Pabalik na ako sa aking kubo. Wala na akong kadena sa paa. Nanibago ako sa paglalakad. Bawat hakbang ay pinapakiramdaman ko, kinakatuwaan ko. Papalapit na ako sa mga kapwa ko bihag. Silang lahat ay nakamasid sa akin. Ako naman ay nakamasid rin sa kanila. Sa isang iglap, nagpalakpakan sila. Bigla kong naalala, dapat pala ay nakakadena pa ako, ayon sa usapan namin ng mga miyembro ng KT-KS. Nakalimutan naming lahat na ibalik ang aking kadena. Pero ngayon, napakatamis na awit ang dinig ko sa palakpak ng mga kasamang bihag at pinagdusa ng bangungot ng rebolusyon. At ngayon, sila ay sumisigaw:
"MABUHAY ANG PARTIDO KOMUNISTA NG PILIPINAS! MABUHAY ANG PARTIDO KOMUNISTA NG PILIPINAS!"
Kasunod ng mataginting na pagbubunyi sa talibang organisasyon ng rebolusyong pinag-alayan naming lahat ng lahat-lahat, nagtayuan sila sa kanilang mga tarima, sa bato, sa lupa. Pumailanlang ang "Internasyonal". Nakiawit ako habang minamasid ang mga kamaong nakasuntok sa langit.
Kararating ko lang sa kubo nang may kasunod na akong guwardiya. May ibinulong sa espesyal na guwardiya namin. "Ikakadena ka muna uli. Alam mo naman daw ang rason. Luluwagan ko lang."
Masunurin naman akong sundalo lagi...
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Sa Powerbooks, Megamall
Ni Miguel Paolo Celestial
Pagbaba mula sa MRT,
tinawid ko ang tanghali
papunta sa mall,
para magpalipas-oras
sa tambayang bookstore.
Nagpapatugtog ang katabing record bar
ng mga bagong rock at pop single.
Bunton-buntong libro ni Paulo Coelho
ang sumalubong sa pinto.
Sa likod nito, isang buong lamesa
ng The Da Vinci Code
na kalalabas lamang sa pelikula.
Isa-isa kong sinuyod ang mga estante,
wala sa isip kung si Martin Amis
ang hinahanap o si Brett Easton Ellis,
di halos masundan ang lyrics
nina John Mayer at Tori Amos.
Bago makarating kay Marquez,
dumaan muna kay Mailer
balita bago ang mahikang pang-araw-araw,
si Calvino sa kaliwa ni Coupland
depende sa iyong pangarap o ilusyon ng siyudad.
Sa di kalayuan natisod
sina Ishiguro at Hornby
na kapuwa nagsasabing
madaling maligaw ang sarili.
Sa wakas, kipkip ang mga napili,
nakahanap ako ng puwesto sa sofa.
Kasintingkad ng mga magazine
ang mga bestseller sa aking harapan,
kumikinang sa ilalim ng fluorescent lamp.
Gravity, biglang singit ni Mayer,
is working against me. Akala mo’y
may kayakap sa malungkot na sayaw:
and gravity, wants to bring me down.
Pagbukas ko ng aklat, naamoy agad
ang bango ng bagong imprentang papel
na parang higop ng kape, hithit ng yosi.
Ilang minuto na ang nakalipas
at di pa rin ako makausad
sa ika-limang saknong ng tula ni Neruda.
Kandong ang anim na libro,
nakaipit ang daliri sa yugtong
Kung Saan Isinisilang ang Ulan
mula sa Isla Negra, nanikip ang aking dibdib.
Wala pa ring imik ang mga katabi:
Wala akong gunita
ng lupain o panahon,
ng bilang o mukha—
Patuloy ang paglabas-pasok
ng mga tao. Naghahalinhinan ang ugong
ng sasakyan at higing ng erkon,
nasasapawan ng stereo.
ang naiwan lamang
ay ang mailap na alikabok,
ang pagtatapos ng tag-araw,
at ang libingan kung saan
Magkakasunod-sunod
ang malalambing at mapupusok
na tugtog nina Eminem at 50 Cent,
ngunit walang nakakarinig
sa abalang mga mamimili
at papauwing pasahero.
dinala nila ako upang makita
kasama ng ibang puntod
ang himlayan ng aking ina.
Binati ang aking tingin
ng nakangiting tindera.
At dahil di ko pa nakikita
ang kanyang mukha,
tinawag ko ang kanyang pangalan
nang siya’y masilayan.
Nakatitig ang kaha rehistro.
Doon ko lang napansin ang lamig,
ang bigat ng mga aklat
at nangangawit na binti.
Di ko na masundan ang nakasulat sa pahina.
Nag-amoy abo at amag ang de-erkong hangin,
nalusaw ang mga kulay,
nawala sa pagkakatirik ang mga titik:
nagsanib ang lahat sa isang bola
ng tunaw na kandila.
At iyon, iyon ang sinuksukan ng mitsa—
ang kawalan ng pakiramdam, ang kawalang
saysay ng salita—
ng di-inaasahang simponiya
ni Johann Sebastian Bach:
nagliwanag ang tindahan ng aklat
na sinindihan ng biyulin, piyano, at plawta.
Tumigil sa pamamasada ang tren,
tumilapon ang garapon ng sinag
sa lamesa ng tanghaling-tapat.
