At one point in ancient history all three were one and the same. Today, priests and politicians occupy pretty much the same place and wield the same range of power, while poets are nowhere near the margins. This can’t be any clearer anywhere than in the Philippines. There’s a small number of poets and writers who have been voted into public office. And once there their bias toward art becomes obvious.
Peter Solis Nery could have been the first poet-politician of Iloilo in the late 20th century. But he lost in the local elections in his hometown. For some reason using his stories as campaign material didn’t help at all. Nery writes excellent Hiligaynon fiction and poetry, and only an illiterate can turn them down. Nor can you question Nery’s deep spirituality-- not exactly holy in the Catholic sense but mystical just the same. But he lost. At the risk of sounding like a strategist, I’d theorize that Nery didn’t make it because of the following reasons: 1) He didn’t have a political party; 2) He was fighting a lost cause in the first place; 3) He went against the norm; 4) He didn’t have the blessing of a “church”.
Nery didn’t have a political party
Peter ran as an independent candidate. Unless he owned a cash factory (which he already has) he’d have no way of keeping up with the race. Money is the language of Philippine politics. In spite of his popularity, Nery was hard pressed to win votes because people could not buy food with poems.
Nery was fighting a lost cause in the first place
If Peter resolved to represent homosexuals, transgenders, pan-sexuals, perverts and the marginalized, he was doomed to fail. Once in office political leaders sit comfortably in their comfort zone and scheme to steal public funds in the name of service. Peter is too generous and kind to even think of that. Who in his right mind would draft laws to uplift and promote the rights of people society labels as misfits and sinners? Only Peter and a handful others would.
But politics listens only to the voice of the majority that outcasts may as well be non-existent. And that includes artists who take themselves too seriously.
Nery went against the norm
Peter didn’t go with the flow. While candidates delivered self-serving speeches (which they themselves barely understood), Peter was busy handing out copies of his stories and poems. Other candidates shook hands with big wig politicians. Peter Nery shook hands and exchanged glances with jeepney drivers and students. Other candidates quoted statesmen and senators. Peter Nery quoted Horace, Catullus and Shakespeare.
The voting public loves crowd-pleasers. Peter Nery stirs ire and controversy. Politicians scratch each other’s back and curse their enemies. Peter Nery massages his friends and kisses his enemies.
Nery didn’t have the blessing of a church
It’s no secret that Peter went to a seminary in Macau and left soon after. It did his art well but crushed his politics, at least his public service bid. A libertine of astute taste, Peter could only hope to win his neighbors over. In spite of his captive audience, Peter’s sphere of influence was far narrower than the dumbest candidate who kissed the priest’s hand and sponsored Sunday masses. Peter’s church was his books, video collection and a coterie of high hats.
Meanwhile among the early Essenes, worship and prayer were a communal activity. No priest, no sermon, no first or second collection for an invisible church, no mention of names of the sick and test passers.
It’s 90 days to election time. My candidate is someone who goes against the grain: Someone who is so consumed with passion he gives it all without expecting anything in return, win or lose. He is someone who doesn’t offer any promises. He is someone whose platform is the people.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
T Time 2
Forward to the late 90s, New Manila. This time I taught at an all girl school which, only a couple of years back, was a smoking campus. My on boarding formalities were rather brief as the college president was new. A year before I came in Sister Bernadette got in trouble with a bunch of young teachers from the Ateneo. From what I gathered nun and teachers had a row over teaching issues. Proving themselves too idealistic and lofty to both students and colleagues, they were showed the door without warning. They took it badly and sought legal action.
As luck would have it, two cousins of formidable eloquence from the Ateneo College of Law joined me on the faculty that year. One of them lived down the block, while the other lawyered for a humongous real estate firm. Both were named best debaters and snagged the championship for two years in a row during the UP-Ateneo Law Debate Finals. The one who lived down the block would give me a lift to E. Rodriquez (though I lived on V. Mapa, Sta. Mesa at the time) and regaled me with his 80s CD collection. He went on to marry Senator Dick Gordon’s daughter.
