This truthiness
after the Colbert Report
is falsity
manufactured
and then consumed
like those fastfood
promises of the good:
McDo for a day's wage,
Coke for an hour's sweat
and not even enough
to make you mad, damn mad
to rip your Levi's 501 in two
to let your hungry flesh
be seen, exhibited
for the traitors to see
the meaning of betrayal.
This truthiness
by the Colbert Report
is the same
as exporting democracy
in other people's
dinner table,
other civilizations
wrought in other times
and temper
and truth
but never your own,
not an America
not a Philippine
not a British
not any of the alliances
living unto their own,
us exiles too
mimicking the regime
of truth in our freeways
now our Hollywood
or the idiot of a television
telling us of the importance
of images without dark shadows
us trying to find out
the nickname of meaning of our lives
in better plots to reclaim
the substance of a nation
in terms declared by
its own dust panicking
in whispers
the blood in the memory
reminding it to keep still
keep the peace
keep the history
that matters
in each hurried meal
citizens of the nation
partake, together
and all, drink in the hand
and celebrating victory
in the way they define
life with a sense,
like the sweet smell
of fruits ripening in the graves
of their struggles.
Today, we impotent witnesses say:
today is truthiness
told as it were:
there are no illusions here,
only the imagination
of the real.
So we watch as the truth
unravels.
First in the democracy we share:
the fullness of tables
as in the fullness of lives we live
minus the dictates
of nations gifting us with grace
but then selling us their wares:
democracy like coffee, bland
and instant, with instant love
to taste.
Ha, forget the show:
it is all for the consumption
of the elite, this masquerade
with no relief.
Colbert Report and all, we report:
democracy is in the bread we break,
the wine we drink of the same cup,
in victory as in defeat.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Draft in Los Angeles,
Draft in Honolulu,
another final draft in Marikina,
Easter Sunday, April 16, 2006
Liday iti Daniw
Liday
dagiti
daniwmo,
kabsat,
kuna
ni
mannaniw,
gayyem,
kasingin
ti
kararua
ni
mannarita
kadagiti
rikna
a
babassit
kas
kadagiti
tuldek
kadagiti
ungto
dagiti
linabag
nga
isikog
ti
matres
ti
sipnget.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Carson, CA
dagiti
daniwmo,
kabsat,
kuna
ni
mannaniw,
gayyem,
kasingin
ti
kararua
ni
mannarita
kadagiti
rikna
a
babassit
kas
kadagiti
tuldek
kadagiti
ungto
dagiti
linabag
nga
isikog
ti
matres
ti
sipnget.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Carson, CA
Gambang
Dumteng daytoy a rikna
ti nagkalkallautang
no kastoy nga agpakada
ti sipnget iti lawag
ditoy Carson dagiti nagtalawataw
ayuyang dagiti mamati
iti nailian a bannuar a bato
arkos itan a propeta ti kappia
ti sariugma a rebolusion
dagiti daradara a pluma.
Iti sulinek ti siudad dagiti exilo
nga agarubos ti tinta
aglua nga agikabkabesa
kadagiti addang a mabilang
kadagiti pangal
a mangidaton
iti naimbag a gasat
kontra ti gambang
dagiti malas ti malas
a yuli kadagiti pantok
iti korona dagiti agamangaw a kayo
nga agsampaga kas iti makailbot a sirkulo
tapno awatenna ti ayat
ti raya, natakneng
ken nataraki nga ayat
ti bara manipud iti sellang
ti sipnget nga agkayangkayang
tapno mangdusa, mangranggas, mangtagikua
kadagiti mangtikawtikaw a ragsak
kadagiti pirak, wenno balitok,
wenno diamante, wenno amin a babato
iti sao kas iti aramid
idi punganay kas met laeng ita
iti amin a panawen
nga agari ti inaradasda
a katkatawa.
Gambang daytoy a rikna,
kas iti panaginkukuna
ti siudad dagiti exilo
kadagiti agsangpet
tapno agbirok iti pia ken karadkad
tapno makipagsangal iti pannakigasanggasat.
Iti atiddog a sipnget,
agguardia ti arkos itan a bato a bannuar,
bantayanna dagiti darepdep
dagiti amin a mannanakaw iti rang-ay.
Carson, CA
ti nagkalkallautang
no kastoy nga agpakada
ti sipnget iti lawag
ditoy Carson dagiti nagtalawataw
ayuyang dagiti mamati
iti nailian a bannuar a bato
arkos itan a propeta ti kappia
ti sariugma a rebolusion
dagiti daradara a pluma.
Iti sulinek ti siudad dagiti exilo
nga agarubos ti tinta
aglua nga agikabkabesa
kadagiti addang a mabilang
kadagiti pangal
a mangidaton
iti naimbag a gasat
kontra ti gambang
dagiti malas ti malas
a yuli kadagiti pantok
iti korona dagiti agamangaw a kayo
nga agsampaga kas iti makailbot a sirkulo
tapno awatenna ti ayat
ti raya, natakneng
ken nataraki nga ayat
ti bara manipud iti sellang
ti sipnget nga agkayangkayang
tapno mangdusa, mangranggas, mangtagikua
kadagiti mangtikawtikaw a ragsak
kadagiti pirak, wenno balitok,
wenno diamante, wenno amin a babato
iti sao kas iti aramid
idi punganay kas met laeng ita
iti amin a panawen
nga agari ti inaradasda
a katkatawa.
Gambang daytoy a rikna,
kas iti panaginkukuna
ti siudad dagiti exilo
kadagiti agsangpet
tapno agbirok iti pia ken karadkad
tapno makipagsangal iti pannakigasanggasat.
Iti atiddog a sipnget,
agguardia ti arkos itan a bato a bannuar,
bantayanna dagiti darepdep
dagiti amin a mannanakaw iti rang-ay.
Carson, CA
Red Earth, Brown Earth (Revised)
Characters:
Flip 1: Local born-American
Flip 2: Local born-American
Fil-Am 1: Immigrant - Americanized with papers
Fil-Am 2: Immigrant - Americanized with papers
Fil-Im 1: Foreign born but here on Visa
Fil-Im 2: Foreign born but here on Visa
Ghostly Chorus:
Chorus 1 – Brown Earth
Chorus 2 – Red Earth
Setting: Hawaii, at a basi-drinking gathering. The present. Stage bare. Characters bring their own set.
Scene: (In a dream, 6 main characters in the 4 corners of the stage.)
Ghostly Chorus: (recited like a limerick, mocking, or can be set to a metallic rock music to create cacophonous sounds, jarring, confusing, clanging, but forceful and fierce. These could be done for all the ghostly chorus lines.)
Chorus 1: Brown Earth
You are us,
You are ours.
Flip, flip, flip.
You are ours.
You belong
To this brown land.
You belong to us.
Fil-Am, Fil-Am, Fil-Am.
You belong to us.
The brown land is you;
The brown land is yours
Filipino immigrant
Fil-Im, Fil-Im, Fil-Im
Flip 1
I am Flip Number 1, local born. Born in the suburbs, west of here in this place, down where the river meets the sea. I grew up with the sounds of English and the crowing of chickens and the smell of basi, burger, and sushi.
Flip 2
The Filipino words have been buried in me. I never heard them. I am Flip Number 2, Americanized, twang, mind, memory—all.
Fil-Im 1
Born in the brown earth, with the memory of salt and despair. I am Filipino immigrant, Fil-Im number 1. I have cut my umbilical cord.
Fil-Im 2
Born of poverty and want. Sorrow and joy. I am Filipino immigrant, Fil-Im number 2. I came to this Red Earth to scratch out a life. I have put an end to all connections.
Fil-Am 1
I am Fil-Am number 1. I am found and I am lost. The Brown Earth of the forest leads
me to confusion.
Fil-Am 2
I am Fil-Am number 2. Loneliness is everywhere in this Red Earth. I want to go back to my Brown Earth. But the Red Earth beckons me.
Fil-Am 1
I dream of returning to the Brown Earth. That is what will save me from forgetting.
My folks say you need to refuse being buried on the Red Earth.
Fil-Im 1
Red Earth, the Brown Earth, are they ever us?
Fil-Im 2
I dream of the Red Earth as a curse. First, it was welcoming ball of fire, fiery, and cold. It says, Welcome, welcome stranger. Dumanonka, dumanonka!
Fil-Im 1
And then you got into this world. Like me. There was enchantment, was there?
Isublidak idiay Filipinas! Have me back in the brown land where I came from!
Flip 1
First it opened up into a world of milk and honey as the dream was. There was bounty. A paradise, fresh and clean, and rich, and unspoiled.
Fil-Im 2
You get into the world of the Red Earth and never go back to yourself. You lost your direction, your senses, your sense of self. You spoke English. You spoke only English. And the Red Earth got bigger and bigger, and swallowed you up.
Flip 1
Each time I spoke English only, the Brown Earth shrank. And I cannot control its shrinking. I am sick, I feel this sickness all over my tongue, my skin, my body, my mind, my fingers, my speech, my feet, my legs, my person.
Flip 2
A contagious sickness.
Fil-Im 1
An omen. The Red Earth says I should only drink its waters, breathe only its air, live only on its produce, and taste only its soil, bowing only to it with reverence like a ritual, and vowing to love it like no other.
Chorus 2 – Red Earth
Flip, flip, flip.
Confused, confused flip
Nothing, nothing going
For the brown brown flip.
Hahahahahahahahahaha!
Fil-Am, Fil-Am, Fil-Am
Browned by the sun
Nothing, nothing going
For the son of a gun.
Hahahahahahahahahhaha!
Fil-Im, Fil-Im, Fil-Im.
Brown, brown pilgrim
Immigrant, immigrant
From the brown, brown land.
Hahahahahahahahahah!
Chorus 1 & 2
Flip, Fil-Am, Fil-Im.
Stranger in this Red Earth
Cannot, cannot find a home
In this Red, Red Earth
Hahahahahahahahaha!
Fil-Im 1
Ah, the Brown Earth is where I go back to.
Flip 1
We don’t where we are going.
Flip 1
We don’t know where we came from.
Chorus – Red Earth
Flip, flip, flip.
Go home, flip
Flip, flip, flip.
Got no home flip.
Chorus – Brown Earth
The Red Earth
Is your curse.
The Red Earth.
You are cursed.
Chorus – Red Earth
Go home, flip.
Go home, Fil-Ams.
Go home, Fil-Ims.
Immigrant, ethnic!
Chorus – Brown Earth
Come home, flip.
Come home to the Brown Earth.
Come home immigrant.
Come home to the brown land.
Flip 1
We don know where we are going.
Flip 1
We don know where we came from.
Chorus 2 – Brown Earth
Come home, flip
Come home to the Brown Earth
Come home, immigrant
Come home to the brown land.
Flip 1
I want to forget, I want to remember.
Flip 2
I want to remember, I want to forget.
Fil-Im/ Fil-Am / Flip
We need to reclaim ourselves.
Chorus 1 – Red Earth
Fil-Am, Fil-Im, Fil, Am.
Consider, consider, consider.
Do not ever regret.
Chorus 2 – Brown Earth
Flip, flip, flip.
Remember, remember, remember
Do not ever forget.
Fil-Im 2
I do not want to go back to the Brown Earth. The memories haunt me so.
Fil-Im 1
I cannot even dream of the good life there. The old country, the old country. I have no though of the shape of the good life. How does it look like, now, this good life?
Fil-Im 2
Do they sell the good life in the streets the way they sell the votes? The leaders, the leaders of the old country. They can only act. Ah, Brown Earth.
Fil-Im 1
I can only dream of snow and the wide spaces the malls.. this is my America. America is me now. This is my Red Earth. My Brown Earth is gone. I had it buried in my heart, my memory, my soul.
Fil-Im 2
No trace. Not a trace of who I was.
Fil-Am 1
I think of us all in this land as children of the Red Earth.. it is the land adopting us.
Fil-Im 2
This land. This America whose air we breathe. This America giving us all the freedom that we thought we wanted. The America that creates magic out of our lips, the magic in English enchanting us.
Flip 1
We all come from the Brown Earth. But here, in America, here do the colors ever collide? Do they ever come into a fusion?
Chorus 1 – Red Earth
You do not know.
You can never know.
Flip, flip, flip
You can never escape
The big Brown Earth.
Chorus 2 – Brown Earth
You can never fit.
Flip, flip, flip
You can never escape
The big Red Earth!
Flip 1
Go away. Go away.
Flip 2
I want to go away from the Brown Earth. I want to come to the Red Earth.
Fil-Im 1
I do not even want to think about it. My dad wants me to talk American-English. No pidgin, he says. Gardemet, gardemet, he says.
Fil-Am 2
My dad was a teacher in the grades back in the old country.
Fil-Im 1
Your father came here and he washed dishes and taught himself how to pronounce fillet mignon, and Sorbonne, and Paris and buffet the French way.
Flip 1
Oh, how your father flaunted his knowledge of the great America without the warts, the blemishes.
Flip 2
Ahhh, dis is the greyt kawntri, he says.
Fil-Im 2
Your English, no good, says the school principal, when Father applied to teach in the grade school. You will pollute the language of the children.
Fil-Am 1
While he washed dishes, my father, he dreamt of his classroom in the grades, the school children with their eager faces, eager to get some skills so they can go abroad and earn dollars so the homeland would not go to the ways of the impoverished.
Flip 1
It is the accent, man!
Fil-Am 1
Bumperrr to bumperrr.
Fil-Im 1
Krakerrr!
Fil-Am 2
Rranglerrr!
Fil-Im 1
Hamburdyer.
Flip 2
Hear this, hear this.
My politicized mother called the Philippines. There was a state of emergency down there, as the case everyday.. like Gloria Macapagal Arroyo saying: enough already ngarud. Enough na of rali-rali and the kudeta. State of emergency, state of calamity, state of war. Istet, mother says. Istet. Like the United Istet?
Fil-Im 1
(Dials the operator.)
Hilow, operator.
Heilow, upereter. Ha!
I wan to kol da Pilipin.
Ya, ya da Pilipin ya.
I like call my daughter.
Here da number in Manila. Yeah dey lib in Manila now.
011-632-788-5525.
Fil-Im 2
Helo?
Where are you?
Many people der now? What?
Many trak?
Many uzi?
What? Full metal jacket?
Ay, Apo! Diosko!
Go home. Go home now.
Hari ap! Go. Go. Go!
Bambay you’re dead.
Ghostly chorus of the Red Earth perform a frenzied dance and move to center stage.
