ORAGONX: THE NEW BIKOL REPUBLIK

This afternoon, our group, the Poets and Writers Coalition, will have a marathon reading of Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself. I am reader No. 49 and here’s what I will read:

And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.
To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes,  
I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting,  
I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors,  

And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape.

And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me,  

I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing,  

I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish’d breasts of melons.

And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,  

(No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)

I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,  

O suns - O grass of graves - O perpetual transfers and promotions,  

If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing?
Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,  

Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight,  

Toss, sparkles of day and dusk - toss on the black stems that decay in the muck,  

Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.

I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night,  

I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected,  

And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small.

I am worried. I am worried about my “ragang rinaranga”, our beloved city. In less than two months, its centro has experienced inundation due to heavy rains described as ‘freak” by my colleague in the Public Information Office. Yes, freak but not totally strange and unexpected if viewed in the light of the perils pictured by Al Gore in An Inconvenient Truth. I am worried because meteorologists and climatologists have warned that global warming will make typhoons stronger and rainfall frequent and heavier; and hence, more ruthless and destructive flooding. I am worried because my city grew from being a sanctuary for flood-weary natives who found in it a refuge; hence, the city’s name. Today, the land, the raga, is now buragrag, tubrag and ragrag, vernacular vocabularies and adjectives which are onomatopoeic and resonant of the looseness of the earth to which they trace etymology. No wonder, the earth and the volumes of water just let loose during the last flood. Our mountain, described by a Haribon Foundation member as the “most commercialized” of Bicol mountains, does not have much tree cover to hold the soil which absorb the water. They’re almost nada.

Blame that on our land registration laws way, way back which even had areas on 18 degrees slopes titled. One such land title, which spanned the slopes in San Pedro, had it registered under a certain Dolores Bowler, which perhaps was a wife of one of the early American employees of Alatco. The other big lands were registered under the names of Spanish left-overs who established haciendas planted to abaca, then later coconut; and lately, corn. Blame that on early loggers of the area who practically razed the mountain. I have a 1900 photo taken by a Harper’s photographer showing the thick forest of the mountain; and seeing Mt. Iriga today makes you puke at the greed of those who made the mountain the picture of baldness today. Blame that on the poverty of the people, on the futility of the government and its agencies which enforce environmental and forestry laws. Blame ourselves for spitting at the sky.

But it is not time anymore for finger pointing. The recent flooding is an omen of things to come if nothing concrete will be done to at least mitigate the flood or avert a possible recurrence of a Ginsaugon. It’s good that Mayor Gazmen has formed a team which will reforest the most affected part of the mountain. Yet, I hope there will be more local community participation in the program so that they will have a sense of ownership of the program. Most DENR reforestation programs actually failed because of this lack of communal involvement and stake. It’s also good that a rainforestation approach, as opposed to just plain, reforestation, is being pursued in the program. We now know that a Gmelina doesn’t hold much soil nor water. It depletes water and with the coming of the typhoons, they usually yield easily, like a loose girl to the advances of a handsome young man. It’s time we re-seed the mountain of its old inhabitants: marabikal, amurawon, akle, abibling, langyow…The list is long if only we have a germplasm inventory of indigenous and endemic trees.

I have my own idea of reviving the mountain. In the Bible, they often talked about the cedars of Lebanon which are now absent in that country. In the ancient town of Olympia, Greek culture ministry officials will reforest the cradle of the Olympic games by looking at the testimony of ancient writers; ie., history. In this historical approach at reforestation, I plan to present historical evidence of the prevalence of a certain tree mentioned by a French traveller during the Spanish time which can be used to reforest the mountain. It can easily be propagated, typhoon resistant, holds water very well, and can be a source of an alternative high-value rural economic enterprise. That will be my next blog entry.