Knowing my writing background, Sister Bernadette put me in charge of the college paper together with Sister Caritas, who I was told had been behind the paper for nearly half a century. She walked with a cane but could tell a good sentence from a bad one at a glance. At times we needed to go to the printer I had to fetch her at the sisters’ quarter which was off-limits to most, even teachers. I would wait outside but would reward my curiosity by stepping forward and peering in. OK, Geriatric Ward. It was here where the sisters waited for their final fetch.
St. Paul College Quezon City offers a strong masscomm program. I taught freshmen English to masscomm students. Rhea Santos, GMA news anchor, was a junior at the time. She had represented St. Paul in the annual Bedan Grill at San Beda and had won several times. She was not in my class, obviously, but she was in my close friend’s. Now, when it was her class’ turn to go on a retreat at a Jesuit retreat house in Antipolo I was told to come along. Not bad.
I had a Viva Hot Babe in my class for two years. Anna Leah Dilagan, later Anna Leah Javier, sat in my English class for four semesters. She belonged to a class of lookers, so she didn’t strike me as someone exceptional—at first. By my own reckoning there were far prettier faces in my class than I cared to note. One of them was Karen Banawa (not related to singer Carol Banawa) who could write better than many Iloilo columnists I know. Then there was Iris Saldavia who later wrote a horror screenplay that found its way into “Shake, Rattle & Roll VIII”. For reasons known only to her, Ria used real names for her characters, including a teacher named Mel played by TJ Trinidad (“Yaya” episode).
I didn’t know what was up with Tootsie Guevara, but she was the only HRM student in my all- masscomm class. She was passing by the faculty room one time while I was on my way out. Being the nice student that she was, she said “Hi” and asked for my schedule. I told her. Days later she turned up in my classroom. At Christmas we played Joseph and Mary then she gave me a pair of green shorts.
On the other hand I had a student who always came in late. On the prodding of her classmates I’d make her sing. And she sang damn well. Not a year later after she transferred to UP Diliman, I saw her opposite Robin Padilla on TV. She carried a different name, but in my class record she was Ayn Arriola.
In my second year I took in more classes with psychology students. I had Rez Cortez’s daughter Nina, who brought with her Assumption Antipolo’s superlative snooty culture. She’d keep track of every single word you say and throw it back at you if you say it wrong. She never caught me. She called bright students like herself “Geniac”. In her class was Val Mayuga, future Inquire 2BU and Candy writer. Val made me uneasy with her fluid spoken and written English (she has been to medieval castles in Europe) that I had to be linguistically in tip-top shape all the time. I worked my dark spell on her by lending her my Vonnegut collection. Now, she’s about to take the medicine board exam in February.
In January 2000 my father died of diabetes complications. My world stopped turning. I thought I wasn’t ever going to recover. It’s been ten years since. But I’m still standing and writing for a pittance. T time is over. So is Toribio, my father.
As luck would have it, two cousins of formidable eloquence from the Ateneo College of Law joined me on the faculty that year. One of them lived down the block, while the other lawyered for a humongous real estate firm. Both were named best debaters and snagged the championship for two years in a row during the UP-Ateneo Law Debate Finals. The one who lived down the block would give me a lift to E. Rodriquez (though I lived on V. Mapa, Sta. Mesa at the time) and regaled me with his 80s CD collection. He went on to marry Senator Dick Gordon’s daughter.
Knowing my writing background, Sister Bernadette put me in charge of the college paper together with Sister Caritas, who I was told had been behind the paper for nearly half a century. She walked with a cane but could tell a good sentence from a bad one at a glance. At times we needed to go to the printer I had to fetch her at the sisters’ quarter which was off-limits to most, even teachers. I would wait outside but would reward my curiosity by stepping forward and peering in. OK, Geriatric Ward. It was here where the sisters waited for their final fetch.
St. Paul College Quezon City offers a strong masscomm program. I taught freshmen English to masscomm students. Rhea Santos, GMA news anchor, was a junior at the time. She had represented St. Paul in the annual Bedan Grill at San Beda and had won several times. She was not in my class, obviously, but she was in my close friend’s. Now, when it was her class’ turn to go on a retreat at a Jesuit retreat house in Antipolo I was told to come along. Not bad.
