I’m not a poet, but I wish I could be one. I don’t know if, and I’m not convinced, I could be one very soon, though. Here are the doggerels (‘s’ added advisedly) I’ve so far written when I’m making believe I breathe the air of Shakespeare. I don’t know if poets are born or made. Or if there’s some truth to my indefensible claim that one’s poetic skills could be honed by constant practice. What the heck, I still want to try my hand at it! I’m a Filipino whose only claims to English proficiency are the passing-marked short essays I wrote in high school and college. And because I still don’t have the confidence and the bona fides that a great poet should have, I’ve decided to write under the pen name Rio Olo.
I lovingly welcome your comments. Though my poems are as bad as badness can be, I own the exclusive rights to their publication and commercial use. Again, I’m making believe my poems are indeed worthy of publication, and of your time. I hope I’m not committing any crime by my excessive use of poetic license and by my excessive use of poetic license to make believe.
Once in a while you’ll notice little changes to the poems originally posted here. These are proofs that I’m an amateur who delights in perfecting my poems and so I correct them whenever I feel like it—whenever I think I used wrong grammar, wrong usage, and wrong poetic element (whatever that means). This is the beauty of poems (at least for me, as I can always go back to them, change a word or two in them without having to worry about getting a failing mark for my indecision)—I could edit them as often as I see some need for it, after all “Perfection is the child of Time,” says the great Bishop Joseph Hall. I wish editing was as easy to do with life as it is with poems.
But a poem, like the life of a child, has its dead-end, that is, when there’s nothing else that we can do or when our time has finally run out to better or save it. Be that as it may, I will continue to love and be proud of my child even if my child is erring and dying as a mother loves and takes pride in her own. William Wordsworth is correct, “The child is father of the man.” And so is Milton R. Sapirstein who says, “Making terms with reality, with things as they are, is a full-time business for the child.”
Friends, I’m very proud and very happy to introduce to you my children—my poems. They have my blood; yet, they have their own mind.