Poetry in orangeland

(Part 2)

Whew. Good thing the Czechs continued their surprising run with a come-from-behind win over the luckless Germans in the Euro Cup 2004 elims, and Holland won over Latvia to squeak through to the quarterfinals. Otherwise I would have had no takers for all the orange stuff I brought home from Rotterdam.

If you’ll recall, I had mentioned in last week’s column how Euro Cup fever had found yet another victim in this here recent visitor to The Netherlands.

As early as Antwerp in Belgium where I first touched base nearly a fortnight ago, the continental football delirium had me joining dinner table discussions with my recollection of the glory days of Dutch football in the late ’70s, when Cruyff led the swirling patterns of the Orangemen’s vaunted attack, and the "total football" approach had since earned respect from all rivals, but mostly from spectators.

It was said, however, and not only by the Belgians – who seem to have a bit of a love-hate relationship with their larger neighbors, but who acknowledge a form of vicarious support for the Dutch team whenever their own fall by the wayside – that the Orangemen were always thrilling to watch, and were ever tough, but always seemed to fail the big challenges. And that this Euro Cup might not provide an exception.

This view was shared by my eventual Dutch hosts, who didn’t think this year’s national eleven had much of a chance to even advance to the finals. The betting odds still favored the defending Frenchmen, and I myself still thought much of the aging midfielder Zinedine Zidane, whose football tee, a gift from writer Reine Arcache Melvin from Paris, I still wear whenever I jog on our village roads.

But something about the orange-clad Dutch catches perpetual fancy, eclipsing even the interest or involvement in poetry, which cause took me there in the first place. Soon I was wandering into all kinds of shops in Rotterdam, and in an Imeldific blitz of a breakaway run, toting up those tophats with bells, and as many of the caps, sneakers, tees, pennants, etc. that I thought could fit into my return luggage.

But the homecoming was quickly spoiled by late-night viewing (a delayed telecast on NBN-4) of the crucial Holland-Czech match, where the latter scored three fabulous goals in the second half. An hour after starting the flight to NAIA from Schiphol, the pilot had proudly announced that the Dutch had scored the first goal only seven minutes into the match. Then another before the half. So that was why he kept quiet for the rest of the flight. And probably why the smokers among us were punished on the KL stopover, held back on the plane for over an hour when we could have taken two-three quick sticks as transit puffers. Oh, well. Still have to e-mail my protest communication to KLM.

Oh, yes, the poetry.

On my first day in Antwerp, I learned from my youthful guide Eric de Haes that the city owed its name to the legend of the bogeyman giant who exacted tribute from all vessels plying the river, until the young hero Bravo took him on, defeated him in battle, severed the giant’s hand and cast it into the waters. "Ant" is Flemish for "hand," "werp" for "throw. Thus, Antwerp.

Lovely small city it was, too, with modern buildings blending in with medieval structures. On the main square, Eric and I had a cappuccino break after hours of going around on foot. And there was a baroque monument of Bravo casting away the severed hand. It stood before the equally ornate facade of the town hall, which was characteristically bedecked by the flags of all nations. It was easy to spot the Philippine tricolor waving in the Belgian breeze.

It was Eric’s father, a former cultural minister, who had conceived of the plan to preserve the Elzenveld, a complex of brick buildings that had served as a hospital since the 16th century, into a cultural center cum boutique hotel now known as the Residentie Elzenveld. Art and book exhibits are now regularly mounted in its various halls, and performances held in its oak-raftered theater. A small chapel is also used for chamber music performances.

A vast hall that was the main hospital ward sports exquisite granite slabs for flooring, while the high ceiling is accented by tall windows, some with stained-glass splendor. Here we dined on the three nights of the modest festival billed as Elzenveld Poetry Evenings. The second night featured a homage to Pablo Neruda on his centenary, while the final night had all seven invited poets reading our works before a full house at the theater.

My fellow poets were Faraj Bayrakdar of Syria, Elsa Cross of Mexico, Stefan Hertmans of Belgium, Rutger Kopland of Holland, Waldo Rojas of Chile and Mark Strand of the USA. Earned faint praise from the last, too, over farewell drinks after that main event. The distinguished septuagenarian, a Pulitzer Prize awardee for his poetry, said he enjoyed my reading. So did I his, I backslapped mutually. I did, too. Strappingly tall and erect, belying his years, Mr. Strand read simply, casually, but his voice carried well across the timbered old theater, in fine modulation and with a clarity of diction that enhanced his lines already arresting for their philosophical simplicity.

