tula, sabon, at bula
(para kay marielle)
>
salamat sa sabon
binalot sa kahon
regalong akma
sa anumang panahon.
>
wala akong sabon
na maikakahon
meron namang tula
kinatha, ginawa.
>
mabisa ang sabon
pamatay ng mikrobyon
mabisa ang tula
pampasigla ng diwa.
>
ang sabon, tulad ng tula
naglalaho, nawawala
ang tula, tulad ng bula
naglalaho, nawawala.
>
salamat sa sabon
salamat sa kahon
salamat sa tula
salamat sa bula
>
salamat sa dula
salamat sa diwa
salamat sa panahon
salamat, ngayon!
>
ang sabon, tulad ng tula
naglalaho, nawawala.
ang tula, tulad ng bula
naglalaho, nawawala.
>
- ian lomongo, nov. 8, 2005
Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
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tula, sabon, at bula
2010
10.05
10.05
Tessa de Guzman’s poem about Angono
2010
10.03
10.03
November 20, 2005, for the 2nd Neo-Angono Public Art Festival, we held a free outdoor screening of indie films (shorts by Mes de Guzman, Tessa de Guzman, and Lloyd Blancaflor; full-lengths by Ron Bryant and Sig Barros-Sanchez) at the parking lot of Metrobank Angono. Billed as “Sine-silip sa Sinagtala: Revisiting Star Theater,” it was a tribute of sorts to the theater that used to stand where Metrobank Angono now is. A run-down, third-class theater with a double-feature program (and seats full of “surot,” bedbugs?), Star was where I (and many of my contemporaries in Angono) watched movies with friends. It was where I saw “Superman II,” “Ghostbusters,” “Never Say Never,” “For Your Eyes Only,” and of course, the unforgettable (for me) “Alapaap” by Tata Esteban.
Below is a poem by Tessa de Guzman on her “Angono experience.”
best regards,
ian
— Tessa de Guzman wrote:
> Date: Tue, 29 Nov 2005 19:24:17 -0800 (PST)
> From: Tessa de Guzman
> Subject: angono
> To: Ian Lomongo
> Angono
> para sa Neo-Angono Artists Collective, sa pamilyang Vitor, at sa atin
>
> Angono,
> kinupkop mo kami- / you adopted us-
> wanderers, wayward children of the arts,
> mga anak ni Brocka. / Brocka’s children.
> Kala namin uulan / We thought it was going to rain
> but you held a painting up
> so we would not get wet.
> It was a painting
> of starry skies
> a clear, cloudless night
> stretched between two bamboo poles
> where we watched our lives unfold
> at 24 frames per second:
> Ian jumped off a building
> while Santi played piano like a madman-
> Dra. Shane couldn’t do a damn thing about either.
> In the guise of another
> I murdered my abusive husband
> and flirted with Chris Stein.
> Dino sang the slow old songs of our parents
> and when JP started a joke,
> none of us could stop laughing.
> Later on Diane confessed
> that dreams are her reality
> as Aeon wondered what she was going to do now
> with all this time.
> Eventually, Mike begged Roxanne to turn off her red light,
> and though he don’t get a kick out of champagne,
> Sledge got a kick out of an evening
> that was totally Pinoy
> and purely Mhajica.
>
> It was hard to leave you, Angono.
> On our way back into the city
> nakaramdam kaming lahat / we all felt
> ng kakaibang pangungulila. / a peculiar sense of abandonment.
> We couldn’t stop the roads from getting wider
> or the buildings from growing bigger-
> just like all kids can’t be stopped
> from getting older
> from leaving home
> from travelling by narrow roads
> into the unknown.
> But what we can promise you
> is that we will travel light
> bringing only
> the best of what we left behind
> with us
> everywhere we go.
>
> Thank you.
Notes on a Nude Sketching
2010
09.11
09.11
Here’s a poem drawn by poet/writer Richard Gappi:
>
*Talababa sa Isang Nude Sketching
>
Ipinapako ako ngayon
sa krus ng aking pagkatao.
>
Mantel sa pisngi ng aking pwet
at sinag-araw-alas-tres ng hapon na nakabalabal
sa hubad kong anino.
>
Nagsasa-Veronica ako
sa puting tela.
>
Guhit ito na pinihit ng totoo
kung saan naroon
ang nakasilip na puwang ng naikandado—!
>
Palayain siya!
Palayain siya!
>
Sa apat na sulok
inuutusan niyang lumayas
ang inaalihan
ng kampon ni Satanas!
>
Lalayas ako!
Lalayas ka!
>
At magkakapit-kamay
tayong magsasa-Lazarus
habang dama natin ang hapdi
ng bigat ng batong ipinukol
ng sumang-ayon sa hatol.
>
Puta!
Nakikiapid!
Malibog!
Pera-pera!
Magdalena!
>
Hindi Magdalena
ang isang putik
kundi nagiging
eskultura sa pilantik
ng canvas
ng
isang
artist.