I had a Viva Hot Babe in my class for two years. Anna Leah Dilagan, later Anna Leah Javier, sat in my English class for four semesters. She belonged to a class of lookers, so she didn’t strike me as someone exceptional—at first. By my own reckoning there were far prettier faces in my class than I cared to note. One of them was Karen Banawa (not related to singer Carol Banawa) who could write better than many Iloilo columnists I know. Then there was Iris Saldavia who later wrote a horror screenplay that found its way into “Shake, Rattle & Roll VIII”. For reasons known only to her, Ria used real names for her characters, including a teacher named Mel played by TJ Trinidad (“Yaya” episode).
I didn’t know what was up with Tootsie Guevara, but she was the only HRM student in my all- masscomm class. She was passing by the faculty room one time while I was on my way out. Being the nice student that she was, she said “Hi” and asked for my schedule. I told her. Days later she turned up in my classroom. At Christmas we played Joseph and Mary then she gave me a pair of green shorts.
On the other hand I had a student who always came in late. On the prodding of her classmates I’d make her sing. And she sang damn well. Not a year later after she transferred to UP Diliman, I saw her opposite Robin Padilla on TV. She carried a different name, but in my class record she was Ayn Arriola.
In my second year I took in more classes with psychology students. I had Rez Cortez’s daughter Nina, who brought with her Assumption Antipolo’s superlative snooty culture. She’d keep track of every single word you say and throw it back at you if you say it wrong. She never caught me. She called bright students like herself “Geniac”. In her class was Val Mayuga, future Inquire 2BU and Candy writer. Val made me uneasy with her fluid spoken and written English (she has been to medieval castles in Europe) that I had to be linguistically in tip-top shape all the time. I worked my dark spell on her by lending her my Vonnegut collection. Now, she’s about to take the medicine board exam in February.
In January 2000 my father died of diabetes complications. My world stopped turning. I thought I wasn’t ever going to recover. It’s been ten years since. But I’m still standing and writing for a pittance. T time is over. So is Toribio, my father.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
T Time
It’s hard to shake loose what has been and will always be a part of your self. I was a teacher and I don’t mince words about saying it to anyone who dare ask. I taught English for a long time and am proud of it. But whether my former students say the same of me, I have no idea. I taught as I lived, so I laid myself bare and vulnerable to all. It is this vulnerability that got me in trouble.
But this same vulnerability gave me a leg up on my students. So even while I was bombed out they took me back in without having to say sorry. I can’t tell this all in straight terms or I’d lose my readers (if there’s any).
Like all teachers the one thing I’m most proud of is the time I’ve spent with students who’d go on to make a name for themselves. My pay at the time wasn’t bad after all. The school I taught in had—and still has—the distinction of making its teachers proud just by coming into a classroom full of Manila’s who’s who. This is what heaves my chest every time I think of teaching and teachers.
I could not be a classroom advisor at 22, notwithstanding my being a newbie. I settled in as an assistant instead. In my senior class I had a Bunag whose father, at one time, landed a post in President Estrada’s cabinet. In the same section I had a Bolante whose name says it all. Today Mike is a resident DJ at a swanky club in LA. The Bunag boy majored in communications and research in college and from what I hear he now sits as CEO of their own advertising firm.
I had a student named Gaylor who was so enamored with knives. He said he had a huge collection at home, which I didn’t bother finding out, of course. When I took to talking Oxford he’d respond in Cambridge accent. I don’t know where the chap went to college. My senior class section B had the Sugar Babes: daughters and heirs to Negros sugar planters. They were part of the Dream Team which included Bianca Araneta and a Trillo girl, both juniors at the time. Half of the Dream Team was not in my class but they were friends with my students, so we frequently bumped into each other at the cafeteria.
So was the case of Dela Norton who became the face of Greenwich TV commercials for a while. On days her English teacher was absent, her class would join mine. My Junior English class at the time was called the Benetton Section: I had a Thai, two Koreans, a German, a dozen Spanish mestizas and an equal number of Indians (who championed my speeches and lifted me over their shoulders). When Dela’s class joined us I had the United Nations in attendance.