He had read one of my favorites, too: "Old Man Leaves Party": "It was clear when I left the party/ That though I was over eighty I still had/ A beautiful body. The moon shone down as it will/ On moments of deep introspection. The wind held its breath,/ And look, somebody left a mirror leaning against a tree../ Making sure that I was alone, I took off my shirt…/// I know what you are thinking. I was like you once. But now/ With so much before me, so many emerald trees, and/ Weed-whitened fields, mountains and lakes, how could I not/ Be only myself, this dream of flesh, from moment to moment?"

Pinoy expat Jackie Borromeo, whom Tito Yuchengco had introduced by e-mail, ran an enterprising photography and design consortium in Antwerp. He picked me up on my second day and took me to the warehouse-type building his young group had taken over, and generously allowed me use of a G-4 for Internet and photo download purposes.

Their group was very busy that day, too. It wasn’t until I stumbled back into the studio, on my way to the coffee machine, and espied a couple of svelte beauties apparently modeling only the lower half of scant underwear, that I realized I could be trespassing inadvertently into metaphysical questions over immodesty. Either I blush and say oops, sorry, and make pasintabi as I crossed the well-lit salon to procure my coffee, or hurry back unnoticed to the garage set-up with a sala set, there to dash off inspired verse on accidental voyeurism vis-à-vis my Catholic schooling. The caffeine call prevailed; on my way out one of the girls even winked with ethereal abandon. And later the duo, now robed, joined me in the garage to share a paper bag filled with croissants.

"What brand’s the lingerie?" I asked in all Bedan innocence.

"No brand," the brunette replied with an impish smile. "We need new photos for our portfolio."

"Oh, as professional models?"

"No, for our escort services."

"Oh. Wonderful. May I have another croissant?"

Jackie had to hie off to another shoot. Somehow my Cool-Pix Nikon couldn’t jibe with the G-4, so my images were either being erased or refused a download, and another fellow had to use the Mac for an hour.

I had had too much coffee already. So off I went to find a cyber café in the neighborhood. Found one quickly, and managed to do my e-mail, before striding back in light rain to borrow some euro for cab fare back to Elzenveld. The girls were gone. A croissant lay uneaten on the low glass table in the garage. Now if only life hadn’t gone digital…

Gerd Segers took the trouble of driving me and Rutger Kopland, one of Holland’s most prominent poets, to Rotterdam on Day 4. But not before he and his wife escorted us to the Rubens Museum for a leisurely survey of Flemish portraits and landscape painting.

It should have been a quick hour’s drive or so, but roadwork off Breda cost us a lengthy detour, and it wasn’t until past 4 p.m. that the Segers dropped us off at Atlanta Hotel in Rotterdam’s Centrum, a five-minute walk to the City Theatre where we’d have most of our week-long program engagements.

Barely had time to check in and wash up before joining the first get-together at 5:30 p.m. at the rooftop resto with a deck overlooking much of the city. It certainly looked much more modern than Amsterdam, having been bombed to ruins during World War 2, such that only the Stadhuys or City Hall, which was probably rebuilt, too, had that resplendent medieval look as seen from the hotel’s rooftop vantage. The city had to rebuild almost entirely, thus providing a veritable showcase of Dutch modern architecture, which is certainly eye-popping for its angular daring.

And so the poets or "dichters" gathered over the initial early dinner, all 28 invited readers from 20 countries, plus the slam poets. Czeslaw Milosz had begged off; perhaps he felt bad over Poland’s no-show at Euro Cup ’04. Anthony Hecht of the USA couldn’t make it either, but Carol Ann Duffy of Great Britain was there, and so was the highly-regarded Michael Longley of Ireland.

Over breakfasts and dinners for the next seven days, or assembling during program breaks at the Poets Foyer at Rotterdamse Schouwburg Theatre, I had the chance to consort with many of the local and foreign dichters.

Mr. and Mrs. Longley enlightened me on British war poetry from Wilfred Owens to Siegfried Sassoon, and on to the poetry of protest that W.H. Auden seemingly turned his back on when he wrote the classic "In Memory of W.B. Yeats" ("Poetry makes nothing happen; it survives…").