Nagliparan ang mga dyaryo
sa sigabo ng pahina at resibong
isa-isang sinilaban,
naging dila ng apoy.
Biglang nagtalumpati ang mga bayani
sa papel na salaping nagsiliyab
bago nasawi at naging hangin.
Giniba ang mala-gusaling mga estante
ng isang dilubyo ng tag-init at ang naiwan
lamang ay ang mga kasama ko sa sofa,
ang tindera, ang labas-pasok
na namamasahe at nagpapalamig:
walang pangalan ang puntod
ng kanilang mga mukha.
Sa isang iglap,
nagsanib ang lahat ng aking gunita,
at sa alikabok na humihimlay
sa huling hapon ng tag-araw,
nasilayan ko ang sarili kong mukha:
isang mapa ng abuhing siyudad
na nilalandas
ng bumabahang liwanag.
Nang tumilà ang simponiya,
nanumbalik ang grabedad.
Ilang sandali ang lumipas bago ako nahimasmasan,
bago ako muling nakatayo
upang harapin ang nakasisilaw na pinto.
Pagbaba mula sa MRT,
tinawid ko ang tanghali
papunta sa mall,
para magpalipas-oras
sa tambayang bookstore.
Nagpapatugtog ang katabing record bar
ng mga bagong rock at pop single.
Bunton-buntong libro ni Paulo Coelho
ang sumalubong sa pinto.
Sa likod nito, isang buong lamesa
ng The Da Vinci Code
na kalalabas lamang sa pelikula.
Isa-isa kong sinuyod ang mga estante,
wala sa isip kung si Martin Amis
ang hinahanap o si Brett Easton Ellis,
di halos masundan ang lyrics
nina John Mayer at Tori Amos.
Bago makarating kay Marquez,
dumaan muna kay Mailer
balita bago ang mahikang pang-araw-araw,
si Calvino sa kaliwa ni Coupland
depende sa iyong pangarap o ilusyon ng siyudad.
Sa di kalayuan natisod
sina Ishiguro at Hornby
na kapuwa nagsasabing
madaling maligaw ang sarili.
Sa wakas, kipkip ang mga napili,
nakahanap ako ng puwesto sa sofa.
Kasintingkad ng mga magazine
ang mga bestseller sa aking harapan,
kumikinang sa ilalim ng fluorescent lamp.
Gravity, biglang singit ni Mayer,
is working against me. Akala mo’y
may kayakap sa malungkot na sayaw:
and gravity, wants to bring me down.
Pagbukas ko ng aklat, naamoy agad
ang bango ng bagong imprentang papel
na parang higop ng kape, hithit ng yosi.
Ilang minuto na ang nakalipas
at di pa rin ako makausad
sa ika-limang saknong ng tula ni Neruda.
Kandong ang anim na libro,
nakaipit ang daliri sa yugtong
Kung Saan Isinisilang ang Ulan
mula sa Isla Negra, nanikip ang aking dibdib.
Wala pa ring imik ang mga katabi:
Wala akong gunita
ng lupain o panahon,
ng bilang o mukha—
Patuloy ang paglabas-pasok
ng mga tao. Naghahalinhinan ang ugong
ng sasakyan at higing ng erkon,
nasasapawan ng stereo.
ang naiwan lamang
ay ang mailap na alikabok,
ang pagtatapos ng tag-araw,
at ang libingan kung saan
Magkakasunod-sunod
ang malalambing at mapupusok
na tugtog nina Eminem at 50 Cent,
ngunit walang nakakarinig
sa abalang mga mamimili
at papauwing pasahero.
dinala nila ako upang makita
kasama ng ibang puntod
ang himlayan ng aking ina.
Binati ang aking tingin
ng nakangiting tindera.
At dahil di ko pa nakikita
ang kanyang mukha,
tinawag ko ang kanyang pangalan
nang siya’y masilayan.
Nakatitig ang kaha rehistro.
Doon ko lang napansin ang lamig,
ang bigat ng mga aklat
at nangangawit na binti.
Di ko na masundan ang nakasulat sa pahina.
Nag-amoy abo at amag ang de-erkong hangin,
nalusaw ang mga kulay,
nawala sa pagkakatirik ang mga titik:
nagsanib ang lahat sa isang bola
ng tunaw na kandila.
At iyon, iyon ang sinuksukan ng mitsa—
ang kawalan ng pakiramdam, ang kawalang
saysay ng salita—
ng di-inaasahang simponiya
ni Johann Sebastian Bach:
nagliwanag ang tindahan ng aklat
na sinindihan ng biyulin, piyano, at plawta.
Tumigil sa pamamasada ang tren,
tumilapon ang garapon ng sinag
sa lamesa ng tanghaling-tapat.
Nagliparan ang mga dyaryo
sa sigabo ng pahina at resibong
isa-isang sinilaban,
naging dila ng apoy.
Biglang nagtalumpati ang mga bayani
sa papel na salaping nagsiliyab
bago nasawi at naging hangin.
Giniba ang mala-gusaling mga estante
ng isang dilubyo ng tag-init at ang naiwan
lamang ay ang mga kasama ko sa sofa,
ang tindera, ang labas-pasok
na namamasahe at nagpapalamig:
walang pangalan ang puntod
ng kanilang mga mukha.
