Prose, poetry, and Rio Alma’s ‘Memo Mulang Gimokudan’
March 20, 2005 | 12:00am
This Week’s Winner
Rebecca T. Añonuevo is a published poet in Filipino and has won several Palanca awards for her works. She has a PhD in Literature from De La Salle University-Manila and is the chair of the English Department of Miriam College.
You need to brush up on your mathematics when you read a writer like Rio Alma. Also known as living National Artist for Literature Virgilio S. Almario, he has just come up with his 16th (if my math is correct) collection of poetry, which instantly looks like its very opposite – prose. For Memo Mulang Gimokudan (The UP Press, 2005) is indeed a prose poem collection, "tulang tuluyan," tulantuluyan in one word, as the poet suggests, as if to blur the distinction and close the divide between poetry and prose.
As you would expect from every Almario book, whether he is writing poetry or criticism, always the intellectual rigor is present. He does not address the lazy, uninvolved reader, though the invitation is open to all. He does not seduce, he compels. We know an office memo when we see one, but those of us who hardly know our mythology will be asking, what is Gimokudan?
So first, a definition of terms: Gimokudan (or "Gimokodan") is the underworld of the Bagobo tribes of Mindanao, where resides by a dark river a female giant covered with numerous nipples all over her body and feeds the spirit of dead infants before they can enter. Gimokudan has two regions: the red is for those killed in combat and the white is for the ordinary people. They will rest in daytime and wander around at night
Rio Alma takes us to our Gimokudan, which he introduces only apparently to Arsene Houssaye, the French bohemian poet and novelist whose typical working day was to labor over what he hoped would be a future masterpiece. Yet Houssaye could be anyone of us: old poets, struggling poets, poets who never came out from the closet, tired poets who write tired poems, feverish young poets who can’t wait for their next book every three months’ publication interval, poets who wait a full circle before they publish their second book, poets who write for the Palanca, poets who have won Palancas and made it to the elite Hall of Fame. And then there are poets like me caught in the middle of harried and academic duties on one hand, and American Idol every Wednesday and Thursday on the other – and who, after reading the book, wished they had more time to dwell on it worshipfully, or nitpick, and thereafter resume writing as if a poem were being written for the first time, or the last.
For that is the way of the poet Rio Alma – he who year after year seems to heed the ides of March more solemnly than many of us, and counters by proposing a toast by means of a book launch. Nothing scandalous about that, except that Memo Mulang Gimokudan can leave us bewildered and lost whether it is indeed poetry or prose, or more prose than poetry, or more poetry than prose. "Mula’t sapul, ayoko ng tsamba," he says, and it is no accident now that we find him venturing into the realm of the prose poem. For the plan has been laid early: Rio Alma is a poet who has committed his life and spirit to letters and education, and at this instance, by tracing the history and development of the form not only among the French masters, but also within the ranks of the Filipino writers – Emilio Jacinto, Deogracias Rosario, and gentleman Mike Bigornia whose Prosang Itim has ensured the Filipino poet’s voice a place in the contemporary classics of Philippine literature.
So at 61, what does Rio Alma have to offer that should make everyone sit up and listen? Rio Alma’s prose poems are no mere experimentation in devices and language – sorry to disappoint his detractors, if not occasional cynics like me.
When the first section of poems opens with a list of literary terms for titles such as "Haraya," "Tayutay," "Hulagway," "Dalumat," "Baligho," and so on, it is not to give a lecture on the fundamentals of the poem (although "Sanaysay sa Sining" seems close to it) or to resuscitate by electric wires, a corpse of archaic Tagalog. In Gimokudan, it is not language that has been unyielding, it is sadly perhaps our ignorance.
"Personipikasyon" – we know that very well in English – but in the poem Rio Alma leads us to consider: Who seizes the metaphor by the horn – the obedient, wide-eyed wondering child ("Kailangang titigang mataman ang bagay-bagay hanggang tumanghal ang kakaiba at kakatwa" as the academics would insist) or the child who shuts his eyes tight because the imagination sees ghostly spirits in the dark?