While our professor was midway demonstrating how to present a conference paper, the ground suddenly started shaking and the glass windows rattling. We were stunned for a moment until somebody said, earthquake. That was the signal each one of my classmates started ducking under the slim tables. I think I was the last one who did the same. Looking back, I thought it was so natural for them; but for me, who comes from a different context and obviously had not absorbed much those reminders on what to do in times of an earthquake as to make them part of my own make up and system, my delayed reaction was well, perhaps a manifestation of my own lack of disaster preparedness consciousness. I still remember in July 16, 1990; yes, that Big One which hit Baguio and Cabanatuan City. I was about to go out of the SM Cubao then when the glass windows of the mall started trembling. The guard’s immediate reaction was to close the door but I remember some of us shouted at him with the question: ano ba gusto mo bang makulong tayo dito sa loob. The guard was the first one to have sped out of the mall.
I remember that guard because in a way his reaction was also similar to mine own yesterday. I thought his , was less of an abandonment but a very natural human fear and strong primeval act of self-preservation. Which is not always a guarantee for it, though. That is why I remember all those disaster preparedness plugs I used to read in my own radio program which perhaps I did not take to heart myself. And that explains why while my classmates were already under the table, I was sizing up the walls whether they will fall down on us. I was also remembering the escape door. I’m certain fear also gripped me. I was aware that seismologists were awaiting an earthquake along the Hamilton Fault which is within the Bay Area and which shakes every 140 years and it was supposed to have been at the end of last month. So I remember mumbling a prayer.
The quake lasted about 30 seconds and because we had our laptops, we immediately knew that the epicenter was only 7 miles from downtown San Jose and that it was a 5.6 intensity, and coming from or near the Calaveras Fault. No major damages. The buildings were still up. No deaths. No injuries. That was not yet the Big One.
Thank God.

What made us laugh after we gained our composure though was the timing of the quake. My professor’s conference paper was on Robinson Jeffers’ poetry which is noted for what a critic called “geologic sublimity”, its concern for a forgotten past when the earth’s current geography was still being formed by earthquakes and the movement of tectonic plates. Think of images of the Mauna Loa spewing lava into the sea and you’ll get the metaphor in his poems. Its so primal which really makes the “sublime” a very dangerous place. We thought Jeffers was around just as he had written in Tor House (”My ghost you needn’t look for; it is probably/Here, but a dark one, deep in the granite, not dancing on wind/With the mad wings and the day moon.”); and which we were reading at that time. Somebody snapped: a “geologic special effects.” What a way to remember early la dia para los muertos. Happy Halloween!

Last night, my wife had the best sleep in weeks in her life. When we had our usual evening chat, she was so in a hurry to go to sleep she lost in the week-long campaign for the recent barangay election. She lost that one too, i.e. her bid for barangay captain in our village, not because she sleeps a lot but because her opponent won. As simple as that. We do not have excuses. I was helping run her campaign, at least the strategic part, long distance. She is in the Philippines, I am in California. Yet, that is not the reason for her debacle (because it was a very negligible margin that could have been easily gained earlier during the campaign). It is the delicate balancing act called Philippine local politics. Earlier on, some had advised her to resort to the one G of Philippine politics, that is buy votes. We did not buy that because not only we do not have the money, and even if we do, we wouldn’t have done it just the same, for the simple reason that my wife was running on a hope and a belief that our voters have values beyond the pensive Ninoy Aquino, which my moles reported did circulate during the campaign. She believes in respecting the integrity of the voters and their capacity to chose their leaders freely without undue pecuniary influence as a political exercise of their rights. As it turned out, some voters voted under the influence. She thinks she will be in the wrong start by starting with the wrong footing; and she stood pat on that. Some had also advised her to ask the help of politicians. We did not also follow that, knowing not only the non-partisans nature of the barangay election but also the vested interests of politicians. Some said, “ay dugay ka naman bay sa politika.” Yes, in the sense of her running as a candidate. But we know for long the low depths where Philippine politics had sunk in, so we thought of lighting our own candle.