Sa isang iglap,
nagsanib ang lahat ng aking gunita,
at sa alikabok na humihimlay
sa huling hapon ng tag-araw,
nasilayan ko ang sarili kong mukha:
isang mapa ng abuhing siyudad
na nilalandas
ng bumabahang liwanag.
Nang tumilà ang simponiya,
nanumbalik ang grabedad.
Ilang sandali ang lumipas bago ako nahimasmasan,
bago ako muling nakatayo
upang harapin ang nakasisilaw na pinto.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Báka
Ni Romulo P. Baquiran, Jr.
Masuwerte kami:
kapiling ang parang
na binubugahan ng langit
ang mga langgam, at tipaklong.
Walang aalalahaning buwis
na kinokolekta ng gobyerno.
Walang tsismis o intriga
kapag bagot at walang magawa.
Hindi kailangang magalit
pag inungaan ng kapwa baka
sa mismong butas ng tenga.
Hindi dumadanak ang dugo
kapag may pangahas na baka
na pumatong sa asawa ng iba.
Hindi rin kailangang makibaka
kapag naiba ang paniniwala
ng kinabibilangang kawan.
At kapag kami'y naiihi,
hindi na kailangang ilabas ang ari
o tumakbo sa kubeta.
At sakaling kumulo ang tiyan,
hindi na kailangang magpawis,
puwede nang manginain
sa mismong kinahihigaang damuhan.
Mula sa 'Onyx'
May ibang bersiyon sa 'Sansiglong Mahigit ng Makabagong Tula sa Filipinas'
Masuwerte kami:
kapiling ang parang
na binubugahan ng langit
ang mga langgam, at tipaklong.
Walang aalalahaning buwis
na kinokolekta ng gobyerno.
Walang tsismis o intriga
kapag bagot at walang magawa.
Hindi kailangang magalit
pag inungaan ng kapwa baka
sa mismong butas ng tenga.
Hindi dumadanak ang dugo
kapag may pangahas na baka
na pumatong sa asawa ng iba.
Hindi rin kailangang makibaka
kapag naiba ang paniniwala
ng kinabibilangang kawan.
At kapag kami'y naiihi,
hindi na kailangang ilabas ang ari
o tumakbo sa kubeta.
At sakaling kumulo ang tiyan,
hindi na kailangang magpawis,
puwede nang manginain
sa mismong kinahihigaang damuhan.
Mula sa 'Onyx'
May ibang bersiyon sa 'Sansiglong Mahigit ng Makabagong Tula sa Filipinas'
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Careful with the table
By Zbigniew Herbert
At the table you should sit calmly and not daydream. Let us recall what an effort it took for the stormy ocean tides to arrange themselves in quiet rings. A moment of inattention and everything might wash away. It is also forbidden to rub the table legs, as they are very sensitive. Everything at the table must be done coolly and matter-of-factly. You can't sit down here with things not completely thought through. For daydreaming we have been given other objects made of wood: the forest, the bed.
Translated and edited by Alissa Valles, with additional translations by Czeslaw Milosz and Peter Dale Scott
From 'The Collected Poems: 1956-1998'
At the table you should sit calmly and not daydream. Let us recall what an effort it took for the stormy ocean tides to arrange themselves in quiet rings. A moment of inattention and everything might wash away. It is also forbidden to rub the table legs, as they are very sensitive. Everything at the table must be done coolly and matter-of-factly. You can't sit down here with things not completely thought through. For daydreaming we have been given other objects made of wood: the forest, the bed.
Translated and edited by Alissa Valles, with additional translations by Czeslaw Milosz and Peter Dale Scott
From 'The Collected Poems: 1956-1998'
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Anibersaryo
Ni Miguel Paolo Celestial
Lumubog ang aking tsinelas sa putik at doon ko lamang napansin
ang hanging may dalang ambon. Naglalakad papunta
sa istasyon ng traysikel, sinalubong ako ng lamig ng paparating na bagyo.
Kanina, mula sa aking upuan sa bus, sunod-sunod na natatabig
ng siko, bag, braso. Ngayo’y lumulusot lamang ang biglang sumalakay
na lamig. Bumalik ang lungkot na inuwi ilang buwan nang nakaraan,
tinatahak ang malapad na kalsadang singdilim. Lumalim dahil humiling
ka ng puwang. Sinulsulan ng simoy ang lagas na dahon ng akasya
at naalala ko noong tinalikuran mo ako dahil di ka makatulog,
dahil nasanay ka nang mag-isa sa iyong kama kasama ang librong
isinasara bago patayin ang ilaw, bago itabi ang antipara sa lamesita.
Pagsilong ko sa anino ng punò, iniwan ako ng aking mga bakas,
tulad ng mga sandaling patuloy na lumipas noong gabing una kitang
nakatabi magdamag. Kumaripas ng takbo ang mga sasakyan,
papalayo nang papalayo hanggang makarating sa aking kasalukuyang
kinatatayuan. Di ka pa rin natatagpuan. Di ko pa rin nahahanap
ang iyong palad mula noong huling gabi sa sinehan
nang hinimas mo lamang ang aking tuhod bilang tugon
sa dilim na naiwan sa aking upuan.
Lumubog ang aking tsinelas sa putik at doon ko lamang napansin
ang hanging may dalang ambon. Naglalakad papunta
sa istasyon ng traysikel, sinalubong ako ng lamig ng paparating na bagyo.
