The problem with this chosen craft –writing– is that it is indeed the loneliest art. And what is queer is that, in reality, it is not really I who chose it. What had happened was in the reverse.
I do not enjoy writing. Who does? National Artist F. Sionil José once wrote that whoever claimed to have read James Joyce’s Ulysses in its totality is either a masochist or a bloody liar. That is what I feel towards any writer who claims to enjoy writing. Worse, some of them might even claim to do it as a hobby. Reading is fun. But putting into print what’s going on in the imagination is a bloody herculean effort.
Speaking of imagination, I don’t think I have a good one. I may conjure up humorous quips and comical back jabs against some co-workers and other funny-looking/acting people that I know, but I don’t know if that qualifies as part of the literary-imaginative process. Basically, I harmlessly make fun of some people just to make friends or family members cringe with laughter.
I mentioned imagination here because, naturally, it is a crucible force behind writing, particularly creative writing. Writing is about ideas, and even the most trite-looking political essay must have the essentials of a vivid and lively imagination so as to garner interest. But the necessary imagination to mold fiction, that I admit I don’t have. I have written a couple of short-stories, but most of them are still unfinished. And those that were completed never saw print at all. I pursued, instead, poetry and essay with much ardor and zeal and focus. With both, I think I achieved a considerable amount of recognition back in college. I won first prize in a poetry contest. Some of my essays were used as oratorical pieces, thanks to the trust and support of my alma mater’s English Department (now known as, regrettably, the Foreign Languages Department). However, looking back at those poetically fruitful years (I was writing verses almost every week if not everyday!), there is still discontent.
Why?
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Here I reproduce my award-winning poetry:
OF SPACE AND PSYCHE
At the forefront
The scraggly surface collected
A small pool of quiescent glaze
Pulsating a history of
A thousand graves singeing
This placid pool reminiscent
Of Romulus mending walls
In the eyes of a storm
The Watcher.
A hyperbolic scream:
A worm interposing
Squished in the warmth
Embrace of this Deluge
In minute form
Yet with that same idiotic form
Until this drop drops
And like glass
Came crashing, shriveled, screaming
smiting and cutting
The wherewithal of things to come.
Here comes finality
Simulating this broken image
To that of tap water
And next door neighbors quarrelling
And crying engines, horns, laughs
Here comes the
Ululation of the urge
The urge and imprisonment.
Get out of here
Swim through the air
Resolute of nothing
But finality
Therefore the clarity
Still shrouded in misery
The urge to trap
The stillness of this all
Ripping it afterwards
Racking the flesh
For the buzzards to feast
come here, all of you
Here is finality
Let the cold dry the
Wetness, no towel
Will hurt the skin no
More, lying down
On the floor
Eyes of water
Eyes of glass
Another drop
it will come to pass.
Two renowned instructors in my alma mater, literary maestro Radney Ranario and historian José Mª Bonifacio Escoda, commended this work. They were the judges of the said contest, Istakel, the 3rd San Marcelino Literary Awards (2003). As prize, I received a small trophy, a signpen (which I lost, dammit), and Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
Mr. Ranario, who now bears the torch of our university’s unsung poetess, the late Amelita Málig, did have a few criticisms which, unfortunately, we were never able to talk about. But he did write a favorable critique of some of my poems included with my winning piece, which was subsequently published in our student publication. For his part, Mr. Escoda encouraged me to continue using more imagery, which of course creates more pictures in the mind as the poetry is read. Thus, it creates subliminal joy inside one’s mind.
But up to now, I don’t feel great pride with this poem. I could not understand it now. Could it be because I haven’t written that much for years now? I do believe so. Writing, as in all other art forms, requires constant, regular practice. And need I say discipline here (and as I input this text into wordpress.com, there’s another window opened up for porn. I may cry…).
Is it because my focus to write has been captivated by yet another language? Like all Filipinos, I was trained to read, speak, and write in a colonial tongue: English. I’m a native Tagalog, although I also speak and write in Spanish which I’m now “relearning,” having realized not too long ago that it’s actually a Filipino and not a foreign language. I do not know how to write in Tagalog, nor will I ever pursue it with much dexterity of the mind as I do with the English language which I dearly love. But I hope that I am not branded as a traitor for choosing to study yet another language, French, instead of mastering Tagalog.
And after French, next in line is Latin. But enough about tongues for a while.
But you know, if I didn’t stop writing years ago, would I still be able to understand the subconscious meaning of OF SPACE AND PSYCHE.
A useless question, because there is no concrete answer to it.
But what I would like to emphasize here is my discontent. Whenever I visit bookstores and happen to find books on Philippine poetry (I seldom read foreign literature anymore), I stop to wonder: what makes these poets, especially those unheard of, get published? Some of them are so young, barely out of their teens! Is it because they have as professors renowned men of letters such as Cirilo Bautista, Edith Tiempo, Roberto Añonuevo, Butch Dalisay, Jr.? Is it because they come from more reputable schools such as the Ateneo de Manila or De La Salle? Do they have connections.
Right now, all I could do is wonder and whine and wince in jealousy. I could grumble all day, but that wouldn’t be poetic anymore.
And I haven’t even succeeded in finalizing what this essay is all about. What I little I do know is that all this ranting is all about writing.
