-potent sway
The moral elements of life comply;
At thy melodious voice their jarrings cease,
And settle into order, beauty, peace;
How dear to memory that thrice-hallow'd hour
Which gave Thee to the world, auspicious Power!
Sent by thy parent, Mercy, from the sky,
Invested with her own all-cheering ray,
To dissipate the thick, black cloud of fate
Which long had shrouded this terrestrial state,
What time fair Virtue, struggling with despair,
Pour'd forth to pitying heaven her saddest soul in prayer:
Then, then she saw the brightening gloom divide,
And Thee, sweet Comforter! adown thy rainbow glide.
From the veil'd awful future, to her view
Scenes of immortal bliss thou didst disclose;
With faith's rapt eye she hail'd the vision true,
Spurn'd the base earth, and smiled upon her woes.

Thou Sovereign of the human soul
Whose influence rules without controul!
Unlike thy gloomy rival, Fear,
Abhorr'd, usurping Demon! who constrains
The shuddering spirit in his icy chains:
O Hope! be thou for ever near;
Keep the dread tyrant far away,
And all my willing, grateful bosom sway.
Each coming hour, that smiles with promise sweet,
In thy bright, spotless mirror let me greet,
And fondly passive to thy dictates, deem
Those smiling hours all heavenly as they seem:
Should changeful Fortune, hostile in her mood,
With storms and thunder arm her meteor-car,
And 'gainst me summon all her host to war,
Rouse thou, kind Power! the champion Fortitude,
With his well-tempered shield
To brave the threatening field.
Amid that scene of woes and mental strife
Let thy sweet, distant whisper soothe my ear,
Inviting Fancy far from mortal life,
To wander, blest, her own-created sphere.
Do thou her glowing thought possess,
And let her fairy pencil draw,
Free, and unconscious of thy law,
Fair images of Happiness;
Of that celestial form which lives imprest
Indelible, eternal, in thy breast.
E'en in the dead calm of the mind,
When Fancy sleeps, thou yet be kind;
O Hope! still let thy golden pinions play,
The unbreathing void to cheer, and shed a glancing ray!

Life's Too Short for Pettiness and Too Precious for Miserliness

by Roger B. Rueda

Let us be brutally frank, like that one friend who doesn’t sugarcoat your questionable life choices. Envy is as pointless as trying to argue with a toddler. It drains your soul, wrinkles your forehead, and worst of all, makes you look like you just swallowed a spoonful of ampalaya. Instead of wasting time peeking over the fence at someone else’s greener grass, why not water your own patch? Or better yet, plant something useful—like humility.

 

Tolerance, on the other hand, is like wearing comfortable shoes. You don’t always need to agree with everyone, but it helps if you don’t step on their toes. Besides, enduring life’s minor annoyances with grace is far better than turning into that perpetually irritated person whose blood pressure is higher than the cost of onions.

 

Generosity is not just a virtue; it’s your ticket to heavenly VIP status. God, in His infinite wisdom, blesses the giver—especially those who give without the expectation of a five-minute standing ovation. Give with a heart as open as the EDSA traffic jam—generous, unending, and occasionally exasperating—but never like you’re surrendering the last slice of lechon at a barangay fiesta. That’s not generosity, that’s emotional martyrdom.

 

And please, for the sake of world peace—and my sanity—stop hyperventilating over trivial matters. The random human who cuts the line at the grocery? Let them have their moment of fleeting triumph. Trust me, their karma is already stuck in an eternal ‘loading’ loop. Focus on the bigger battles—like safeguarding your mental health from being hijacked by life’s daily annoyances. After all, if we reacted to every little irritation, I would’ve declared war on half the Philippine bureaucracy by now.

 

Also, minding your own business is free, and yet so few can afford it. Other people’s lives are not episodes of a teleserye for you to binge-watch. Concentrate on your own plot twists; trust me, you have enough drama to keep you occupied.

 

Rejoice when others succeed! If someone gets a promotion, don’t roll your eyes like they stole your dream job. Clap genuinely. Celebrate their win. After all, life isn’t a zero-sum game—their success doesn’t deduct from your potential.

Life is short. Too short to be wicked, bitter, or perpetually stressed. Relax. Breathe. Enjoy that cup of coffee, that sunset, or even that turo-turo special. Savor everything with gratitude, because no one gets out of here alive. And when the end credits of your life's telenovela roll—hopefully not with me delivering the eulogy—you’d want to be remembered as someone who lived with joy, kindness, and the rare, almost mythical wisdom to let go of nonsense. Trust me, no one wants their legacy to be, ‘Here lies insert your name, whose greatest achievement was holding grudges longer than a teleserye plot twist.’

So, go forth! Be generous like a politician during election season (minus the ulterior motives), be happy like a Filipino spotting balikbayan boxes at the airport, and for heaven’s sake—don’t be a walking bad mood. The world already has enough problems without you adding ‘human version of a traffic jam’ to the list.