Scene 2
(Main characters carry their chairs to the center. Ghostly chorus becomes the table, pasts, and walls in what looks like a dap-ayan, a talking area in the purok. Main characters sit around the table with a bottle of basi at the center.)
Fil-Im 1
memory binds us to the Brown Earth, to the homeland.
Fil-Im 2
Memory links us to the Red Earth; the new land.
Flip 1
I don’t have a desire to go back to the old country. I do not know it. It is not my country.
I was born here.
Flip 1
Never been to the homeland myself. I do not know anything. The Red Earth is my homeland. This America is my heartland.
Flip 2
Homeland, heartland—they are one and the same. This is my Red Earth.
Fil-Am 2
There is no point going back to the Brown Earth. You have not left it, right?
Fil-Am 1
Our folks talk of going back all the time. Mom says, I do not want to die here. I want to be buried in that same Brown Earth I was born, she says. And she says that almost every week as if to remind us that we have an obligation to bring her home and bury her there.
Flip 1
My grandparent tell us all the time, we don’t want to live in nursing homes. Bring us home, and they are in their home in Honolulu. What are they saying?
Fil-Am 2
My grandfather says, I am American. The misshapen nose, the nostrils opening bigger than cherry tomatoes, allowing the air to freely come in and out. Oh, it is magic. The coming and going of air in his pug nose. And he says he is an American the way John Kerry says he is. No heritage, just American, plain American. We challenge him and he runs to get his passport from the drawer and shows it to us. Dis, dis, dis! Dis makes me American! Many would die to get dis!
Flip 2
Are we lost?
Flip 1
Do we know who we are?
Fil-Im 2
Who are we?
Fil-Am 1 / Fil-Am 2
We are lost.
Flip 1 / Flip 2
We can be found again.
Chorus – Red Earth
Some more denying.
Some more depriving.
Some more unknowing.
Chorus – Brown Earth
Flip, flip, flip.
Denying, denying, denying.
Fil-Am, Fil-Am, Fil-Am
Depriving, depriving, depriving
Fil-Im, Fil-Im, Fil-Im.
Unknowing, unknowing, unknowing
(Main characters put rice an salt on their bowls, and ready for the rice throwing ceremony. Choruses become a table, post, and walls again, not moving.)
Fil-Im 2
We call the spirits of the Brown Earth.
Flip 1
The spirits of the Brown Earth; the spirits of the Red Earth.
Fil-Im 1
My grandmother says, Go away, go away. Go away you spirits of the rotten earth, you spirits of the spoiled earth, you spirits of the decayed earth. Come, come you spirits of the good earth, the Brown Earth, the Red Earth, the earth that blesses us, the one that gives us life. Come she says, and she dances, blood dripping in circles the front of our house, all over the ground.
Flip 1
My grandpa when I got sick one day got rice and salt. Mixed them on a coconut bowl. (Brings out one from pocket. Puts in rice and salt and throws it on stage and to the audiences.) he went outside, in the dark and recited: umadayokayo, Apo. Umadayokayo. Baribari, Apo, baribari.
Fil-Am 1
(Gets his coconut bowl, puts rice in it, mixes it with salt, and recites the oracion, in English.)
go away, go away, you spirits of the bad earth. Come, come, come spirits of the Brown Earth. Come, come, come spirits of the Red Earth. Red Earth, Brown Earth and all your spirits, come bless us.
Fil
Ghostly chorus, in a dance
Flips, flips, flips.
Coming home to themselves.
Fil-Ams, Fil-Ams, Fil-Ams.
Coming back to their senses
Immigrants, immigrants
Going back their earths.
Fil-Am / Fil-Im / Flips
Coming home to the Brown Earth.
Coming home to the Red Earth.
For the spirits of the Brown Earth, for the spirits of the Red Earth.
(Main characters move to the center, pour out basi on their bowls and ritually pour out basi on the Red Earth, and the Brown Earth who are now slumped on the stage.)
For the spirits of the Brown Earth, for the spirits of the Red Earth. We see them coming together, these spirits, happy, and proud and contented. In our maniness, we are one. (Before they sip, )Bagiyo, bagiyo, apo.Kukuayo Apo.
CURTAINS FALL.
Written for the April 2006 College Summit, University of Hawaii. The author thanks Prof. Precy Espiritu, play director, for the revisions. Written in Waipahu, Hawaii, in February 2006 during my visiting lecturership at the UH; revisions were done in March 2006.
Flip 1: Local born-American
Flip 2: Local born-American
Fil-Am 1: Immigrant - Americanized with papers
Fil-Am 2: Immigrant - Americanized with papers
Fil-Im 1: Foreign born but here on Visa
Fil-Im 2: Foreign born but here on Visa
Ghostly Chorus:
Chorus 1 – Brown Earth
Chorus 2 – Red Earth
Setting: Hawaii, at a basi-drinking gathering. The present. Stage bare. Characters bring their own set.
Scene: (In a dream, 6 main characters in the 4 corners of the stage.)
Ghostly Chorus: (recited like a limerick, mocking, or can be set to a metallic rock music to create cacophonous sounds, jarring, confusing, clanging, but forceful and fierce. These could be done for all the ghostly chorus lines.)
Chorus 1: Brown Earth
You are us,
You are ours.
Flip, flip, flip.
You are ours.
You belong
To this brown land.
You belong to us.
Fil-Am, Fil-Am, Fil-Am.
You belong to us.
The brown land is you;
The brown land is yours
Filipino immigrant
Fil-Im, Fil-Im, Fil-Im
Flip 1
I am Flip Number 1, local born. Born in the suburbs, west of here in this place, down where the river meets the sea. I grew up with the sounds of English and the crowing of chickens and the smell of basi, burger, and sushi.
Flip 2
The Filipino words have been buried in me. I never heard them. I am Flip Number 2, Americanized, twang, mind, memory—all.
Fil-Im 1
Born in the brown earth, with the memory of salt and despair. I am Filipino immigrant, Fil-Im number 1. I have cut my umbilical cord.
Fil-Im 2
Born of poverty and want. Sorrow and joy. I am Filipino immigrant, Fil-Im number 2. I came to this Red Earth to scratch out a life. I have put an end to all connections.
Fil-Am 1
I am Fil-Am number 1. I am found and I am lost. The Brown Earth of the forest leads
me to confusion.
Fil-Am 2
I am Fil-Am number 2. Loneliness is everywhere in this Red Earth. I want to go back to my Brown Earth. But the Red Earth beckons me.
Fil-Am 1
I dream of returning to the Brown Earth. That is what will save me from forgetting.
My folks say you need to refuse being buried on the Red Earth.
Fil-Im 1
Red Earth, the Brown Earth, are they ever us?
Fil-Im 2
I dream of the Red Earth as a curse. First, it was welcoming ball of fire, fiery, and cold. It says, Welcome, welcome stranger. Dumanonka, dumanonka!
Fil-Im 1
And then you got into this world. Like me. There was enchantment, was there?
Isublidak idiay Filipinas! Have me back in the brown land where I came from!
Flip 1
First it opened up into a world of milk and honey as the dream was. There was bounty. A paradise, fresh and clean, and rich, and unspoiled.
Fil-Im 2
You get into the world of the Red Earth and never go back to yourself. You lost your direction, your senses, your sense of self. You spoke English. You spoke only English. And the Red Earth got bigger and bigger, and swallowed you up.
Flip 1
Each time I spoke English only, the Brown Earth shrank. And I cannot control its shrinking. I am sick, I feel this sickness all over my tongue, my skin, my body, my mind, my fingers, my speech, my feet, my legs, my person.
Flip 2
A contagious sickness.
Fil-Im 1
An omen. The Red Earth says I should only drink its waters, breathe only its air, live only on its produce, and taste only its soil, bowing only to it with reverence like a ritual, and vowing to love it like no other.
Chorus 2 – Red Earth
Flip, flip, flip.
Confused, confused flip
Nothing, nothing going
For the brown brown flip.
Hahahahahahahahahaha!
Fil-Am, Fil-Am, Fil-Am
Browned by the sun
Nothing, nothing going
For the son of a gun.
Hahahahahahahahahhaha!
Fil-Im, Fil-Im, Fil-Im.
Brown, brown pilgrim
Immigrant, immigrant
From the brown, brown land.
Hahahahahahahahahah!
Chorus 1 & 2
Flip, Fil-Am, Fil-Im.
Stranger in this Red Earth
Cannot, cannot find a home
In this Red, Red Earth
Hahahahahahahahaha!
Fil-Im 1
Ah, the Brown Earth is where I go back to.
Flip 1
We don’t where we are going.
Flip 1
We don’t know where we came from.
Chorus – Red Earth
Flip, flip, flip.
Go home, flip
Flip, flip, flip.
Got no home flip.
Chorus – Brown Earth
The Red Earth
Is your curse.
The Red Earth.
You are cursed.
Chorus – Red Earth
Go home, flip.
Go home, Fil-Ams.
Go home, Fil-Ims.
Immigrant, ethnic!
Chorus – Brown Earth
Come home, flip.
Come home to the Brown Earth.
Come home immigrant.
Come home to the brown land.
Flip 1
We don know where we are going.
Flip 1
We don know where we came from.
Chorus 2 – Brown Earth
Come home, flip
Come home to the Brown Earth
Come home, immigrant
Come home to the brown land.
Flip 1
I want to forget, I want to remember.
Flip 2
I want to remember, I want to forget.
Fil-Im/ Fil-Am / Flip
We need to reclaim ourselves.
Chorus 1 – Red Earth
Fil-Am, Fil-Im, Fil, Am.
Consider, consider, consider.
Do not ever regret.
Chorus 2 – Brown Earth
Flip, flip, flip.
Remember, remember, remember
Do not ever forget.
Fil-Im 2
I do not want to go back to the Brown Earth. The memories haunt me so.
Fil-Im 1
I cannot even dream of the good life there. The old country, the old country. I have no though of the shape of the good life. How does it look like, now, this good life?
Fil-Im 2
Do they sell the good life in the streets the way they sell the votes? The leaders, the leaders of the old country. They can only act. Ah, Brown Earth.
Fil-Im 1
I can only dream of snow and the wide spaces the malls.. this is my America. America is me now. This is my Red Earth. My Brown Earth is gone. I had it buried in my heart, my memory, my soul.
Fil-Im 2
No trace. Not a trace of who I was.
Fil-Am 1
I think of us all in this land as children of the Red Earth.. it is the land adopting us.
Fil-Im 2
This land. This America whose air we breathe. This America giving us all the freedom that we thought we wanted. The America that creates magic out of our lips, the magic in English enchanting us.
Flip 1
We all come from the Brown Earth. But here, in America, here do the colors ever collide? Do they ever come into a fusion?
Chorus 1 – Red Earth
You do not know.
You can never know.
Flip, flip, flip
You can never escape
The big Brown Earth.
Chorus 2 – Brown Earth
You can never fit.
Flip, flip, flip
You can never escape
The big Red Earth!
Flip 1
Go away. Go away.
Flip 2
I want to go away from the Brown Earth. I want to come to the Red Earth.
Fil-Im 1
I do not even want to think about it. My dad wants me to talk American-English. No pidgin, he says. Gardemet, gardemet, he says.
Fil-Am 2
My dad was a teacher in the grades back in the old country.
Fil-Im 1
Your father came here and he washed dishes and taught himself how to pronounce fillet mignon, and Sorbonne, and Paris and buffet the French way.
Flip 1
Oh, how your father flaunted his knowledge of the great America without the warts, the blemishes.
Flip 2
Ahhh, dis is the greyt kawntri, he says.
Fil-Im 2
Your English, no good, says the school principal, when Father applied to teach in the grade school. You will pollute the language of the children.
Fil-Am 1
While he washed dishes, my father, he dreamt of his classroom in the grades, the school children with their eager faces, eager to get some skills so they can go abroad and earn dollars so the homeland would not go to the ways of the impoverished.
Flip 1
It is the accent, man!
Fil-Am 1
Bumperrr to bumperrr.
Fil-Im 1
Krakerrr!
Fil-Am 2
Rranglerrr!
Fil-Im 1
Hamburdyer.
Flip 2
Hear this, hear this.
My politicized mother called the Philippines. There was a state of emergency down there, as the case everyday.. like Gloria Macapagal Arroyo saying: enough already ngarud. Enough na of rali-rali and the kudeta. State of emergency, state of calamity, state of war. Istet, mother says. Istet. Like the United Istet?
Fil-Im 1
(Dials the operator.)
Hilow, operator.
Heilow, upereter. Ha!
I wan to kol da Pilipin.
Ya, ya da Pilipin ya.
I like call my daughter.
Here da number in Manila. Yeah dey lib in Manila now.
011-632-788-5525.
Fil-Im 2
Helo?
Where are you?
Many people der now? What?
Many trak?
Many uzi?
What? Full metal jacket?
Ay, Apo! Diosko!
Go home. Go home now.
Hari ap! Go. Go. Go!
Bambay you’re dead.
Ghostly chorus of the Red Earth perform a frenzied dance and move to center stage.
Scene 2
(Main characters carry their chairs to the center. Ghostly chorus becomes the table, pasts, and walls in what looks like a dap-ayan, a talking area in the purok. Main characters sit around the table with a bottle of basi at the center.)
Fil-Im 1
memory binds us to the Brown Earth, to the homeland.
Fil-Im 2
Memory links us to the Red Earth; the new land.
Flip 1
I don’t have a desire to go back to the old country. I do not know it. It is not my country.
I was born here.
Flip 1
Never been to the homeland myself. I do not know anything. The Red Earth is my homeland. This America is my heartland.
Flip 2
Homeland, heartland—they are one and the same. This is my Red Earth.
Fil-Am 2
There is no point going back to the Brown Earth. You have not left it, right?
Fil-Am 1
Our folks talk of going back all the time. Mom says, I do not want to die here. I want to be buried in that same Brown Earth I was born, she says. And she says that almost every week as if to remind us that we have an obligation to bring her home and bury her there.
Flip 1
My grandparent tell us all the time, we don’t want to live in nursing homes. Bring us home, and they are in their home in Honolulu. What are they saying?
Fil-Am 2
My grandfather says, I am American. The misshapen nose, the nostrils opening bigger than cherry tomatoes, allowing the air to freely come in and out. Oh, it is magic. The coming and going of air in his pug nose. And he says he is an American the way John Kerry says he is. No heritage, just American, plain American. We challenge him and he runs to get his passport from the drawer and shows it to us. Dis, dis, dis! Dis makes me American! Many would die to get dis!
Flip 2
Are we lost?
Flip 1
Do we know who we are?
