Poems from Pitik-Bulag
(This is the first in series of excerpts from Pitik-Bulag: A Celebration of Contemporary Filipino Art & Poetry, an interactive exhibit and coffee table book featuring the GSIS Museum collection of Filipino art and newer paintings and poetry by Filipino artists and poets. Edited by national artist for literature Virgilio S. Almario, co-edited and translated by Marne L. Kilates, and designed by Fidel Rillo. Starting this issue, poet'sPicturebook features an excerpt of one or two poems and their corresponding paintings from the book for the ezine's 2010 edition.)
Edgar Calabia Samar
Walang Diwata ng Apoy
Naunang natupok sa kanya ang ating mga alaala.
Nilimot natin siya gaya ng pagsunog sa mga bagay
na atin nang iniiwan sa nakaraan. Kaya ngayon,
wala na tayong mabalikan kundi ang hinagpis
ng ibang diwata: Cacao, Makiling, Sinukuan.
Tumititig tayo sa pingkian at nagugulumihanan
kung bakit walang nananahang alamat
ng apoy sa sulok nitong ating dibdib at malay.
Sinong ada ang nagnakaw ng ningas kay Ladlao,
diyos natin ng araw, upang matigib itong katawan
ng init ng buhay? Mga mangingibig tayong tigib
ng pagal ang kahapon sa sumpang tag-init
at tag-ulan bawat taon. Binubuhay ng pagkakaingin
sa gubat, ano't nagugulat pa rin tayo sa haplit-babala
ng mga bagay na likas: kay lakas ng ihip ng hangin
at baha sa pusod ng lungsod na binagyo; bitak
naman ang lupa sa bayang niyugyog ng lindol.
Namamad itong ating damdamin sa paghahalo
ng tubig, lupa at hangin, kaya itinatanong natin:
kailan naman ang pagliyab ng apoy sa dibdib?
Namaalam marahil siya noon habang ang gubat
ay naglalagablab, at abong naiwan tayong umibig
sa kanya nang di-nararapat sapagkat karaniwan:
lumalapit pa lamang ay natutupok na ang katawan.
Kaya sinasabi natin ngayon: walang diwata ng apoy,
habang tayo'y nananaghoy sa mga biktima ng sunog
o hindi makatulog sa lamig ni Amihan kapag tag-ulan.
Walang Diwata ng Apoy
Naunang natupok sa kanya ang ating mga alaala.
Nilimot natin siya gaya ng pagsunog sa mga bagay
na atin nang iniiwan sa nakaraan. Kaya ngayon,
wala na tayong mabalikan kundi ang hinagpis
ng ibang diwata: Cacao, Makiling, Sinukuan.
Tumititig tayo sa pingkian at nagugulumihanan
kung bakit walang nananahang alamat
ng apoy sa sulok nitong ating dibdib at malay.
Sinong ada ang nagnakaw ng ningas kay Ladlao,
diyos natin ng araw, upang matigib itong katawan
ng init ng buhay? Mga mangingibig tayong tigib
ng pagal ang kahapon sa sumpang tag-init
at tag-ulan bawat taon. Binubuhay ng pagkakaingin
sa gubat, ano't nagugulat pa rin tayo sa haplit-babala
ng mga bagay na likas: kay lakas ng ihip ng hangin
at baha sa pusod ng lungsod na binagyo; bitak
naman ang lupa sa bayang niyugyog ng lindol.
Namamad itong ating damdamin sa paghahalo
ng tubig, lupa at hangin, kaya itinatanong natin:
kailan naman ang pagliyab ng apoy sa dibdib?
Namaalam marahil siya noon habang ang gubat
ay naglalagablab, at abong naiwan tayong umibig
sa kanya nang di-nararapat sapagkat karaniwan:
lumalapit pa lamang ay natutupok na ang katawan.
Kaya sinasabi natin ngayon: walang diwata ng apoy,
habang tayo'y nananaghoy sa mga biktima ng sunog
o hindi makatulog sa lamig ni Amihan kapag tag-ulan.
Art: Leonardo Aguinaldo, Walang Diwata ng Apoy;
Painting photograph: Harvey Tapan
There is No Fire Goddess
The first to be consumed in her were our memories.
We forgot her the way we burned things
that we wanted consigned to the past. That’s why now
we could return to nothing but the grief
of other goddesses: Cacao, Makiling, Sinukuan.
We stare at the conflict and wonder
why no myth of fire resides anywhere
within our breast and consciousness.
What nymph stole Ladlao’s flame,
our sun god, to fill her body
with life’s warmth? We are lovers whose past
spill with emptiness yearly in the dry
and rainy seasons. Surviving on our swiddens
burned out of forest, why are we frightened still by the slash
and warning from nature: wind thrashing
and floods raging in heart of city lashed by typhoon; earth
cracking in parts visited by temblors.
Our hearts are numb in the mingling
of water, earth, and wind, that’s why we ask:
when will it rage, the fire in the breast?
She must have disappeared at the time when forests
were burning, and we were ashes who were left loving
her—which was forbidden because it was ordinary:
if we got just a bit closer our bodies burned.
And so we say now: there is no fire goddess,
even as we grieve over victims of conflagration
or can’t sleep in Amihan’s cold during the rainy season.
The first to be consumed in her were our memories.
We forgot her the way we burned things
that we wanted consigned to the past. That’s why now
we could return to nothing but the grief
of other goddesses: Cacao, Makiling, Sinukuan.
We stare at the conflict and wonder
why no myth of fire resides anywhere
within our breast and consciousness.
What nymph stole Ladlao’s flame,
our sun god, to fill her body
with life’s warmth? We are lovers whose past
spill with emptiness yearly in the dry
and rainy seasons. Surviving on our swiddens
burned out of forest, why are we frightened still by the slash
and warning from nature: wind thrashing
and floods raging in heart of city lashed by typhoon; earth
cracking in parts visited by temblors.
Our hearts are numb in the mingling
of water, earth, and wind, that’s why we ask:
when will it rage, the fire in the breast?
She must have disappeared at the time when forests
were burning, and we were ashes who were left loving
her—which was forbidden because it was ordinary:
if we got just a bit closer our bodies burned.
And so we say now: there is no fire goddess,
even as we grieve over victims of conflagration
or can’t sleep in Amihan’s cold during the rainy season.
(Translation: MLK)
