Pinoy Poetry Timeout

The other day I found myself in one of those funny-exasperating incidents that make up the life of a pedestrian Metro Manilan. I was in the Cubao LRT station and saw a card-dispenser with an intriguing laser-printed sign scotch-taped over the machine’s front. The sign read: This Machine Accepts 5 and 10-Peso Coins. This Machine DOES NOT Accept New Coins. An old-fashioned machine that demands which coins to digest! How novel. There was also something poetic about those two lines; it struck me as some kind of cruel joke-cum-poem created at the expense of poor pedestrians who have to suffer all manner of inconvenience and indignity just to get from point A to B around the metro. What’s more, as I took a step closer to the machine, I found out that its small LCD window showed a faint warning: OUT OF ORDER Just when I have the OLD coins the machine wants! Drats. I fumbled around my bag for a camera but I found out that my camera needed recharging. Someone came up to me, read the sign, and together we had a bit of a chuckle. The security guard also came by and gave a sheepish grin when I pointed at the busted machine with the sign which seemed to resemble a cruel psych experiment. So, with infinite patience, we left the tyrannical machine and lined up to get our LRT cards from the humans behind the windows. Queuing for the privilege of getting LRT cards from a human takes more time than using the card-dispensing machines, so while waiting one has to distract oneself with something. While waiting in line, I was surprised to hear poems being read over the speaker system. With growing interest, I heard funny, unpretentious Pinoy poems being read. The two poems that stayed with me were by Fidel Rillo and Jose F. Lacaba. Unfortunately, I forgot to note down the Rillo poem but I enjoyed it immensely when I heard it. The Lacaba poem was read (very nicely too!) by Romnick Sarmenta (please don’t make me explain who Romnick is; ask your unmarried aunt or uncle who this guy is). When I reached home, I frantically searched for the Jose F. Lacaba book of poems I know I have. Somewhere. After wrecking the room and flinging books, cats, unpaid bills, unused exercise equipment, unmatched socks, cobwebs, the long-lost pair of eyeglasses, and other items out of the way, I finally unearthed my Lacaba poetry book, “Edad Medya: Mga Tula sa Katanghaliang Gulang,” and I did a loud yell that scattered the cats across the room. Spurred by what I heard over at the LRT station, I re-read Lacaba’s 103-page book cover to cover that night. It was like rediscovering a piece of treasure. The Lacaba poem I heard at the LRT station isn’t in this book, though, and I thought of searching for the other Lacaba book I know I have. Somewhere. But the cats peering from a tangle of flung books, magazines and other bric-a-brac gave me evil looks so I decided to give them a rest and look for the book some other time.

Re-reading Lacaba’s poems in “Edad Medya” is a pleasure. I must have read it first in 2000 (that’s the year my copy says Anvil published it). The price tag is still there: an amazing P75. Here’s one of my favorite poems from Lacaba’s “Edad Medya”: Sa mga umaga Sa mga umagang tinatanghali ako ng gising, inaabrasador ko ang iyong unan, at marahang pinaplantsa ng bukas kong palad ang gusot sa kama na iniwan ng iyong katawan, at pagkatapos ay iginuguhit ng isang daliri sa kama ang memoryadong balangkas at hugis ng iyong balikat, at baywang, at balakang. Sa mga umagang tinatanghali ako ng gising, mananatili ako sa kama, ninanamnam ang gunita ng mga gabing nagdaan: maaaring inunan mo ang aking dibdib, dito, sa pagitan ng puso at kanang braso, at nalanghap ko ang samyo ng iyong buhok, at maaaring inalis ko ang ilang hibla na pumasok sa aking bibig, kumiliti sa aking mga mata, at maaaring hinaplos ko ang iyong buhok, ang napakakinis mong buhok na tuwing umaga’y nilalagyan mo ng langis ng niyog. Sa mga umagang tinatanghali ako ng gising, hinuhulaan ko kung saan ka naroroon: maaaring sa likod-bakuran, winawalis ang mga tuyong dahon ng makopa; o maaaring sa kalsada, naglalakad nang mabilis, hinahabol ang araw, nagpapawis, paminsan-minsa’y humihinto para magbunot ng pansit-pansitan sa gilid ng daan; o maaaring nakarating na ng bahay at matiyagang nililinis ang pansit-pansitan, tinatanggalan ng ugat, inaalisan ng lupa, bago pakuluan ang dahon at tangkay. Tiyak na pagtayo ko’y isusumbat mo sa akin, habang hinihigop mo ang sabaw ng pansit-pansitan, na marami ka nang nagawa —nakapaglaba, nakapaglinis, nakapagsaing— habang ako’y nag-iinin sa higaan. Subalit ang mga gunita ng mga gabing matalik ay mga gunitang sumasalag sa anumang sumbat. Huwag kang magagalit kung hindi ko inaalintana ang sumbat sa mga umagang tinatanghali ako ng gising. This poem alone is worth the P75 book price in 2000. I don’t remember enjoying a Pinoy book of poems like this one before. One of the reasons could be that I have not bought another Pinoy poetry book since 2000. Maybe it has to do with the fact that books now cost considerably more than Lacaba’s P75 in 2000. So the next day, I made sure to buy a new (post-2000) Pinoy poetry book. What I found was another treasure: Joel M. Toledo’s “Chiaroscuro” published by University of Santo Tomas in 2008 (which should be sufficiently current). Toledo teaches Literature at Miriam College, Quezon City and has won a bushel of awards in poetry, national and international. Given the millions of poems and “poems” written by sad and lonely (possibly suicidal) Internet denizens, winning an international poetry contest is nothing to be sneezed at. There is an exacting and measured quality in Toledo’s poetry which demands constant re-reading. Enjoyment comes from repeated readings and finding something new each time. Maybe this is the gift of poetry in these difficult times: it makes us sit up and think sublime, lofty thoughts that carry us, even for a moment, far from the humdrum. One of Toledo’s poems in this collection is the following: The Wild What little I know of luminosity, I learned from this: a cheerless child weaving into the night, negotiating the paths of ghosts. He is ten, his frail hands clutching small darknesses. He doesn’t understand fear. The fireflies have drawn him out, the evening a terrible creature of jewels and gems. The house retreats farther and farther back: broken, tamed. How he wants to touch the lights, to own them. He strains forward, groping for openings in the wall of dark, fingertips finding one another. Suddenly a world kindled and pulsating. The fireflies throb ecstatic in the distance, trapped in the curl of thumb and forefinger, the child’s hands borrowing light. But he knows such wildness cannot be held. I find him a short walk from the house, caught in the tangle of light. He is stabbing into the darkness, raging. And if I come closer, I will hear his heart pounding fiercely, keeping wild rhythms, child breaking into light: but listen, we must let go of these things. I keep back and let the child be—broken, tamed. I have no idea if Lacaba’s and Toledo’s books can be purchased in bookstores. Whenever I go to the country’s biggest “book chain,” all I seem to see are FHM magazine copies and school supplies on discount. The best way nowadays to get hold of copies of Pinoy poets may be to google Anvil Publishing House for Lacaba’s “Edad Medya” and UST Publishing House for Toledo’s “Chiaroscuro.” If anyone knows the Fidel Rillo poem that’s included in the recorded readings over at the LRT stations, please post it here.