My Benetton class was singular in attitude and noise. They’d shout “English is forever!” after me. This was the class where I got corrected by Denise Orosa on how to pronounce “treachery”. I said it wrong, so said her father who went to Harvard.
Meanwhile, the Egyptian ambassador’s son was in my other Junior English class. He spoke fluent French and English. A year before moving to the Philippines he attended an American school in Cairo. He told me Cairo is colder than Cape Town most times of the year.
If my ex students think I’ve been an ingrate all these years, they’re mistaken. I still owe it to Cons (Consuelo!) Cuneta and Anna Gamboa for saving my arse during my toughest classroom moments. Those flying test papers and my beady brow… Anna’s older brother, Gauguin, was a good friend and a colleague so I’d sleep over in their house sometimes. Half of Anna’s house used to be an art gallery. A whole section, in fact, stored museum pieces. From the outside the house couldn’t be anything otherwise. I slept amidst old wood, iron and stone.
Well, it’s just too bad that Turao time is over. So is teaching.
But this same vulnerability gave me a leg up on my students. So even while I was bombed out they took me back in without having to say sorry. I can’t tell this all in straight terms or I’d lose my readers (if there’s any).
Like all teachers the one thing I’m most proud of is the time I’ve spent with students who’d go on to make a name for themselves. My pay at the time wasn’t bad after all. The school I taught in had—and still has—the distinction of making its teachers proud just by coming into a classroom full of Manila’s who’s who. This is what heaves my chest every time I think of teaching and teachers.
I could not be a classroom advisor at 22, notwithstanding my being a newbie. I settled in as an assistant instead. In my senior class I had a Bunag whose father, at one time, landed a post in President Estrada’s cabinet. In the same section I had a Bolante whose name says it all. Today Mike is a resident DJ at a swanky club in LA. The Bunag boy majored in communications and research in college and from what I hear he now sits as CEO of their own advertising firm.
I had a student named Gaylor who was so enamored with knives. He said he had a huge collection at home, which I didn’t bother finding out, of course. When I took to talking Oxford he’d respond in Cambridge accent. I don’t know where the chap went to college. My senior class section B had the Sugar Babes: daughters and heirs to Negros sugar planters. They were part of the Dream Team which included Bianca Araneta and a Trillo girl, both juniors at the time. Half of the Dream Team was not in my class but they were friends with my students, so we frequently bumped into each other at the cafeteria.
So was the case of Dela Norton who became the face of Greenwich TV commercials for a while. On days her English teacher was absent, her class would join mine. My Junior English class at the time was called the Benetton Section: I had a Thai, two Koreans, a German, a dozen Spanish mestizas and an equal number of Indians (who championed my speeches and lifted me over their shoulders). When Dela’s class joined us I had the United Nations in attendance.
My Benetton class was singular in attitude and noise. They’d shout “English is forever!” after me. This was the class where I got corrected by Denise Orosa on how to pronounce “treachery”. I said it wrong, so said her father who went to Harvard.
Meanwhile, the Egyptian ambassador’s son was in my other Junior English class. He spoke fluent French and English. A year before moving to the Philippines he attended an American school in Cairo. He told me Cairo is colder than Cape Town most times of the year.
If my ex students think I’ve been an ingrate all these years, they’re mistaken. I still owe it to Cons (Consuelo!) Cuneta and Anna Gamboa for saving my arse during my toughest classroom moments. Those flying test papers and my beady brow… Anna’s older brother, Gauguin, was a good friend and a colleague so I’d sleep over in their house sometimes. Half of Anna’s house used to be an art gallery. A whole section, in fact, stored museum pieces. From the outside the house couldn’t be anything otherwise. I slept amidst old wood, iron and stone.
Well, it’s just too bad that Turao time is over. So is teaching.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
It’s summer
Under the sun the asphalt steams and stretches
like a black pool of mud. There is grass on both sides of the road. Cow dung, plastic wrapper, cracked crab shell, a row of old hunch back trees.
It’s summer! Yahoooooooo!
like a black pool of mud. There is grass on both sides of the road. Cow dung, plastic wrapper, cracked crab shell, a row of old hunch back trees.
