ARTISTS GALORE: The ARTISTRY of Mieke Pijnenburg by Wilfredo Olamit

ARTISTS GALORE
The Trinity of Triumphs

“The poem was written by a Filipino Poet Wilfredo Zambrano Olamit and is solely owned
by “Mieke Pijnenburg, a visual artist from The Netherlands.” 

I asked his bio and this is what he gave me:

“vini, vidi,” i

came, saw, “vici,” i conquered,

fought life’s low and high.

This is the 3-Liner that he constructed when he was asked to write his whole life in a 3-Liner of 17 syllables.

Following is an excerpt of a rough draft of a book
Wilfredo’s aspires to write.

****

“The Journey of the Seventh Son”

ANOUK

On the
seventh month,
seventh day, and
seventh hour,
of the second year
of my being his
seventh son,
Tranh and his other 3 sons
and I met at dawn.

The ritual
of the renewal of the vow of the covenant.

Each one of the four of us sons
present vocalized our vows,
the vows of the 3 who could not attend,
were read by Tranh.

Moral Center:
Transgress your covenant,
you sin against your honor.

Tranh’s home, his castle, his fortress
had a pauper’s setting,
two wooden benches,
one wooden stool exclusively his.
two small wooden tables,
a radio, no television,
an old phonograph where he played
his old operatic records,
radio used for communication,
no bed,
just a mat on the floor in his bedroom,

This was the domestic realm
of one of the most powerful,
and influential men
around, a very wealthy man.

Moral Center:
It is not because you got it
that you flaunt it.

Moral Center:
Go back to basic,
there is where the compound resides.
This is one of my favorite moral centers.

He did not own a car,
he walked as much as possible,
“If I do not take the cyclo, the poor cyclo driver
will not benefit from my fare money,
if I want a police escort I can just radio for it,
but nobody benefits from my free ride,
I would rather pay the taxi driver.”
That is one of the reasons
why I loved him as my soul father.

There were occasions when Tranh back rode
with me on my motorbike.
“Now, son, my life is in your hands,
this is when you should have
every thing under control.”
After that, I respectfully declined his requests
to back ride with me,
“Take the cyclo, no one benefits
from your back riding with me.”
“That is why I love you, Jake, my seventh.”

Moral Center:
It takes a father to love a son.
It takes a son to love a father.

At 7:00 o’clock in the evening
of that 7th month
and 7th day,
of the renewal of our vows,
dinner was served.

Tranh knew the favorite food
of each of his four sons present.
I was served my steamed clam,
sauteed mustard greens, and Schlitz beer.

Moral Center:
It benefits both the father and the son
for the father to know the son.

After dinner, a young woman arrived,
embraced, kissed Tranh.

She was his daughter,
“Come home from school in Paris
to be with us tonight.”

No description of her beauty
would do her justice.

She sang Tranh’s favorite, a lullaby.
“It is much better, Jake,
if you look at my daughter
than you look down on the floor.”

“Sir, it is so painful for me
to look at so much beauty.”

When it was my turn to contribute
to the night’s entertainment,
I recited Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s
How Do I Love Thee,
Let Me Count the Ways.

I had to concentrate so hard,
because she locked eyes with me,
and somehow I just floated,
tried so hard to synchronize
my tongue and my thoughts.

After I said,
“I shall but love thee better after death,”
she did not applaud me,
she did something
which endeared her to me,
she wiped her tears with her hands.

Tranh then slapped his right thigh
and said, “Aha, aha, aha!”
That was the second time he did that.

“Father loves you, Jake, so much so
that he asked me to be here this day
to be with you.”

I thought to myself that this woman
is her father’s daughter,
shoots straight and direct.

“Father loves me the most, Jake.
He said that before this 7th month is over,
I would bear his grandchild by you,
with or without our falling in love
with each other.

Father wants his grandchild,
portion of his bloodline,
to be from the two persons
he loves the most, you and me.”

Moral Center:
The propagation of your bloodline.

It was afternoon in Tranh’s room.
She drew close the dark blue drapes
and it was night.

She lighted seven candles,

“It is like dawn here”.