Because she had a good night sleep, we feel she still won and that is reason enough for celebration and thanksgiving she said she will do the following morning. Is she coming back with this kind of valuable voters. Oh, she believes in the ninja rule that defeat one day only gives her another day to come back. Hmm. I thought I heard Schwarzenegger there. But really, it may be Sisyphusian to roll a rock over again a hill which is the seeming hopeless kind of our political culture we have; but we should, on the other hand, have faith each in our selves and in our people that one day, we can go over the hill in triumph against the hopelessness and helplessness in our midst by standing up and doing something about what we believe in. Everything passes, St. Theresa of Avila said. So, even Muhammed Ali did not escape this thing called Alzheimer’s disease.

So, next time you think there is no end to these sad, sad state of affairs in our country. Don’t just wait for time to do its work. Let’s do something about our times, instead. Even if you lose some sleep.

Former president Joseph Estrada’s assertion that he may “have committed mistakes” in his public career but “corruption is not one of them”, is an example of what American author Charles Baxter calls the concept of “deniability,” or the political culture of finger-pointing.”

The idea, which he discussed in his book on writing fiction, Burning Down The House, creates what he termed a “dysfunctional narrative.”

“One of the signs of a dysfunctional narrative” he wrote, “is that we cannot leave it behind, and we cannot put it to rest, because it does not, finally give us the explanation we need to enclose it…Instead of achieving closure, the story spreads over the landscape like a stain as we struggle to find a source of responsibility.”

In other words, the buck doesn’t stop anywhere. No one takes responsibility for mistakes made and the public is left to conjecture who erred.

This is where our country’s story is in now. Like Baxter, I also long for the delineation of characters where we can clearly see the division between the “despicable and the admirable,” a distinction now obliterated by the Arroyo administration.

Fortunately, we see who wears its own abominable mask.

(AND WHAT IS MAPAGPAKUMBABA)

This is my delayed reaction to the post in Ugat on streamers hanging just about anywhere in the city proper, which the insightful blogger rightly sees as posing dangers to the life and limbs of motorists. I just hope our elected city council representatives know blogging themselves so they can see the correctness of the view of the ugat blogger. His is the kind of people’s participation that we sorely need in the city, one which observes and constructively comment on his observation by offering solutions and alternatives. Criticism, done constructively, is after all healthy. His post started from a question of a friend, who asked upon observing the predominance of these eyesores, mostly within the vicinity of the city park as well as the main thoroughfares at the centro - do we lack self-esteem as a people as manifested by these streamers? The friend’s concern is also expressed in his observation that even a school’s 30% passing record in certain examinations are bandied about through these streamers? Indeed, that is in fact below par. Our blogger, however, ever the devil’s advocate, argued that it may also be our people’s putting a higher premium or value on education for which parents even sell their carabaos or long-kept heirloom just to send their children to college. Besides, our blogger said, it is also promotion or advertisement for the school.

It was a good and well-reasoned out exchange and indeed, it is time that the members of the city council heed his recommendation. Allocate only certain areas for these streamers and billboards. They are not only vehicular hazards (which is the reason the DPWH has banned them), they are also contributing to urban blight. Current trends in urban planning now consider the city as a breathing organism, free of these vestiges of commercialism (and even politicking, remember those streamers greeting the observance of the anniversary of this church or birthday of its founder), by liberally incorporating natural elements in planning and zoning, to come up with so-called green cities. Perhaps, Iriga can start going in this direction. One possible place for these streamers and billboards perhaps is at the city terminal, which can give it additional source of revenues. And perhaps too, we should now get rid of billboards on projects of this and that politician. It’s politically incorrect, considering that it is the people’s money which are being spent on these projects and so credit should first and foremost go to the taxpayers and not the politician. In movie parlance, that’s nagnananakaw ng credit. But we know the reason why, its free advertisement for the next election.

But back to the streamer. I don’t agree with the blogger’s friend’s assessment that the streamers are indicative of our people’s low self-esteem. If there is a Bikolnon to whom the word oragon is so apt, it is the Irigueno. We give it in fact a new stress with our quaint schwa sound to the o in the word. And where did the words malang-patak and maablada come from? Nabuenos also call us malang usbog. This is not to say that other Bikolnon are not themselves oragon. We just give the word a louder meaning. Just observe when we Iriguenos gather among ourselves. We sound like Paul Williams singing “You and Me Against The World.”