It’s summer! Yahoooooooo!
High Lows
I can’t tell the difference between 2009 and 2008. The one thing that’s certain is that 2009 has been anything but static:
Got to work at a call center but language support department I was with got the boot by the end of my 5th month. Posse and I went our separate ways; a couple ended up at a training center where they didn’t last long anyway.
July pushed me into SEO (search engine optimization) writing about which I knew next to nothing, but later got a grip of, thanks to my colleagues.
Nothing in the way of new acquisitions (save for a pirated “best of” Coldplay DVD), but I rediscovered Everything But The Girl over their official website. Massive Attack and Todd Terry still lick a mean mix of EBTG standards.
Religiously followed Ben Watt’s stable of sound shapers on buzzinfly.com until I came across The Unbending Trees' “Chemically Happy is the New Sad”, which was my 2009’s sonic apex. On pathologically low days Deephouse Mafia came to the rescue even at the workplace.
Every chance I got I pursued my oenophilic quest for the superlative taste of Pinot Noir and 17% alcohol African and Portuguese Port.
In November I started the Spoken Word series with friends which I hope splays a sensitive nerve on readers out there so poets and writers won’t have to suck up to each other for comfort, support and recognition.
On December 27 someone left a comment on my blog which resonated with a suspiciously familiar voice.
Low points: Peter Solis Nery’s father’s demise and supervert.com’s long awaited daily blog entries.
Got to work at a call center but language support department I was with got the boot by the end of my 5th month. Posse and I went our separate ways; a couple ended up at a training center where they didn’t last long anyway.
July pushed me into SEO (search engine optimization) writing about which I knew next to nothing, but later got a grip of, thanks to my colleagues.
Nothing in the way of new acquisitions (save for a pirated “best of” Coldplay DVD), but I rediscovered Everything But The Girl over their official website. Massive Attack and Todd Terry still lick a mean mix of EBTG standards.
Religiously followed Ben Watt’s stable of sound shapers on buzzinfly.com until I came across The Unbending Trees' “Chemically Happy is the New Sad”, which was my 2009’s sonic apex. On pathologically low days Deephouse Mafia came to the rescue even at the workplace.
Every chance I got I pursued my oenophilic quest for the superlative taste of Pinot Noir and 17% alcohol African and Portuguese Port.
In November I started the Spoken Word series with friends which I hope splays a sensitive nerve on readers out there so poets and writers won’t have to suck up to each other for comfort, support and recognition.
On December 27 someone left a comment on my blog which resonated with a suspiciously familiar voice.
Low points: Peter Solis Nery’s father’s demise and supervert.com’s long awaited daily blog entries.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Theme Songs
Where were you when these songs were on the radio?
I’ve tweaked the popular spiel a bit to suit my needs. In spite of lame denials, I’m a bleeding heart pop radio fan. I confess to getting misty-eyed every time I hear Madonna’s “Borderline” and ABC’s “Be Near Me”. The latter proved to be my first high school dance—with a classmate who’s settled down in England.
I well understand the general clamor for something new over Iloilo’s music airwaves. People have come and gone, and many have died hearing the same songs played within the same time slot. And I’m afraid it’s gong to be the case for a long time. But some of these songs had served as overture to my teenage years—and quite frankly I’m irked about not being able to hear them as often as I used to.
For instance, they don’t play Eurhythmics’ “Here Comes The Rain Again” even over these past stormy days. My “suki” jeepney from Tigbauan to the city blared that song as it wound down my town’s streets to pick up students. Then, by the time we got to Oton plaza, Corey Hart would whine about his deep attachment to a pair of “Sunglasses At Night.”
In sophomore year I could not look at my crush straight in the eye, but with a little push from Cindy Lauper’s “Time After Time” I could steal a glance before a long spell of feigned inattention. Clue: She is on my Facebook account.
I had a classmate who joined a tribe of punks who were already in college. Years later he became a music jock at NU 107 lloilo. He was a master break dancer whom I thought would make it big in showbiz. Well, he did land in a related field, at least—until NU 107pulled out of Iloilo. Today, if I’m not mistaken, he is a master teacher in martial arts. And he was my crush’s official boyfriend all throughout high school. Sigh.
