When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses. — John F. Kennedy
The next day after the suicide of the late general and Cabinet secretary Angelo “Angie” Reyes, the incorrect front-page report of a local newspaper (not the Philippine STAR) that he was supposedly reading real estate tycoon Donald Trump’s book The Art of the Deal led me to pass by Powerbooks in Greenbelt 3, Makati to again take a look at that book which I read years ago.
Of course, later that evening when I passed by the wake of my friend, the normally gregarious and optimistic Angie Reyes (but the incorruptible West Point graduate General Danny Lim and the idealistic ex-coup leader Senator Sonny Trillanes are also my friends), his third son Marc Reyes clarified to me that the front-page newspaper report was wrong, because it was his youngest brother Judd Reyes who was actually reading that book and not their dad.
While at the second floor of Powerbooks and leafing through Trump’s 1987 The Art of the Deal, I noticed that Trump also had another book nearby which should have been given as a gift to the late Angie Reyes and to anyone else feeling despondent or down.
I sincerely believe that tragic suicide should never be an option for anyone, no matter how dire the situation or crises and for whatever reason. Sometimes the reason is clinical depression, which can be treated medically.
I bought that interesting book Never Give Up: How I Turned My Biggest Challenges into Success, which seems to be an updated variation of Trump’s earlier book entitled The Art of the Comeback. One unforgettable line in Chapter 2, which I’ve believed since I was a kid, is this: “Failure is not permanent.”
Although the tycoon’s daughter Ivana Trump has yet to prove herself except for being a glamorous heiress, I also decided to buy her book as well, entitled The Trump Card: Playing to Win in Work and Life, mostly because she looks really beautiful on the cover.
While in the bookstore, I detoured to the Classics section on the ground floor to look for poetry books. I used to write English and Tagalog poetry as an Ateneo college student, poems that were published in Heights and Matanglawin, as well as outside publications like Caracoa journal by the group of the late Alfredo Navarro Salanga and Krip Yuson, and also for Midweek magazine edited by Jose “Pete” F. Lacaba.
Two poetry books I bought in Powerbooks and which I highly recommend are The Norton Anthology of Poetry by Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter and Jon Stallworthy; and 99 Poems in Translation selected by Nobel Prize winner Harold Pinter with Anthony Astbury and Geoffrey Godbert.
While leafing through the book 99 Poems, I was so impressed by a 1,176-year-old poem penned by the Chinese government official and scholar Po Chu I which should be read by all our politicians including President Noynoy Aquino, the senators and congressmen, and should be required reading for all our many corrupt military and police generals active or retired. Po Chu I’s only son had died, so this poem of his was addressed to his nephews and nieces:
A Mad Poem Addressed To My Nephews And Nieces
The world cheats those who cannot read;
I, happily, have mastered script and pen.
The world cheats those who hold no office;
I am blessed with high official rank.
The old are often ill;
I, on this day, have not an ache or pain.
They are often burdened with ties;
But I have finished with marriage and giving in marriage.
No changes happen to disturb the quiet of my mind;
No business comes to impair the vigor of my limbs.
Hence it is that now for ten years
Body and soul have rested in hermit peace.
And all the more, in the last lingering years
What I shall need are very few things.
A single rug to warm me through the winter;
One meal to last me the whole day.
It does not matter that my house is rather small;
One cannot sleep in more than one room!
It does not matter that I have not many horses;
One cannot ride in two coaches at once!
As fortunate as me among the people of the world
Possibly one would find seven out of ten.
As contented as me among a hundred men
Look as you may, you will not find one.
In the affairs of others even fools are wise;
In their own business even sages err.
To no one else would I dare to speak my heart,
So my wild words are addressed to my nephews and nieces.
— Po Chu I, Tang Dynasty, 835 A.D., translated by Arthur Waley
Last but not the least, thanks to Tanya Lara of the Lifestyle section of Philippine STAR for asking via Facebook why nobody recited a poem by Pablo Neruda during a recent poetry reading session by the newspaper and presided over by Krip Yuson. Neruda is one of my favorite poets, though I do not share his communist ideology because I am vigorously in favor of capitalism as a force for liberation of human genius and freedom.
Since this is Valentine’s month, let me share a love poem by Chile’s Nobel Prize-winning writer Pablo Neruda entitled “If You Forget Me,” which pop singer Madonna recited in a version of her song Frozen and which a brilliant female friend of mine has also downloaded to my iPod Touch. I also used this poem in my “Editor’s Note” for the latest February issue of Inside Showbiz magazine. You can also access Madonna’s reading of this poem on YouTube.
If You Forget me
by Pablo Neruda
I want you to know one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
* * *
Thanks for your letters, all will be answered. Comments welcome at willsoonflourish@gmail.com, follow WilsonLeeFlores at Twitter or email at my page on Facebook.