Cebuano poetry in New York
May 19, 2003 | 12:00am
Last Saturday I completed a brief sojourn in my adopted hometown that is Dumas-Goethe, as how Sir Sawi Aquino and I refer to it during zany minutes of borloloy texting. For five days I did panel work (tough, but someone’s got to do it) for the middle part of the three-week National Writers Workshop, now on its 42nd edition.
Conceived and initiated way back in 1962 by the literary tandem of Edilberto and Edith Tiempo, it was this workshop that helped me discover and claim a hometown: The seaside capital of Negros Oriental, by the foothills of Mt. Talinis, or what the Spanish called Cuernos de Negros for its twin peaks. That was in 1968, the seventh edition, when I was a workshop fellow together with Emmanuel Lacaba, Donel Pacis, Cesar Mella, Armando Ravanzo – all from Luzon – and as it happened that year, five counterpart poets from Cebu: Rene Estella Amper, Rene Bonsubre, Urias Almagro, Dionisio Gabriel and Jun Canizares, if memory serves me right.
I believe it does exceedingly well too when it’s sweet moments or seasons that are recalled; thank goodness (as Dad "Doc" Tiempo might have said then), we turn selective in our senior-moment recollections and screen off certain data classified under bummer times.
That batch of ours must have been the only one – in what used to be called the Silliman University Summer Writers Workshop (but which has since evolved to its current incarnation, after SU ignominiously cut off funding) – that was all-male, and had equal representation from Luzon and Cebu.
When we completed our three weeks of camaraderie with our newfound Cebuano friends, Eman, Donel and I passed by Cebu City. We were fixed up for board and lodging by Linda Faigao, who had sat in on the workshop as an SU undergrad.
Flash forward. In 1995 when the United Nations and I both celebrated our golden year in New York, I renewed old ties with Linda at an al fresco Zen-type resto in Manhattan, where we did lunch with Bert Florentino, Luis Cabalquinto, Ninotchka Rosca and Luis Francia.
Linda’s been based in the Big Eypol for nearly three decades now, writing plays that get produced off-off-Broadway. In recent years she’s deigned to indulge in a homecoming or two, usually in time for the 19-year-old Cornelio Faigao Memorial Writers Workshop held in Cebu City, in honor of her father the Cebuano poet who wrote in English. Last year it was held in Romblon, Cornelio Faigao’s hometown.
Well, it seems Cebuano poets and writers have spread far and wide on the modern-day heels of the first circumnavigator of the globe, in the 16th century. Last month, e-mail postings alerted one and all about an evening of readings of Cebuano poetry in New York.
Billed as TagaCebu Balak Hudyaka! or Cebuano Poetry Jam (But Not For Cebuanos Only), it was held on the second day of May at the Asian American Writers’ Workshop (AAWW) on West 32nd St. A few days later, our lifelong friend Linda Faigao-Hall sent us a report on the proceedings, the idea for which she acknowledged as having been inspired by a reading done last year at the same venue by visiting poet Marjorie Evasco.
The program featured a lecture, "Cebuano Poetry: Traditions and Modern Adaptations," by Dr. Erlinda K. Alburo, director of the Cebuano Studies Center of University of San Carlos in Cebu City, and who’s on a Fulbright grant for folklore research at the Northern Illinois University and the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor. The poetry readers were Caloy Talisaysay, Tina Martinez-Juan, Suzette Boiser and Linda Faigao-Hall. Linda also introduced Dr. Alburo and gave the closing remarks, while the welcome remarks were delivered by Anantha Sudhakar of the AAWW.
The lecture-cum-reading covered the traditions of Cebuano poetry, starting with the poetry of courtship called "Balitaw" – an extemporaneous, song-and-dance polemical exchange between a man and a woman, conducted in an indigenous Cebuano verse form. This was followed by examples of the "Hikalimtan" or the classical, melancholic mode akin to courtly love poetry. Modern adaptations included samples of folksy humor in verse, as well as adaptations from Western models such as Beat poetry, the French villanelle, and concrete poetry. Then came Balitaw variations in question-and-answer form, and finally, feminist poetry in Cebuano.