Lilet became a sensation in Junior year, so there was word we would sing Coke’s commercial jingle at the prom. On the suggestion of our high school student republic’s president (who has not confirmed my friend request on Facebook), we ended up singing Martin Nievera’s “Each Day With You Becomes A Valentine”.
Who still remembers Terraplane’s “Talking To My Self”? Not exactly a chart-topping song, but its first few lines can easily blend in with any Soul Asylum ditty: “ I start talking to myself/ once again/now that you’re not next to me my friend/ Separated by so many nights/ Victims of geography”. I listed this song along with A-ha’s “The Sun Always Shines On TV” among a few of my personal picks for the week. Which week was that in 1986, I certainly don’t remember.
Psychedelic Furs’ “Ghost in You” played over DYIC almost every hour back in those days. I had card-carrying station loyalists amongst my classmates. They had a fan ID or something that granted them privilege to request songs any time—perhaps at the mention of their ID number over the phone or something. In my case I saw no rhyme or reason why New Wavers had to wear a Mohawk, or why they went into ecstasy over Depeche Mode and the Cocteau Twins. But yes, I adored—and still do—the Human League. I discovered The Smiths and Morrissey in college. From then on, even when heaven knows I’m miserable now, I’ve never stopped chasing the light that never goes out.
I’ve tweaked the popular spiel a bit to suit my needs. In spite of lame denials, I’m a bleeding heart pop radio fan. I confess to getting misty-eyed every time I hear Madonna’s “Borderline” and ABC’s “Be Near Me”. The latter proved to be my first high school dance—with a classmate who’s settled down in England.
I well understand the general clamor for something new over Iloilo’s music airwaves. People have come and gone, and many have died hearing the same songs played within the same time slot. And I’m afraid it’s gong to be the case for a long time. But some of these songs had served as overture to my teenage years—and quite frankly I’m irked about not being able to hear them as often as I used to.
For instance, they don’t play Eurhythmics’ “Here Comes The Rain Again” even over these past stormy days. My “suki” jeepney from Tigbauan to the city blared that song as it wound down my town’s streets to pick up students. Then, by the time we got to Oton plaza, Corey Hart would whine about his deep attachment to a pair of “Sunglasses At Night.”
In sophomore year I could not look at my crush straight in the eye, but with a little push from Cindy Lauper’s “Time After Time” I could steal a glance before a long spell of feigned inattention. Clue: She is on my Facebook account.
I had a classmate who joined a tribe of punks who were already in college. Years later he became a music jock at NU 107 lloilo. He was a master break dancer whom I thought would make it big in showbiz. Well, he did land in a related field, at least—until NU 107pulled out of Iloilo. Today, if I’m not mistaken, he is a master teacher in martial arts. And he was my crush’s official boyfriend all throughout high school. Sigh.
Lilet became a sensation in Junior year, so there was word we would sing Coke’s commercial jingle at the prom. On the suggestion of our high school student republic’s president (who has not confirmed my friend request on Facebook), we ended up singing Martin Nievera’s “Each Day With You Becomes A Valentine”.
Who still remembers Terraplane’s “Talking To My Self”? Not exactly a chart-topping song, but its first few lines can easily blend in with any Soul Asylum ditty: “ I start talking to myself/ once again/now that you’re not next to me my friend/ Separated by so many nights/ Victims of geography”. I listed this song along with A-ha’s “The Sun Always Shines On TV” among a few of my personal picks for the week. Which week was that in 1986, I certainly don’t remember.