She said there was enough time
for us to get acquainted,
for her to read from a book of poem,
it was in French
and a “very passionate poem.”
We sat on the mat
with our backs on the wall.

“You love poems, reading them,
listening to them,
do you write them, too?”

“Yes, but I write them in French,
I am French-Indochinese, you know.”

“Sample?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,
I had to tell this poem to you, anyway,”
She got up from against the wall,
sat on lap, took my hands in hers,
locked eyes with me,
then she whispered her poem.

“You love it?”

“I love the way you whispered it,
if only I understood it.”

“It is a poem I wrote when my father
told me what my destiny would be,
a virgin mother to his grandchild
of his seventh soul son,
that I can never know another man
until you allow me to,

it is a poem I wrote for you

even before
father mentioned “Jake” to me,
the first time he said your name to me
was at your renewal of vow of the covenant”,

“What was your first impression of me?”

“Father has great judgment.”

“What did you think of me
the first time you saw me, Mon Jake?”

“Painful beauty, very hurting beauty.”

“Mon Jake, you write poems, don’t you?”

“Yes, but not in French.”

“What is your favorite poem?”

“Each one is my favorite.”

“Say one to me, please.”

“I don’t have one memorized,
but I can say to you
one of my favorite poems
written by others,
it is like a prayer,
I say it every dawn.”

“What a coincidence,
you just said it is dawn here.”

I recited Salutation to the Dawn,
by Kalidasa.

She told me that to recite the poem
at dawn makes her impatient for the dawn,
for the new day.

“Tell me about your loves, Jake.
Were they kind and good to you
and you to them?”

“We left each other.”

“I have a foreboding
that I might have to leave you, too.
Father has everything under control,
we have no control at all.”

“Anouk, remember this,
a man, a woman,
always has a choice.”

“Jake it is now about the seventh hour,
it has to occur in the seventh hour.

As I told you,
I am not deflowered,
father wants his first grandchild
from his seventh son
to be of a virgin mother.

If the white bedsheets
will not confirm my virginity,
I will be banished,
disinherited, disowned,”

My friend and I got so scared
by this revelation and big responsibility,
what if because of his size constraints,
my buddy cannot give confirmation?
Horrors to the seventh magnitude and beyond.

I wished then that I were
the big giant with the big one,
my Indonesian brother of the prison cell.

She read the erotic poem,
a poetic foreplay for her,
and the more her breathing got strong,
the weaker my friend became,
flaccid-a-drooping galore!

“Mon Jake, what is it?”

“Responsibility always does this to me,
am so scared that because of size,
I cannot give your father the confirmations
he requires of you.”

“My mother prepared me for this emergency.”

I was now laid on the mat on the floor.
She straddled me,
she put her right forefinger vertical to her lips,
indicating no words from me.

We gazed lovingly into each other.
I did not know what she saw in me,
but this is what I saw in her –
beauty as I had never beheld,
eyes of a dove,
long slender neck of a swan,
long black shiny hair,
white silky skin,
white silk blouse which defined
what more beauty to behold.

She slowly
and gracefully
took of her blouse,
each slow sway she made
in this process
was torment to me,
heaving silence,

then she tossed
her white silk blouse on my face,
by the time I removed it from my face,
she was Venus de Milo with arms.

She broke the ritual silence.

“The feast of the 7th son
of a 7th son
is now served.”

With my trembling forefinger,
I gently tapped the tip
of her left black nipple,
she quivered,
turned her head up and sighed
and said something in French.

When I gently tapped the tip
of her right black nipple,
she ever so gently swirled her head
around and around,
her black hair dancing in the air –
and she moaned something
which I understood.

I said to my self,

“This beloved virgin of mine
is very easy to please.”

The heaving and swaying
of her breasts
were arrested
by the palms of my hands,
which were just the right size
to completely hide
her Venus cups
from my adoring eyes.

She trembled,
twisted,
and heaved
in sensual passion ballet.

Then she collapsed on me
and whispered,

“My mother told me
that father killed her on her 7th month,
I believe that this my 7th month
is when I really start to live.”

She dismounted,

“This is my first time to see
and touch this in the flesh,
he is handsomer than you, Mon Jake,
even more warm,
I am surprised at how it eagerly reacts
to my touch,
why does it keep bowing up and down
like a Japanese?”