Here’s a sample of the Balitaw, in the original with English translation:
"LUIS: Kining akong paghigugma/ Sa bukog, Inday, mikagit/ Kong hinog ka pa lang sab-a/ Lamyon ko hangtod ang panit… (This love of mine,/ Inday, bites to the bone/ If you were a ripe banana/ I’d swallow you skin and all…)
"PINAY: Dili ako, Luis, motu-o/ Nianang imong mga sulti/ Pila na kaha ka babaye/ Ang imo nianang gitunto?… (I won’t believe, Luis,/ A single word you say/ I wonder how many girls/ You have deceived this way…)"
We can imagine how titters must have run through the appreciative audience of nearly 50 people that evening in New York. To hear Linda tell it, "The response was very enthusiastic. People laughed out loud to some of the poems, and were quietly riveted in others. But in a roomful of Bisaya immigrants who haven’t heard Cebuano poetry in years, the event made everyone nostalgic, wistful, even sad. The whole experience was bittersweet."
Yes, we can imagine the nostalgia for the characteristic Cebuano humor that ranges from the wistful to the ribald, often by way of gently cutting thrusts further mitigated by self-deprecation. Especially when it involves the principle of Vive le difference! As in this poem by Linda Alburo titled "Wala Lay Sapayan" or "Never Mind" – featuring a "Mare" and a "Pare" in dialogue:
"Wasn’t that your son/ home late last night to Basak?// Yes, but it doesn’t matter/ because it was Dodong// Aren’t you going to scold him/ he’s always bumming in Colon?// Let him alone until he’s bored/ it doesn’t matter, if it’s Dodong// Wasn’t that your white car/ that he crashed at corner Bacalso? // Oh, that, it’s now under repair/ it doesn’t matter, if it’s Dodong// Isn’t that favoritism, Pre Imok?/ Why, you’d guard Inday all the time// Mare, at home no one’s favored/ But a girl has to stay put/ Because it’s Dodong, it really doesn’t matter/ You see, it’s me he takes after."
Then there’s the really feminist poetry, such as this one, a classic recipe, by Cora Almerino, titled "Unsaon Paggisa sa Bana nga Manghulga sa Asawang Dili Kahibalong Moluto" or "How to Sauté a Husband who Berates His Wife For Not Knowing How to Cook" (It comes in eleven numbered lines, and we’ll share the first few in the original, so you get the, uhh, flavor):
"1. Inita ang mantika sa kaha,/ 2. Gisaha ang sibuyas bombay ug ahos./ 3. Ilunod ang iyong kumo nga iya kunong isumbag sa imong nawong…"
In English translation: "1. Heat oil in frying pan./ 2. Sauté onions and garlic. / 3. Immerse the fists that he will punch your face with./ 4. Do likewise with the feet that he will kick you with./ 5. Mix in the other parts of his body./ 6. Bring to a boil. / 7. Pierce with fork. Better with a knife. / 8. Season with curses and maledictions./ 9. Taste./ 10. Remove from the fire./ 11. Eat. If no good, throw to the dogs."
Brava! Mwahaha!
In her report, Linda also cites one poem read that evening where the poet, Adonis Durado, "takes on a truly colloquial style using "Ceblish" (Cebuano and English)…" The poem is titled "Once Upon a Time Sa Kinabuhi ni Adonis" ("… in the Life of Adonis"). We share it in its entirety, without translation:
"Gisuwat nako: Dear Emma…./ Gihangir sa pinisi mong buhok./ Kung giangkon ko lagi/ Ang mga agik-ik nga nasapupu/ Sa imong panyolita, I’m sorry…./ Niay labakara nga akong iuli/ (Hinagpatan sa imong sip-og singot)/ Gikawat nako sa imong bulsa/ Kaniadtong Pebrero 14,/ I thought it’s gonna be romantic./ Ug abi nimo, napuno na nako/ Ang bungbong sa kasilyas (sa Mister Donut)/ Sa imong ngalan – ang apelyido I love you./ Palihug ayaw nako isnaba./ Ang tanan na bitaw ng metapor/ Sa langit imoha. Always, Don.// P.S. Grabe na raba kaayo ko.// I’m reading Romeo & Juliet."
In her closing remarks where she credited Dr. Alburo for the evening’s successful presentation of Cebuano poetry, Linda stressed the old dilemma involving bittersweet choices.