Fil-Im 2
Who are we?
Fil-Am 1 / Fil-Am 2
We are lost.
Flip 1 / Flip 2
We can be found again.
Chorus – Red Earth
Some more denying.
Some more depriving.
Some more unknowing.
Chorus – Brown Earth
Flip, flip, flip.
Denying, denying, denying.
Fil-Am, Fil-Am, Fil-Am
Depriving, depriving, depriving
Fil-Im, Fil-Im, Fil-Im.
Unknowing, unknowing, unknowing
(Main characters put rice an salt on their bowls, and ready for the rice throwing ceremony. Choruses become a table, post, and walls again, not moving.)
Fil-Im 2
We call the spirits of the Brown Earth.
Flip 1
The spirits of the Brown Earth; the spirits of the Red Earth.
Fil-Im 1
My grandmother says, Go away, go away. Go away you spirits of the rotten earth, you spirits of the spoiled earth, you spirits of the decayed earth. Come, come you spirits of the good earth, the Brown Earth, the Red Earth, the earth that blesses us, the one that gives us life. Come she says, and she dances, blood dripping in circles the front of our house, all over the ground.
Flip 1
My grandpa when I got sick one day got rice and salt. Mixed them on a coconut bowl. (Brings out one from pocket. Puts in rice and salt and throws it on stage and to the audiences.) he went outside, in the dark and recited: umadayokayo, Apo. Umadayokayo. Baribari, Apo, baribari.
Fil-Am 1
(Gets his coconut bowl, puts rice in it, mixes it with salt, and recites the oracion, in English.)
go away, go away, you spirits of the bad earth. Come, come, come spirits of the Brown Earth. Come, come, come spirits of the Red Earth. Red Earth, Brown Earth and all your spirits, come bless us.
Fil
Ghostly chorus, in a dance
Flips, flips, flips.
Coming home to themselves.
Fil-Ams, Fil-Ams, Fil-Ams.
Coming back to their senses
Immigrants, immigrants
Going back their earths.
Fil-Am / Fil-Im / Flips
Coming home to the Brown Earth.
Coming home to the Red Earth.
For the spirits of the Brown Earth, for the spirits of the Red Earth.
(Main characters move to the center, pour out basi on their bowls and ritually pour out basi on the Red Earth, and the Brown Earth who are now slumped on the stage.)
For the spirits of the Brown Earth, for the spirits of the Red Earth. We see them coming together, these spirits, happy, and proud and contented. In our maniness, we are one. (Before they sip, )Bagiyo, bagiyo, apo.Kukuayo Apo.
CURTAINS FALL.
Written for the April 2006 College Summit, University of Hawaii. The author thanks Prof. Precy Espiritu, play director, for the revisions. Written in Waipahu, Hawaii, in February 2006 during my visiting lecturership at the UH; revisions were done in March 2006.
Lunes ng Tagsibol
Ngayon ay Lunes
simula ng tagsibol
sa isip ng mga bundok
na nangangako
ng pamumukadkad
ng mga bulaklak
sa mga parang
na naghihintay
ng tirik na araw
sa dalampasigang
sa kabila nito
ay ang bayang iniwan
nakalimutan na
ang hugis ng apoy
uhaw sa darang.
Ang mga balikat
ng panahon ay kinukuba
ng pasanin ng pook
na dumadaan sa ritwal
ng taglamig
nag-iiwan ng lungkot
sa hanging habagat
na dumadampi
sa nagbeberdeng dahon.
Umaawit ang mga talulot
dito sa lungsod ng mga anghel
at ang mala-opyung insenso
ng kardinal ng kasalanan
ay pabango ng langit
na ang pisngi
ay sa naggagalak na diyos
nakikiawit sa mga ibon
nitong umaga
na naghahayag ng katapusan
ng mga dilim
sapagkat ang oras
ngayon ay singhahaba
ng pasensiya ng mga umalis
upang sa malayo
ay lilisanin ang lahat
ng lumbay at takot
sa pag-iisa
sa ilang hahanapin
ang halakhak
ng mga halamang
muling nabuhay.
Torrance, CA
simula ng tagsibol
sa isip ng mga bundok
na nangangako
ng pamumukadkad
ng mga bulaklak
sa mga parang
na naghihintay
ng tirik na araw
sa dalampasigang
sa kabila nito
ay ang bayang iniwan
nakalimutan na
ang hugis ng apoy
uhaw sa darang.
Ang mga balikat
ng panahon ay kinukuba
ng pasanin ng pook
na dumadaan sa ritwal
ng taglamig
nag-iiwan ng lungkot
sa hanging habagat
na dumadampi
sa nagbeberdeng dahon.
Umaawit ang mga talulot
dito sa lungsod ng mga anghel
at ang mala-opyung insenso
ng kardinal ng kasalanan
ay pabango ng langit
na ang pisngi
ay sa naggagalak na diyos
nakikiawit sa mga ibon
nitong umaga
na naghahayag ng katapusan
ng mga dilim
sapagkat ang oras
ngayon ay singhahaba
ng pasensiya ng mga umalis
upang sa malayo
ay lilisanin ang lahat
ng lumbay at takot
sa pag-iisa
sa ilang hahanapin
ang halakhak
ng mga halamang
muling nabuhay.
Torrance, CA
Pagtigil sa Pag-uwi sa Malayo
(Ikaw, itay, kailan ka ba titigil sa pag-uwi sa malayo? tanong ng panganay.)
Kailan nga ba titigil
ang manlalakbay
sa pag-uwi sa malayo
tulad ng pagbabalik
ng ibon sa kanyang inakay?
tulad ng pagpapakandong
ng araw sa gabi ng abot-tanaw
upang muli at muli
ay maghahanap ng pagsilang?
ang ibong sa kanyang inakay
ang araw sa kanyang pag-uwi
ay mga ritwal ng pagmamahal
tulad ng pag-alis upang ibalik
ang kapalaran sa mga pinggan
tulad ng pag-alis at pangarap
na muling sumamba sa templo
ng mga halakhak at paggiliw
ng mga anak ng iniwan
ng kabiyak na nagbibilang
ng paghalik ng butiki sa lupa
tuwing ang liwanag ay namamaalam.
Ay, ang gintong puno ng niyog
na itinamin ng umalis
ay hitik ang bunga
nagmamasid at nakikiisa
sa kandilang nagdarasal
sa paulitulit na paghingi
ng nakagagaling na pagpapala
ng mga umaga sa puso
ng mga naghihintay.
Kailan nga ba titigil
sa pag-uwi sa malayo
ang mga umalis upang magbalik
kasama ang bagong ngiti
sa kabila ng dula-dulaan sa kalye
sa kabila ng karahasan
ng mga nagmamahal sa bayan
mga may prangkisa ng tama
at totoo para sa mga mamamayan
nakalimot nang dumighay
ng mga may-ari ng ebanghelyo
ng katubusan ng sambayanan
sila na nakikinabang magpahangga
ngayon sa awit ng bigas, mais,
galunggong, dolyar
at marami pang pagpapakasakit
ng lahat ng mga umaalis
at iniiwan
makita lamang na ang namamaalam
na liwanag ay sa kanluran pa rin umuuwi
pagkatapos ng mahabang paglalakbay
makita lamang na ang ibon
ay makakalipad na malayang
papauwi sa kanyang inakay
dala-dala ang basbas
ng di kailan man maliligaw
na paghihintay?
Torrance, CA
Kailan nga ba titigil
ang manlalakbay
sa pag-uwi sa malayo
tulad ng pagbabalik
ng ibon sa kanyang inakay?
tulad ng pagpapakandong
ng araw sa gabi ng abot-tanaw
upang muli at muli
ay maghahanap ng pagsilang?
ang ibong sa kanyang inakay
ang araw sa kanyang pag-uwi
ay mga ritwal ng pagmamahal
tulad ng pag-alis upang ibalik
ang kapalaran sa mga pinggan
tulad ng pag-alis at pangarap
na muling sumamba sa templo
ng mga halakhak at paggiliw
ng mga anak ng iniwan
ng kabiyak na nagbibilang
ng paghalik ng butiki sa lupa
tuwing ang liwanag ay namamaalam.
Ay, ang gintong puno ng niyog
na itinamin ng umalis
ay hitik ang bunga
nagmamasid at nakikiisa
sa kandilang nagdarasal
sa paulitulit na paghingi
ng nakagagaling na pagpapala
ng mga umaga sa puso
ng mga naghihintay.
Kailan nga ba titigil
sa pag-uwi sa malayo
ang mga umalis upang magbalik
kasama ang bagong ngiti
sa kabila ng dula-dulaan sa kalye
sa kabila ng karahasan
ng mga nagmamahal sa bayan
mga may prangkisa ng tama
at totoo para sa mga mamamayan
nakalimot nang dumighay
ng mga may-ari ng ebanghelyo
ng katubusan ng sambayanan
sila na nakikinabang magpahangga
ngayon sa awit ng bigas, mais,
galunggong, dolyar
at marami pang pagpapakasakit
ng lahat ng mga umaalis
at iniiwan
makita lamang na ang namamaalam
na liwanag ay sa kanluran pa rin umuuwi
pagkatapos ng mahabang paglalakbay
makita lamang na ang ibon
ay makakalipad na malayang
papauwi sa kanyang inakay
dala-dala ang basbas
ng di kailan man maliligaw
na paghihintay?
Torrance, CA
Pagtigil sa Pag-uwi sa Malayo
(Ikaw, itay, kailan ka ba titigil sa pag-uwi sa malayo? tanong ng panganay.)
Kailan nga ba titigil
ang manlalakbay
sa pag-uwi sa malayo
tulad ng pagbabalik
ng ibon sa kanyang inakay?
tulad ng pagpapakandong
ng araw sa gabi ng abot-tanaw
upang muli at muli
ay maghahanap ng pagsilang?
ang ibong sa kanyang inakay
ang araw sa kanyang pag-uwi
ay mga ritwal ng pagmamahal
tulad ng pag-alis upang ibalik
ang kapalaran sa mga pinggan
tulad ng pag-alis at pangarap
na muling sumamba sa templo
ng mga halakhak at paggiliw
ng mga anak ng iniwan
ng kabiyak na nagbibilang
ng paghalik ng butiki sa lupa
tuwing ang liwanag ay namamaalam.
Ay, ang gintong puno ng niyog
na itinamin ng umalis
ay hitik ang bunga
nagmamasid at nakikiisa
sa kandilang nagdarasal
sa paulitulit na paghingi
ng nakagagaling na pagpapala
ng mga umaga sa puso
ng mga naghihintay.
Kailan nga ba titigil
sa pag-uwi sa malayo
ang mga umalis upang magbalik
kasama ang bagong ngiti
sa kabila ng dula-dulaan sa kalye
sa kabila ng karahasan
ng mga nagmamahal sa bayan
mga may prangkisa ng tama
at totoo para sa mga mamamayan
nakalimot nang dumighay
ng mga may-ari ng ebanghelyo
ng katubusan ng sambayanan
sila na nakikinabang magpahangga
ngayon sa awit ng bigas, mais,
galunggong, dolyar
at marami pang pagpapakasakit
ng lahat ng mga umaalis
at iniiwan
makita lamang na ang namamaalam
na liwanag ay sa kanluran pa rin umuuwi
pagkatapos ng mahabang paglalakbay
makita lamang na ang ibon
ay makakalipad na malayang
papauwi sa kanyang inakay
dala-dala ang basbas
ng di kailan man maliligaw
na paghihintay?
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Torrance, CA
Lunes, Marso 20, 2006
Kailan nga ba titigil
ang manlalakbay
sa pag-uwi sa malayo
tulad ng pagbabalik
ng ibon sa kanyang inakay?
tulad ng pagpapakandong
ng araw sa gabi ng abot-tanaw
upang muli at muli
ay maghahanap ng pagsilang?
ang ibong sa kanyang inakay
ang araw sa kanyang pag-uwi
ay mga ritwal ng pagmamahal
tulad ng pag-alis upang ibalik
ang kapalaran sa mga pinggan
tulad ng pag-alis at pangarap
na muling sumamba sa templo
ng mga halakhak at paggiliw
ng mga anak ng iniwan
ng kabiyak na nagbibilang
ng paghalik ng butiki sa lupa
tuwing ang liwanag ay namamaalam.
Ay, ang gintong puno ng niyog
na itinamin ng umalis
ay hitik ang bunga
nagmamasid at nakikiisa
sa kandilang nagdarasal
sa paulitulit na paghingi
ng nakagagaling na pagpapala
ng mga umaga sa puso
ng mga naghihintay.
Kailan nga ba titigil
sa pag-uwi sa malayo
ang mga umalis upang magbalik
kasama ang bagong ngiti
sa kabila ng dula-dulaan sa kalye
sa kabila ng karahasan
ng mga nagmamahal sa bayan
mga may prangkisa ng tama
at totoo para sa mga mamamayan
nakalimot nang dumighay
ng mga may-ari ng ebanghelyo
ng katubusan ng sambayanan
sila na nakikinabang magpahangga
ngayon sa awit ng bigas, mais,
galunggong, dolyar
at marami pang pagpapakasakit
ng lahat ng mga umaalis
at iniiwan
makita lamang na ang namamaalam
na liwanag ay sa kanluran pa rin umuuwi
pagkatapos ng mahabang paglalakbay
makita lamang na ang ibon
ay makakalipad na malayang
papauwi sa kanyang inakay
dala-dala ang basbas
ng di kailan man maliligaw
na paghihintay?
