HARIBOL SURALISTA

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

Palatog

Posted by Jai Jesus Uy Borlagdan Sunday, October 25, 2009



Butones kada butones, muya kong ubakan an pagkahipid mo,

kamangon an saimong tadong. An saimong taklob, bubukliton ko

luway-luway, arog sa marindihon na dahon kan suanoy na libro.


Muya kong hubadon an saimong pagkahigot

nganing sumayaw kang pisi sa paros, naghahagong

sa wasiwas kan rantserong mamundo.


Higuton ka, arog kan pagkahusto kan balat mong sapatos

sa nakatago mong bitis. Kaipuhan takang labunan,

sa init pauriyakon an saimong unit ki mga pirak na pisog.


Nakamaan ako ngonian sa mabuot na pakihuron kan saimong lawas

na nagtataram na “dai mo ako pagparamaanan.” Pano man,

kun riraw an masupgon mong tukadon na sinamnohan sa marindihon na telang burakan?


Garo ka gibo sa paros na pinatos sa badong matagas.

Muya kong buhian an saimong misteryo sa kinaban, arog kan sarong makapatod-hangos na tanawon,

arog kan Mayon muya ko sanang lanyagon kan sildang an mapungaw mong kadlagan.

Septiyembre 16, 2009. Tabaco.



Translation:

Button after button, I want to peel your neatness off

crawl at your tameness; leaf through your covers

slowly, like turning the pages of an antique book.


I want to unravel your tightness

that as a rope in the wind you’ll dance, booming

as the lonely ranch boy whips you in the air.


You are too tight, like how your hidden feet

fit on your leather shoes. I need to stew you

with the heat make your skin cry silver seeds.


I stare now at the meek plea of your body

saying “please don’t stare at me.” How

when your slopey shyness is traced under its delicate flowery cloth?


You are as if made of air wrapped in heavy dress.

I want to loosen your mystery to the world like a breath-taking view

like the Mayon I just want light peruse the loneliness of your woods.


Painting: Juan Luna "Parisian Life" 1892

 

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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.





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