"As a writer myself, who came to this country in 1973, I am always more than happy to see colleagues when they come to the States, stop by and share their art. But it is also always, for me, a slightly uncomfortable experience. It pushes my buttons. I have a character in one of my plays who is a poet and immigrates to the United States and at the end of the play, goes back because she says ‘a poet needs to write in her own country.’ Pushed further, to explain herself, she says: ‘In America I am an Asian-American poet. But in the Philippines I am simply a poet.’
"It is a painful dilemma faced by immigrant artists. How do we play a significant role in a culture where we are a minority? Do we end up trying to join the mainstream where the best and most powerful resources are, do we end up selling out if we somehow get a toehold, or go back to our communities, preaching to the choir, at the risk of ghettoizing ourselves, or do we all really want to become David Henry Hwang?
"I have no idea. For immigrant artists who have decided that this is the country we choose to live in for the rest of our creative lives, it is disconcerting to meet Dr. Alburo.
"Dr. Alburo brings with her a reminder of what we would be if we hadn’t left.
"Don’t get me wrong. I am very proud of her, an old friend. There’s pride here, not just envy. And exquisite pleasure. It is because of her that tonight, it is possible to bathe in the warmth, love, safety, and the security of a mother tongue. For our children, who were born here, you can catch glimpses of the images and the sounds your parents lived in. Because this is where we live. Not in the Philippines, not in the United States, but in the language of our birth, the very language spoken by the world that greeted us when we first took breath. We don’t remember some of these words, but believe me, they are in the marrow of our bones, in our cells, in our hearts and in our souls. Tonight was a love fest with the language we’ve left behind. And for an hour, we went back in time to celebrate it. Tonight, this is one of the best reasons for the Asian American Writers’ Workshop. Tonight part of its mission has been accomplished."
The day after the Cebuano Poetry Jam, the two Lindas met and "set in motion the following future projects: In Cebu in 2004, the workshop will sponsor the following: 1. An authentic balitaw contest – $500 first prize to the best pair (must be improvised and extemporaneous, deals with love and courtship, must be between a man and woman, must rhyme, and must include dance) – it will be announced when Dr. Alburo gets home, so people can do research and rehearse for a year; 2. The Best Emerging Poet in Cebuano award – $500; and 3. The launching of two anthologies: Best Poetry and Best Fiction from the Workshop’s 20 years."
Viva Linda! Viva Erlinda! Pit Senyor!
Conceived and initiated way back in 1962 by the literary tandem of Edilberto and Edith Tiempo, it was this workshop that helped me discover and claim a hometown: The seaside capital of Negros Oriental, by the foothills of Mt. Talinis, or what the Spanish called Cuernos de Negros for its twin peaks. That was in 1968, the seventh edition, when I was a workshop fellow together with Emmanuel Lacaba, Donel Pacis, Cesar Mella, Armando Ravanzo – all from Luzon – and as it happened that year, five counterpart poets from Cebu: Rene Estella Amper, Rene Bonsubre, Urias Almagro, Dionisio Gabriel and Jun Canizares, if memory serves me right.
I believe it does exceedingly well too when it’s sweet moments or seasons that are recalled; thank goodness (as Dad "Doc" Tiempo might have said then), we turn selective in our senior-moment recollections and screen off certain data classified under bummer times.
That batch of ours must have been the only one – in what used to be called the Silliman University Summer Writers Workshop (but which has since evolved to its current incarnation, after SU ignominiously cut off funding) – that was all-male, and had equal representation from Luzon and Cebu.
When we completed our three weeks of camaraderie with our newfound Cebuano friends, Eman, Donel and I passed by Cebu City. We were fixed up for board and lodging by Linda Faigao, who had sat in on the workshop as an SU undergrad.
Flash forward. In 1995 when the United Nations and I both celebrated our golden year in New York, I renewed old ties with Linda at an al fresco Zen-type resto in Manhattan, where we did lunch with Bert Florentino, Luis Cabalquinto, Ninotchka Rosca and Luis Francia.
Linda’s been based in the Big Eypol for nearly three decades now, writing plays that get produced off-off-Broadway. In recent years she’s deigned to indulge in a homecoming or two, usually in time for the 19-year-old Cornelio Faigao Memorial Writers Workshop held in Cebu City, in honor of her father the Cebuano poet who wrote in English. Last year it was held in Romblon, Cornelio Faigao’s hometown.