What I think though of these streamers is that they are manifestations of our own distorted and misguided sense of excellence and honor. This is actually what I have in mind when I wrote Ciudad sa Parada in my first poetry collection, Ragang Rinaranga (Naga City: Agnus Press, 2006). Having sat in the Sumagang Selection Committee for several years, I have seen how these distortions manifested themselves, although for the peace of mind of those who may be guilty (you know who you are); I will not cite specifics here. Suffice to say that some think that excellence is being able to pull one over the other; or that honor is something that has to be announced with a brass band. Excellence for me is less of outdoing others but more of outdoing and overcoming one’s limitation. As for honor, the honorable man does not delight in being called honorable. It is for me the Biblical guest who sits at the end of the table, but eventually is called by the host to sit instead at what we call the presidential table. In short, being honorable is also being mapagpakumbaba or humble, one of the main character we are promoting in our City Character Program. To go down or bumaba means leveling with one another so one can understand and communicate, to be in the same ground. Nakatungtong sa raga. So, as we are wont to ask while waiting at the elevator lobby, “bababa ba?” Are we ready to go down and level off with our own people? This simply means not looking at the ordinary Irigueno as a mendicant case, that is only awaiting for one’s generosity. Pagpapakumbaba is first of all, recognizing one’s common humanity and bond with other people and respecting their own human dignity. In other words, if you are a government employee you do not let a taxpayer wait for you till you finish your make up or your coffee. Or if you are a candidate for an elective post, you do not buy their votes because you recognize their right to choose their representative. Pagpapakumbaba is learning the lesson from our staple food - rice, which when unripe is upright; but when full and golden, it bows to the earth from whence it grew, in a gesture of gratitude and remembrance. Most often, when people get to be somebody, they start talking, “suway sa awak”. They become a manananggal. I’m sure this is not the reason why for sometime Iriguenos had been called aswang.

(or what is pagkaadimuwanon?)

My friend Romy Olea, a colleague in the community journalism scene back home and who is a rare example of one who made an easy transition from the broadcast to print media, did not miss the irony on that streamer at the park thanking Mayor Madel for solving the flooding problem in the city. Last September 18, like the Biblical thief in the night, flash floods hit the city proper as well as the geographically low-lying towns of Nabua and Baao. It had been nearly a decade since this part of the Bicol river basin was submerged in water and this perhaps explain why the story found its place among national dailies and television networks beamed in the United States. The streamer may have been a sincere expression of gratitude or relief; but the sudden coming of the flood showed it to be a premature celebration. What bothered me about the streamer, however, is not that it may be seen as “papogi points” for the mayor but that it showed a wrong and misguided view about governance. It is still indicative of a traditional notion of the government as only, the institution represented by our representatives, our elected leaders, the politicians. It is of the thinking, albeit, incorrect that the government and its operation, including solving the flood problem, is best left to them. The people’s participation in the government ends after they have chosen their leaders and from that time on, it’s their leaders’ show. It is this thinking that has paved the way for much abuse among the politicians and bureaucrats, like graft and corruption; for the establishment of political dynasties and the lack of progress in our country. We leave our elected leaders to do their thing and so what we have is a government perennially engrossed in investigations on graft and corruption. Former President Estrada and COMELEC chair Abalos, are just two recent examples.