"Apostrope," the first poem in the collection, addresses in exclamations, Avis, creature of unstoppable wings, dove on fire, oracular dove. The poet carries us to the skies, but when we are almost sure to flap our own wings, the spear of grief and sin cuts across our breasts:
Maluningning na parasol! Nakaupo ang asesino sa tronong nakar, naghuhugas ng kamay ang guro’t obispo, nagpupulbos ang uwak, pinupuksa sa pantalan ang mga kordero, tumataas ang presyo ng katapatan. Naghahari ang pighati kapag tahimik. Humahabigibis ang lustay na pagmamalabis kapag maingay. Kailangan kitang sugong aparato, kahit munting paruparo, O nagliliyab kong pithayang parakleto! Ave, Ave, Avis! Ave!
Rio Alma is old, yes, and his mind’s vision sharper. In the section "Ang Rabaw ng mga Bagay-bagay," he pays his dues to the phenomenon of the ordinary – stove, neon bulb, door, fly, the veritable tabo of every Filipino family’s bathroom, mulawin as a sturdy tree and not the misinformed man-bird teenage heartthrob on primetime TV screen.
The succeeding sections in the collection will move between fierce ("Ang Mata ng Gabi") and glowing ("Paradiso"); spare and ominous as the series of short pieces in "Daglat" (abbreviation, in literal English); obsessive-compulsive as his own personality ("Isang Matapat at Detalyadong Pag-alaala sa Umaga ng Ika-60 Bagong Taon," "Isang Lunes o Kapirasong Talambuhay sa Paraang Alegoriko Kuno," and "Tuwing Bibiyahe"); vulnerable ("Isang Awit ng Pag-ibig at Buntonghininga") and secretly pained ("52 Sampaguita Avenue": "Malilimot na rin tayo ng ating unang sariling bahay"); phantasmagoric ("Si Inugoy") and illustrious ("Alikabok").
The last two are my personal favorites: the dark, unforgettable, thoroughly suspenseful narrative of Inocencio Goyena, nicknamed "Inugoy," because he was born on a day of a major earthquake. The piece is more than a tale or myth; it reaches towards the lost apparitions of childhood memories and beliefs, the kind that scrapes the screams from your belly, when it is 10 o’clock and you are still up, and you stare at windows and doors and they have eyes that stare back. "Alikabok" is at every turn eloquent–and exceptional for the expanse that this minute source of meditation has brought forth to the printed page.
Tubig ang kaaway ng alikabok. Sa bisa ng tubig, nawawalan ng laya at kaakuhan ang alikabok, naglalaho kung matindi ang buhos, tinatangay ng agos, sinisiklot na tulad ng yagit at organismong laruan ng alon, nasisimsim na nutrisyon ng mga ugat, naiimbak sa malulumbay na pusod ng ilog o dagat, at malaking kapalaran, kung muling mapadpad sa kung saang pasig o pampang ng bagong buhay.
With Memo Mulang Gimokudan, Rio Alma obliterates the boundaries that we have guarded all this time between poetry and prose–and I repeat, not only about form, but also about the mind’s eye, our fierce convictions that suddenly quaver, our definitions that multiply in more shadows and questions, and through it all, the things that abide in us, like an imagined nation, or a nameless love, as we find in the last prose poem in the collection, "Tungkol sa Nayon Ko":
Paano ko malilimot ang ngiti ng iyong buwan kapag kami’y nagpapatintero o nagtataguan? Paano ko iwawaglit ang init ng iyong araw na sumunog sa aking balikat habang nagdadamo sa linang? Pinasuso mo ako ng tamis at pait na humubog sa aking dibdib. Kung hindi sa iyo, hindi ko malalasahan ang kamandag ng siyudad. Hindi ko ikababalisa ang alok na ginhawa sa ibayong dagat.
Paano kita mapapalitan? Para itong pagtatakwil sa nagisnang apelyido’t pagpapabunot ng lahat ng ngipin. Maglalakbay ako nang walang daungan at walang pinanggalingan, may gunitang tila lambat na inihahagis sa bulag na tubigan, makikiapid sa mga ulyaning simoy, at maniniraha’t sa sarili’t sandipang puntod.
Isa kang walang pangalang Pag-ibig.
Philippine Literature will have to come to terms with his unwaning ambition only as big as his name. Rio Alma – my all-time dearest probinsiyano, mentor to generations of young writers and rebels, poet and storyteller – lives.
