HARIBOL SURALISTA

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

Translation of YAON DIGDI PIGSASARAY AN KATONINUNGAN, with introduction

i thought i’d give my mind a little exercise, so i flexed my brain muscles by translating this poem i came across in the “fb memories.” i recalled writing this poem after burying the body of my father-- or was it my granduncle? Anyway, it was a significant time for me and a great turning point, as it was when i picked up my chanting beads again and continued on the path of spiritual-consciousness.
my literary education forbids me to explain a poem bluntly, but what the heck, i’ll spare a few words at least. if you’re to read the poem, i am in a cemetery, pondering upon tombstones. i have this habit of reading stuff on tombstones and try to extract a story out of each. how could have this person died? she’s too young...on and on. but more interesting for me are those tombstones that are so washed out that the names are wiped off clean by time and weather. and a question of existence assails me. no name, no person? what happens now? it was a very educational experience for me so i was having fun a bit, but this very same situation would’ve been very different if it weren’t for my background in the science of identity.
when i was growing up i always thought that i was the body. so death for me was an extremely claustrophobic thought: i will be cramped up in that cement box until the angels blow their trumpets for resurrection? so i used to look at tombstones with horror, in fact i seldom look at them at all. but with the mercy of my spiritual guide, the most fearless man i know, i was freed from this fear of death and, yes, tombstones. he simply relayed to me the absolute truth that passed down from one saintly teacher to another, a line which can be traced back to God Himself: i am a spiritual spark of God, i am not my body. i am the spirit-soul within that body. the body will die, but i will go on existing. with the strength of knowledge i faced this fear every single moment.
what we fear about death is not so much the pain of death, but the fear of losing the body we identify ourselves with. with the body comes its extensions such as the name, titles, relatives, race, gender, properties, politics etc. no one, no matter how powerful, can resist splitting away from his body though. demons like Hiranyakasipu who performed superhuman austerities just to prolong his stay in his body are in the end forced out, evicted by God Himself from their temporary apartment. and we are persistent. suppose we lose the body eventually, we ask our relatives to preserve that body like what they are doing to President Marcos. incidentally that’s what we also do to pickles, at least one can eat the pickles... but that glass box will have to go someday and that beloved body will succumb to the earth. if we are not as big as Marcos, we settle with just prolonging our name on a marble. here lies so and so...he was loved... and the cemetery is full of these names on stones, full of dates of births and deaths. hold on, hold on. please don’t forget. but time is death’s master, and he will erase all these names from the face of the earth eventually as evidenced by the clear, flawless tomb stones. everything will be forgotten.
the last line of the poem alludes to John Keats’ epitaph that goes: here lies one whose name was writ in water. such a romantic way to fade away. when you have a debt and it is written in water, it means don’t bother to remember it. these names once written in stone but eventually erased by time are now written in water. we spend our lives having our names placed on a piece of paper to be hung on a wall or on a bronze plate at some door. we take care of our name as good as we take care the body connected to that name but in the end it will end up in some stone in the cemetery someday. oh, but not my name, it’s in history books! okay let’s burn all the books. oh, but mine is etched on a colossal statue. smash that statue down. which reminds me of a poem by Keats’ friend Percy Shelley, “Ozymandias”:
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
__________
Nothing material will endure. Nothing perishable will remain.
The body and everything connected with it are all made of matter. Even the name: material sound vibration. therefore we, being spiritual being, cannot take shelter of our material name, or our president’s name, our country’s name, our favorite superhero’s name, even our parent’s name... they will all be written in water, in the river of time.
but there is a name that will never fade away. there is a name that will endure. a name that is not contaminated by any tinge of matter. the Holy Names of the Absolute Truth, the One Supreme Person, are countless: Allah, Jehova, Govinda, Eloi, Krishna, and many more...These Names are etched not only in stone or scribed in scriptures, but most importantly They are kept in the pure hearts of the devotees who spread These Names time after time. you can take shelter of These Names, for they are incorruptible by time and death, in fact the Holy Name is time Himself in this material realm. simply by chanting These Names, we will be freed from the ignorance exemplified by our hankering to glorify our own lusterless names in stone. thank you very much for bearing the long intro. so here’s the poem:
English translation:
Here lies peace. In stone chests
confined are the breathless hopeful to breathe
again. In the end neither bone nor ash will remain of the ashen
but names, when they were still objects, like us
chiseled on marble, written by paint or molded bronze.
Such anxiety of being forgotten, when oblivion is guaranteed end!
Look at the perfect faded stones. Only these are what's real here.
Realizing that everything akin to the dirt will be food for serenity.
All that is uttered that will remind of warm days and places
will be appropriately called with sound acceptable to silence
All will be given a name written in water.
10-14-16
Karangahan
Bikol:
Yaon digdi pigsasararay an katoninungan. Sa mga gapong baul
Dai makahangos an mga nakalaom na naglalaom na makahangos
Gilayon. Ngapit bako tu’lang o abo an matatadang gira kan mga napara
Kundi mga apod, kan sinda mga bagay pa, arog satuya,
Nakatigib sa marmol, kinurit kan pintura o pinormang bronse.
Kaniguan an hadit na dai marumduman dawa kalingawan an siguradong sagkodan.
Hilinga an perpeksiyon kan mga pulinas na gapo. Ini man sana an totoo digdi.
Patotoo na gabos digding may labot sa kinaban pagkaon kan katoninungan.
Gabos na sina’wod na maparumdom kan mga maimbong na aldaw buda lugar
Tatawan ki nagkakanigong apod na aakuon kan kawa’ran ki tanog,
Gabos bubunyagan ki mga ngaran na nakasurat sa tubig.
10-14-2011. Karangahan.