>
- Richard Gappi, Oct. 1, 2005
>
My English translation:
Notes on a Nude Sketching
>
To the cross of my humanity
I am being nailed.
>
Mantle on the cheek of my butt
and the rays of the sun at three in the afternoon
cloaking my naked shadow.
>
I become Veronica
in the white cloth.
>
This is drawn
by the truth
where the imprisoned space
that peeps lies—!
>
Liberate her!
Liberate him!
>
In the four corners of the world
he commands the ones possessed
by the minions of Satan
to leave!
>
I shall leave!
You shall leave!
>
And holding hands
we shall become Lazarus
Living the pain
of the crushing weight
of the stone
thrown by the ones
who consented to
the verdict–
>
Fucking whore!
Adulterer!
Wanton!
Prostitute!
Magdalen!
>
Magdalen is not the mud.
Sculpture in the graceful waves
of the canvas
of an artist
>
She Becomes.
>
- Richard Gappi (Eng. trans. Ian Lomongo, Oct. 3, 2005)
>
best regards,
artes-ian, well!
In the Arc of Your Mallet
2010
05.25
05.25
In The Arc Of Your Mallet
by Rumi
Don’t go anywhere without me.
Let nothing happen in the sky apart from me,
or on the ground, in this world or that world,
without my being in its happening.
Vision, see nothing I don’t see.
Language, say nothing.
The way the night knows itself with the moon,
be that with me. Be the rose
nearest to the thorn that I am.
I want to feel myself in you when you taste food,
in the arc of your mallet when you work,
when you visit friends, when you go
up on the roof by yourself at night.
There’s nothing worse than to walk out along the
street without you. I don’t know where I’m going.
You’re the road, and the knower of roads,
more than maps, more than love.
-Rumi
Because I Cannot Sleep by Rumi
2009
08.11
08.11
A poem by Rumi:
Because I Cannot Sleep
Because I cannot sleep
I make music at night.
I am troubled by the one whose face has the color of spring flowers.
I have neither sleep nor patience,
neither a good reputation nor disgrace.
A thousand robes of wisdom are gone.
All my good manners have run a thousand miles away.
The heart and the mind are left angry with each other.
The stars and the moon are envious of each other.
Because of this alienation the physical universe is getting tighter and tighter.
The moon says, “How long will I remain suspended without a sun?”
Without Love’s jewel inside of me, let the bazaar of my existence be destroyed stone by stone.
O Love, You who have been called by a thousand names,
You who know how to pour the wine into the chalice of the body,
You who give culture to a thousand cultures,
You who are faceless but have a thousand faces.
O Love, You who shape the faces of Turks, Europeans, and Zanzibaris, give me a glass from Your bottle, or a handful of bheng from your branch.
Remove the cork once more.
Then we’ll see a thousand chiefs prostrate, and a circle of ecstatic troubadours will play.
The the addict will be freed of craving and will be resurrected, and stand in awe till Judgment Day.
(translation by Kabir Helminski and Lail Fouladvend)
Let Me Go
2009
08.09
08.09
Let Me Go.
(To all the girls I’ve loved before, will have loved in the future, have been presently loving)
by Michael Ian Lomongo
Let me go.
Letlet…
Mimi…
Let me go.
Letty…
Amy…
Mi amiga…
Let me go.
Mei-li… Gong-li… Agogo…
Let me go.
Amigas, dejadme que me vaya.
Michelle… Mabel…
Let me go.
Son les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble,
Tres bien ensemble:
Let me go.
Yeah.
Let me be.
Words of wisdom:
Let it be.
January, 2005
Kundi Sa’yong Sinapupunan (Menos Tu Vientre) by Miguel Hernandez
2009
07.29
07.29
Menos Tu Vientre by Miguel Hernandez
(translation by Ian Lomongo)
Kundi sa’yong sinapupunan,
lahat ay pawang kaguluhan.
Kundi sa’yong sinapupunan,
bukas na dagling lumilisan,
baog at ‘di-mabanaagang
kupas na kahapon ang tanan.
Kundi sa’yong sinapupunan,
lahat-lahat ‘di mawarian.
Kundi sa’yong sinapupunan,
lahat kawalang-katiyakan,
lahat doon sa kalayuan,
abong walang sandaigdigan.
Kundi sa’yong sinapupunan,
lahat pusikit na karimlan.
Kundi sa’yong sinapupunan,
(na) kaliwanagan, kaibuturan.
Ganap
2009
07.27
07.27
Ganap.
(ni Miguel Juanjo (a.k.a. Wang-Ho) Tiamson Lomongo)
“Kailan kaya sasapit ang araw ng pagiging ganap
Ng lahat ng ating mga pinapangarap?”
Araw-araw, patuloy ang paghahanap,
Patuloy… maging ang pagpapanggap,
Patuloy ang pag-aapuhap,
Patuloy ang pagganap
Sa tungkulin, kahit walang kahina-hinagap
Sa katotohanang pinapangarap magagap,
Malanghap… Malasap!