Rebecca T. Añonuevo is a published poet in Filipino and has won several Palanca awards for her works. She has a PhD in Literature from De La Salle University-Manila and is the chair of the English Department of Miriam College.
You need to brush up on your mathematics when you read a writer like Rio Alma. Also known as living National Artist for Literature Virgilio S. Almario, he has just come up with his 16th (if my math is correct) collection of poetry, which instantly looks like its very opposite – prose. For Memo Mulang Gimokudan (The UP Press, 2005) is indeed a prose poem collection, "tulang tuluyan," tulantuluyan in one word, as the poet suggests, as if to blur the distinction and close the divide between poetry and prose.
As you would expect from every Almario book, whether he is writing poetry or criticism, always the intellectual rigor is present. He does not address the lazy, uninvolved reader, though the invitation is open to all. He does not seduce, he compels. We know an office memo when we see one, but those of us who hardly know our mythology will be asking, what is Gimokudan?
So first, a definition of terms: Gimokudan (or "Gimokodan") is the underworld of the Bagobo tribes of Mindanao, where resides by a dark river a female giant covered with numerous nipples all over her body and feeds the spirit of dead infants before they can enter. Gimokudan has two regions: the red is for those killed in combat and the white is for the ordinary people. They will rest in daytime and wander around at night
Rio Alma takes us to our Gimokudan, which he introduces only apparently to Arsene Houssaye, the French bohemian poet and novelist whose typical working day was to labor over what he hoped would be a future masterpiece. Yet Houssaye could be anyone of us: old poets, struggling poets, poets who never came out from the closet, tired poets who write tired poems, feverish young poets who can’t wait for their next book every three months’ publication interval, poets who wait a full circle before they publish their second book, poets who write for the Palanca, poets who have won Palancas and made it to the elite Hall of Fame. And then there are poets like me caught in the middle of harried and academic duties on one hand, and American Idol every Wednesday and Thursday on the other – and who, after reading the book, wished they had more time to dwell on it worshipfully, or nitpick, and thereafter resume writing as if a poem were being written for the first time, or the last.
For that is the way of the poet Rio Alma – he who year after year seems to heed the ides of March more solemnly than many of us, and counters by proposing a toast by means of a book launch. Nothing scandalous about that, except that Memo Mulang Gimokudan can leave us bewildered and lost whether it is indeed poetry or prose, or more prose than poetry, or more poetry than prose. "Mula’t sapul, ayoko ng tsamba," he says, and it is no accident now that we find him venturing into the realm of the prose poem. For the plan has been laid early: Rio Alma is a poet who has committed his life and spirit to letters and education, and at this instance, by tracing the history and development of the form not only among the French masters, but also within the ranks of the Filipino writers – Emilio Jacinto, Deogracias Rosario, and gentleman Mike Bigornia whose Prosang Itim has ensured the Filipino poet’s voice a place in the contemporary classics of Philippine literature.
So at 61, what does Rio Alma have to offer that should make everyone sit up and listen? Rio Alma’s prose poems are no mere experimentation in devices and language – sorry to disappoint his detractors, if not occasional cynics like me.
When the first section of poems opens with a list of literary terms for titles such as "Haraya," "Tayutay," "Hulagway," "Dalumat," "Baligho," and so on, it is not to give a lecture on the fundamentals of the poem (although "Sanaysay sa Sining" seems close to it) or to resuscitate by electric wires, a corpse of archaic Tagalog. In Gimokudan, it is not language that has been unyielding, it is sadly perhaps our ignorance.
"Personipikasyon" – we know that very well in English – but in the poem Rio Alma leads us to consider: Who seizes the metaphor by the horn – the obedient, wide-eyed wondering child ("Kailangang titigang mataman ang bagay-bagay hanggang tumanghal ang kakaiba at kakatwa" as the academics would insist) or the child who shuts his eyes tight because the imagination sees ghostly spirits in the dark?
