It’s the stars that make you Ethereal Wanderer
Making you of Air that breathes Independence,
Fire that lights a Spark of Curiosities
Dew that wells Spring of Senses
and Spirit with Beautiful Diamond Eyes
riding on the Radiant Meteors evermore.
Author’s Note: This is my tribute to all whose stars are met in the Aquarius, the Beautiful Drifters. Let’s celebrate!
Though it may be a gossamer of allure,
Beauty tames the roars of the brute
and works a magic spell in nature,
bewitching the savage with witchcraft.
Author’s Note: They say beauty is only skin-deep, but I don’t believe it. Power is to a man is what beauty is to a woman. So much so that Oscar Wilde said, “The only way to behave to a woman is to make love to her if she is pretty, and to someone else, if she is plain.” William Shakespeare then quipped in: “She is beautiful; and therefore to be wooed.” Beauty purchases indemnity for wrongdoings. You see Beauty Does Matter. If you disagree with a grinding teeth or a grimacing face, think about a root of racism. It’s all based on how one looks. Capeesh?
Whistle, and he’ll come to you
From a wild haze of desert maze
Blowing smokes, looking aglow
On his steed with the blue gaze
Into the windows of your heart
Sealed against pillage of the cabinet
Full of secrets locked tight and fast.
For Blondie is The Good doing it.
Watch, and he’ll stand behind you
In a soldier’s hide with a golden watch
Grinning with the blue lamps that glow
Like the phantasmal light of a ghostly torch
Penetrating the bastion of your spirit
Guarded in the deep forest of your mind
Against a carnage of the spirit with a feat.
For Angel Eyes is the Bad doing it.
Wait, and he’ll show you
In a gringo’s hide with a squint eye
Calling you, “My friend!”, following you
Wherever you go, even to a valley
Laced with tombs of the drifters and solders
Where the dollars are paid for the tribute
To the litany of woes and more woes.
For Tuco is the Ugly doing it.
Author’s Note: This is based on my viewing of “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” directed by the great Sergio Leone. The film often referred to as the masterpiece of Spaghetti Western, is in fact far superior to any other western movies made by Americans in terms of storyline, plots, settings, and cinematography.
For example, in this film, all of the characters are morally ambiguous and ethically challenging, which makes them realistic and relatable. Besides, compared to the perfected appearance of typical “American” characters, the Good, the Bad and the Ugly are all scruffy-looking and unhygienic even, and yet they all look quite stylish in their naturally rugged ambiance and masculine outlooks, especially well manifested by the iconic piercing gaze of Clint Eastwood as the Good and the amazingly chiseled face of Lee Van Clef as the Bad. What’s more, even though director Leone had never been to the States before making the film, he was excellent in portraying the Wild American West during the Civil War by filming it entirely in Spain.
The music by Ennio Morricone also plays an integral part in this film, creating timbres for each of the characters, so that whenever the character appears on the screen, the unique thematic music is played, indicating the moods of the characters without having them narrated in words. Hence I wanted to write about the impression of this unforgettable film that’s engraved in my Hall of Fames.
That which they called Providence,
A divine scheme of God’s purposes,
Was the handiwork of Fair Fortune,
The ancient idea of lucky chances
Of adventures and misadventures,
Knocking the door of a poor man’s hut
With a pouch of lucky stars regardless
Of what the world saw for his worth,
Pacifying his ills of grief and grievances.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The doctrine of providence that a man’s life was an intricate handiwork of God’s mysterious purposes was a tenet of Protestantism which, as a counter-cultural way of resisting medieval Catholicism, advocated zealous work ethics in an effort to combine a practical faith with an active self-reliance and independence. That riches and authority came of men’s industry and diligence, of their labor and travails, not of miracles as a result of mechanical recitations of prayers and devotions to saints was the canonical principle of the reformed church. However, the folks who were not well-off, not-too-rich, poor, and very poor never subscribed to the doctrine of providence. They still clang to the concept of luck because it accounted for any misfortune befalling them regardless of merits and efforts when others wayward seemed to prosper. By believing in luck or chance that reformists condemned, he who in travails did not have to jeopardize his self-esteem as something of a mental analgesic against the strains of his contemporary life, lest he should fall by the wayside, and thus could reconcile himself to the environment he lived. Hence this belief in luck survived the seismic protestant reformation and still thrives on in our time.
Her eyes are blindfolded, her hands are rapid
In a paroxysm of wild ecstasy at the Great Rotary,
Spinning it around and around like a delirious maenad,
Changing the positions of the compass willy-nilly,
Bringing tears and sorrows, beams and windfalls
To the names of the stars the compass indicates
till the stars above fall, the earth below collapses
and her game of fortune the god of gods terminates.
Author’s Note: This self-evident poem is about the Wheel of Fortune, a popular medieval folk belief that human lives are governed by the whims and caprice of Goddess Fortuna. She is said to spin the wheel at random, blindfolded, by which human fates are decided despite our efforts through constant trials and errors. It may sound bleak and fatalistic, but it also means that it’s not our faults to go through the ordeals of life, but that such is our fates, a force majaeur circumstance beyond our mortal controls, that we have to endure with stoic attitudes toward the vicissitudes of life. It is also a way of positive outlook on life because by attributing the ups and downs of life to the force of fates, we don’t jeopardize our self-worth and thus blame ourselves.
The labor is done,
The spell is broken,
The soul is aloft
in the firmament
and rides the Great
White Spirit Horse from
the Great Beyond
higher and farther than
the Seagull Jonathan
till they disappear
over the arc of the horizon.
Author’s Note: This poem is a spiritual recipe for the existential malady which stifles the soul’s desire for freedom of expression for a social recognition denied on the ground of unfortunate biological and social planes. Kafka’s miserable salesman turned into a big monster bug, but the narrator of this poem becomes a beautiful, confident spirit rider, jettisoned from the dreadful realistic shackles and chooses to embark on new adventures with Kemosabe, meaning “a faithful friend” in Native American language, which is the Great White Spirit Horse.
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