HARIBOL SURALISTA

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

Kahoy



Tinaram ko sa babayi:

Sa payo ko igwang kahoy na an dahon an bilang kan kun pirang otro takang pigrurumdom.

Nagi-ulok siya. Garo hali sa daga may kuminanap na lindok sa saiyang tabay, pasakat sa taklob niyang tiklop. Kuminiling siya sa luwas kan balkon, ta garo nawaran ki paros sa laog, ta tibaad ituga kan dugo sa saiyang pisngi an duga na nagdumig sa saiyang tago. Muya niyang isipon kong pighihiling niya su mga bituon; muya kong mahiling niya na pighihiling niya an sarong pagkapasa kan mahewason na liwanag na habo mag-sararo.

An pagrarom kan banggi sinukol ko sa pag ngana kan bulan. Nugad saro ako sa mga naghahalat kan pirot, nakatanaw sa bintana, pigmamate an dai paghiro kan kagayonan. Ta sa irarom kan patenteng nalingawan kan nangiturog nang igwang buhay, sa mga tuog naghihiro an kamunduan,.

Arog kan saiyang ulok, na garo danaw na sarong beses sana kutawon ngani humukol na daing katapusan, na tinahuban niya kan likod kan saiyang kamot, bako para pahaluhon kundi irayo sa huna niya dai makakasabot. Pero muya kong aramon an buot niyang taramon.

Muya kong aramon na kasubago niya pa muyang lumuwas, dumalagan sa banggi, parabason an pilak sa nagraraba-raba niyang unit.

Disyembre 15, 2008. Tabaco.

* * *
Tagalog:

Kahoy

Sinabi ko sa babae:

Sa isip ko mayroong kahoy na ang dahon ay ang bilang ng kung ilang ulit kitang inaalala.

Napangiti siya. Tila mula sa lupa may gumapang na kiliti sa kanyang hita, paakyat sa kanyang tinakpang tiklop. Lumingon siya sa labas ng balkon, dahil tila nawalan ng hangin sa loob, dahil baka ikumpisal ng dugo sa kanyang pisngi ang gata na nanunubig sa kanyang tago. Nais niyang isipin kong pinapanuod niya ang mga bituin; nais kong makita niya na pinapanuod niya ang isang pagkabasag ng malawak na liwanag na ayaw magkaisa.

Ang paglalim ng gabi sinukat ko sa pag tindi ng buwan. Minsan isa ako sa mga naghihintay ng antok, nakatunghay sa bintana, niraramdam ang hindi paggalaw ng kagandahan. Dahil sa ilalim ng ilaw na nalimutan ng nakatulog nang may buhay, sa mga nanigas gumagalaw ang kalungkutan.

Tulad ng kanyang ngiti, na parang sanaw na isang beses lamang galawin upang umalon ng walang hanggan, na tinakpan niya ng likod ng kanyang kamay, hindi para patahanin kundi ilayo sa hindi makakaintindi. Ngunit gusto kong alamin ang nais niyang sabihin.

Nais kong alamin na kanina niya pa gustong lumabas, tumakbo sa gabi, palawigin ang pilak sa nag-aalab niyang balat.
***
English:
Tree

I told the woman:

In my mind there's a tree whose leaves are the number of times I remember you.

She cackled. As if from the earth something crawled and tickled her thigh, up her hidden fold. She looked outside the porch, as if seeking where the air went off, for the blood on her cheek might tell of the sap moistening in her secret. She wanted me to believe that she's just watching the stars; I wanted her to see that she's just watching the breaking of a vast light that won’t unite.

I measured the deepening of the night with the intensity of the moon. Sometimes I'm one of those who wait for sleep, staring out the window, feeling the movement of beauty. For under the night lamp left lighted by the alive, among the frigid moves sadness.

Like her smile, a puddle one needs only to touch once for it to wave without end, which she covered with the back of her hand, not to muffle but to hide it from one whom she thought wouldn't understand. But I wanted to know what she meant.

I wanted to know that she wanted to go outside since the beginning, and run into the night, let the silver stroll on her smoldering skin.
Photo: last scenes from the movie "The Promise" (Wu Ji by Chen Kaige)

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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.