Ano nga ba’ng nagaganap sa mga nagsisipagganap
Sa mga pagtatanghal na’ting kinakaharap?
Ay! Masalimuot na prosesong may kung anu-anong sangkap!
Mapa-dula man o pelikula, ang pagganap
Maihahalintulad sa pagdadalisay at pagbubusilak
Ng paglalaba. Mga damit na ginagamit
Sa pagharap sa sangmaliwanag, binabasa, pinapalo, pinipitpit,
Kinukusot, sinasabon. (Ang sabon, tulad ng tubig
At baha, lumilinis at pumapatay, sa pamamagitan ng bula…
Mga bulang tulad ng katotohanan, buhay, at dula,
Naglalaho, nawawala.)
At matapos banlawan, mga damit ikukula,
Isasabit sa sampayan
Upang sa liwanag ng araw masilayan.
Gayundin ang kinasasapitan ng mga damdamin, isip,
Guni-guni, panaginip, libog, pag-ibig, galit, pangamba, pananalig:
Dinadalisay, binubusilak, binabasa, sinasabon, pinapalo, pinipitpit,
Kinukusot, binabanlawan, ‘kinukula,
At saka ngayon pinaplantsa, upang maikubli ang mga gusot sa mata.
Mga maskarang tulad ng damit pinagpapalit-palit
Sa pangangarap na magampanang ganap
Ang pagganap.
Samantala, patuloy sa paghahanap…
Tuloy-tuloy maging pagpapanggap…
Tuloy-tuloy sa pag-aapuhap…
Tuloy-tuloy sa pagganap
Sa tungkulin, kahit walang kahina-hinagap
Sa — katotohanan, kabutihan, kagandahan, kaligayahan –
KaGANAPang pinapangarap magagap
Malanghap… Malasap!
“Kailan kaya sasapit ang araw ng pagiging ganap
Ng lahat ng ating mga pinapangarap?”
Ganap.
Ika-14 ng Disyembre, 2004
Ano nga ba ang Isang Tula (What is a Poem?) by Miguel Hernandez
2009
07.25
07.25
Ano nga ba ang isang tula?
Isang marikit na kasinungalingang binihisan. Isang katotohanang ipinararamdam lamang. Tanging sa pagpaparamdam lamang nito hindi nagiging kasinungalingan ang katotohanan. Isang katotohanang ‘singhalaga at ‘sintago ng miniminang yaman.
Sino nga ba ang nakakakita na, sa katotohanan, kulay-asin ang dagat?
Walang sinuman. Gayunpaman, nagpaparanas ito, wumawagayway, ipinapakita at sinasalamin ng mga binuo nitong bula ang kulay ng gasuklay na buwan. Nasa kanyang hiwaga ang higit niyang kagandahan.
Hindi maaaring tumambad sa atin ang tula nang hubad. Mga buto ng tula lamang ang taglay ng mga tulang hubad. At ano nga ba’ng mas papangit pa sa mga pawang kalansay lamang?
Ingatan, mga manunula, ang diwa ng tula: isang espinghe. Hayaan n’yong matuto silang bakbakin ito tulad ng balat ng kahoy… Ay, tulad ng dalandan! kaylinamnam ng itinatago nito sa loob ng kanyang mala-planetang kabilugan!
Ingatan ang inyong sarili, mga manunula, laban sa mga bungang walang-balat, mga dagat na walang-alat.
Kailangang umubra ang tula gaya ng sa banal na misa.
Kailan kaya darating ang manunula na hawak sa kanyang mga daliri ang tula gaya ng paring tangan-tangan ang ostiya at nagsasabing: “Ito ang Diyos!” at maniniwala tayo?
- Miguel Hernandez, spanish poet, 1910-1942 (Tagalog translation by Ron Capinding)
The Lover’s Passion
2009
07.17
07.17
I love Jeanette Winterson!
It’s true, and every lover knows this deep in his/her heart to be true: when one loves, one becomes a stalker of sorts…
With the regretful sigh and the little blush of a lover,
ian
—
The Lover’s Passion
by Rumi
A lover knows only humility
He has no choice
He steals into your alley at night
He has no choice
He longs to kiss every lock of your hair
Don’t fret
He has no choice
In his frenzied love for you
He longs to break the chains
Of his imprisonment
He has no choice
—
It was easy for me to get in, the door was unlocked. I felt like a thief with a bagful of stolen glances. It’s odd being in someone else’s room when they’re not there. Especially when you love them. Every object carries a different significance. Why did she buy that? What does she especially like? Why does she sit in this chair and not that one? The room becomes a code that you have only a few minutes to crack. When she returns, she will command your attention, and besides it’s rude to stare. And yet I want to pull out the drawers and run my fingers under the dusty rims of the pictures. In the waste basket perhaps, in the larder, I will find a clue to you, I will be able to unravel you, pull you between my fingers and stretch out each thread to know the measure of you.
- Jeanette Winterson, “Written on the Body”