Kanina, mula sa aking upuan sa bus, sunod-sunod na natatabig
ng siko, bag, braso. Ngayo’y lumulusot lamang ang biglang sumalakay
na lamig. Bumalik ang lungkot na inuwi ilang buwan nang nakaraan,
tinatahak ang malapad na kalsadang singdilim. Lumalim dahil humiling
ka ng puwang. Sinulsulan ng simoy ang lagas na dahon ng akasya
at naalala ko noong tinalikuran mo ako dahil di ka makatulog,
dahil nasanay ka nang mag-isa sa iyong kama kasama ang librong
isinasara bago patayin ang ilaw, bago itabi ang antipara sa lamesita.
Pagsilong ko sa anino ng punò, iniwan ako ng aking mga bakas,
tulad ng mga sandaling patuloy na lumipas noong gabing una kitang
nakatabi magdamag. Kumaripas ng takbo ang mga sasakyan,
papalayo nang papalayo hanggang makarating sa aking kasalukuyang
kinatatayuan. Di ka pa rin natatagpuan. Di ko pa rin nahahanap
ang iyong palad mula noong huling gabi sa sinehan
nang hinimas mo lamang ang aking tuhod bilang tugon
sa dilim na naiwan sa aking upuan.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
From "On Writing: a Memoir of the Craft"
By Stephen King
Do all opinions weigh the same? Not for me. In the end I listen most closely to Tabby [1], because she's the one I write for, the one I want to wow. If you're writing primarily for one person besides yourself, I'd advise you to pay very close attention to that person's opinion (I know one fellow who says he writes mostly for someone who's been dead fifteen years, but the majority of us aren't in that position). And if what you hear makes sense, then make the changes. You can't let the whole world into your story, but you can let in the ones that matter the most. And you should.
Call that one person you write for Ideal Reader. He or she is going to be in your writing room all the time: in the flesh once you open the door and let the world back in to shine on the bubble of your dream, in spirit during the sometimes troubling and often exhilarating days of your first draft, when the door is closed. And you know what? You'll find yourself bending the story even before Ideal Reader glimpses so much as the first sentence. I.R. will help you get outside yourself a little, to actually read your work in progress as an audience would while you're still working. This is perhaps the best way of all to make sure you stick to story, a way of playing to the audience even while there's no audience there and you're totally in charge.
When I write a scene that strikes me as funny (like the pie-eating contest in "The Body" or the execution rehearsal in The Green Mile), I am also imagining my I.R. finding it funny. I love it when Tabby laughs out of control —she puts her hand up as if to say I surrender and these big tears go rolling down her cheeks. I love it, that's all, fucking adore it, and when I get hold of something with that potential, I twist it as hard as I can. During the actual writing of such a scene (door close), the thought of making her laugh—or cry—is in the back of my mind. During the rewrite (door open), the question—is it funny enough yet? scary enough?—is right up front. I try to watch her when she gets to a particular scene, hoping for at least a smile or—jackpot, baby!—that big belly-laugh with the hands up, waving in the air.
This isn't always easy on her. I gave her the manuscript of my novella Hearts in Atlantis while we were in North Carolina, where we'd gone to see a Cleveland Rockers-Charlotte Sting WNBA game. We drove north to Virginia the folowing day, and it was during this drive that Tabby read my story. There are some funny parts in it—at least I thought so—and I kept peeking over at her to see if she was chuckling (or at least smiling). I didn't think she'd notice, but of course she did. On my eight or ninth peek (I guess it could have been my fifteenth), she looked up and snapped: "Pay attention to your driving before you crack us up, will you? Stop being so goddam needy!"
I paid attention to my driving and stopped sneaking peeks (well ... almost). About five minutes later, I heard a snort of laughter from my right. Just a little one, but it was enough for me. The truth is that most writers are needy. Especially between the first draft and the second, when the study door swings open and the light of the world shines in...
1: Tabitha King, Stephen King's wife, also a novelist
Do all opinions weigh the same? Not for me. In the end I listen most closely to Tabby [1], because she's the one I write for, the one I want to wow. If you're writing primarily for one person besides yourself, I'd advise you to pay very close attention to that person's opinion (I know one fellow who says he writes mostly for someone who's been dead fifteen years, but the majority of us aren't in that position). And if what you hear makes sense, then make the changes. You can't let the whole world into your story, but you can let in the ones that matter the most. And you should.
Call that one person you write for Ideal Reader. He or she is going to be in your writing room all the time: in the flesh once you open the door and let the world back in to shine on the bubble of your dream, in spirit during the sometimes troubling and often exhilarating days of your first draft, when the door is closed. And you know what? You'll find yourself bending the story even before Ideal Reader glimpses so much as the first sentence. I.R. will help you get outside yourself a little, to actually read your work in progress as an audience would while you're still working. This is perhaps the best way of all to make sure you stick to story, a way of playing to the audience even while there's no audience there and you're totally in charge.
When I write a scene that strikes me as funny (like the pie-eating contest in "The Body" or the execution rehearsal in The Green Mile), I am also imagining my I.R. finding it funny. I love it when Tabby laughs out of control —she puts her hand up as if to say I surrender and these big tears go rolling down her cheeks. I love it, that's all, fucking adore it, and when I get hold of something with that potential, I twist it as hard as I can. During the actual writing of such a scene (door close), the thought of making her laugh—or cry—is in the back of my mind. During the rewrite (door open), the question—is it funny enough yet? scary enough?—is right up front. I try to watch her when she gets to a particular scene, hoping for at least a smile or—jackpot, baby!—that big belly-laugh with the hands up, waving in the air.
