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by Carmelita Cochingco Ballesteros.
December 18, 2010
It was Thursday evening, 9:10 p.m. to be exact. The following day, November 5, 2010, was the Deepavali Holiday (Festival of Lights) in Singapore. My students, full-time teachers as they were, were heads of families and were raring to go home to be with their loved ones.
But I must keep them in class till dismissal time which was 20 minutes away. How do I keep them from fidgeting? How do I keep them focused and motivated?
We were having a lesson on poetry. So I asked them to write a poem by choosing one of the poems we’ve covered, imitating its structure, but using their own content. To get them to work fast and fiercely focused, I told them that if they finished in five (5) minutes, they could head home immediately!
I was half-joking, but an expectant hush enveloped the room. After 15 minutes, I asked for volunteers to share their poems. Their outputs, and mine, amazed me. Here are some of them:
Little Jane and the Old Lady
by Teo Wan Lee
(Adapted from “The Little Boy and The Old Man” by Shel Silverstein,
A Light in the Attic, 1981)
At a park…
“I always feel lonely,” said little Jane.
“I feel that way most of the time too,” said the old lady.
“No one understands me,” said little Jane.
“No one understands me too,” said the old lady.
“I go home to an empty house,” said little Jane.
“So do I,” said the old lady.
“How I wish THEY could spend more time with me!”
said little Jane and the old lady together.
They smiled… and walked away. (in opposite directions)
Deepavali
by Dalvindar Kaur d/o Mukhtar Singh
(Adapted from “A Card for Me Mom” by Bashabi Fraser, Chatterjee, D. and Fraser, B.
Rainbow World: Poems from Many Cultures. 2004)
It is Deepavali tomorrow
and Serangoon Road is
buzzling with activities.
The aroma of fresh flowers
fill the air.
Colourful lights brighten
up the place.
People rushing for goodies
and for colourful, beautiful clothes.
Music could be heard everywhere.
It is time to rejoice
for the next day brings joy
and happiness
to all Hindus.
Separations
by Carmelita C. Ballesteros
(Adapted from “Separations” by Peauladd Huy)
The day came. It was a holiday.
Long weekend we’d all enjoy!
I’d spend it in my parents’ home.
I’d gone shopping
the day before. My heart
was happy; my steps
were light and bouncy.
I’d show Mother
the dress I bought for her.
I’d show Father
the watch I promised him.
Excitedly, I got off
the dusty bus, then walked
half-running towards our street
two blocks away. A cousin
was turning round a corner,
saw me, and asked,
“Did you know?” I said,
“Did I know what?”
“Last night,” my cousin
chirped, “your father died.
Heart attack. Dead
on arrival at the hospital.”
My poem is semi-autobiographical. It’s about the day my father passed away or passed on in 1978. I was totally unprepared for it, and in my indescribable disbelief and pain, I couldn’t cry during the wake.
I had never wanted to revisit that moment of anguish. But I did during a poetry writing session with my students. It must have been the prodding of the Muse. It’s true what Novalis (1772-1801) said, “Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.”