KAGAYONAN

An satuyang kagayonan
Bako sa tulang buda laman
Siring kan dagang natitimakan
Ini mapapara sa hudyan.
An kagayunan uya sa daghan
An burabod na gikan kan kamarayan.
Magayunon na kalag ika uya diyan
Kataning an Diyos na gikan kan kagabsan.

11/9/16. Karangahan.

NEWSFEED

Me nagbertdey, 
me namatay, 
me pinatay, 
me inilibing,
me naospital humihingi ng amen,
me nananakot ng gera,
me naakit sa hita,
me nagalit sa pagkakita,
me problema si ganito sa ganyan,
me problema si ganyan sa ganito,
me problema ka, me problema tayo
me, me, me, ako, ako, ako.
Oo ako ang problema
Kasi wala akong solusyon.
Nangangalit ang aking mga puna
Pero lumpo ang aking aksyon.
Bago nagulo ang mundo
Nagulo muna ako.
Ako ang problema
Ako ang ugat ng sakuna.
Kahit saan umabot
ang gulo'y dala ko.
Gulong-gulo ako
Di ko alam ang dahilan
Nakatawa ako sa pityuran
Pero gumugulong ako sa higaan.
Utak ko'y puno ng katanungan
Puso ko'y walang laman
Kasi wala naman talaga akong alam
At ang mga katotohanan ko'y hashtag lamang
Wala akong alam
Kasi di ko alam
Na ang puno't dulo ng dahilan
Ay ang kawalan ko ng alam.
Kung sino ako
Ano ako
At ang tunay kong katauhan.


11/9/16. Karangahan.