Well, it seems Cebuano poets and writers have spread far and wide on the modern-day heels of the first circumnavigator of the globe, in the 16th century. Last month, e-mail postings alerted one and all about an evening of readings of Cebuano poetry in New York.
Billed as TagaCebu Balak Hudyaka! or Cebuano Poetry Jam (But Not For Cebuanos Only), it was held on the second day of May at the Asian American Writers’ Workshop (AAWW) on West 32nd St. A few days later, our lifelong friend Linda Faigao-Hall sent us a report on the proceedings, the idea for which she acknowledged as having been inspired by a reading done last year at the same venue by visiting poet Marjorie Evasco.
The program featured a lecture, "Cebuano Poetry: Traditions and Modern Adaptations," by Dr. Erlinda K. Alburo, director of the Cebuano Studies Center of University of San Carlos in Cebu City, and who’s on a Fulbright grant for folklore research at the Northern Illinois University and the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor. The poetry readers were Caloy Talisaysay, Tina Martinez-Juan, Suzette Boiser and Linda Faigao-Hall. Linda also introduced Dr. Alburo and gave the closing remarks, while the welcome remarks were delivered by Anantha Sudhakar of the AAWW.
The lecture-cum-reading covered the traditions of Cebuano poetry, starting with the poetry of courtship called "Balitaw" – an extemporaneous, song-and-dance polemical exchange between a man and a woman, conducted in an indigenous Cebuano verse form. This was followed by examples of the "Hikalimtan" or the classical, melancholic mode akin to courtly love poetry. Modern adaptations included samples of folksy humor in verse, as well as adaptations from Western models such as Beat poetry, the French villanelle, and concrete poetry. Then came Balitaw variations in question-and-answer form, and finally, feminist poetry in Cebuano.
Here’s a sample of the Balitaw, in the original with English translation:
"LUIS: Kining akong paghigugma/ Sa bukog, Inday, mikagit/ Kong hinog ka pa lang sab-a/ Lamyon ko hangtod ang panit… (This love of mine,/ Inday, bites to the bone/ If you were a ripe banana/ I’d swallow you skin and all…)
"PINAY: Dili ako, Luis, motu-o/ Nianang imong mga sulti/ Pila na kaha ka babaye/ Ang imo nianang gitunto?… (I won’t believe, Luis,/ A single word you say/ I wonder how many girls/ You have deceived this way…)"
We can imagine how titters must have run through the appreciative audience of nearly 50 people that evening in New York. To hear Linda tell it, "The response was very enthusiastic. People laughed out loud to some of the poems, and were quietly riveted in others. But in a roomful of Bisaya immigrants who haven’t heard Cebuano poetry in years, the event made everyone nostalgic, wistful, even sad. The whole experience was bittersweet."
Yes, we can imagine the nostalgia for the characteristic Cebuano humor that ranges from the wistful to the ribald, often by way of gently cutting thrusts further mitigated by self-deprecation. Especially when it involves the principle of Vive le difference! As in this poem by Linda Alburo titled "Wala Lay Sapayan" or "Never Mind" – featuring a "Mare" and a "Pare" in dialogue:
"Wasn’t that your son/ home late last night to Basak?// Yes, but it doesn’t matter/ because it was Dodong// Aren’t you going to scold him/ he’s always bumming in Colon?// Let him alone until he’s bored/ it doesn’t matter, if it’s Dodong// Wasn’t that your white car/ that he crashed at corner Bacalso? // Oh, that, it’s now under repair/ it doesn’t matter, if it’s Dodong// Isn’t that favoritism, Pre Imok?/ Why, you’d guard Inday all the time// Mare, at home no one’s favored/ But a girl has to stay put/ Because it’s Dodong, it really doesn’t matter/ You see, it’s me he takes after."