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Torrance, CA
Lunes, Marso 20, 2006
Ay-ayam iti Numero
isu ti ay-ayam
nga abalbalayentayo
pangsulisog iti gasat,
daytay man naimbag,
datayo nga agar-arapaap
kadagiti nasaysayaat
a panawen kadagiti nasaysayaat
a klima uray no kumugtar
ti lamiis ti angin,
daytay nakapigpigsa
tapno busalannatayo
iti ditay panamati
iti daton dagiti numero,
dagiti umuna tapno manen
mangnamnamatayo,
ti mega a numero
tapno makitatayo
ti kari dagiti amin a
mabalin kas iti pamsaakan
ti kalakayan kadagiti tallo
a lallaki nga agar-arapaap
kadagiti panangabak
pannakawanwan
kadagiti taeng ken lugan
para iti dua nga ub-ubing
panagtagtagainep
iti naunday a bakasion
para iti tallo tapno paginanaen
dagiti nabannog a tultulang,
bannog gapu iti panangibaklay
kadagiti pagpulkokan
iti lagip ti pannakaatiw
ken panagayat koma
a maigulpi tapno kaskasdi
ti panangsustini
iti biag kas iti ayat.
quick pick ti pamay-anmi,
kankanayon a lump sum
tapno mairanud iti buismi
dagiti amin a kadua
nga agar-arapaap
iti nabayagen,
dagiti agbirbirok iti gasat
kadagiti bituen ket sadiay
a biroken ti lawag
kadagiti anniniwan ti bulan,
parmata sagpaminsan,
bugas ti kina-
isu-met-laeng-nga-isu
ti ay-ayam nga abalbalayenmi
iti panawen dagiti bagyo
dagiti nagabuyo a darepdepmi
iti daytoy a siudad
ken pagilian a nakabirokanmi
iti bukod a bagi ken leddaang
kuarta ken salamangka
panungpalan ken regget
isu nga agay-ayamkami
kadagiti numero,
a kasla pot luck.
ipisokmi amin
dagiti tartaraudi a doliar,
pagtitiponenmi amin
iti kararag ket iti daytoy
a rabii dagiti nabaybay-an
a pampanunotmi,
makitami dagiti numero
a mangikeddeng iti panagari
dagiti ari
dagiti birkog
dagiti suitik
ken kinaasi.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Torrance, CA
Okt. 2005
nga abalbalayentayo
pangsulisog iti gasat,
daytay man naimbag,
datayo nga agar-arapaap
kadagiti nasaysayaat
a panawen kadagiti nasaysayaat
a klima uray no kumugtar
ti lamiis ti angin,
daytay nakapigpigsa
tapno busalannatayo
iti ditay panamati
iti daton dagiti numero,
dagiti umuna tapno manen
mangnamnamatayo,
ti mega a numero
tapno makitatayo
ti kari dagiti amin a
mabalin kas iti pamsaakan
ti kalakayan kadagiti tallo
a lallaki nga agar-arapaap
kadagiti panangabak
pannakawanwan
kadagiti taeng ken lugan
para iti dua nga ub-ubing
panagtagtagainep
iti naunday a bakasion
para iti tallo tapno paginanaen
dagiti nabannog a tultulang,
bannog gapu iti panangibaklay
kadagiti pagpulkokan
iti lagip ti pannakaatiw
ken panagayat koma
a maigulpi tapno kaskasdi
ti panangsustini
iti biag kas iti ayat.
quick pick ti pamay-anmi,
kankanayon a lump sum
tapno mairanud iti buismi
dagiti amin a kadua
nga agar-arapaap
iti nabayagen,
dagiti agbirbirok iti gasat
kadagiti bituen ket sadiay
a biroken ti lawag
kadagiti anniniwan ti bulan,
parmata sagpaminsan,
bugas ti kina-
isu-met-laeng-nga-isu
ti ay-ayam nga abalbalayenmi
iti panawen dagiti bagyo
dagiti nagabuyo a darepdepmi
iti daytoy a siudad
ken pagilian a nakabirokanmi
iti bukod a bagi ken leddaang
kuarta ken salamangka
panungpalan ken regget
isu nga agay-ayamkami
kadagiti numero,
a kasla pot luck.
ipisokmi amin
dagiti tartaraudi a doliar,
pagtitiponenmi amin
iti kararag ket iti daytoy
a rabii dagiti nabaybay-an
a pampanunotmi,
makitami dagiti numero
a mangikeddeng iti panagari
dagiti ari
dagiti birkog
dagiti suitik
ken kinaasi.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Torrance, CA
Okt. 2005
GAME IN NUMBER
it is the game we play
to temp fate, the good
kind, we who dream
of better seasons
of better climes
even when the cold
winds kick in,
the strong ones
to muzzle us into
not believing the gift
the numbers offer,
the five numbers
to make us hope again,
the mega number
to make us see
the promise of possibilities
like the way the oldest
of the three men imagining
the winnings seeing
houses and cars
for the two younger ones
dreaming of a grand
vacation for them three
to rest the tired bones,
tired from carrying
all the burdens
of the memory of loss
and wanting for something more
to keep hanging on
in life as in love.
we do it the quick pick
way, make it a lump sum
all the time to share
the taxes with those
who had hoped
with you a long time ago,
those who divined the stars
and from there see the light
of moon shadows
some vision perhaps,
some sense of sameness
in the game we play
during the storm seasons
of our wild wild dreams
in this city
and country
we have come to to find
self and sorrow
money and magic
destiny and desire.
so we play with
the numbers,
ala pot luck.
we put in all
our last dollars,
put them together
in prayer and in this night
of our abandoned
imaginings,
we see numbers
determining the reign
of kings,
of thieves,
of cheats,
and kindness.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Torrance, CA
Oct 24, 2005
to temp fate, the good
kind, we who dream
of better seasons
of better climes
even when the cold
winds kick in,
the strong ones
to muzzle us into
not believing the gift
the numbers offer,
the five numbers
to make us hope again,
the mega number
to make us see
the promise of possibilities
like the way the oldest
of the three men imagining
the winnings seeing
houses and cars
for the two younger ones
dreaming of a grand
vacation for them three
to rest the tired bones,
tired from carrying
all the burdens
of the memory of loss
and wanting for something more
to keep hanging on
in life as in love.
we do it the quick pick
way, make it a lump sum
all the time to share
the taxes with those
who had hoped
with you a long time ago,
those who divined the stars
and from there see the light
of moon shadows
some vision perhaps,
some sense of sameness
in the game we play
during the storm seasons
of our wild wild dreams
in this city
and country
we have come to to find
self and sorrow
money and magic
destiny and desire.
so we play with
the numbers,
ala pot luck.
we put in all
our last dollars,
put them together
in prayer and in this night
of our abandoned
imaginings,
we see numbers
determining the reign
of kings,
of thieves,
of cheats,
and kindness.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Torrance, CA
Oct 24, 2005
Saturdays Are Here To Make Us Sit Down and Write The Nation of Exiles
Saturdays are here
to make us sit down
and take stock
of what we have got.
Few dollars
for the $120 million
megalotto
to make hope alive
springing eternal
like the wild flowers
of the Los Angeles
mountains
going wild.
Mondays till Fridays
are the defects
of virtue
going sweet
and then going sour
like some cheap milk
we stock up
for the promise
of nutrients and fullness
when a meal is obligatory
and swallowing food taken
alone makes you cry brooks
becoming seas
of the broken exile's heart.
Ha, Saturdays make you
sit down and write poems
write the nation of exiles
the nation
that harbors ill-feelings
because you
do not send the dollars
to buy the elites
the bullets
to hit
the enemy like us.
We have seen it this way
for a long long time
and we
have not spoken the word
the liberating word
that tells us
who we really are.
Exiles, remitters
of false
courage and pretenses
of those we vote to govern
our tarnished lives.
The nation of exiles,
this is
the one we have got
the only one we have
the only one we write.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Torrance, CA/Redondo Beach, CA
March 18, 2006
to make us sit down
and take stock
of what we have got.
Few dollars
for the $120 million
megalotto
to make hope alive
springing eternal
like the wild flowers
of the Los Angeles
mountains
going wild.
Mondays till Fridays
are the defects
of virtue
going sweet
and then going sour
like some cheap milk
we stock up
for the promise
of nutrients and fullness
when a meal is obligatory
and swallowing food taken
alone makes you cry brooks
becoming seas
of the broken exile's heart.
Ha, Saturdays make you
sit down and write poems
write the nation of exiles
the nation
that harbors ill-feelings
because you
do not send the dollars
to buy the elites
the bullets
to hit
the enemy like us.
We have seen it this way
for a long long time
and we
have not spoken the word
the liberating word
that tells us
who we really are.
Exiles, remitters
of false
courage and pretenses
of those we vote to govern
our tarnished lives.
The nation of exiles,
this is
the one we have got
the only one we have
the only one we write.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Torrance, CA/Redondo Beach, CA
March 18, 2006
Saturdays Are Here To Make Us Sit Down and Write The Nation of Exiles
Saturdays are here
to make us sit down
and take stock
of what we have got.
Few dollars
for the $120 million
megalotto
to make hope alive
springing eternal
like the wild flowers
of the Los Angeles
mountains
going wild.
Mondays till Fridays
are the defects
of virtue
going sweet
and then going sour
like some cheap milk
we stock up
for the promise
of nutrients and fullness
when a meal is obligatory
and swallowing food taken
alone makes you cry brooks
becoming seas
of the broken exile's heart.
Ha, Saturdays make you
sit down and write poems
write the nation of exiles
the nation
that harbors ill-feelings
because you
do not send the dollars
to buy the elites
the bullets
to hit
the enemy like us.
We have seen it this way
for a long long time
and we
have not spoken the word
the liberating word
that tells us
who we really are.
Exiles, remitters
of false
courage and pretenses
of those we vote to govern
our tarnished lives.
The nation of exiles,
this is
the one we have got
the only one we have
the only one we write.
Torrance, CA/Redondo Beach, CA
to make us sit down
and take stock
of what we have got.
Few dollars
for the $120 million
megalotto
to make hope alive
springing eternal
like the wild flowers
of the Los Angeles
mountains
going wild.
Mondays till Fridays
are the defects
of virtue
going sweet
and then going sour
like some cheap milk
we stock up
for the promise
of nutrients and fullness
when a meal is obligatory
and swallowing food taken
alone makes you cry brooks
becoming seas
of the broken exile's heart.
Ha, Saturdays make you
sit down and write poems
write the nation of exiles
the nation
that harbors ill-feelings
because you
do not send the dollars
to buy the elites
the bullets
to hit
the enemy like us.
We have seen it this way
for a long long time
and we
have not spoken the word
the liberating word
that tells us
who we really are.
Exiles, remitters
of false
courage and pretenses
of those we vote to govern
our tarnished lives.
The nation of exiles,
this is
the one we have got
the only one we have
the only one we write.
Torrance, CA/Redondo Beach, CA
Pag-ulan sa Aking Tahanan-Unang Bersyon
(Ang butil ng tulang ito ay galing sa tanong ng bunso:"Umuulan din ba sa bahay mo, papa?" Iba ang epekto ng tanong sa akin, tila magkahiwalay ang tahanan ng bunsong iniwan sa bansang nilisan at ang tahanan ng nandarayuhang magulang upang maghanap ng maganda-ganda sanang kapalaran. Kaya kay Nasudi Anchin ang tulang ito sapagkat sa kanya galing ang butil nito, butil na tila na nagsalansetang itinarak sa aking dibdib. May ulan noon nang tumawag sa tahanang iniwan at sa pook na kinahantungan ay may kulimlim din ang kalangitan.)
Ama akong nandaruyuhan, bunso,
lumayo, nagpakalayu-layo
upang sana ay masuyo at mapalapit
ang magandang kapalaran.
Kaysagana ang gutom
sa ating mga sikmura, bunso.
Singlamig noon ng mga umaga
ang iyong buntong-hininga nang
ika'y magtanong:
Umuulan din sa bahay mo, papa?
Sabi ng iyong
nakatatandang kapatid
na nagmamasid sa mga salita
sa pagitan natin
(ikaw na nasa oditibo
sa milya-milyang
agwat natin,
ako na naririto
sa kahabaan
ng mga lungkot
ng mga gabing banyaga)
na ibinaba mo sandali
ang piping telepono
at nagtungo sa bintana
upang tiyakin ang pagragasa
ng ulan habang rumaragasa
naman ang mga di mabawi-bawing gunita
ng hinaharap
na ginawa ko nang nakaraan
tulad ng pangako ko sa iyo ngayon
ng malapit nang pagbabalik.
Umuulan din ba sa bahay mo,
papa? tanong ng iyong munting puso.
May mga walang pangalang
hikbi ang kumawala sa aking dibdib.
Hahayaan kong umagos sa pisngi
patungo sa mga kanal ng higanteng
lunsod ang mga luha
ng mga magulang
na tulad ko.
Merong katubusan ng mga lungkot
sa mga pangako ng ulan
maski sa banyagang pook
ng mga pighati
ng mga amang nandarayuhan.
Iba na nga ang tahanan
ng lahat ng mga umalis, bunso.
Iba nga ang tirahan
ng lahat ng mga nagsilikas
upang maghanap ng kaligtasan
sa pisngi ng langit na luhaan
sa lugal ng pakikipagsapalaran.
Hindi ko alam na iba
ang balay ng aking mga panaginip
ngayon at ang ulan sa iyong sipat
at di ulan sa aking paningin.
Ngunit may talas
sa iyong diwa, bunso,
hinihiwa ang aking isip.
Nakikita mo ang ulan sa mga panahon,
at sa salitang binibitiwan
naroon ang gamot sa sugat
magpapahilom sa lahat ng kawalan
magbubuo sa lahat ng mga sinira ng ulan
sa ating nagpapagaling na puso.
Umuulan sa aking bahay, bunso,
tulad ng pag-uulan sa ating bahay
na aking iniwan sa panandalian lamang.
Pero darating ang paghupa, pangako.
Kasabay ng iyon ang daratal
na araw, maningning, kaydarang.
Ang sa ating isip ang ningning,
ang sa ating puso ang darang.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Marso 16/06
Carson, CA
Ama akong nandaruyuhan, bunso,
lumayo, nagpakalayu-layo
upang sana ay masuyo at mapalapit
ang magandang kapalaran.
Kaysagana ang gutom
sa ating mga sikmura, bunso.
Singlamig noon ng mga umaga
ang iyong buntong-hininga nang
ika'y magtanong:
Umuulan din sa bahay mo, papa?
Sabi ng iyong
nakatatandang kapatid
na nagmamasid sa mga salita
sa pagitan natin
(ikaw na nasa oditibo
sa milya-milyang
agwat natin,
ako na naririto
sa kahabaan
ng mga lungkot
ng mga gabing banyaga)
na ibinaba mo sandali
ang piping telepono
at nagtungo sa bintana
upang tiyakin ang pagragasa
ng ulan habang rumaragasa
naman ang mga di mabawi-bawing gunita
ng hinaharap
na ginawa ko nang nakaraan
tulad ng pangako ko sa iyo ngayon
ng malapit nang pagbabalik.
Umuulan din ba sa bahay mo,
papa? tanong ng iyong munting puso.
May mga walang pangalang
hikbi ang kumawala sa aking dibdib.
Hahayaan kong umagos sa pisngi
patungo sa mga kanal ng higanteng
lunsod ang mga luha
ng mga magulang
na tulad ko.
Merong katubusan ng mga lungkot
sa mga pangako ng ulan
maski sa banyagang pook
ng mga pighati
ng mga amang nandarayuhan.