Our conversation certainly enhanced my preparation for the forum on "poetry of engagement" which was moderated by Ghent-based Dutch writer Marc Reugebrink. Croat poet Zvonko Makovic, the young poet-actor Ramsey Nasr and I took turns explicating our individual positions with regards Pablo Neruda’s poem "Explico algunas cosas" ("Explaining Some Things"), the memorable anti-war poem that ends with the ringing lament "… Come see the blood in the streets, come see the blood in the streets, come see the blood in the streets."

A reading program also honored Neruda that evening, with Canadian Serge Patrice Thibodeau, Zimbabwe’s Julius Chingono, Peru’s Mario Montalbetti and I reading our favorite Neruda poems, plus one we had each written in tribute.

At all the readings, in both the Main Hall and Little Hall, translations were shown on a large screen above stage, in Dutch when the poem read was in another language, and in English when it was in Dutch.

I participated in yet another reading at the Main Hall, in an international program that grouped me with fellow Asians Thanh Thao of Vietnam and Yi Won of South Korea. Together with Germany-based Japanese poet Yoko Tawada and Chinese poet Zhang Zao, we were also feted over lunch by the Asia-Europe Foundation, whose Cultural Exchange program director Chulamanee Chartsuwan came all the way from Singapore to award us our glass plaques and certificates of recognition as the Asian cultural grantees.

Prof. Ling Yu of Taiwan was a frequent breakfast partner, together with French-Vietnamese Ariane Dreyfus from Paris. Ella Bae-Tsion of Israel, Willem Jan Otten of the host country, and Ahmed al-Shahawi of Egypt I also often broke many kinds of bread with, the last nagging me for the coordinates of Rowena Torrevillas in Iowa City, where like myself he had also participated in Paul Engle’s IWP or International Writing Program.

And I learned to drink and appreciate the Dutch jenever, preferably jonge or young, as distinguished from gin with its clear, light taste and flavor, but a heat precipitator even at only a little over 70 proof. This experience I owed to Holland-based American poet and translator Lloyd Haft, with whom I often found myself at the Poets Foyer for early cocktails, then again at the midnight carousing that followed the nightly programs.

A pity I got to sit down with Don Paterson of Scotland only over the last dinner, and learned that as a younger man he had performed in Manila and Cebu as part of a jazz band. By then I had nearly consumed the Glenlivet 12 Years single malt (aged in American oak barrels) solo in my room while watching futbol.

The nightly drinks at the Theatre Foyer were spiked with performances by various musical groups and spirited dancing, but the unwritten rule was for the visiting poets to refrain from engaging in other than official or no more than convivial matters with the lovely staffers of Poetry International, among them Janita Monna, Xandra Nibbeling, Carlijn van Ravenstein, Eva Ragut, Pien Huininga, Maartjen van Roessel and Ilonka Verdurmen. Among the young gentlemen who helped oversee the complex conduct of the week-long affair, I remember best Jasper van der Kuijp, and not only because he handled our honoraria. It was Jasper who initially gave me walking directions to a coffee house.

To festival director Bas Kwakman’s credit, also held on that wondrous week from June 12 to 18 was the Poetry International World Slampionship featuring eight national winners from Europe and the U.S. Numerous artists and groups collaborated with the poets present on various endeavors: for photo portraits and video docus (courtesy of Camera Poetica and Neon Media), installations and performances by Poetry and Art and Poetry Theatre, and the conduct of the Web Lounge for the Poetry International Web, where poems from 17 countries thus far may be accessed.

I promised project manager Arnolda Jagersma and webmaster Marloes van Luijk that the Philippines would soon enter that worldwide poetry net, by way of Ian Casocot’s extensive geocities website for Philippine literature.

Finally, I much appreciated the work and friendship offered by the Dutch translator assigned to my poetry, the young Maarten Elzinga who commuted from Utrecht for our conversations. It was Maarten too who introed me to Andrea (formerly Jemima), daughter of our poet-in-exile Jose Ma. Sison.

Till our next time together in the Low Countries, I revel in the continuing play of spirited Oranjeboom, both in football and in poetry, in the effervescence of excellent camaraderie.