What does this got to do with flooding in Iriga? The streamer, like a Freudian slip, shows its thinking about the solution to the flooding problem. Its the mayor’s, i.e. the government’s job, alone. We may clone Mayor Madel a hundred times, but she will not solve the problem by her hundredfold self. Not without the people’s participation, which she had been pounding on the people’s mind as shown by the on-going barangay day gatherings and consultations. For the flooding problem is not only a natural hydrologic (water finds its own level) problem that can be solved outright by infrastructural solution, like dredging or canal constructions; but it is an environmental symptom that respects no geographical boundaries. It therefore calls for the involvement of all people who still live on land; that is, not only the people of Iriga, but also the people of the flood-prone areas of the Rinconada area. For it is a law of nature that whatever is done somewhere, will have an effect somewhere else. Or in the old law of physics, for every action, there is a corresponding reaction. Put in another and more concrete way, when people of Buhi cut their trees upland; either it can result in flooding or drought in the basin area. It is a chain or as Joey Ayala puts it in a song: “Ang lahat ng bagay ay magkaugnay.” That is why my PRRM colleagues had long been advocating and pushing for the revival of the old RIADEC, which can provide a forum for sharing and coming up with common solutions to our spatially-related problems. That is why, too, I believe that any government program should always factor in people’s participation, if only to draw out their sense of ownership and commitment to the program. Failing that, we will repeatedly grapple with the same problem all over again, like the recurrent flooding problem.

Yet, back to the streamer. I also think that the message on the streamer forgets an Irigueno trait which we are promoting in our character program, i.e. resourcefulness, which our colleagues in the City Character Program translated as, pagkadimuwanon. I can identify the root of the word, but I don’t have an idea of its concrete derivatives. Nevertheless, from its usage, I can see its connotation of self-reliance. This then harks us back to a very Irigueno adage: “Dios nang Dios, di nananao sa iniros.” Even God does not serve us steaming rice. Meaning, we have to rely on the sweat of our brows. We have to work ourselves and do our part (like disposing our garbage at the right place and receptacles) and not leave the work of solving the flooding alone to Mayor Madel. When we do that, then perhaps we can put up a streamer and pat ourselves in the back with words like: Mabalos Kanato, Ta Uda Na Baha Sadi Iriga.”

If we take the etymology or root word of Mapagpaonod as onod, or a tuber; then we can see a concrete example and beauty of patience and tolerance. For a tuber literally grows under the ground. It crops up beneath the stem of a plant; hence, a root crop like our native alyon, bungkukan, namo, kamote, kamoteng kawoy. Its a UG, an undergrowth. Yet, growing or going under does not mean condescension or submission. For a plant, it is its nature. For us, human beings, to go under is an act of tolerance and patience. It is an act of humility, of denying the self to give way to others; of understanding people and their differences. Imagine what a wonderful world we will have if only people have the patience and tolerance to let others, who are different from them in race, religion or rank; be themselves. Globalization, which has shrunk the world into a barrio, needs this value so much as multi-culturalism is creating inevitable and unnecessary tension among people, anywhere in the world.

Mountain climbing is one endeavor where one’s patience is tested to the limit. The Filipino pioneering climbers to Mt. Himalaya very well know this. So is the German traveller Feodor Jagor who was able to climb the summit of Mt. Iriga, after two failed attempts, in 1870. Here is the record of his triumph and the first account of a foreigner who has ever climbed the mountain:
“About six o’clock on the following morning the ascent began. After we had gone through the forest, by availing ourselves of the path which we had previously beaten, it led us through grass three or four feet in height, with keen-edged leaves; succeeded by cane, from seven to eight feet high, of the same habitat with our Arundo phragmites (but it was not in flower), which occupied the whole of the upper part of the mountain as far as the edge. Only in the ravine did the trees attain any height. The lower declivities were covered with aroids and ferns; towards the summit were tendrils and mosses; and here I found a beautiful, new, and peculiarly shaped orchid. [153] The Cimarrons had cut down some cane; and, beating down our road for ourselves with bolos, we arrived at the summit a little before ten o’clock. It was very foggy. In the hope of a clear evening or morning I caused a hut to be erected, for which purpose the cane was well fitted. The natives were too lazy to erect a lodging for themselves, or to procure wood for a watchfire. They squatted on the ground, squeezed close to one another to warm themselves, ate cold rice, and suffered thirst because none of them would fetch water. Of the two water-carriers whom I had taken with me, one had “inadvertently” upset his water on the road, and the other had thrown it away “because he thought we should not require it.”

