HARIBOL SURALISTA

HARIBOL SURALISTA
Pag-omawon an Kagurangnan, an pursang minabusol kan sakong pluma. Haribol.

To the Lost Works / Para Sa Mga Nawarang Obra


To the Lost Work

The lost work is a child that has died. He hasn't seen the world; no one has seen the world of the lost work.

Either caught in a mishap of improper keeping or by intention, it vanished in an instant, it is needless to mention how it was sought, how it was missed.


Where are they headed? Even the mind-womb which created it, conceived it, birthed it, and moulded it, cannot track it even in feeling and in memory.


The words sown from nothingness were returned to nothingness. Isn't this a cause for celebration? However, we will never again be able to relish the bliss of being with it. The solace it gives us, goes away too when they are gone. With the disappearance of the affirmation of our being here, it feels we have never been.


Is there someone reading the lost work in the other side of our experienced reality? What will declare that the lost was our handiwork? What will say that I have held a pen and wrote the piece? How can we discuss the idea that the work now floats in the void?


The work that was made and lost is now in where all that was never found are. The keeper of all that was lost. Like courage or youth. Nothing can tell that these were once ours. Not even remembrance. Like our life which slowly wastes away. Until we can never remember if even our body was really here.

* * *

Para Sa Mga Nawarang Obra

Arog kan aking nagadan an nawarang obra. Dai pa nahiling kan kinaban; an kinaban kan nawarang obra dai pa nahiling .


Nadiskwido sa salang pagsaray o tuyong bigla na sanang napara, dai na kaipuhan osipon kun pano hinanap, pano hinidaw.


Pasain na an mga ini? Dawa an matris-isip na nagmukna, nagbados, buda naghulpot, naghaman, dai na masusog dawa sa pagmati buda pagrumdom.


An mga taramon na tinukdol sa kawaran nai-uli sa kawaran. Bakong garo magayon na okasyon? Iyo sana an, dai ta na masasapar gilayon an ogma pagkairiba ini. An pigtatao kaini satuyang kamugtakan, pagdai na sinda garo nawawara naman. Apirmasyon kan pagigi tang yaon—pagnapara na, garo dai man kita nagin.


May nagbabasa daw kan nawawarang obra sa balyo kan nasasapar na reyalidad? Ano an mataram na hale sa kamot ko an obrang wara na? Ano an mataram na igwa akong kamot na nagtubong ki panurat para hamanon su obra? Pano matutukar an ideya na an obra yaon na pataw-pataw sa kawaran?


An obrang nahaman, nawara, yaon na sa lugar kun sain an gabos na dai na nakua yaon. An sarayan kan mga bagay na nawara. Arog kan isog o kaakian. Wara nang mataram na nagin satuya an mga ini. Dawa pagrumdom. Arog kan buhay tang diit-diit naaatas. Sagkod sa dai na marumduman kun an lawas tang ini yaon talaga digdi.

Photo: Creepy Child No 4 from http://freshpeachesdesigns.blogspot.com/

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Karangahan Online

Karangahan Online
Karangahan: Pagranga sa Panurat Bikolnon. Kagibo: Jimple Borlagdan. Pinduton an ritrato para makaduman sa Karangahan

On Borlagdan's Poetry


A Rush of Metaphors, Tremor of Cadences, and Sad Subversions
By Tito Genova Valiente
titovaliente@yahoo.com

The first time I read the poems of Jesus Jaime Borlagdan, Jimple to those who know him, I felt immediately the seething movement of the words. There was a rush of metaphors in his works. I immediately liked the feeling that the rhythm caused in one’s reading for poetry, in my book, should always be read aloud. I was hearing the voice. It was a voice that happened to sound from afar and it was struggling to link up with a present that would not easily appear.

It was heartbreaking to feel the form. I felt the lines constricting. I saw the phrases dangling to tease, breaking the code of straight talk and inverting them to seduce the mind to think beyond the words. Somewhere, the poems were reverting back to direct sentences, weakening the art of poetry with its universe of ellipses and nuances, but then as suddenly as the words lightened up, the poems then dipped back into a silent retreat, into a cave, to lick its own wounds from the confrontation that it dared to initiate.

For this column, I decide to share parts of the longer paper I am writing about this poet.

In Karangahan, the poet begins with: Bulebard, ikang muymuyon na salog/ki gatas buda patenteng nakahungko,/ako ngonian kahurona. Borlagdan translates this into:Boulevard, you forlorn river/ of milk and downcast lights/ speak to me now. Savor the translation, for in Bikol that which is a dialog has become an entreaty.)

The poet is always talking to someone but in An istorya ninda, an osipon ta, he talks about a the fruits of some narrative: Ta sa dara nindang korona kita an hadi/ sa krus, kita su may nakatadok na espada./Naitaram na ninda an saindang istorya./Punan ta na man su satong osipon./This I translate as: For in the crown they bear we are the King/ on the cross, with the embedded sword./ Marvel at this construction, as the poet cuts at the word “hadi” and begins the next line with “krus” and the “espada.” Marvel, too, at how he looks at conversion and faith, a process that made us special but also wounded us with ourselves stuck with the sword.

Finally, the poet says those lines of the true believer: They have already spoken their story, now let us begin with our tale. The poet does not have a translation but will the istorya in this line be “history” and osipon be “myth.” Shall these last four lines in the first stanza be both a subversion of our faith embedded in a foreign culture or a celebration of what we are not, and what we have not become?
Puni na an paghidaw. Puni na an pagluwas/hali sa kwartong pano ki luha, puni na/an paghiling sa luwas kan bintana./Puni na an paghidaw para sa binayaan./Puni na an pagsulit sa daluging tinimakan./Puni na an paghidaw sa mga sinugbang utoban. Terrifying lines as the poet calls us to begin the remembering and also begin the moving out from the room full of tears. In the poet’s mind, the lacrimarum vale or valley of tears had become an intimate area for instigating his own release.

The rhythm is there as in a prayer. But it is no prayer. There is the repetition but it is not a plea. There is the self but it is one that has turned away from itself into something else. That self is one that shall face the recollection of the faith that has been burned.

And yet the poet, resolute when he wants to, loves to sing and hint of fear and anxiety. Even when he is merely observing children playing in the rains, he summons images of terrible beauty. The skies become diklom na pinandon na “may luho” (with hole). From this hole, comes the sarong pisi ki sildang/ tisuhon na buminulos. The poet stays with this metaphor with such intensity that the silken thread coming from the hole justifiably becomes luhang garo hipidon na busay/paluwas sa mata/kan dagom. Dark wit and a penchant for the horrifying are tandem graces in these lines.

This is the poet who can, without self-consciousness, tell us of the …haya/kan mga ayam na namimibi/nakakapabuskad ki barahibo/nakakaulakit ki lungsi. He whispers of “halas na rimuranon, malamti/sa hapiyap kan mga bituon.”
This is a startling universe, where dogs pray (and bay), and where fears bloom and paleness afflicts and infects, and serpents are caressed by the stars.