Iba na nga ang tahanan
ng lahat ng mga umalis, bunso.
Iba nga ang tirahan
ng lahat ng mga nagsilikas
upang maghanap ng kaligtasan
sa pisngi ng langit na luhaan
sa lugal ng pakikipagsapalaran.
Hindi ko alam na iba
ang balay ng aking mga panaginip
ngayon at ang ulan sa iyong sipat
at di ulan sa aking paningin.
Ngunit may talas
sa iyong diwa, bunso,
hinihiwa ang aking isip.
Nakikita mo ang ulan sa mga panahon,
at sa salitang binibitiwan
naroon ang gamot sa sugat
magpapahilom sa lahat ng kawalan
magbubuo sa lahat ng mga sinira ng ulan
sa ating nagpapagaling na puso.
Umuulan sa aking bahay, bunso,
tulad ng pag-uulan sa ating bahay
na aking iniwan sa panandalian lamang.
Pero darating ang paghupa, pangako.
Kasabay ng iyon ang daratal
na araw, maningning, kaydarang.
Ang sa ating isip ang ningning,
ang sa ating puso ang darang.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Marso 16/06
Carson, CA
Pag-ulan sa Aking Tahanan (Unang Bersyon)
(Ang butil ng tulang ito ay galing sa tanong ng bunso:"Umuulan din ba sa bahay mo, papa?" Iba ang epekto ng tanong sa akin, tila magkahiwalay ang tahanan ng bunsong iniwan sa bansang nilisan at ang tahanan ng nandarayuhang magulang upang maghanap ng maganda-ganda sanang kapalaran. Kaya kay Nasudi Anchin ang tulang ito sapagkat sa kanya galing ang butil nito, butil na tila na nagsalansetang itinarak sa aking dibdib. May ulan noon nang tumawag sa tahanang iniwan at sa pook na kinahantungan ay may kulimlim din ang kalangitan.)
Ama akong nandaruyuhan, bunso,
lumayo, nagpakalayu-layo
upang sana ay masuyo at mapalapit
ang magandang kapalaran.
Kaysagana ang gutom
sa ating mga sikmura, bunso.
Singlamig noon ng mga umaga
ang iyong buntong-hininga nang
ika'y magtanong:
Umuulan din sa bahay mo, papa?
Sabi ng iyong
nakatatandang kapatid
na nagmamasid sa mga salita
sa pagitan natin
(ikaw na nasa oditibo
sa milya-milyang
agwat natin,
ako na naririto
sa kahabaan
ng mga lungkot
ng mga gabing banyaga)
na ibinaba mo sandali
ang piping telepono
at nagtungo sa bintana
upang tiyakin ang pagragasa
ng ulan habang rumaragasa
naman ang mga di mabawi-bawing gunita
ng hinaharap
na ginawa ko nang nakaraan
tulad ng pangako ko sa iyo ngayon
ng malapit nang pagbabalik.
Umuulan din ba sa bahay mo,
papa? tanong ng iyong munting puso.
May mga walang pangalang
hikbi ang kumawala sa aking dibdib.
Hahayaan kong umagos sa pisngi
patungo sa mga kanal ng higanteng
lunsod ang mga luha
ng mga magulang
na tulad ko.
Merong katubusan ng mga lungkot
sa mga pangako ng ulan
maski sa banyagang pook
ng mga pighati
ng mga amang nandarayuhan.
Iba na nga ang tahanan
ng lahat ng mga umalis, bunso.
Iba nga ang tirahan
ng lahat ng mga nagsilikas
upang maghanap ng kaligtasan
sa pisngi ng langit na luhaan
sa lugal ng pakikipagsapalaran.
Hindi ko alam na iba
ang balay ng aking mga panaginip
ngayon at ang ulan sa iyong sipat
at di ulan sa aking paningin.
Ngunit may talas
sa iyong diwa, bunso,
hinihiwa ang aking isip.
Nakikita mo ang ulan sa mga panahon,
at sa salitang binibitiwan
naroon ang gamot sa sugat
magpapahilom sa lahat ng kawalan
magbubuo sa lahat ng mga sinira ng ulan
sa ating nagpapagaling na puso.
Umuulan sa aking bahay, bunso,
tulad ng pag-uulan sa ating bahay
na aking iniwan sa panandalian lamang.
Pero darating ang paghupa, pangako.
Kasabay ng iyon ang daratal
na araw, maningning, kaydarang.
Ang sa ating isip ang ningning,
ang sa ating puso ang darang.
Marso 16, 2006
Carson, CA
Ama akong nandaruyuhan, bunso,
lumayo, nagpakalayu-layo
upang sana ay masuyo at mapalapit
ang magandang kapalaran.
Kaysagana ang gutom
sa ating mga sikmura, bunso.
Singlamig noon ng mga umaga
ang iyong buntong-hininga nang
ika'y magtanong:
Umuulan din sa bahay mo, papa?
Sabi ng iyong
nakatatandang kapatid
na nagmamasid sa mga salita
sa pagitan natin
(ikaw na nasa oditibo
sa milya-milyang
agwat natin,
ako na naririto
sa kahabaan
ng mga lungkot
ng mga gabing banyaga)
na ibinaba mo sandali
ang piping telepono
at nagtungo sa bintana
upang tiyakin ang pagragasa
ng ulan habang rumaragasa
naman ang mga di mabawi-bawing gunita
ng hinaharap
na ginawa ko nang nakaraan
tulad ng pangako ko sa iyo ngayon
ng malapit nang pagbabalik.
Umuulan din ba sa bahay mo,
papa? tanong ng iyong munting puso.
May mga walang pangalang
hikbi ang kumawala sa aking dibdib.
Hahayaan kong umagos sa pisngi
patungo sa mga kanal ng higanteng
lunsod ang mga luha
ng mga magulang
na tulad ko.
Merong katubusan ng mga lungkot
sa mga pangako ng ulan
maski sa banyagang pook
ng mga pighati
ng mga amang nandarayuhan.
Iba na nga ang tahanan
ng lahat ng mga umalis, bunso.
Iba nga ang tirahan
ng lahat ng mga nagsilikas
upang maghanap ng kaligtasan
sa pisngi ng langit na luhaan
sa lugal ng pakikipagsapalaran.
Hindi ko alam na iba
ang balay ng aking mga panaginip
ngayon at ang ulan sa iyong sipat
at di ulan sa aking paningin.
Ngunit may talas
sa iyong diwa, bunso,
hinihiwa ang aking isip.
Nakikita mo ang ulan sa mga panahon,
at sa salitang binibitiwan
naroon ang gamot sa sugat
magpapahilom sa lahat ng kawalan
magbubuo sa lahat ng mga sinira ng ulan
sa ating nagpapagaling na puso.
Umuulan sa aking bahay, bunso,
tulad ng pag-uulan sa ating bahay
na aking iniwan sa panandalian lamang.
Pero darating ang paghupa, pangako.
Kasabay ng iyon ang daratal
na araw, maningning, kaydarang.
Ang sa ating isip ang ningning,
ang sa ating puso ang darang.
Marso 16, 2006
Carson, CA
Pag-ulan Sa Aking Tahanan-Bersyon 2
(Kay Nasudi Anchin, sapagkat ang kanyang tanong ay tumatarak sa puso at kaibuturan.)
Ama akong nandaruyuhan, bunso,
lumayo, nagpakalayu-layo
upang sana ay masuyo at mapalapit
ang magandang kapalaran.
Kaysagana ang gutom
sa ating mga sikmura, bunso.
Singlamig noon ng mga umaga
ang iyong buntong-hininga
nang ika'y magtanong:
Umuulan din sa bahay mo, papa?"
Sabi ng iyong
nakatatandang kapatid
na nagmamasid sa mga sabik
na salita sa pagitan natin
(ikaw na nasa oditibo
sa milya-milyang agwat natin,
ako na naririto sa kahabaan
ng mga lungkot
ng mga gabing banyaga sa akin)
na ibinaba mo sandali
ang piping telepono,
mabilis na nagtungo sa bintana
upang tiyakin ang pagragasa
ng ulan habang rumaragasa
naman ang mga di mabawi-bawing gunita
ng hinaharap na ginawa ko nang nakaraan
tulad ng pangako ko sa iyo ngayon
ng malapit nang pagbabalik.
Umuulan din ba sa bahay mo,
papa? tanong ng iyong munting puso.
May mga walang pangalang
hikbi ang kumawala sa aking dibdib.
Hinayaan kong umagos ang luha
ng mga magulang nangibang-bayan
sa pisngi patungo sa mga kanal
ng higanteng lunsod na umampon
sa aking nagmamakaawang bisig.
Merong katubusan ang mga lungkot
sa mga pangako ng ulan
maski sa banyagang pook
ng mga pighati at panimdim
ng mga amang nandarayuhan.
Iba na nga ang tahanan
ng lahat ng mga umalis, bunso.
Iba nga ang tirahan
ng lahat ng mga nagsilikas
upang maghanap ng kaligtasan
sa pisngi ng langit na luhaan
sa lugal ng pakikipagsapalaran.
Hindi ko alam na iba
ang balay ng aking mga panaginip
ngayon at ang ulan sa iyong sipat
at di ulan sa aking paningin.
Ngunit may talas
sa iyong diwa, bunso,
hinihiwa ang aking isip.
Nakikita mo ang ulan
sa mga nangungulilang panahon,
at sa salitang binibitiwan
naroon ang gamot sa sugat
magpapahilom sa lahat ng kawalan
magbubuo sa lahat
ng mga sinira ng ulan
sa ating nagpapagaling na puso.
Umuulan sa aking bahay, bunso,
tulad ng pag-uulan sa ating bahay
na aking iniwan sa panandalian lamang.
Pero darating ang paghupa.
Pangako. Kasabay ng iyon ang daratal
na araw, maningning, kaydarang.
Ang sa ating isip ang ningning,
ang sa ating puso ang darang.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Torrance, CA
Marso 16, 2006
Ama akong nandaruyuhan, bunso,
lumayo, nagpakalayu-layo
upang sana ay masuyo at mapalapit
ang magandang kapalaran.
Kaysagana ang gutom
sa ating mga sikmura, bunso.
Singlamig noon ng mga umaga
ang iyong buntong-hininga
nang ika'y magtanong:
Umuulan din sa bahay mo, papa?"
Sabi ng iyong
nakatatandang kapatid
na nagmamasid sa mga sabik
na salita sa pagitan natin
(ikaw na nasa oditibo
sa milya-milyang agwat natin,
ako na naririto sa kahabaan
ng mga lungkot
ng mga gabing banyaga sa akin)
na ibinaba mo sandali
ang piping telepono,
mabilis na nagtungo sa bintana
upang tiyakin ang pagragasa
ng ulan habang rumaragasa
naman ang mga di mabawi-bawing gunita
ng hinaharap na ginawa ko nang nakaraan
tulad ng pangako ko sa iyo ngayon
ng malapit nang pagbabalik.
Umuulan din ba sa bahay mo,
papa? tanong ng iyong munting puso.
May mga walang pangalang
hikbi ang kumawala sa aking dibdib.
Hinayaan kong umagos ang luha
ng mga magulang nangibang-bayan
sa pisngi patungo sa mga kanal
ng higanteng lunsod na umampon
sa aking nagmamakaawang bisig.
Merong katubusan ang mga lungkot
sa mga pangako ng ulan
maski sa banyagang pook
ng mga pighati at panimdim
ng mga amang nandarayuhan.
Iba na nga ang tahanan
ng lahat ng mga umalis, bunso.
Iba nga ang tirahan
ng lahat ng mga nagsilikas
upang maghanap ng kaligtasan
sa pisngi ng langit na luhaan
sa lugal ng pakikipagsapalaran.
Hindi ko alam na iba
ang balay ng aking mga panaginip
ngayon at ang ulan sa iyong sipat
at di ulan sa aking paningin.
Ngunit may talas
sa iyong diwa, bunso,
hinihiwa ang aking isip.
Nakikita mo ang ulan
sa mga nangungulilang panahon,
at sa salitang binibitiwan
naroon ang gamot sa sugat
magpapahilom sa lahat ng kawalan
magbubuo sa lahat
ng mga sinira ng ulan
sa ating nagpapagaling na puso.
Umuulan sa aking bahay, bunso,
tulad ng pag-uulan sa ating bahay
na aking iniwan sa panandalian lamang.
Pero darating ang paghupa.
Pangako. Kasabay ng iyon ang daratal
na araw, maningning, kaydarang.
Ang sa ating isip ang ningning,
ang sa ating puso ang darang.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Torrance, CA
Marso 16, 2006
The Children Who Are Poets Talk About My Poems
*For Ayi and Camille, b/c they are my most severe critics.
Theirs is a conspiracy
of good children
trying to make art.
Or produce one.
One is a graphic artist
her hands
full of colors
shades
lines
shapes
nuances
metaphors
even as she hates her canvass
of a jaw she gets from you.
Malapad ang panga,
ipinama mo, she taunts you
in mid-laughters
the beginnings
you do not know.
The other is a son
making remarks
on what happens to the poor
when they look
to that television
show for a relief
a redemption
in quick steps
death included
about seventy of them or so
finding life somehow
in the dream of the Pinoy universe
that knows the meaning of justice
on tables, beds, homes
of political assholes
of religious smart-alecks
of soldiery putschists
like those who can mouth
some saving graces
for the elect
who have known for so long
the route to betrayal
we can only imagine
in the gruel of the poor
getting more watery each meal
until the whole bowl
is one of plain water
that cleans up the dirt
in the gut.
We are poor people,
us who dream of poems' titles
the children liking poverty
for its poetic sense.
The children and I,
we create a caricature
of fairness
from words
from phrases
from sentences
from idioms
we can live by
despite the hunger and the grief
that go with the starry nights
we spend remembering each others' words,
we who have to spell sacrifice
in terms of days, weeks, months lost
between us,
anniversaries too and christmasses,
the precious years becoming
plain absences, again and again,
until we remember we have
a duty to write more poems,
our conspiratorial act
to sacrilege and blessings
because we have to bow
to the forces that can free
us finally from this bad faith,
finally from this bad fate.
Grace will come to rescue us
in each line that we write
to reinvent ourselves,
poets of life lived
in the spirits of meanings
we create, multiple and renewing,
saving and salving.
Torrance, CA
Theirs is a conspiracy
of good children
trying to make art.
Or produce one.
One is a graphic artist
her hands
full of colors
shades
lines
shapes
nuances
metaphors
even as she hates her canvass
of a jaw she gets from you.