This isn't always easy on her. I gave her the manuscript of my novella Hearts in Atlantis while we were in North Carolina, where we'd gone to see a Cleveland Rockers-Charlotte Sting WNBA game. We drove north to Virginia the folowing day, and it was during this drive that Tabby read my story. There are some funny parts in it—at least I thought so—and I kept peeking over at her to see if she was chuckling (or at least smiling). I didn't think she'd notice, but of course she did. On my eight or ninth peek (I guess it could have been my fifteenth), she looked up and snapped: "Pay attention to your driving before you crack us up, will you? Stop being so goddam needy!"
I paid attention to my driving and stopped sneaking peeks (well ... almost). About five minutes later, I heard a snort of laughter from my right. Just a little one, but it was enough for me. The truth is that most writers are needy. Especially between the first draft and the second, when the study door swings open and the light of the world shines in...
1: Tabitha King, Stephen King's wife, also a novelist
Monday, April 25, 2011
Mirindal
Ni Rolando S. Tinio
'Ika nga'y tumaba sa lamig at hirap,
Nakaluklok sa ilalim ng pergolang karton at yerong bulok,
Pinahinog ng mga tanghaling tapat,
Pinag-uban ng walang patawad na alikabok,
Ilang taon ko na siyang dinudungaw:
Kapiling ang nilagang mani, papaya't lakatang
Di man makaakit sa maselang bangaw,
Gaya niyang laging nása kapanahunan.
Iisang kimona ang bestido seremonyal,
Parang sultanang buong tikas na pinamamayanihan
Ang lumalatag niyang katabaan.
Paminsan-minsa'y may alok siyang ginatan,
Halo-halo, o munggo, hindi mo mahuhulaan.
Hindi ka titiyakin kung alin ang itatanghal
Sa palayok na pinangangalirang
Ng nakapulupot na basahan.
Paminsan-minsan.
Di sa iyo matitiyak
Kung kailan papatak ang Araw ng Ginatan.
Usugin mo ma'y hindi káyang mangako.
Akala mo'y kautusang banal
Ang nag-udyok magluto.
Paano niya mapangangahasan?
Wala na riyan si Aling Pilang.
Nabundol raw ng Kano, tila naospital.
Sabi ng iba'y sinaksak ang asawa, tiyak nabilanggo.
May tukso namang sigurado raw nagtanan.
Gayunpaman, nakatayô pa rin ang pergolang kawayan,
Naghihintay yata sa bagyong maghahapay.
Makapagtatanim ka ng gabe sa banil
Na kumakapal sa plastik na dúlang.
Naghihintay ang bangkong may tapis pang nakayangyang,
Isang tiklis, bilaong may busal, garapong pingaw
Na pinamamahayan ng ipis at langgam.
Sabi nila: hindi magluluwat
Magbabangon sa libingan ang Aming Maggiginatan.
Sumasampalataya ako.
Tuwing mag-aalas tres,
Hindi ko nakakaligtaan
Ang parang panata nang panunungaw,
Kaprasito ng puso'y sumisiklot,
Medyo nangangamba't natatakam,
Bago harapin ang tason ng kape't
Maruya, puto-sulot o, kung minsan, palitaw.
'Ika nga'y tumaba sa lamig at hirap,
Nakaluklok sa ilalim ng pergolang karton at yerong bulok,
Pinahinog ng mga tanghaling tapat,
Pinag-uban ng walang patawad na alikabok,
Ilang taon ko na siyang dinudungaw:
Kapiling ang nilagang mani, papaya't lakatang
Di man makaakit sa maselang bangaw,
Gaya niyang laging nása kapanahunan.
Iisang kimona ang bestido seremonyal,
Parang sultanang buong tikas na pinamamayanihan
Ang lumalatag niyang katabaan.
Paminsan-minsa'y may alok siyang ginatan,
Halo-halo, o munggo, hindi mo mahuhulaan.
Hindi ka titiyakin kung alin ang itatanghal
Sa palayok na pinangangalirang
Ng nakapulupot na basahan.
Paminsan-minsan.
Di sa iyo matitiyak
Kung kailan papatak ang Araw ng Ginatan.
Usugin mo ma'y hindi káyang mangako.
Akala mo'y kautusang banal
Ang nag-udyok magluto.
Paano niya mapangangahasan?
Wala na riyan si Aling Pilang.
Nabundol raw ng Kano, tila naospital.
Sabi ng iba'y sinaksak ang asawa, tiyak nabilanggo.
May tukso namang sigurado raw nagtanan.
Gayunpaman, nakatayô pa rin ang pergolang kawayan,
Naghihintay yata sa bagyong maghahapay.
Makapagtatanim ka ng gabe sa banil
Na kumakapal sa plastik na dúlang.
Naghihintay ang bangkong may tapis pang nakayangyang,
Isang tiklis, bilaong may busal, garapong pingaw
Na pinamamahayan ng ipis at langgam.
Sabi nila: hindi magluluwat
Magbabangon sa libingan ang Aming Maggiginatan.
Sumasampalataya ako.