[Altitude.] I found the highest points of the Iriga to be 1,212 meters, 1,120 meters above the surface of the Buhi Lake. From Buhi I went to Batu.” (from Reisen in den Philippinen by Feodor Jagor, Chapter XVIII)

Had Jagor given up, had he not the patience to go on, we would not have been given this record of how our mountain was like during the Castillan times. By having the patience, Jagor also proved true the adage of our forefathers: “Sa paturo-turo, malulubot a bato.”

by Luis Dato

I’ve found you fruits of sweetest taste and found you
Bunches of duhat growing by the hill,
I’ve bound your arms and hair with vine and bound you
With rare wild flowers but you are crying still.

I’ve brought you all the forest ferns and brought you
Wrapped in green leaves cicadas singing sweet,
I’ve caught you in my arms an hour and taught you
Love’s secret where the mountain spirits meet.

Your smiles have died and there is no replying
To all endearments and my gifts are vain;
Come with me, love, you are too old for crying,
The church bells ring and I hear drops of rain.

Sarong Aldaw sa Uma


Pinudo ta ka nin mga bunga na pinakahamis asin pinudo ta ka
nin gurong-gurong na duhat na nagtitindog sa kulod,
Pinuyongos ko an saimong kamot asin buhok nin balagon asin sinamnohan
nin pambihirang layas na burak alagad padagos pa an saimong pagsilok-sigok.


Dinara ko saimo an gabos na mga pako sa kadlagan asin inatang ko saimo
nakapatos sa berdeng dahon mga kirit-kirit na mahamis na nagsisiriwit,
Linaom ta ka sa sakong mga kamot sarong oras asin itinukdo
an hilom kan pagkamoot kun sain nagtatagbuan an mga anito kan bukid.

Napara na an saimong mga ngirit asin mayong kasimbagan
sa gabos kong mga pagpapadaba asin an sakong mga dulot daing kamanungdanan:
madya, namomotan, bako ka nang angay nganing mag-agrangay
nagbabagting na an simbahan asin nadadangog ko na an pagtagaktak kan uran.

Dakitaramon ko. (My translation). I got to be introduced to this poem through Mommy Coring (Socorro Federis Tate) who took this up in our English 101 class at the Ateneo de Naga. Later, while visiting Stephen Sergio in Malacanan, I got to met Dato’s son who was one of Sergio’s staff. I learned that Dato served as the mayor of his town, Baao; and for a time taught at the University of Saint Anthony. While I was editing the News Section of the Bikol Standard, publisher and former Minalabac Mayor Gil Basmayor (he lied low for a while from politics to concentrate on newspapering); told me that there were stories in his town that the woman for whom this poem was written is from his municipality. I tried asking around about the woman when I wrote the history of the town for a fiesta souvenir program, where I was able to find a copy of the libretto of the Tumatarok, which Anding Roces wrote about; the crucial role of the town during the Fil-Am war in the region where it became a bloody theater of American expansionism; a 50’s movie star and a national javelin athlete from the town. Sadly, the object of the poet’s affection eluded me, thus her identity remains a mystery.

An pagdayo sa ibang nasyon kaluyahan nin gamot. An mga napa-ibang lugar biktima nin ekolohiya. Sa tahaw ninda asin an nagsusustenir na daga, may salugsog na nagtadom.

Ernesto Galarza

Duman sa harong, ini an mga pangaturugan na sakong pinapangaturugan
sa islang kun sain an saldang pirmeng maliwanagon
bakong arog kaining halangkaw na edificiong pirmeng madiklomon:
paiskwelahon an anom kong mga aki asin balukaton
an natatada kong minanang daga
(ay, kun kuta an istambay kong agom
arog ka pursigido kan mga panaka sa hagyan
dai kuta napasakamot idto
ni Don Serafin asin an apat niyang kabalyero.)

Sinda na daw ini? Kukuanon na ninda ako?

Ay, alagad nagin mailom ako.
Kada pagduman ko sa mercado
minabakal akong perang kilo nin asin sagkod apog,
nakatago sa sakong basket.
Kun bangging mayong bulan, pakatapos kan sakong klase,
tood an sakong mga kamot
sa pagbabaak asin pag-aasin kan mga sira
nadakop kan sakong ama sa lawod.