Psychedelic Furs’ “Ghost in You” played over DYIC almost every hour back in those days. I had card-carrying station loyalists amongst my classmates. They had a fan ID or something that granted them privilege to request songs any time—perhaps at the mention of their ID number over the phone or something. In my case I saw no rhyme or reason why New Wavers had to wear a Mohawk, or why they went into ecstasy over Depeche Mode and the Cocteau Twins. But yes, I adored—and still do—the Human League. I discovered The Smiths and Morrissey in college. From then on, even when heaven knows I’m miserable now, I’ve never stopped chasing the light that never goes out.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Wanted: New Voice
The days of the reading poet are numbered. It’s because poetry reading is boring. The audience comes to listen, all right, but they also want to hear a voice—a speaking, living voice that echoes in their head long after the listening is over. When I listen to someone read a piece I just hear a slew of words, not a voice. It’s not the piece’s fault for sure; nor is it the poet’s. We have to hand it to the poet for turning up and putting himself under public scrutiny in the first place.
But the poem is not what’s written on the page—it’s what remains in our mind’s ear when the book is closed. And this is quite challenging to poets and public readers alike. Although between the poet and the actor, the former should come across more sincerely. I know it’s an issue on showmanship, but what does theater have that poetry doesn’t?
This was what I had in mind at the 3rd installment of our self-styled spoken word gig here in Iloilo. The 3rd leg was set up by the Mirror Poetry Guild of the University of San Agustin. The theme didn’t much vary from the 2nd Gig’s except that this time it was supposed to be accompanied by a nude photo exhibit. OK, well taken.
But here are my observations:Cocoon didn’t turn out to be a pub nor a lounge—it’s a student’s meal time hang out of sorts. Which was why I, Eman Lerona, and Mel Cichon (not that he wanted one—he’s long come clean) could not get a bottle of cold beer. The nude photos were lumped together in a corner where you paid for your order. I was under the impression that to view them, you had to buy a meal first. Ironically the exhibit corner was right beside the entrance (to the right, that is) so tables and chairs welcomed you first before tits and pubic hairs.
Again, I’m being too harsh on the audience: it’s hard enough for the poet-reader to squeeze time and effort to get to the venue, please return his favor with at least a sincere applause. I could tell that what we got was mere token clapping. I’d rather get booed in reaction to my piece instead of a bravo out of boredom. Partly a showmanship problem, I must admit, but listening is also a skill, you know. That’s why we depart from the usual poetry reading fare.
Poetry is essentially speech, so as your writing teacher would tell you, write like you speak. The trouble with many pieces I come across these days is, they’re thoughts shrouded with words. So when you draw in and listen, you hear nothing but words and ideas—not the poet’s voice.
That night everybody sounded the same except those who spoke in their own voice and not in somebody else’s. You know who you are.
But the poem is not what’s written on the page—it’s what remains in our mind’s ear when the book is closed. And this is quite challenging to poets and public readers alike. Although between the poet and the actor, the former should come across more sincerely. I know it’s an issue on showmanship, but what does theater have that poetry doesn’t?
This was what I had in mind at the 3rd installment of our self-styled spoken word gig here in Iloilo. The 3rd leg was set up by the Mirror Poetry Guild of the University of San Agustin. The theme didn’t much vary from the 2nd Gig’s except that this time it was supposed to be accompanied by a nude photo exhibit. OK, well taken.
But here are my observations:Cocoon didn’t turn out to be a pub nor a lounge—it’s a student’s meal time hang out of sorts. Which was why I, Eman Lerona, and Mel Cichon (not that he wanted one—he’s long come clean) could not get a bottle of cold beer. The nude photos were lumped together in a corner where you paid for your order. I was under the impression that to view them, you had to buy a meal first. Ironically the exhibit corner was right beside the entrance (to the right, that is) so tables and chairs welcomed you first before tits and pubic hairs.
Again, I’m being too harsh on the audience: it’s hard enough for the poet-reader to squeeze time and effort to get to the venue, please return his favor with at least a sincere applause. I could tell that what we got was mere token clapping. I’d rather get booed in reaction to my piece instead of a bravo out of boredom. Partly a showmanship problem, I must admit, but listening is also a skill, you know. That’s why we depart from the usual poetry reading fare.
Poetry is essentially speech, so as your writing teacher would tell you, write like you speak. The trouble with many pieces I come across these days is, they’re thoughts shrouded with words. So when you draw in and listen, you hear nothing but words and ideas—not the poet’s voice.
That night everybody sounded the same except those who spoke in their own voice and not in somebody else’s. You know who you are.
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