Poems for our times
September 26, 2005 | 12:00am
Satire is a term applied to any form of literature whose manner is a blend of criticism, wit, and ironic humor. Its immediate aim is to ridicule or rebuke someone or something. The target may be anything from a philosophical system like optimism (Candide by Voltaire), or a social evil, like hypocrisy (Binibining Phatupat by Juan Crisostomo Soto), or an individual person, like a dictator (State of War by Ninotchka Rosca). The ultimate aim of satire is to reform society by exposing its vices. As the English critic Matthew Arnold said, "Art is [still] a criticism of life."
Satire can take almost any literary form and use various approaches and techniques. Often, there are specific references to topical and political subjects, concrete descriptions, realistic pictures of the seamy side of a personality – or of society at large. Nevertheless, a sharp line can be drawn between invective or mere insult and satire. The difference lies in the wit of the presentation, which is an essential quality of satire.
Joi Barrios, associate dean of UP College of Arts and Letters; the young writer Jaime Dasca Doble; and myself have just edited Truth and Consequence: An Anthology of Anti-GMA Poems. It is published by the Alliance of Concerned Teachers and the Congress of Teachers for Nationalism and Democracy (Contend). The book gathers together poems that protest the actions of the President during, and after the elections of May 14, 2004. It is being published in the spirit of free expression enshrined in our Constitution. The Philippine Constitution is the only Constitution in the world that guarantees not only freedom of speech but also freedom of expression – a provision that the late director and National Artist Lino Brocka lobbied for when he was a member of the Constitutional Commission of 1986. We should still be glad that our poets – the "unacknowledged legislators of the race" – can mint words to show unhappiness about the state of things.
Joi wrote the introduction of the book, Jaime proofread time and again, while I wrote the study guide at the back of the book. Our friends Boy Martin did the layout and Fidel Rillo made the splendid cover design. It was all gratis et amore. Since this is an English-language publication, I am reprinting a poem I wrote and a prose poem written by Jaime Dasca Doble.
My poem is called "The Frog." It begins with an epigraph from a Japanese poem: "The frog sees only the sky/ from the bottom of the well…"
The complete poem follows:
"With eyelids of stone/ I look up and see/ a patch of sky/ curving from the lip/ of the well./ I croak/ but my voice/ is the only thing that echoes/ round and round the prison house/ of my cell.
"Paws planted firmly/ on the wet stones,/ all I want is to leap/ out of this water/ mixed with mud,/ free myself from the desire/ to flick my tongue/ and catch a fly/ or some other pest/ that strays into my kingdom.
"But this is my karma:/ to stay here, now, at this moment,/ my skin green as the mossy water,/ doomed to darkness,/ with neither epiphany/ nor rebirth."
The prose poem of Jaime Dasca Doble is called "Tale of the Witch in the Palace." It goes this way:
"Just before the bishops in the old city declared the palace witch a heretic and call upon all the armed forces to bring her down, they thought it best to consider some subjects. Having risen to the throne as ruler of the land, she could deny her vile sorcery. By this, the order of the divine will was kept from the people.
"In secret, she cast spells on the water and wine of the banquet, turning them sweet. But she actually profaned the feasts of saints and martyrs every evening, lured by the young and smooth smiles of emissaries in the labyrinthine, secret chambers of the palace. She laughed at the news of ominous unrest in other countries, while her councilmen and chambermaids had already lost their respect for the court. She filled her mouth with borrowed words from the eunuchs, who told her how everything could be explained away by an array of precise laws.
"But if truth be told, a curse is cast on every heartless woman who begins to prolong her stay in the palace. A witch could live there for a very long time, and yet little by little, lose her eyesight. First, a blurring of images, the graying of clouds, then a total and absolute darkness. There is no cure for witches caught in the darkness of their own class.
"The present occupant is a wicked witch who has already lived in the palace before. But her mother’s voice grated against her ears: you are too short, too ugly, your front teeth bucked and shaped like a pair of axes. Her father loved her, but he was too distracted by his ostensible social reforms that led to nothing, and so he did not see the flames of resentment in his daughter’s face. In the young girl’s mind, she swore to return to court with the might of thunder and lightning. And so she read all the books of magic and performed the ways of alchemy. She charmed her way into the hearts of men eager to offer stolen gold and silver. She delighted in all of these.
"The time came when this terrible witch would saw the beginning of the end. Some of the men and women in her court left, unable to swallow the morsels of lies that she peddled. But the minds of those who stayed had been altered, for they had already swallowed the bitter herbs that she mixed with each food and drink. They believed everything she said. But in their sleep their eyes were still open, for they had learnt to listen to her words even when they should be asleep.
"But the lines of destiny could never be changed, not even by the blackest of witches. When there was nothing else on their plates except the bones of fish and a tiny grain of rice, the people, yes, the people rose as one and marched to the palace! The swords and spears of their voices were tipped with anger and rage. Like a flood they flowed to the palace. They found her still sitting in front of the long table, alone, for everyone around her had already fled. She was wrapped in a white shroud of purest cotton, the better to contain her powers. She resisted, but they brought her out of the palace, tied her to a post – and the inevitable happened. Without anybody neither gathering kindling by her feet nor starting a burst of fire, she began to burn, igniting from within. Her own sorcery turned her hair into flames, her face into charcoal.
"And the people, they began to walk away when the wind began to carry her ashes, far away, into the farthest corners of the earth. Back home, they knew they had to start again, tending their own gardens, letting their own lives grow and bloom once more. Finally, they were free from the sorcery of her words, and from the grip of their darkest dreams."
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