An mga alon daw ini o an mga panaka sa hagyan?

Ay, maboot an dagat, alagad huli sa mga dinamita
asin hilo
nagdikit an populasyon kan mga sira
na siguro nagpasiring na sa kun sain

na arog ko.

Binayaan ko an blackboard asin an sakong mga aki,
(sa pangangataman kan tugang kong sinanglian na ako
sa papel kong ina asin agom, an mga matatabil an dila)
nganing mag-ataman kaining aking matagas an payo
sa madiklom, madiklom na kuwartong ini na kasing kantidad
kan daga, pambayad sa pasaporte
asin singil kan recruiter
para sa pangaturugan kong makapagtrabaho sa abrod.

Alagad si sir, magpoon kan enot kong aldaw
hinihiling akong garo dai akong sulot
rinirikisa an sakong atubang, an sakong likod.
Huli kaini, si ma’m hinihiling man ako
na may pagdududa, garo baga
kinakakan ko si pagkakan kan aki
(na iyo man talaga asin si para sa dayo,
ta kulang pa sa ido an tinatao sa sako)
Asin magpoon sa mga burarat asin burikat na mata,
magpoon sa mga kurahaw na istranyo an kahulugan sa sakong talinga
alagad kaagid nin salugsog sa sakong puso, nagabot an maluhay na pagkamang
nin mga kamot sa sakong tabay pagkakabanggi,
asin an mga biglang taplong na pinaparong an ilaw sa sakong payo.

Asin dai ako sinusueldohan
nin perang bulan, bulan, bulan.
Asin mayong surat haling harong an nagaabot,
nin perang bulan, bulan, bulan.

Langaw daw an nagtataptap sa salming kan bintana?

Kaya ginibo ko sana an tama,
an ginigibo kan mga agom kan mga parasira duman sa samo kun banggi.
Ngonian an asin sagkod an apog
bahala na sainda sa aparador.
Kung mag-abot sinda, dai ninda ako madadara.
Malayog akong arog kan langaw sa bintana.

EMILY’S LETTER

Migration is the failure of roots. Displaced men are ecological victims. Between them and the sustaining earth, a wedge has been driven.”
- Ernesto Galarza

Back home, these are the dreams I dreamed

in the islands where the sun is always bright

unlike this high-rise flat where it is always night:

send my six children to school and redeem

what remains of my inherited land

(ay, if only my by-standing husband

was like these relentless hooves on the stairs

it would not have been taken

by Don Serafin and his four horsemen).

Is it them? Are they now going to take me in?

Ay, but I have been discreet.

Each time I went to the market,

I bought several kilos of salt and lime,

stashed in a basket.

On moonless nights, after my classes.

my hands are deft

in slitting and salting the fishes

my father caught from the depths.

Is it the waves or the hooves on the steps?

Ay the sea was kind, but for the dynamites.

and the poison.

There was a decline in the population

of fishes which have perhaps moved somewhere else

as I am.

I left the blackboard and my children behind,

(with my sister who had taken over my role as both

mother and wife, those reeking gossips)

to care for that spoiled brat

in this dark, dark flat that was worth

our land, payment for the passport

and the job recruiters fees.

For my dreams, gone overseas.

But my Sir, since day one

had been looking at me as if I had nothing on

examining my front, my behind.

In turn, my Madam, would look at me

with suspicion, as if I had eaten the food

in the fridge for the kid (which I did and the dog food,

as I only get a plateful less than the dog.)

And from stares and glares,

from shouts strange in meaning to the ear

but kin to pins in my heart; came the slow creeping

of hands on my lap at nights,

and the sudden slaps that turns out the light in my head.

And I was never given my pay

for months, months and months.

And no letters from home arrived,

for months, months and months.

Is it a fly that tap, tap on the window glass?

So I did what was right.

what fishermen’s wives do back home in the night.

Now, the salt and the lime

will take care of them in the closet

When they come, they’ll not take me in.

I’ll fly like the flies on the window pane.