Malapad ang panga,
ipinama mo, she taunts you
in mid-laughters
the beginnings
you do not know.
The other is a son
making remarks
on what happens to the poor
when they look
to that television
show for a relief
a redemption
in quick steps
death included
about seventy of them or so
finding life somehow
in the dream of the Pinoy universe
that knows the meaning of justice
on tables, beds, homes
of political assholes
of religious smart-alecks
of soldiery putschists
like those who can mouth
some saving graces
for the elect
who have known for so long
the route to betrayal
we can only imagine
in the gruel of the poor
getting more watery each meal
until the whole bowl
is one of plain water
that cleans up the dirt
in the gut.
We are poor people,
us who dream of poems' titles
the children liking poverty
for its poetic sense.
The children and I,
we create a caricature
of fairness
from words
from phrases
from sentences
from idioms
we can live by
despite the hunger and the grief
that go with the starry nights
we spend remembering each others' words,
we who have to spell sacrifice
in terms of days, weeks, months lost
between us,
anniversaries too and christmasses,
the precious years becoming
plain absences, again and again,
until we remember we have
a duty to write more poems,
our conspiratorial act
to sacrilege and blessings
because we have to bow
to the forces that can free
us finally from this bad faith,
finally from this bad fate.
Grace will come to rescue us
in each line that we write
to reinvent ourselves,
poets of life lived
in the spirits of meanings
we create, multiple and renewing,
saving and salving.
Torrance, CA
The Children Who Are Poets Talk About My Poems
*For Ayi and Camille, b/c they are my most severe critics.
Theirs is a conspiracy
of good children
trying to make art.
Or produce one.
One is a graphic artist
her hands
full of colors
shades
lines
shapes
nuances
metaphors
even as she hates her canvass
of a jaw she gets from you.
Malapad ang panga,
ipinama mo, she taunts you
in mid-laughters
the beginnings
you do not know.
The other is a son
making remarks
on what happens to the poor
when they look
to that television
show for a relief
a redemption
in quick steps
death included
about seventy of them or so
finding life somehow
in the dream of the Pinoy universe
that knows the meaning of justice
on tables, beds, homes
of political assholes
of religious smart-alecks
of soldiery putschists
like those who can mouth
some saving graces
for the elect
who have known for so long
the route to betrayal
we can only imagine
in the gruel of the poor
getting more watery each meal
until the whole bowl
is one of plain water
that cleans up the dirt
in the gut.
We are poor people,
us who dream of poems' titles
the children liking poverty
for its poetic sense.
The children and I,
we create a caricature
of fairness
from words
from phrases
from sentences
from idioms
we can live by
despite the hunger and the grief
that go with the starry nights
we spend remembering each others' words,
we who have to spell sacrifice
in terms of days, weeks, months lost
between us,
anniversaries too and christmasses,
the precious years becoming
plain absences, again and again,
until we remember we have
a duty to write more poems,
our conspiratorial act
to sacrilege and blessings
because we have to bow
to the forces that can free
us finally from this bad faith,
finally from this bad fate.
Grace will come to rescue us
in each line that we write
to reinvent ourselves,
poets of life lived
in the spirits of meanings
we create, multiple and renewing,
saving and salving.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Torrance, CA
March 16, 2006
Theirs is a conspiracy
of good children
trying to make art.
Or produce one.
One is a graphic artist
her hands
full of colors
shades
lines
shapes
nuances
metaphors
even as she hates her canvass
of a jaw she gets from you.
Malapad ang panga,
ipinama mo, she taunts you
in mid-laughters
the beginnings
you do not know.
The other is a son
making remarks
on what happens to the poor
when they look
to that television
show for a relief
a redemption
in quick steps
death included
about seventy of them or so
finding life somehow
in the dream of the Pinoy universe
that knows the meaning of justice
on tables, beds, homes
of political assholes
of religious smart-alecks
of soldiery putschists
like those who can mouth
some saving graces
for the elect
who have known for so long
the route to betrayal
we can only imagine
in the gruel of the poor
getting more watery each meal
until the whole bowl
is one of plain water
that cleans up the dirt
in the gut.
We are poor people,
us who dream of poems' titles
the children liking poverty
for its poetic sense.
The children and I,
we create a caricature
of fairness
from words
from phrases
from sentences
from idioms
we can live by
despite the hunger and the grief
that go with the starry nights
we spend remembering each others' words,
we who have to spell sacrifice
in terms of days, weeks, months lost
between us,
anniversaries too and christmasses,
the precious years becoming
plain absences, again and again,
until we remember we have
a duty to write more poems,
our conspiratorial act
to sacrilege and blessings
because we have to bow
to the forces that can free
us finally from this bad faith,
finally from this bad fate.
Grace will come to rescue us
in each line that we write
to reinvent ourselves,
poets of life lived
in the spirits of meanings
we create, multiple and renewing,
saving and salving.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Torrance, CA
March 16, 2006
Pag-ulan Sa Aking Tahanan (Bersyon 2)
(Kay Nasudi Anchin, sapagkat ang kanyang tanong ay tumatarak sa puso at kaibuturan.)
Ama akong nandaruyuhan, bunso,
lumayo, nagpakalayu-layo
upang sana ay masuyo at mapalapit
ang magandang kapalaran.
Kaysagana ang gutom
sa ating mga sikmura, bunso.
Singlamig noon ng mga umaga
ang iyong buntong-hininga
nang ika'y magtanong:
Umuulan din sa bahay mo, papa?"
Sabi ng iyong
nakatatandang kapatid
na nagmamasid sa mga sabik
na salita sa pagitan natin
(ikaw na nasa oditibo
sa milya-milyang agwat natin,
ako na naririto sa kahabaan
ng mga lungkot
ng mga gabing banyaga sa akin)
na ibinaba mo sandali
ang piping telepono,
mabilis na nagtungo sa bintana
upang tiyakin ang pagragasa
ng ulan habang rumaragasa
naman ang mga di mabawi-bawing gunita
ng hinaharap na ginawa ko nang nakaraan
tulad ng pangako ko sa iyo ngayon
ng malapit nang pagbabalik.
Umuulan din ba sa bahay mo,
papa? tanong ng iyong munting puso.
May mga walang pangalang
hikbi ang kumawala sa aking dibdib.
Hinayaan kong umagos ang luha
ng mga magulang nangibang-bayan
sa pisngi patungo sa mga kanal
ng higanteng lunsod na umampon
sa aking nagmamakaawang bisig.
Merong katubusan ang mga lungkot
sa mga pangako ng ulan
maski sa banyagang pook
ng mga pighati at panimdim
ng mga amang nandarayuhan.
Iba na nga ang tahanan
ng lahat ng mga umalis, bunso.
Iba nga ang tirahan
ng lahat ng mga nagsilikas
upang maghanap ng kaligtasan
sa pisngi ng langit na luhaan
sa lugal ng pakikipagsapalaran.
Hindi ko alam na iba
ang balay ng aking mga panaginip
ngayon at ang ulan sa iyong sipat
at di ulan sa aking paningin.
Ngunit may talas
sa iyong diwa, bunso,
hinihiwa ang aking isip.
Nakikita mo ang ulan
sa mga nangungulilang panahon,
at sa salitang binibitiwan
naroon ang gamot sa sugat
magpapahilom sa lahat ng kawalan
magbubuo sa lahat
ng mga sinira ng ulan
sa ating nagpapagaling na puso.
Umuulan sa aking bahay, bunso,
tulad ng pag-uulan sa ating bahay
na aking iniwan sa panandalian lamang.
Pero darating ang paghupa.
Pangako. Kasabay ng iyon ang daratal
na araw, maningning, kaydarang.
Ang sa ating isip ang ningning,
ang sa ating puso ang darang.
Torrance, CA
Ama akong nandaruyuhan, bunso,
lumayo, nagpakalayu-layo
upang sana ay masuyo at mapalapit
ang magandang kapalaran.
Kaysagana ang gutom
sa ating mga sikmura, bunso.
Singlamig noon ng mga umaga
ang iyong buntong-hininga
nang ika'y magtanong:
Umuulan din sa bahay mo, papa?"
Sabi ng iyong
nakatatandang kapatid
na nagmamasid sa mga sabik
na salita sa pagitan natin
(ikaw na nasa oditibo
sa milya-milyang agwat natin,
ako na naririto sa kahabaan
ng mga lungkot
ng mga gabing banyaga sa akin)
na ibinaba mo sandali
ang piping telepono,
mabilis na nagtungo sa bintana
upang tiyakin ang pagragasa
ng ulan habang rumaragasa
naman ang mga di mabawi-bawing gunita
ng hinaharap na ginawa ko nang nakaraan
tulad ng pangako ko sa iyo ngayon
ng malapit nang pagbabalik.
Umuulan din ba sa bahay mo,
papa? tanong ng iyong munting puso.
May mga walang pangalang
hikbi ang kumawala sa aking dibdib.
Hinayaan kong umagos ang luha
ng mga magulang nangibang-bayan
sa pisngi patungo sa mga kanal
ng higanteng lunsod na umampon
sa aking nagmamakaawang bisig.
Merong katubusan ang mga lungkot
sa mga pangako ng ulan
maski sa banyagang pook
ng mga pighati at panimdim
ng mga amang nandarayuhan.
Iba na nga ang tahanan
ng lahat ng mga umalis, bunso.
Iba nga ang tirahan
ng lahat ng mga nagsilikas
upang maghanap ng kaligtasan
sa pisngi ng langit na luhaan
sa lugal ng pakikipagsapalaran.
Hindi ko alam na iba
ang balay ng aking mga panaginip
ngayon at ang ulan sa iyong sipat
at di ulan sa aking paningin.
Ngunit may talas
sa iyong diwa, bunso,
hinihiwa ang aking isip.
Nakikita mo ang ulan
sa mga nangungulilang panahon,
at sa salitang binibitiwan
naroon ang gamot sa sugat
magpapahilom sa lahat ng kawalan
magbubuo sa lahat
ng mga sinira ng ulan
sa ating nagpapagaling na puso.
Umuulan sa aking bahay, bunso,
tulad ng pag-uulan sa ating bahay
na aking iniwan sa panandalian lamang.
Pero darating ang paghupa.
Pangako. Kasabay ng iyon ang daratal
na araw, maningning, kaydarang.
Ang sa ating isip ang ningning,
ang sa ating puso ang darang.
Torrance, CA
COMMITMENT, CONVICTION, COUNTRY—or some praises for Pacquiao
In the face of what is happening to the home country of the Filipino immigrants and Filipino Americans, the victory of the Pacman against a formidable opponent is a metaphor of some sorts.
Manny Pacquiao’s TKO is a trope of a national redemption we Filipinos need so bad.
Manny Pacquiao is a trope of a commitment to a homeland.
Manny Pacquiao is a trope of a conviction to honor the land of our hopes, we who have gone away in order to scratch out a life in strange and unfamiliar places all over the world.
We do not buy the blood and gore that goes with fighting it out in order to make sense out of the nonsense that goes with governance gone haywire in the homeland.
We do not buy the pugilist’s destructive intent in his quest for the gold and the glory.
There is violence in the intent even as there is violence in the means to pursue that intent.
There is violence as well in the venue for the pursuit to come about despite the applause of spectators, despite the glee, despite the calculated boisterousness for every hit each pugilist would strike on the head or the body of the opponent.
The spectators, of course, are there to witness the drama of self-destruction and the drama of destroying the other, with each act highlighting conquest, failure, more blood, more struggle.
The spectators—numbed by the scenes of each major act in a twelve act play that commenced with the singing of three anthems, one for the Pacman homeland, the other for Eric Morales’ Mexico, and the last for the Union’s “land of the brave” and “land of the free” —certainly paid with their precious dollars to get a ringside view of the spectacle we call the redemption of a decayed and destroyed Filipino pride.
We count some big shots from the home country.
One is a first gentleman who is a resident of the Palace of Power.
Another one is a gentleman whose revelations were the seed of the destruction of the Reign of Power of a President of the Land, with that President eventually disgraced by a People Power but with the Land remaining in anguish and sorrow and hopeful of better days ahead.
This is how we put in context the Pacman Passover to another triumph of the spirit.
His was a gentle dream: “My fight is for you—this fight is for you.”
Sang, chanted, recited, declaimed, the fighting words ring true of all immigrants in the United States and elsewhere—all immigrants whose desires for home and homeland have been exiled by the exigencies of everyday life.
The fighting words are a mantra as well.
They get to the bottom of things.
They are at the heart of exile, diaspora, overseas life, immigrant life, life in the margin, life away from home.
With this victory, perhaps something good may come out of it.
One lesson learned: there is the urgent and immediate need to fight it out—to be bold and daring, to be strong and focused, to be committed and dedicated.
One need not lecture the migrant and the immigrant. They are the better students and teachers of a life lived outside the homeland.
Pacquiao the Pacman will go home to an adoring crowd.
He will be presented as a trophy. And we praise him for the honor he has brought upon all of us, upon our land.
But not all migrants and immigrants are as lucky even if all the days of their lives they have also fought it out in not so kind countries and climes.
Inq, V2N3, 2006.
Manny Pacquiao’s TKO is a trope of a national redemption we Filipinos need so bad.
Manny Pacquiao is a trope of a commitment to a homeland.
Manny Pacquiao is a trope of a conviction to honor the land of our hopes, we who have gone away in order to scratch out a life in strange and unfamiliar places all over the world.
We do not buy the blood and gore that goes with fighting it out in order to make sense out of the nonsense that goes with governance gone haywire in the homeland.
We do not buy the pugilist’s destructive intent in his quest for the gold and the glory.
There is violence in the intent even as there is violence in the means to pursue that intent.
There is violence as well in the venue for the pursuit to come about despite the applause of spectators, despite the glee, despite the calculated boisterousness for every hit each pugilist would strike on the head or the body of the opponent.
The spectators, of course, are there to witness the drama of self-destruction and the drama of destroying the other, with each act highlighting conquest, failure, more blood, more struggle.
The spectators—numbed by the scenes of each major act in a twelve act play that commenced with the singing of three anthems, one for the Pacman homeland, the other for Eric Morales’ Mexico, and the last for the Union’s “land of the brave” and “land of the free” —certainly paid with their precious dollars to get a ringside view of the spectacle we call the redemption of a decayed and destroyed Filipino pride.
We count some big shots from the home country.
One is a first gentleman who is a resident of the Palace of Power.
Another one is a gentleman whose revelations were the seed of the destruction of the Reign of Power of a President of the Land, with that President eventually disgraced by a People Power but with the Land remaining in anguish and sorrow and hopeful of better days ahead.
