Black
Written by Major Tom
Filed under: Personal and Family, Literature
December 5, 2007
I’ve been too busy these days that there’s some slack in my blogging. But these sort of days may not be forever, and for certain there comes a time when normalcy would begin again.
For the meantime, I’d like to post this poem that I have wrote the most recent of all. “Black” is the title—perhaps inspired by the song title of one of my most fave rock band—or otherwise. But “Black” as a title is solid like a pure jewel, unhindered in its splendor, and unbending in its stand.
As a poem, it might not be so joyful and exuberant—but this might be just perhaps of some coyness that I felt once, when I wrote this poem specifically, and the seemingly downward emotions that are contained within it might or might not have been appertaining. It might have been of depression or of an emotional meltdown. Of desire and despair. Or the emotions might have just been a fruit of my playful discretion. Whatever.
Here it goes, I hope it would gain some form of critical triumph from my blog friends who would come and read this poem, and then criticize it. I hope they’d be so generous with their words. 
BLACK
Black as the night,
Dark like the moon on this August evening,
While the sea heaves a silent sigh,
I can see black as the color of the night.
Black is the heart that yearns so mightily,
A sudden scream, like thunder and lightning,
And in the midst of the ocean by which once I claim,
Lies the blackest of all sentiments.
Black is the elixir of love
That heals the cut that you made,
And dances away the sorrow
Of a forgotten kingdom where no one lives.
So dark is the sky
That bore your wounds,
With lies and masquerades, so malevolent
Like the edges of a cliff.
Black is the color of dreams,
That once was had been laid on my shoulders, as Atlas once did–
That now, dark is the road
That once had led me to you.
I hope you can write about the plight of the Sumilao farmers. Thanks
Comment by Schumey — December 6, 2007 @ 8:33 am
I’ll do that soonest time possible.
Comment by Major Tom — December 6, 2007 @ 1:36 pm
i also used to write poems even a song but not anymore. wish to do it again but inspiration maybe is lacking. maybe i juest have to travel again to a remote place away fro it all
Comment by tutubi sa tabi-tabi — December 6, 2007 @ 4:07 pm
Thanks Tom, highly appreciate it.
Comment by Schumey — December 6, 2007 @ 4:31 pm
A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music… and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: “Sing for us soon again;” that is as much as to say, “May new sufferings torment your soul.” -Soren Kierkegaard-
Comment by Sidney — December 6, 2007 @ 7:50 pm
To tutubi: Inspiration is one whole chunk of creating poetry, without it is like running a car without gasoline in its tank.
Comment by Major Tom — December 6, 2007 @ 8:14 pm
To schumey: I wish this grand protest would inure to positive things for them.
Comment by Major Tom — December 6, 2007 @ 8:16 pm
To Sidney: Great observation and it would be the case majorly.
Bono of U2 once sang that ‘every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief, all kill their inspiration, and sing about their grief’.
Yet, i’d like to clarify that one musn’t really suffer in order to become a good poet;it is not the case.
Bob Dylan is considered for his great lyricism and he sings about the grief of others, of the society, of the people.
Comment by Major Tom — December 6, 2007 @ 8:21 pm
So much emotion is put in this poem. The blackest of black.
Comment by Abaniko — December 6, 2007 @ 11:43 pm
very nice poem Major Tom. Boy, you do have a knack for poetry
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Comment by craig — December 17, 2007 @ 11:11 am