Cirilo: Master of sinuous, majestic poetry

National Artist for Literature Cirilo F. Bautista was laid to rest at the Libingan ng mga Bayani at noontime on May 10, following necrological rites held at the Cultural Center of the Philippines.

Following are excerpts of a tribute I read as one of the writer-friends invited to participate in the program:

I can’t recall exactly when and where I first met Cirilo, but it must have been in the mid-to-late 1970s, likely at a Palanca Awards night or some literary gathering.

Much earlier, I had been thoroughly impressed with The Archipelago, the first book of his epic poetry Trilogy of St. Lazarus. I was utterly entranced with the language, diction, vision and ambition. 

In Lines 3030 to 3038, he wrote:

“I am the circle. Memory / Has left me blind and staring: what / Is the beginning of pretense? / For everything imagined is / History, the arc of many / Arcs, and my blood along its swing / Dries quicker than silk, derives all/ But the sweetness of arriving.”

In 1981, Cirilo gathered together four other poets in English — Jimmy Abad, Freddie Salanga, Ricky de Ungria and myself — and proposed that we form a group that we named Philippine Literary Arts Council, or PLAC. Our first activity was a public reading together with celebrity readers and musical artists, for the televised cultural show, Paco Park Presents.

 The following year, he asked Ricky and me to join him for part-time work at the President’s Center for Special Studies, where he helped craft or edit speeches and messages.

There’s one vivid image that remains with me, through all these years: of him working on his desk at the small room where I usually chatted him up during idle hours. 

Oh, he was never idle himself. He filled the time making artworks, diligently using colored pencils for his detailed geometric abstractions — one large one of which he eventually gifted me, and which I’ve since treasured.  

That memory can only confirm that Cirilo was totally committed to creativity, not just as a premier poet and eventual critic, fictionist, essayist, editor and mentor. All of his waking hours were devoted to addressing one vision after another of how the world should be.

An abstract artwork by Cirilo, which I’ve treasured since the early 1980s

Through all those early years, the warmth of his person underscored his authenticity as a committed creative artist. Young poets meeting him for the first time would be intimidated by his customary serious mien, and his stance on everything under the sun. He initially seemed reproachful and unbending, but it was all but part of his character that was steeped in discipline. He expected the same from everyone.

Under that tough exterior was a man of unfailing good humor and great generosity, as most of his students and colleagues in academe also found out. He told jokes, mostly folksy, some of them corny, but underpinned by values that placed a premium on humanistic sharing.

While he would initially dominate a discussion, he fell back on rationality to allow contrary views that he frequently wound up accepting. Such give-and-take was never transactional or beholden to compromise. His wisdom encompassed objectivity.

This we found out when we argued over our choices for literary contest winners, or mapped out plans for an activity. What was bared to his literary family was a genuine friend of such warmth and generosity.

We admired his discipline and work habits, and respected him even more when it became clear that his passion for writing and creating took a back seat when ranged against his fidelity and loving care for his beloved Rose Marie and their children Ria, Laura and Nikkos.

Decades of deep friendship and camaraderie strengthened our bond beyond a love for poetry. In recent years, we saw less of one another, especially when an ailment confined Cirilo at home.

But when he was declared National Artist for Literature four years ago, we reunited for a happy meal at the Quezon City home he has shared with his everlasting muse, Rose Marie, who figures in many of his poems. The conviviality and humor were revived in full.

Last year I texted him for his contribution to the Bloodlust anthology. He immediately sent recent poems in hardcopy that once again exposed the harsh socio-political realities that had descended upon us.

It was just like the old days, when we were much younger, and needed one another to partake of the spirit of resistance that all poets revel in.

On a hospital bed weeks ago, he gave a thumbs-up sign to Jimmy and me. The image came back from 35 years ago: a person of sheer discipline behind that desk, rendering geometric art to supplement the sinuous majesty of his poetry. And that’s how I’ll always remember him.   

I also remember the irony of faux prescience in Lines 3232-3236 of The Archipelago: “I was my own funeral, I / Heard the night mares mad in the sky / Rending its bowels into an / Alphabet of dust while my name / Collapsed.” 

Cirilo F. Bautista. His name hasn’t collapsed. Rather is it enshrined in respectful, loving remembrance, in our merged memory of our literature and the best aspects of our country.

With much gratitude, we bid you farewell for now, dear friend. Thank you for the supreme poetry and all the hokey memories.