Tuwing mag-aalas tres,
Hindi ko nakakaligtaan
Ang parang panata nang panunungaw,
Kaprasito ng puso'y sumisiklot,
Medyo nangangamba't natatakam,
Bago harapin ang tason ng kape't
Maruya, puto-sulot o, kung minsan, palitaw.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
The Hollow Men
By T.S. Eliot
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
************
From 'Collected Poems: 1909-1962'
Read about T.S. Eliot
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
************
From 'Collected Poems: 1909-1962'
Read about T.S. Eliot
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Ang Batang Tinanghali ng Gísing (Sa Pagtila ng Unang Ulan sa Mayo)
Ni Bienvenido Lumbera
Amoy hinog na bayabas
ang hanging nakaluskos
sa siit at sukal ng patuto.
Kumidlat-kumulog kagabi,
at parang nanaog sa hagdang bato
ang tikatik ng ulang umaanas
pagbaba sa balisbisan.
Sa madilim na parang at kakahuyan
isa-isang nagsipagbukás ng payong
ang mga kabute—mamunso at mamarang.
Ginaygay ko ang bawat patuto,
baka may kubling punso
na hindi naraanan
ng nangaunang masisikhay.
Tatlong mayang-pakíng
ang tumitiling namagaspas
nang mabundol ko ang santa elenang
kanilang pinagsisitsitan.
Nang lumagitik ang natapakan kong siit,
parang pinitpit ang libong kuliglig
sa kanilang pagpaswit, naipit ang tinig.
Inug-og ko ang isang punòng kape—
umulan ng abaloryong tubig,
ilang salagubang,
puting bulaklak.
Paano’y tinanghali ako ng gísing—
isang-isa lamang ang kabuteng inabot.
Kabuteng-ahas pa yata.
Sayang ang sarap pa naman
ng mamarang pag lasang luya’t
paminta ang umaasbok na sabaw,
matamis-tamis, parang datiles.
Maski na mamunso lamang,
nakapaglalaway rin ang sabaw,
lalo na’t sinukaan
ng santol na bagong naninilaw.
Ay! ano kung kabuteng-ahas nga
itong tinuhog sa tingting—
sambalilo ko’y punô naman
ng nangingitim na bignay,
alingarong mapula’t makinang,
bayabas na kalimbahin.
Kulimlim man ang langit na nakayungyong
sa bagnos na pabahay, ay ano pa—
may ilawan akong bitbit,
santungkos na bulaklak ng
kataka-taka.
Amoy hinog na bayabas
ang hanging nakaluskos
sa siit at sukal ng patuto.
Kumidlat-kumulog kagabi,
at parang nanaog sa hagdang bato
ang tikatik ng ulang umaanas
pagbaba sa balisbisan.
Sa madilim na parang at kakahuyan
isa-isang nagsipagbukás ng payong
ang mga kabute—mamunso at mamarang.
Ginaygay ko ang bawat patuto,
baka may kubling punso
na hindi naraanan
ng nangaunang masisikhay.
Tatlong mayang-pakíng
ang tumitiling namagaspas
nang mabundol ko ang santa elenang
kanilang pinagsisitsitan.
Nang lumagitik ang natapakan kong siit,
parang pinitpit ang libong kuliglig
sa kanilang pagpaswit, naipit ang tinig.
Inug-og ko ang isang punòng kape—
umulan ng abaloryong tubig,
ilang salagubang,
puting bulaklak.
Paano’y tinanghali ako ng gísing—
isang-isa lamang ang kabuteng inabot.
Kabuteng-ahas pa yata.
Sayang ang sarap pa naman
ng mamarang pag lasang luya’t
paminta ang umaasbok na sabaw,
matamis-tamis, parang datiles.
Maski na mamunso lamang,
nakapaglalaway rin ang sabaw,
lalo na’t sinukaan
ng santol na bagong naninilaw.
Ay! ano kung kabuteng-ahas nga
itong tinuhog sa tingting—
sambalilo ko’y punô naman
ng nangingitim na bignay,
alingarong mapula’t makinang,
bayabas na kalimbahin.
Kulimlim man ang langit na nakayungyong
sa bagnos na pabahay, ay ano pa—
may ilawan akong bitbit,
santungkos na bulaklak ng
kataka-taka.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
No Long Way Round
By Jorie Graham
Evening. Not quite. High winds again.