KulTVision

Huwag magpalinlang 
sa mga kulto ng kasalukuyan.
Karamihan sa mga ito'y
nagbihis na ng kaanyuan.
Huwag nang hanapin
sa liblib na kanayunan--
sa modernong tahanan,
hayan, sa kahong aliwan
ang kanilang pinagkukutaan.
Hindi na hukluban
ang supremong yinayapos
ngayo'y may alindog at tikas
ang halinang dinudiyos.
Paso na ang birtud
ng mga Lating orasyon,
mga pangalang pinagtambal
ang idolong engkantasyon.
Imbes murang musmos
ang kinakatay sa altar,
ang kakayahang mag isip
ang kinikitil sa ritwal.
Yumi at hiya ang nagpalit
sa birheng ginagahasa;
libog at ilusyon
ang bagong poon
sa dambana.
At ang mga talisman
singdami ng kunwari'y kailangan:
pampakinis, pampabango,
pampatigas, pampalango.
Pinagtibay ng debosyon
Sa usong superstisyon:
Huwag lang shampoo
kailangan may conditioner
Huwag lang powder
kailangan may fabric softener.
Vetsin pa more sa timplang fastfood store.
Ngayong panahon ng pasikipan,
kailangang sumabay sa bawat inobasyon
ng pasador.
At kahit ano pa ang iyong sinasabi
Lahat nakasalalay sa puti ang iyong
Ngipin, kutis at kili-kili.
Kung nagtataka ka
Kung gaano karami na sila
Madaling lamang makilala
ang kanilang mga deboto:
Sila ang mga naengkanto
Ng sariling telepono.

Oktubre 2016

PANTASYANG BAYAN

"inaalay ko sa aking mga guru na nagturo sa akin ng totoong pag-ibig."

Inilibing ang isang demonyo bilang santo. At nakiramay ang buong sambayanan na kanyang inapi, ninakawan, inalipusta, sinaktan, binawian ng mahal sa buhay. Sa paanan ng hukay, bago ito tabunan, isa-isa silang dumungaw, at sa tangang bulaklak na puti may ibinulong na panalangin. Pagkatapos ilalag ang bulaklak sa hukay ay tumungo sila sa mga luhaang naulila at ihinandog ang natatanging larawan ng kanilang anak, magulang, asawa, kaibigan na nagdusa sa kamay ng patay. May bibigkasin silang maikling mensahe ng pakikiramay--madalas ay "sa dulo ng paglimot, tuloy ang buhay"-- bago umalis. Nang natapos ang lahat nang dumalo sa kanilang pakikiramay, ang hukay ng nabubulok nang labi ay napuno ng bulaklak--hindi na ito kailangang tabunan ng lupa, at ang patong-patong na larawan na naibigay ay lagpas tao ang taas--ganuon karami sana ang kamatayan na dapat danasin ng tagapaslang base sa hustisya ng kalupaan, subalit walang lugar sa puso ng mga mamayan ang pait o galit dahil ito'y umaapaw sa wagas na kaligayahan na tanging nagmumula lamang sa pag-ibig na hinuhugot malayong-malayo sa mundong ito.

11/19/16. Karangahan

Ako Kalag Omay (2015)

Buhay-Gadan (2014)

Ha'dit sa byahe buda iba pang mga bagahe (2013)

Hamot kan Narumdom (2011)

Suralista: Mga Rawitdawit (2010)

Suralista: Mga Rawitdawit (2010)
Makukua sa: Gabos na Lucky Educ. outlets (Naga, Legazpi, Tabaco, Polangui, Sorsogon); Tabaco: Arden,Imprintados Advertising. Naga: Lucky Educational Supply. O kaya sa 0917 524 2309

Que Lugar Este kan Dayo sa Sadiring Banwa (2009)

Que Lugar Este kan Dayo sa Sadiring Banwa (2009)
"Maunod, magabat. Alagad makamuyahon ta magian basahon, ta makamuyahon saka labas an tanog. Makata, uragon." Gode B. Calleja. Abilable sa gabos na Lucky Educ. Supply Outlets; Kulturang Bikolnon. For inquiries:0917 524 2309

Maynila: Libro ng Pobya (1999)

Maynila: Libro ng Pobya (1999)
Makukua sa gabos na Lucky Educ Supply outlets buda sa Imprintados Ads sa Tabaco City. Para sa mga kahaputan mag-text sa 0917 524 2309

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.