Rio’s poetry “in English” (& birthday bashes and not exactly "good riddance")

On the first week of this month the University of the Philippines, specifically its Kolehiyo ng Arte at Literatura (College of Arts and Letters), feted its dean on the occasion of his 65th birthday. It was also his official retirement day, and the party, according to the Dean himself, National Artist for Literature Virgilio S. Almario, was his “good-riddance” party. Anyone is entitled to a little of self-deprecation at the onset of his retirement, the beginning of a perceived “uselessness,” but maybe not Dean Almario, or Rio to his many friends, and to the readers of his poetry, Rio Alma. First of all, while he may be building a “retirement home” in his native San Miguel (Bulacan), many of his colleagues look forward to seeing him handling a few master classes in literature yet, in the campus, even in his retirement. Some graduate students maybe even looking forward to it. For many of his literary friends, well, like this writer, the unofficial translator of his works, he is in fact in the middle of many projects, many meaning not about to run out and give him an idle retiree’s time even if he wanted it, which we doubt. The party we were talking about, where among the many numbers, the European languages class presented translations of Rio’s short poems in major Europoean languages, was on March 4, a Thursday.



His birthday was on the following Monday, March 9, when he had his own small party at home with a few friends. Now almost three weeks later, the tributes and parties haven’t finished, some awaiting a gap in his tight schedule. This time, on March 23, the last Monday of the month and the scheduled “OMG” Open Mic Gig poetry night hosted by UMPIL Chairman Vim Nadera, the fledgling reprographics and licensing group FILCOLS (Filipinas Licensing and Collection Society), chaired by Rio himself, the Unyon ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas (UMPIL), and IPO Philippines, tendered their honors for the birthday boy and retiree (just about), national artist. Professor and critic Isagani Cruz was there, and so were Book Development Board chairman and FILCOLS treasurer Lirio Sandoval, Anvil Publisher and PBBY director Karina Bolasco, poet Teo Antonio, fictionist and National Bookstore consultant Abdon Balde Jr, IPO representative Precious Lejano, among others. All of them, including myself, were put upon by Vim to say a few words about Rio, and the common refrain was most had run out of things to say as they had been saying them in previous parties. Of course they proceeded to say something anyway, prodded on by Vim. Now, I haven’t been lugging a camera around lately so even for the UP event I’m using photographs filched from Wendell Capili’s Facebook. He has been recently the busiest snap-shooter around.



And all I can offer here by way of an image of the last party is the cropped shot of the marquee of Mag:net Cafe showing another event. But I can put here the poems I read—my translations of Rio Alma’s poetry, from my unpublished manuscript “Heartland,” for a possible bilingual edition of Muli, sa Kandungan ng Lupa, perhaps from Anvil. I didn’t notice that my choices sounded morbid, starting with “Corpse.” Though perhaps after some readings one would realize the poet is not talking about an ordinary lifeless body, and perhaps something about the whole of us is lifeless right now. So here they are, but before the first poem I would like to insert one I didn’t read. It’s about what we don’t have right now. Smack in the middle of summer—the real dry season of our tropics—let’s dream of rain.

Legend of the Rain

Upon the earth, the lizard’s metaphysical kiss; then
The frogs’ trumpets:
The spider ceases its survey of silk,
Crawls into its ancient chink, snuggles under its sheets;

On the floor the cold’s first messages creep,
The crickets quicken their telegraph of cricks;
The electric wires and poles stand on end,
Tree limbs and the haughty bamboo sway restless;

And the rain marches in with its crystal banners,
Raiding the murky dungeons of the canals,
Its thousand boots trampling the metal roofs and streets,
Soaking and routing the troops of darkness.

Now it is tending the wounds of the paddies,
Bathing soiled branch and thatch. Expect tomorrow
On the rice fields: an Eden of newly washed silver,
The vegetables fresh and full of laughter.

The Corpse

The sea tossed up the corpse
After two days of storm.
The brine had pickled it white
And it was bloated by the waves it had swallowed;
Vines of seaweed strangled it,
A crab shell had plugged its gaping mouth
And its eyes were almost out of their sockets.
When it was found on the beach,
The curious centipede and hermit crab
Were exploring the holes of its nose and ears,
Though the body itself yielded
No story to the inquisitive village folk.
Perhaps it got caught in the storm at sea,
Or perhaps it fell while taking a stroll,
And was swept into the swift current;
Or it was a victim of foul play.
A child of the fisherfolk discovered it
Slumped on a limb of driftwood
And he couldn’t fathom how
The salt of the seawater
Had washed away even its name.


Adoracion Nocturna

The night is for washing the body
After soaking in the day’s pain and dust;
For cleansing the sole and plucking its splinters,
And for soothing the scars of the heart.

The night is for washing the senses
Blurred, choked, deceived, weary from toil;
It is for preparing for the morning,
And for steeling the nerves of one’s faith.

The night is for washing the word
Of its grime and dirt of rage and dreams;
Speech must sparkle and smell good
To face the waiting warmth of blame and love.

And at the altar of the death-watch,
The night is also for the washing of hands.


Mariquita

Because of her,
You will never forget that mole of an island
On the green face of a placid sea.
mmmmmmmmmmmmmMariquita,
Most giving, most guileless allure of brown skin,
Sparkling scent of sweet rice and anise.
What sorcery was there in her kiss—
Waking memory’s seeds when most unwanted,
When we’re buried in the fragrance of a foreign breast.
You say you were an innocent when first enticed
By the tiny stings of her love.
And, too, it was she drove you
To your long and endless wandering.
What weed have you eaten
From the wild of her belly dark and grim?
Friend, what a child you are in your longing,
And you call her Native Land.

(From the unpublished MS. “Heartland,” a translation of Muli sa Kandungan ng Lupa, by Marne Kilates; read on the occasion of Rio Alma’s birthday, March 9, 2009)

As I said during the reading, these are how Rio’s poems sounded in English. For the original poems, see next page.

NOTES:

Adoracion Nocturna. Midnight vigil. A Catholic ritual either for the dead or the exposed Holy Eucharist.

"From the wild of her belly dark and grim." Dark and grim is an allusion to Francisco Baltazar Balagtas's Florante at Laura which begins with "Sa isang madilim, gubat na mapanglaw." The original: "Sa kanyang madilim, mapanglaw na puson."

PHOTOGRAPHS OF RIO'S PARTY by Jose Wendell Capili. Top left, the National Artist, in his now trademark fedora, about to open his life exhibit; lower top left, Anvil publisher Karina Bolasco with two national artists for literature, the other being Dr. Bienvenido Lumbera. Mid-top right: Rio's writer friends and some former students, from right Luna Sicat-Cleto, Maria Jovita Zarate, Rebecca Añonuevo, Romulo Baquiran, Gerry Gracio; and a colorful finale from the UP Singing Ambassadors.

ILLUSTRATIONS: 1) Leaf on Water by Mark Schwab; Dreamfence and Sunspot by Australia-based artists Edd Aragon, from his Digitalla Prima blog.