I have time, my time, as you also do, there, feel
it. And a heart, my heart, as you do,
remember it. Also am sure of things, there are errands, this was a voyage, one
has an ordained part to play....This will turn out to be
not true
but is operative here for me this evening as the dusk settles. One has to believe
furthermore in the voyage of others. The dark
gathers. It is advancing but there is no
progress. It is advancing with its bellyful of minutes. It seems to chew as it
darkens. There was, in such a time, in addition,
an obligation to what we called telling
the truth. We
liked
the feeling
of it—truth—whatever we mean by it—I can still
feel it in my gaze, tonight, long after it is gone, that finding of all the fine discriminations,
the edges, purse holding the goods, snap shut, there
you got it, there, it is yours it is true—hold on to it as
light thins
holding the lavender in its heart, firm, slow, beginning to
hide it, to steal it, to pretend it never had
existence. At the window, I stand spell-
bound. Your excellency the evening, I begin. What is this trickiness. I am passing
through your checkpoint to a nation that is
disappearing, is disappearance. My high-ceilinged room (I look
up) is going to survive
invisibility
for the while longer we
have the means
to keep it. I look at the pools of light in it. The carpet shining-up its weave—
burgundy, gold, aqua, black. It is an emergency actually, this waking and doing and
cleaning up afterwards, & then sleep again, & then up you go, the whole 15,000 years of
the inter-
glacial period, & the orders & the getting done &
the getting back in time & the turning it back on, & did you remember, did you pass, did
you lose the address again, didn't the machine spit it up, did you follow the machine—
yes, yes, did, & the
wall behind it
pronounced the large bush then took it
back. I can almost summon it. Like changing a tense. I peer back through this time to
that one. You will not believe it
when the time
comes. Also how we mourned our dead—had
ample earth, took time, opened it, closed
it—"our earth, our
dead" we called
them, & lived
bereavement, & had strict understanding of defeat and victory....Evening,
what are the betrayals that are left,
and whose? I ask now
as the sensation of what is coming places its shoulders on the whole horizon, I see it
though it is headless, intent
fuzzy, possible outcomes
unimaginable. You have your imagination, says the evening. It is all you have
left, but its neck is open, the throat is
cut, you have forgotten how to sing, or to want
to sing. It is
strange but you still
need to tell
your story—how you met, the coat one wore, the shadow of which war, and how it lifted,
and how peace began again
for that part of
the planet, & the first Spring after your war, & how "life" began again, what
normal was—thousands of times
you want to say this—normal—holding another's
hand—& the poplars when you saw how much they had grown while you were
away—
the height of them! & the paper lantern you were
given to hold—the lightness of it, of its
fire, how it lit the room—it was your room—you were alone in it and free to sleep
without worry and to
dream—winter outside and the embroidered tablecloth—fruit and water—you didn't
even wonder where was the tree that gave such fruit, you lay in blankets as if they were
non-existent, heat was a given, the rain coming down hard now, what a nice sound—you
could ruminate, the mind traveled back in those days, at ease, it recalled the evening's
con-
versation, the light that fell on x's face, how he
turned when a certain person entered the room—you saw him turn—saw shyness then
jealousy enter his eyes as he looked away—and did he see you see him—and the em-
broidered linen handkerchief you saw a frightened woman in the subway slide from her
pocket, use and replace—then sleep was near—somewhere you were a child and then this
now, nightfall and ease, hospitality—
there are sounds the planet will always make, even
if there is no one to hear them.
From 'Sea Change'
Evening. Not quite. High winds again.
I have time, my time, as you also do, there, feel
it. And a heart, my heart, as you do,
remember it. Also am sure of things, there are errands, this was a voyage, one
has an ordained part to play....This will turn out to be
not true
but is operative here for me this evening as the dusk settles. One has to believe
furthermore in the voyage of others. The dark
gathers. It is advancing but there is no
progress. It is advancing with its bellyful of minutes. It seems to chew as it
darkens. There was, in such a time, in addition,
an obligation to what we called telling
the truth. We
liked
the feeling
of it—truth—whatever we mean by it—I can still
feel it in my gaze, tonight, long after it is gone, that finding of all the fine discriminations,
the edges, purse holding the goods, snap shut, there
you got it, there, it is yours it is true—hold on to it as
light thins
holding the lavender in its heart, firm, slow, beginning to
hide it, to steal it, to pretend it never had
existence. At the window, I stand spell-
bound. Your excellency the evening, I begin. What is this trickiness. I am passing
through your checkpoint to a nation that is
disappearing, is disappearance. My high-ceilinged room (I look
up) is going to survive
invisibility
for the while longer we
have the means
to keep it. I look at the pools of light in it. The carpet shining-up its weave—
burgundy, gold, aqua, black. It is an emergency actually, this waking and doing and
cleaning up afterwards, & then sleep again, & then up you go, the whole 15,000 years of
the inter-
glacial period, & the orders & the getting done &
the getting back in time & the turning it back on, & did you remember, did you pass, did
you lose the address again, didn't the machine spit it up, did you follow the machine—
yes, yes, did, & the
wall behind it
pronounced the large bush then took it
back. I can almost summon it. Like changing a tense. I peer back through this time to
that one. You will not believe it
when the time
comes. Also how we mourned our dead—had
ample earth, took time, opened it, closed
it—"our earth, our
dead" we called
them, & lived
bereavement, & had strict understanding of defeat and victory....Evening,
what are the betrayals that are left,
and whose? I ask now
as the sensation of what is coming places its shoulders on the whole horizon, I see it
though it is headless, intent
fuzzy, possible outcomes
unimaginable. You have your imagination, says the evening. It is all you have
left, but its neck is open, the throat is
cut, you have forgotten how to sing, or to want
to sing. It is
strange but you still
need to tell
your story—how you met, the coat one wore, the shadow of which war, and how it lifted,
and how peace began again
for that part of
the planet, & the first Spring after your war, & how "life" began again, what
normal was—thousands of times
you want to say this—normal—holding another's
hand—& the poplars when you saw how much they had grown while you were
away—
the height of them! & the paper lantern you were
given to hold—the lightness of it, of its
fire, how it lit the room—it was your room—you were alone in it and free to sleep
without worry and to
dream—winter outside and the embroidered tablecloth—fruit and water—you didn't
even wonder where was the tree that gave such fruit, you lay in blankets as if they were
non-existent, heat was a given, the rain coming down hard now, what a nice sound—you
could ruminate, the mind traveled back in those days, at ease, it recalled the evening's
con-
versation, the light that fell on x's face, how he
turned when a certain person entered the room—you saw him turn—saw shyness then
jealousy enter his eyes as he looked away—and did he see you see him—and the em-
broidered linen handkerchief you saw a frightened woman in the subway slide from her
pocket, use and replace—then sleep was near—somewhere you were a child and then this
now, nightfall and ease, hospitality—
there are sounds the planet will always make, even
if there is no one to hear them.