"Apostrope," the first poem in the collection, addresses in exclamations, Avis, creature of unstoppable wings, dove on fire, oracular dove. The poet carries us to the skies, but when we are almost sure to flap our own wings, the spear of grief and sin cuts across our breasts:
Maluningning na parasol! Nakaupo ang asesino sa tronong nakar, naghuhugas ng kamay ang guro’t obispo, nagpupulbos ang uwak, pinupuksa sa pantalan ang mga kordero, tumataas ang presyo ng katapatan. Naghahari ang pighati kapag tahimik. Humahabigibis ang lustay na pagmamalabis kapag maingay. Kailangan kitang sugong aparato, kahit munting paruparo, O nagliliyab kong pithayang parakleto! Ave, Ave, Avis! Ave!
Rio Alma is old, yes, and his mind’s vision sharper. In the section "Ang Rabaw ng mga Bagay-bagay," he pays his dues to the phenomenon of the ordinary – stove, neon bulb, door, fly, the veritable tabo of every Filipino family’s bathroom, mulawin as a sturdy tree and not the misinformed man-bird teenage heartthrob on primetime TV screen.
The succeeding sections in the collection will move between fierce ("Ang Mata ng Gabi") and glowing ("Paradiso"); spare and ominous as the series of short pieces in "Daglat" (abbreviation, in literal English); obsessive-compulsive as his own personality ("Isang Matapat at Detalyadong Pag-alaala sa Umaga ng Ika-60 Bagong Taon," "Isang Lunes o Kapirasong Talambuhay sa Paraang Alegoriko Kuno," and "Tuwing Bibiyahe"); vulnerable ("Isang Awit ng Pag-ibig at Buntonghininga") and secretly pained ("52 Sampaguita Avenue": "Malilimot na rin tayo ng ating unang sariling bahay"); phantasmagoric ("Si Inugoy") and illustrious ("Alikabok").
The last two are my personal favorites: the dark, unforgettable, thoroughly suspenseful narrative of Inocencio Goyena, nicknamed "Inugoy," because he was born on a day of a major earthquake. The piece is more than a tale or myth; it reaches towards the lost apparitions of childhood memories and beliefs, the kind that scrapes the screams from your belly, when it is 10 o’clock and you are still up, and you stare at windows and doors and they have eyes that stare back. "Alikabok" is at every turn eloquent–and exceptional for the expanse that this minute source of meditation has brought forth to the printed page.
Tubig ang kaaway ng alikabok. Sa bisa ng tubig, nawawalan ng laya at kaakuhan ang alikabok, naglalaho kung matindi ang buhos, tinatangay ng agos, sinisiklot na tulad ng yagit at organismong laruan ng alon, nasisimsim na nutrisyon ng mga ugat, naiimbak sa malulumbay na pusod ng ilog o dagat, at malaking kapalaran, kung muling mapadpad sa kung saang pasig o pampang ng bagong buhay.
With Memo Mulang Gimokudan, Rio Alma obliterates the boundaries that we have guarded all this time between poetry and prose–and I repeat, not only about form, but also about the mind’s eye, our fierce convictions that suddenly quaver, our definitions that multiply in more shadows and questions, and through it all, the things that abide in us, like an imagined nation, or a nameless love, as we find in the last prose poem in the collection, "Tungkol sa Nayon Ko":
Paano ko malilimot ang ngiti ng iyong buwan kapag kami’y nagpapatintero o nagtataguan? Paano ko iwawaglit ang init ng iyong araw na sumunog sa aking balikat habang nagdadamo sa linang? Pinasuso mo ako ng tamis at pait na humubog sa aking dibdib. Kung hindi sa iyo, hindi ko malalasahan ang kamandag ng siyudad. Hindi ko ikababalisa ang alok na ginhawa sa ibayong dagat.
Paano kita mapapalitan? Para itong pagtatakwil sa nagisnang apelyido’t pagpapabunot ng lahat ng ngipin. Maglalakbay ako nang walang daungan at walang pinanggalingan, may gunitang tila lambat na inihahagis sa bulag na tubigan, makikiapid sa mga ulyaning simoy, at maniniraha’t sa sarili’t sandipang puntod.
Isa kang walang pangalang Pag-ibig.
Philippine Literature will have to come to terms with his unwaning ambition only as big as his name. Rio Alma – my all-time dearest probinsiyano, mentor to generations of young writers and rebels, poet and storyteller – lives.
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