This is how we put in context the Pacman Passover to another triumph of the spirit.
His was a gentle dream: “My fight is for you—this fight is for you.”
Sang, chanted, recited, declaimed, the fighting words ring true of all immigrants in the United States and elsewhere—all immigrants whose desires for home and homeland have been exiled by the exigencies of everyday life.
The fighting words are a mantra as well.
They get to the bottom of things.
They are at the heart of exile, diaspora, overseas life, immigrant life, life in the margin, life away from home.
With this victory, perhaps something good may come out of it.
One lesson learned: there is the urgent and immediate need to fight it out—to be bold and daring, to be strong and focused, to be committed and dedicated.
One need not lecture the migrant and the immigrant. They are the better students and teachers of a life lived outside the homeland.
Pacquiao the Pacman will go home to an adoring crowd.
He will be presented as a trophy. And we praise him for the honor he has brought upon all of us, upon our land.
But not all migrants and immigrants are as lucky even if all the days of their lives they have also fought it out in not so kind countries and climes.
Inq, V2N3, 2006.
COMMITMENT, CONVICTION, COUNTRY—or some praises for Pacquiao
In the face of what is happening to the home country of the Filipino immigrants and Filipino Americans, the victory of the Pacman against a formidable opponent is a metaphor of some sorts.
Manny Pacquiao’s TKO is a trope of a national redemption we Filipinos need so bad.
Manny Pacquiao is a trope of a commitment to a homeland.
Manny Pacquiao is a trope of a conviction to honor the land of our hopes, we who have gone away in order to scratch out a life in strange and unfamiliar places all over the world.
We do not buy the blood and gore that goes with fighting it out in order to make sense out of the nonsense that goes with governance gone haywire in the homeland.
We do not buy the pugilist’s destructive intent in his quest for the gold and the glory.
There is violence in the intent even as there is violence in the means to pursue that intent.
There is violence as well in the venue for the pursuit to come about despite the applause of spectators, despite the glee, despite the calculated boisterousness for every hit each pugilist would strike on the head or the body of the opponent.
The spectators, of course, are there to witness the drama of self-destruction and the drama of destroying the other, with each act highlighting conquest, failure, more blood, more struggle.
The spectators—numbed by the scenes of each major act in a twelve act play that commenced with the singing of three anthems, one for the Pacman homeland, the other for Eric Morales’ Mexico, and the last for the Union’s “land of the brave” and “land of the free” —certainly paid with their precious dollars to get a ringside view of the spectacle we call the redemption of a decayed and destroyed Filipino pride.
We count some big shots from the home country.
One is a first gentleman who is a resident of the Palace of Power.
Another one is a gentleman whose revelations were the seed of the destruction of the Reign of Power of a President of the Land, with that President eventually disgraced by a People Power but with the Land remaining in anguish and sorrow and hopeful of better days ahead.
This is how we put in context the Pacman Passover to another triumph of the spirit.
His was a gentle dream: “My fight is for you—this fight is for you.”
Sang, chanted, recited, declaimed, the fighting words ring true of all immigrants in the United States and elsewhere—all immigrants whose desires for home and homeland have been exiled by the exigencies of everyday life.
The fighting words are a mantra as well.
They get to the bottom of things.
They are at the heart of exile, diaspora, overseas life, immigrant life, life in the margin, life away from home.
With this victory, perhaps something good may come out of it.
One lesson learned: there is the urgent and immediate need to fight it out—to be bold and daring, to be strong and focused, to be committed and dedicated.
One need not lecture the migrant and the immigrant. They are the better students and teachers of a life lived outside the homeland.
Pacquiao the Pacman will go home to an adoring crowd.
He will be presented as a trophy. And we praise him for the honor he has brought upon all of us, upon our land.
But not all migrants and immigrants are as lucky even if all the days of their lives they have also fought it out in not so kind countries and climes.
Inq, V2N3, 2006.
.
Manny Pacquiao’s TKO is a trope of a national redemption we Filipinos need so bad.
Manny Pacquiao is a trope of a commitment to a homeland.
Manny Pacquiao is a trope of a conviction to honor the land of our hopes, we who have gone away in order to scratch out a life in strange and unfamiliar places all over the world.
We do not buy the blood and gore that goes with fighting it out in order to make sense out of the nonsense that goes with governance gone haywire in the homeland.
We do not buy the pugilist’s destructive intent in his quest for the gold and the glory.
There is violence in the intent even as there is violence in the means to pursue that intent.
There is violence as well in the venue for the pursuit to come about despite the applause of spectators, despite the glee, despite the calculated boisterousness for every hit each pugilist would strike on the head or the body of the opponent.
The spectators, of course, are there to witness the drama of self-destruction and the drama of destroying the other, with each act highlighting conquest, failure, more blood, more struggle.
The spectators—numbed by the scenes of each major act in a twelve act play that commenced with the singing of three anthems, one for the Pacman homeland, the other for Eric Morales’ Mexico, and the last for the Union’s “land of the brave” and “land of the free” —certainly paid with their precious dollars to get a ringside view of the spectacle we call the redemption of a decayed and destroyed Filipino pride.
We count some big shots from the home country.
One is a first gentleman who is a resident of the Palace of Power.
Another one is a gentleman whose revelations were the seed of the destruction of the Reign of Power of a President of the Land, with that President eventually disgraced by a People Power but with the Land remaining in anguish and sorrow and hopeful of better days ahead.
This is how we put in context the Pacman Passover to another triumph of the spirit.
His was a gentle dream: “My fight is for you—this fight is for you.”
Sang, chanted, recited, declaimed, the fighting words ring true of all immigrants in the United States and elsewhere—all immigrants whose desires for home and homeland have been exiled by the exigencies of everyday life.
The fighting words are a mantra as well.
They get to the bottom of things.
They are at the heart of exile, diaspora, overseas life, immigrant life, life in the margin, life away from home.
With this victory, perhaps something good may come out of it.
One lesson learned: there is the urgent and immediate need to fight it out—to be bold and daring, to be strong and focused, to be committed and dedicated.
One need not lecture the migrant and the immigrant. They are the better students and teachers of a life lived outside the homeland.
Pacquiao the Pacman will go home to an adoring crowd.
He will be presented as a trophy. And we praise him for the honor he has brought upon all of us, upon our land.
But not all migrants and immigrants are as lucky even if all the days of their lives they have also fought it out in not so kind countries and climes.
Inq, V2N3, 2006.
.
Sundays
(For Nasudi Francine, b/c she asks questions why I have stayed away from home for so long)
Sundays remind
me of chill and rain
and your story
about your pain,
dear daughter,
caring child,
resilient recipient
of residual loves
some kind of
a sweet surrender
from a parent
who calls you
on the phone
to declare
his presence
but is always
absent
in the cold of mornings
in the warmth of evenings
in the affirming power
of distances.
The parent you miss
does not come
with the brilliant sun
before it sets
as your mother does
or as you ask
your mother
for her to come home
before night falls
on our door
where I used to come in
into your huge smile
into your wide embrace
into your baby laughter.
He promises you bribes,
the father in a faraway place
where dreams are aplenty
and your missing each
other is real
his bribes
you do not understand:
Barbie, Dora,
crayons the color
of the rainbow after
the drizzle announcing
some singing
or chocolates he buys
from stores he goes
to vend his private sorrow,
leave it there
in the stacks of sweets
to mix with bitterness
and the promise of grace
in the wrappings of gifts
in the ribbons of boxes
to hide the telltale tears,
permanent residents
of his heavy heart.
It is always like this,
dear daughter,
caring child,
it is always like this
for all parents
leaving the land a dictator
created out of conjugal caprice
to find some signs of living
in some place somewhere else.
You have asked me
what I do here
in the land of migrants
in the land of familiar estrangements
in the land of small and big inequities
you do not see.
I tell you:
I work each day, 24/7
I dream each week,7/4
I write poems each month, 4/12
to make us live
to help the country live a life
to redeem ourselves
from this indenture in decades
from this wretchedness
of our wits
from this penury
of our broken spirits
from this deprivation
of our captive minds
twins all, doubles
to our loving
our people
to our loving
our land.
Ah, parents go away
this time around.
We all do.
Mothers missing
a child's first word.
Fathers not hearing
a child's night prayer
on her bed.
There is nowhere
else to go but
to leave the heartland
to live with a generous heart.
But we will
all come home
at the appointed time
spring or no spring
winter or no winter
summer or no summer
fall or no fall.
We will come home to roost
and remember all the loving
and remember all the days we lost
and remember all the child's pains
we missed healing.
It is Sunday here again
and the cold in this tailend
of winter gets into the bones.
I remember your singing
in the rain, and merrily so,
and your asking me
if in this strange land
the rain comes to whip
my window the way
it does in your room's.
I said, yes, rains
come into my room
even on Sundays like now
and they wash away
my window pane
where I always see you
cavorting with your angels.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Torrance, CA
Mar 12, 2006
Sundays remind
me of chill and rain
and your story
about your pain,
dear daughter,
caring child,
resilient recipient
of residual loves
some kind of
a sweet surrender
from a parent
who calls you
on the phone
to declare
his presence
but is always
absent
in the cold of mornings
in the warmth of evenings
in the affirming power
of distances.
The parent you miss
does not come
with the brilliant sun
before it sets
as your mother does
or as you ask
your mother
for her to come home
before night falls
on our door
where I used to come in
into your huge smile
into your wide embrace
into your baby laughter.
He promises you bribes,
the father in a faraway place
where dreams are aplenty
and your missing each
other is real
his bribes
you do not understand:
Barbie, Dora,
crayons the color
of the rainbow after
the drizzle announcing
some singing
or chocolates he buys
from stores he goes
to vend his private sorrow,
leave it there
in the stacks of sweets
to mix with bitterness
and the promise of grace
in the wrappings of gifts
in the ribbons of boxes
to hide the telltale tears,
permanent residents
of his heavy heart.
It is always like this,
dear daughter,
caring child,
it is always like this
for all parents
leaving the land a dictator
created out of conjugal caprice
to find some signs of living
in some place somewhere else.
You have asked me
what I do here
in the land of migrants
in the land of familiar estrangements
in the land of small and big inequities
you do not see.
I tell you:
I work each day, 24/7
I dream each week,7/4
I write poems each month, 4/12
to make us live
to help the country live a life
to redeem ourselves
from this indenture in decades
from this wretchedness
of our wits
from this penury
of our broken spirits
from this deprivation
of our captive minds
twins all, doubles
to our loving
our people
to our loving
our land.
Ah, parents go away
this time around.
We all do.
Mothers missing
a child's first word.
Fathers not hearing
a child's night prayer
on her bed.
There is nowhere
else to go but
to leave the heartland
to live with a generous heart.
But we will
all come home
at the appointed time
spring or no spring
winter or no winter
summer or no summer
fall or no fall.
We will come home to roost
and remember all the loving
and remember all the days we lost
and remember all the child's pains
we missed healing.
It is Sunday here again
and the cold in this tailend
of winter gets into the bones.
I remember your singing
in the rain, and merrily so,
and your asking me
if in this strange land
the rain comes to whip
my window the way
it does in your room's.
I said, yes, rains
come into my room
even on Sundays like now
and they wash away
my window pane
where I always see you
cavorting with your angels.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Torrance, CA
Mar 12, 2006
We can only laugh at our fortune
We can only laugh
at our fortune.
Our misfortune.
We are unfortunate
because we are
strangers
to good luck
its logic of loss
as flawed
as extending our meal
with a bowl
of rice
a pinch of salt
a phrase
of a prayer to taste
a bowl of rice
with father's
oracion to create
the magic
of fulness,
asin, asin,
makalulukmeg
iti pingping.
We eat with gusto,
with the picture
of tomorrow
in the head
spinning and spinning
for the good days
to come about
on the table
in the kitchen
in the pocket.
It is not the same here now,
not in this strange land.
Like us, our dreams
are on exile. This is the land
that gives birth
to our stangeness
to news back home
and to all homes wreaked
by exported wars and democracy,
even as each morning we feed
on hope and more hopes.
It is cold down here
in mornings
as the snow remind us
of spring coming
and soon.
The flowers will bloom
and hide the destruction
in other lands
the fears in other people's hearts
but not here where illusion
is real, where the picture
of progress is perfect
for ranchers becoming leaders
and hunters becoming leaders
and old wealth becoming
older and older
as the power of thieves
get entrenched and entrenched.
It is the same story
in the land we come from.
It does not end.
It begins and begins again.
Torrance, CA
at our fortune.
Our misfortune.
We are unfortunate
because we are
strangers
to good luck
its logic of loss
as flawed
as extending our meal
with a bowl
of rice
a pinch of salt
a phrase
of a prayer to taste
a bowl of rice
with father's
oracion to create
the magic
of fulness,
asin, asin,
makalulukmeg
iti pingping.
We eat with gusto,
with the picture
of tomorrow
in the head
spinning and spinning
for the good days
to come about
on the table
in the kitchen
in the pocket.
It is not the same here now,
not in this strange land.
Like us, our dreams
are on exile. This is the land
that gives birth
to our stangeness
to news back home
and to all homes wreaked
by exported wars and democracy,
even as each morning we feed
on hope and more hopes.
It is cold down here
in mornings
as the snow remind us
of spring coming
and soon.
The flowers will bloom
and hide the destruction
in other lands
the fears in other people's hearts
but not here where illusion
is real, where the picture
of progress is perfect
for ranchers becoming leaders
and hunters becoming leaders
and old wealth becoming
older and older
as the power of thieves
get entrenched and entrenched.
It is the same story
in the land we come from.
It does not end.
It begins and begins again.
Torrance, CA
We can only laugh at our fortune
We can only laugh
at our fortune.
Our misfortune.
We are unfortunate
because we are
strangers
to good luck
its logic of loss
as flawed
as extending our meal
with a bowl
of rice
a pinch of salt
a phrase
of a prayer to taste
a bowl of rice
with father's
oracion to create
the magic
of fulness,
asin, asin,
makalulukmeg
iti pingping.
We eat with gusto,
with the picture
of tomorrow
in the head
spinning and spinning
for the good days
to come about
on the table
in the kitchen
in the pocket.
It is not the same here now,
not in this strange land.
Like us, our dreams
are on exile. This is the land
that gives birth
to our stangeness
to news back home
and to all homes wreaked
by exported wars and democracy,
even as each morning we feed
on hope and more hopes.
It is cold down here
in mornings
as the snow remind us
of spring coming
and soon.