From 'Sea Change'
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Kay Tu Fu na Makauunawa sa Hindi Ko Babanggitin sa mga Taludtod na Ito
Ni Benilda S. Santos
Wari daang taon na ang nakalipas mula noong gabing kumatok ka sa aming pinto upang makitulog dahil kailangan mong iligaw ang mga ahente ng gobyerno na tiyak na papatay sa iyo. Natatandaan ko ang nararamdamang sakit kapag di-sinasayda nahiwa ang daliri sa pagbabalat ng manggang hilaw nang mapagmasdan ko ang mga mata mong mapula sa puyat. Kasimpula ng nagkalat na hinog na ratiles sa labas ng aming bintana, naibulong ko sa sarili kasabay ang inimpit na pag-iling. Nang inihahanda ko na ang iyong higaan, napadait ka sa akin, at nalanghap ko ang sangsang ng maraming araw ng paglalakad sa tag-init mula sa tagiliran ng bundok sa Quezon hanggang sa mga eskinita ng San Andres Bukid. Tiyak ako: tinanglawan ka ng nangangalahating buwan sa iyong paglalakbay, nilibang ng mga bituin at sinundan-sundan ng hangin. Alam ko ring tinanaw ka ng mga kawayanan hanggang sa mawala ka sa lilim ng mga nunong akasya. Kinailangan mo kayang mamaybay sa ilog? Sinu-sino ang kumupkop sa iyo bago ka nakarating sa akin? Nang walang-imik mong hinawakan ang aking kaliwang suso, at pagkaraan, agusan ng luha ang iyong nangungutim na pisngi, alam kong wala akong maipagkakait sa iyo. Hindi ka na nakabalik pa sa akin mula noon. Natagpuan ang bangkay mong tadtad ng bala: haplus-haplos ng malalambot na ugat ng kamya malapit sa paliguan ng kalabaw sa isang bukid sa Tarlac. Ni hindi nabatid ng masa na iyong idinambana ang karaniwan mong pangalan. At ako, ang natatandaan ko lamang, ay ang iyong lábing nasugatan ng aking ngipin at ang dugong aking nilulon: pagkain ng aking pagharap sa hunyangong panahon.
Mula sa 'Kuwadro Numero Uno'
Wari daang taon na ang nakalipas mula noong gabing kumatok ka sa aming pinto upang makitulog dahil kailangan mong iligaw ang mga ahente ng gobyerno na tiyak na papatay sa iyo. Natatandaan ko ang nararamdamang sakit kapag di-sinasayda nahiwa ang daliri sa pagbabalat ng manggang hilaw nang mapagmasdan ko ang mga mata mong mapula sa puyat. Kasimpula ng nagkalat na hinog na ratiles sa labas ng aming bintana, naibulong ko sa sarili kasabay ang inimpit na pag-iling. Nang inihahanda ko na ang iyong higaan, napadait ka sa akin, at nalanghap ko ang sangsang ng maraming araw ng paglalakad sa tag-init mula sa tagiliran ng bundok sa Quezon hanggang sa mga eskinita ng San Andres Bukid. Tiyak ako: tinanglawan ka ng nangangalahating buwan sa iyong paglalakbay, nilibang ng mga bituin at sinundan-sundan ng hangin. Alam ko ring tinanaw ka ng mga kawayanan hanggang sa mawala ka sa lilim ng mga nunong akasya. Kinailangan mo kayang mamaybay sa ilog? Sinu-sino ang kumupkop sa iyo bago ka nakarating sa akin? Nang walang-imik mong hinawakan ang aking kaliwang suso, at pagkaraan, agusan ng luha ang iyong nangungutim na pisngi, alam kong wala akong maipagkakait sa iyo. Hindi ka na nakabalik pa sa akin mula noon. Natagpuan ang bangkay mong tadtad ng bala: haplus-haplos ng malalambot na ugat ng kamya malapit sa paliguan ng kalabaw sa isang bukid sa Tarlac. Ni hindi nabatid ng masa na iyong idinambana ang karaniwan mong pangalan. At ako, ang natatandaan ko lamang, ay ang iyong lábing nasugatan ng aking ngipin at ang dugong aking nilulon: pagkain ng aking pagharap sa hunyangong panahon.
Mula sa 'Kuwadro Numero Uno'
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Gitanjali #60: On the seashore of endless worlds
By Rabindranath Tagore
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky
is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous.
On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.
They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells.
With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them
on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.
They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets.
Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships,
while children gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.
The sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.
Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children,
even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams
in the pathless sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad
and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.
From 'Gitanjali' (Song Offerings), a collection of prose translations made by the author from the original Bengali
Read about Rabindranath Tagore
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky
is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous.
On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.
They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells.
With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them
on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.
They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets.
Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships,
while children gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.
The sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.
Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children,
even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams
in the pathless sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad
and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.
From 'Gitanjali' (Song Offerings), a collection of prose translations made by the author from the original Bengali
Read about Rabindranath Tagore
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