Then there’s the really feminist poetry, such as this one, a classic recipe, by Cora Almerino, titled "Unsaon Paggisa sa Bana nga Manghulga sa Asawang Dili Kahibalong Moluto" or "How to Sauté a Husband who Berates His Wife For Not Knowing How to Cook" (It comes in eleven numbered lines, and we’ll share the first few in the original, so you get the, uhh, flavor):
"1. Inita ang mantika sa kaha,/ 2. Gisaha ang sibuyas bombay ug ahos./ 3. Ilunod ang iyong kumo nga iya kunong isumbag sa imong nawong…"
In English translation: "1. Heat oil in frying pan./ 2. Sauté onions and garlic. / 3. Immerse the fists that he will punch your face with./ 4. Do likewise with the feet that he will kick you with./ 5. Mix in the other parts of his body./ 6. Bring to a boil. / 7. Pierce with fork. Better with a knife. / 8. Season with curses and maledictions./ 9. Taste./ 10. Remove from the fire./ 11. Eat. If no good, throw to the dogs."
Brava! Mwahaha!
In her report, Linda also cites one poem read that evening where the poet, Adonis Durado, "takes on a truly colloquial style using "Ceblish" (Cebuano and English)…" The poem is titled "Once Upon a Time Sa Kinabuhi ni Adonis" ("… in the Life of Adonis"). We share it in its entirety, without translation:
"Gisuwat nako: Dear Emma…./ Gihangir sa pinisi mong buhok./ Kung giangkon ko lagi/ Ang mga agik-ik nga nasapupu/ Sa imong panyolita, I’m sorry…./ Niay labakara nga akong iuli/ (Hinagpatan sa imong sip-og singot)/ Gikawat nako sa imong bulsa/ Kaniadtong Pebrero 14,/ I thought it’s gonna be romantic./ Ug abi nimo, napuno na nako/ Ang bungbong sa kasilyas (sa Mister Donut)/ Sa imong ngalan – ang apelyido I love you./ Palihug ayaw nako isnaba./ Ang tanan na bitaw ng metapor/ Sa langit imoha. Always, Don.// P.S. Grabe na raba kaayo ko.// I’m reading Romeo & Juliet."
In her closing remarks where she credited Dr. Alburo for the evening’s successful presentation of Cebuano poetry, Linda stressed the old dilemma involving bittersweet choices.
"As a writer myself, who came to this country in 1973, I am always more than happy to see colleagues when they come to the States, stop by and share their art. But it is also always, for me, a slightly uncomfortable experience. It pushes my buttons. I have a character in one of my plays who is a poet and immigrates to the United States and at the end of the play, goes back because she says ‘a poet needs to write in her own country.’ Pushed further, to explain herself, she says: ‘In America I am an Asian-American poet. But in the Philippines I am simply a poet.’
"It is a painful dilemma faced by immigrant artists. How do we play a significant role in a culture where we are a minority? Do we end up trying to join the mainstream where the best and most powerful resources are, do we end up selling out if we somehow get a toehold, or go back to our communities, preaching to the choir, at the risk of ghettoizing ourselves, or do we all really want to become David Henry Hwang?
"I have no idea. For immigrant artists who have decided that this is the country we choose to live in for the rest of our creative lives, it is disconcerting to meet Dr. Alburo.
"Dr. Alburo brings with her a reminder of what we would be if we hadn’t left.
"Don’t get me wrong. I am very proud of her, an old friend. There’s pride here, not just envy. And exquisite pleasure. It is because of her that tonight, it is possible to bathe in the warmth, love, safety, and the security of a mother tongue. For our children, who were born here, you can catch glimpses of the images and the sounds your parents lived in. Because this is where we live. Not in the Philippines, not in the United States, but in the language of our birth, the very language spoken by the world that greeted us when we first took breath. We don’t remember some of these words, but believe me, they are in the marrow of our bones, in our cells, in our hearts and in our souls. Tonight was a love fest with the language we’ve left behind. And for an hour, we went back in time to celebrate it. Tonight, this is one of the best reasons for the Asian American Writers’ Workshop. Tonight part of its mission has been accomplished."
The day after the Cebuano Poetry Jam, the two Lindas met and "set in motion the following future projects: In Cebu in 2004, the workshop will sponsor the following: 1. An authentic balitaw contest – $500 first prize to the best pair (must be improvised and extemporaneous, deals with love and courtship, must be between a man and woman, must rhyme, and must include dance) – it will be announced when Dr. Alburo gets home, so people can do research and rehearse for a year; 2. The Best Emerging Poet in Cebuano award – $500; and 3. The launching of two anthologies: Best Poetry and Best Fiction from the Workshop’s 20 years."
Viva Linda! Viva Erlinda! Pit Senyor!
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