Jake smiled at Anouk’s innocence.

Then she did to
the slit on the head
of my manhood
what I did
with the tips of her nipples.

Then she did to
the shaft of my manhood
what I did with her breasts.

Though that had been done
to me before
by many women,
that was the first time
that I quivered.

She was taught well
by her French mother,
for she did with her tongue and mouth
what she just did with her fingers and grip
on my now erect smallest obelisk
that side of Egypt.

“Jake, it is now the 7th hour.”

She laid on the mat on the floor,
her head against the wall,
opened her attitudes to me,
cutest belly button,
concave belly,
svelte waist,
slim long white legs,
smooth inner thighs,
shaven mound almost pink
whose arch undulated sensuously
to each breath she took,
to each breath she gave,

I tenderly opened
her letter of invitation
to all that she is
and I read it written on
a pink passion stationary
with its most sensuous
exclamation point,
which was sinfully moistened
and glistened
to the dance of
the seven candle lights,

this hors d’oeuvre
of the feast of the seventh son,
the seventh son did savor

by first inhaling its heady scent,
then clit tip to tongue tip,
cacophony of endearments
in French
from her which was maddening
and encouraging
to the Pilipino
who understood no French,

my tongue explored her
in and out,
slutty moans,
I sucked the lusty oyster,
whoring curses,
these from a virgin.

“Oh, Mon Jake,
I am now my mother’s daughter,
mother’s first effusion
was orally taken
by her owner.”

I placed a pillow under her buttocks,

“Why?”

“Short”

She sexily smiled and then giggled,
I knelt between her legs,
she spat on her right palm,
asked me to spit there, too,
she bathe my manhood
with that concoction,

“Ritual?”

She smiled a lusty affirmation.

“Jake, it has to be within the 7th hour.”

Whether it was part of ritual or not,
I was at the point
where I really did not care,
she held my shaft,
rested its head
by the door of her beauty,
eyes still locked,

then she smiled,

“Iniibig kita, Mon Jake”

she gently pulled us in
as she raised more
her already raised buttocks.

“Anouk, je taime.”

I embraced her and whispered,

“Am sorry, Anouk,
but because of that darned confirmation,
I have to ram and brutalize you.”

“Did you have a virgin before, Mon Jake?”

The scent of Topaz invaded my senses,

“Yes.”

“Then I am in goods hands.”

Then she closed her eyes

as if to accept the start
of the ravenous rape.

The more brutal thrushes,
the more beautiful
her face became.

Then at last
she met my downward rams
with her upward heave,
opened her eyes,
I saw the devil
that was me reflected there.

“Mon Jake, now.”

Before the 7th hour ended,
there was confirmation
on the white bed sheet.

After we had savored the spiritual stage,
the aura which surrounded beauty
that oozed into contentment,
the fluidity of passion towards pacific stillness,
that followed that devilish tumult
of our torrid love making,

she called for her nanny.
who knew
the ritual of the confirmation,
nanny left and brought
the blooded white sheet
to the father of the 7th soul son,
who had just deflowered his daughter.

“My Jake, please write me a poem
of how you deflowered me,
I will write a poem
of how you deflowered me.
I will then translate
to French your poem,
my poem to English.”

We used the poems
as poetic foreplay.
She read them
and by the time she would say,
“Mon Jake, it is now the seventh hour”
and demanded my entry,

she was not only moistened,
but already at the brink
of her effusion.

Anouk was very easy to take there
with the erotic poems.
Always and every time,
we made love in Tranh’s room – ritual.

During that seventh month,
Anouk and Jake lived virtually
as man and wife
sans the wedding ceremony.

After the seventh month, per rituals,
the ritual in Tranh’s room
was held in abeyance
until the seventh month of the next year.

***

Feature image provided by the poet.

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3 Comments

  1. I’m enjoying the way you wrote this and will be reading it over some more so to be sure I didn’t miss anything 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

    1. Thank you @Andy1076 this was actually written by Wilfredo Olamit, a Filipino poet based in the States. 😉

      Liked by 1 person

      Reply

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