The flowers will bloom
and hide the destruction
in other lands
the fears in other people's hearts
but not here where illusion
is real, where the picture
of progress is perfect
for ranchers becoming leaders
and hunters becoming leaders
and old wealth becoming
older and older
as the power of thieves
get entrenched and entrenched.
It is the same story
in the land we come from.
It does not end.
It begins and begins again.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
March 12, 2006
Torrance, CA
at our fortune.
Our misfortune.
We are unfortunate
because we are
strangers
to good luck
its logic of loss
as flawed
as extending our meal
with a bowl
of rice
a pinch of salt
a phrase
of a prayer to taste
a bowl of rice
with father's
oracion to create
the magic
of fulness,
asin, asin,
makalulukmeg
iti pingping.
We eat with gusto,
with the picture
of tomorrow
in the head
spinning and spinning
for the good days
to come about
on the table
in the kitchen
in the pocket.
It is not the same here now,
not in this strange land.
Like us, our dreams
are on exile. This is the land
that gives birth
to our stangeness
to news back home
and to all homes wreaked
by exported wars and democracy,
even as each morning we feed
on hope and more hopes.
It is cold down here
in mornings
as the snow remind us
of spring coming
and soon.
The flowers will bloom
and hide the destruction
in other lands
the fears in other people's hearts
but not here where illusion
is real, where the picture
of progress is perfect
for ranchers becoming leaders
and hunters becoming leaders
and old wealth becoming
older and older
as the power of thieves
get entrenched and entrenched.
It is the same story
in the land we come from.
It does not end.
It begins and begins again.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
March 12, 2006
Torrance, CA
Demiurgus
It is always the case, this spell, this enchantement, this terror, this surprise.
You are in a new city with its new possibilities.
But you are an exile.
Exile to your self.
Exile in life.
Exile of your country.
And then the people seem to be exiles as well, the people and you, you and the people, exiles all in life as well as of life.
You go through the motions each day.
You go through the anguish in facing life with its uncertainties to be certain.
And then, and then, you begin to pray.
And then, you go through life growing with love and joy.
Strong, stronger, made strong.
The spirits would come and keep you company even as you invoke them, ask their guidance, ask for their succor.
In this life as in this world are the terrors and surprises.
We only have to come to terms with all of these each time.
You remember the months of despair.
The months of agony.
The anxieties the night give birth to, in your exile in Hawaii as in your exile from youself, thoughts, poems, prayers.
The images come--and they come as if they rivers of the wild rushing, rushing wildly and to the sea.
You are the river.
You are the sea.
You are the tide.
You are the wave.
You are the rushing, rushing, rushing.
Torrance, CA
You are in a new city with its new possibilities.
But you are an exile.
Exile to your self.
Exile in life.
Exile of your country.
And then the people seem to be exiles as well, the people and you, you and the people, exiles all in life as well as of life.
You go through the motions each day.
You go through the anguish in facing life with its uncertainties to be certain.
And then, and then, you begin to pray.
And then, you go through life growing with love and joy.
Strong, stronger, made strong.
The spirits would come and keep you company even as you invoke them, ask their guidance, ask for their succor.
In this life as in this world are the terrors and surprises.
We only have to come to terms with all of these each time.
You remember the months of despair.
The months of agony.
The anxieties the night give birth to, in your exile in Hawaii as in your exile from youself, thoughts, poems, prayers.
The images come--and they come as if they rivers of the wild rushing, rushing wildly and to the sea.
You are the river.
You are the sea.
You are the tide.
You are the wave.
You are the rushing, rushing, rushing.
Torrance, CA
Demiurgus
It is always the case, this spell, this enchantement, this terror, this surprise.
You are in a new city with its new possibilities.
But you are an exile.
Exile to your self.
Exile in life.
Exile of your country.
And then the people seem to be exiles as well, the people and you, you and the people, exiles all in life as well as of life.
You go through the motions each day.
You go through the anguish in facing life with its uncertainties to be certain.
And then, and then, you begin to pray.
And then, you go through life growing with love and joy.
Strong, stronger, made strong.
The spirits would come and keep you company even as you invoke them, ask their guidance, ask for their succor.
In this life as in this world are the terrors and surprises.
We only have to come to terms with all of these each time.
You remember the months of despair.
The months of agony.
The anxieties the night give birth to, in your exile in Hawaii as in your exile from youself, thoughts, poems, prayers.
The images come--and they come as if they rivers of the wild rushing, rushing wildly and to the sea.
You are the river.
You are the sea.
You are the tide.
You are the wave.
You are the rushing, rushing, rushing.
A S Agcaoili
Torrance, CA
March 6, 2006
You are in a new city with its new possibilities.
But you are an exile.
Exile to your self.
Exile in life.
Exile of your country.
And then the people seem to be exiles as well, the people and you, you and the people, exiles all in life as well as of life.
You go through the motions each day.
You go through the anguish in facing life with its uncertainties to be certain.
And then, and then, you begin to pray.
And then, you go through life growing with love and joy.
Strong, stronger, made strong.
The spirits would come and keep you company even as you invoke them, ask their guidance, ask for their succor.
In this life as in this world are the terrors and surprises.
We only have to come to terms with all of these each time.
You remember the months of despair.
The months of agony.
The anxieties the night give birth to, in your exile in Hawaii as in your exile from youself, thoughts, poems, prayers.
The images come--and they come as if they rivers of the wild rushing, rushing wildly and to the sea.
You are the river.
You are the sea.
You are the tide.
You are the wave.
You are the rushing, rushing, rushing.
A S Agcaoili
Torrance, CA
March 6, 2006
Dedication and Despair
What jolt us at this time are the seemingly incongruous events shocking us even from afar.
These events are the spectacle of poverty being exploited on national television by the Wowowee show where the stories of despair become fodder for public consumption of what it means to be dirt poor.
We hear their stories, the poor who went to that show to stake their claim to the good fortune made possible by the gods and the goodness of heart of the host who knew when to spot the authentically poor from the authentically impoverished.
The deaths were a sad commentary of what have we become as a people.
Desperate.
And dedicated to despair.
And now this at St. Bernard in Leyte.
The mud is what seals the spectacle of death. Acres and acres of mud that make final what death is all about.
We put in the eerie sub-stories of a text message of someone trapped there and asking that they be helped, the plea ultimate and primal: “Please, help us, ma’am.”
We come full circle with all these narratives of despair.
We see—again and again—the see of people trying to get into the scene of celebration and death for that anniversary show dedicated to the proposition that if the government remains callous to the plight of the downtrodden, then let us, at least, make a show out of this misery so that those balikbayans coming over would be moved to shell out something, something extra, a surplus from their hotel bills and from their dollar-determined life in the US of A.
A thousand pesos is a thousand pesos wherever one goes.
The thousand pesos that one gets as a consolation prize translates to five days of hard work if you were subcontracting your labor to the retail chains that do not consider the meaning of human labor except to count the monies that come into the company’s coffers out of the sweat and blood of degreed young men and women people whose duty is to put back the clothing and the shoes on the rack after customers have tried them on or simply inspected them for appropriate color combination with their skin tone.
These spectacle of tragedy continues to haunt the country and the despair comes from the thought that there seems to be an end to all of these.
One tragedy after another is simply too much for a country that does not have enough resources except its people that go away in order to find life somewhere else.
One news account says that many of the fathers in this community in Leyte were away at the time of the landslide—away in other countries scratching out a life for their families and children, many of them perhaps trapped in the school building that seemed to have been swallowed up in one instant by the rampaging mud.
Many questions remain: how did it happen that a landslide of this magnitude could wipe out a community?
Are there environmental issues involved here?
Who is in-charge?
Even in this tragedy, we see a repeat of what capability we have.
We have to depend on some other people and some other countries for the basic instruments needed to determine whether there is indeed some life still trapped under mud.
We call for a wake up call—but then when was the last time ever that we were able awakened by these realities?
These events are the spectacle of poverty being exploited on national television by the Wowowee show where the stories of despair become fodder for public consumption of what it means to be dirt poor.
We hear their stories, the poor who went to that show to stake their claim to the good fortune made possible by the gods and the goodness of heart of the host who knew when to spot the authentically poor from the authentically impoverished.
The deaths were a sad commentary of what have we become as a people.
Desperate.
And dedicated to despair.
And now this at St. Bernard in Leyte.
The mud is what seals the spectacle of death. Acres and acres of mud that make final what death is all about.
We put in the eerie sub-stories of a text message of someone trapped there and asking that they be helped, the plea ultimate and primal: “Please, help us, ma’am.”
We come full circle with all these narratives of despair.
We see—again and again—the see of people trying to get into the scene of celebration and death for that anniversary show dedicated to the proposition that if the government remains callous to the plight of the downtrodden, then let us, at least, make a show out of this misery so that those balikbayans coming over would be moved to shell out something, something extra, a surplus from their hotel bills and from their dollar-determined life in the US of A.
A thousand pesos is a thousand pesos wherever one goes.
The thousand pesos that one gets as a consolation prize translates to five days of hard work if you were subcontracting your labor to the retail chains that do not consider the meaning of human labor except to count the monies that come into the company’s coffers out of the sweat and blood of degreed young men and women people whose duty is to put back the clothing and the shoes on the rack after customers have tried them on or simply inspected them for appropriate color combination with their skin tone.
These spectacle of tragedy continues to haunt the country and the despair comes from the thought that there seems to be an end to all of these.
One tragedy after another is simply too much for a country that does not have enough resources except its people that go away in order to find life somewhere else.
One news account says that many of the fathers in this community in Leyte were away at the time of the landslide—away in other countries scratching out a life for their families and children, many of them perhaps trapped in the school building that seemed to have been swallowed up in one instant by the rampaging mud.
Many questions remain: how did it happen that a landslide of this magnitude could wipe out a community?
Are there environmental issues involved here?
Who is in-charge?
Even in this tragedy, we see a repeat of what capability we have.
We have to depend on some other people and some other countries for the basic instruments needed to determine whether there is indeed some life still trapped under mud.
We call for a wake up call—but then when was the last time ever that we were able awakened by these realities?
DEDICATION AND DESPAIR
What jolt us at this time are the seemingly incongruous events shocking us even from afar.
These events are the spectacle of poverty being exploited on national television by the Wowowee show where the stories of despair become fodder for public consumption of what it means to be dirt poor.
We hear their stories, the poor who went to that show to stake their claim to the good fortune made possible by the gods and the goodness of heart of the host who knew when to spot the authentically poor from the authentically impoverished.
The deaths were a sad commentary of what have we become as a people.
Desperate.
And dedicated to despair.
And now this at St. Bernard in Leyte.
The mud is what seals the spectacle of death. Acres and acres of mud that make final what death is all about.
We put in the eerie sub-stories of a text message of someone trapped there and asking that they be helped, the plea ultimate and primal: “Please, help us, ma’am.”
We come full circle with all these narratives of despair.
We see—again and again—the see of people trying to get into the scene of celebration and death for that anniversary show dedicated to the proposition that if the government remains callous to the plight of the downtrodden, then let us, at least, make a show out of this misery so that those balikbayans coming over would be moved to shell out something, something extra, a surplus from their hotel bills and from their dollar-determined life in the US of A.
A thousand pesos is a thousand pesos wherever one goes.
The thousand pesos that one gets as a consolation prize translates to five days of hard work if you were subcontracting your labor to the retail chains that do not consider the meaning of human labor except to count the monies that come into the company’s coffers out of the sweat and blood of degreed young men and women people whose duty is to put back the clothing and the shoes on the rack after customers have tried them on or simply inspected them for appropriate color combination with their skin tone.
These spectacle of tragedy continues to haunt the country and the despair comes from the thought that there seems to be an end to all of these.
One tragedy after another is simply too much for a country that does not have enough resources except its people that go away in order to find life somewhere else.
One news account says that many of the fathers in this community in Leyte were away at the time of the landslide—away in other countries scratching out a life for their families and children, many of them perhaps trapped in the school building that seemed to have been swallowed up in one instant by the rampaging mud.
Many questions remain: how did it happen that a landslide of this magnitude could wipe out a community?
Are there environmental issues involved here?
Who is in-charge?
Even in this tragedy, we see a repeat of what capability we have.
We have to depend on some other people and some other countries for the basic instruments needed to determine whether there is indeed some life still trapped under mud.
We call for a wake up call—but then when was the last time ever that we were able awakened by these realities?
These events are the spectacle of poverty being exploited on national television by the Wowowee show where the stories of despair become fodder for public consumption of what it means to be dirt poor.
We hear their stories, the poor who went to that show to stake their claim to the good fortune made possible by the gods and the goodness of heart of the host who knew when to spot the authentically poor from the authentically impoverished.
The deaths were a sad commentary of what have we become as a people.
Desperate.
And dedicated to despair.
And now this at St. Bernard in Leyte.
The mud is what seals the spectacle of death. Acres and acres of mud that make final what death is all about.
We put in the eerie sub-stories of a text message of someone trapped there and asking that they be helped, the plea ultimate and primal: “Please, help us, ma’am.”
We come full circle with all these narratives of despair.
We see—again and again—the see of people trying to get into the scene of celebration and death for that anniversary show dedicated to the proposition that if the government remains callous to the plight of the downtrodden, then let us, at least, make a show out of this misery so that those balikbayans coming over would be moved to shell out something, something extra, a surplus from their hotel bills and from their dollar-determined life in the US of A.
A thousand pesos is a thousand pesos wherever one goes.
The thousand pesos that one gets as a consolation prize translates to five days of hard work if you were subcontracting your labor to the retail chains that do not consider the meaning of human labor except to count the monies that come into the company’s coffers out of the sweat and blood of degreed young men and women people whose duty is to put back the clothing and the shoes on the rack after customers have tried them on or simply inspected them for appropriate color combination with their skin tone.
These spectacle of tragedy continues to haunt the country and the despair comes from the thought that there seems to be an end to all of these.
One tragedy after another is simply too much for a country that does not have enough resources except its people that go away in order to find life somewhere else.
One news account says that many of the fathers in this community in Leyte were away at the time of the landslide—away in other countries scratching out a life for their families and children, many of them perhaps trapped in the school building that seemed to have been swallowed up in one instant by the rampaging mud.
Many questions remain: how did it happen that a landslide of this magnitude could wipe out a community?
Are there environmental issues involved here?
Who is in-charge?
Even in this tragedy, we see a repeat of what capability we have.
We have to depend on some other people and some other countries for the basic instruments needed to determine whether there is indeed some life still trapped under mud.
We call for a wake up call—but then when was the last time ever that we were able awakened by these realities?
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