A poem by Axel Pinpin

Meeting Place

     For Mrs. Editha Burgos


The place that you promised was a confused direction
and a warm occasion. Sometimes a downpour
and oftentimes an artificial cannon-rain
that you never ever wished for or asked for.

To walk around was punishment, to search in a thousand
pairs of feet that all look alike and familiar with
the places you came from and went home to: slums,
factories, picket lines, schools, and countrysides.

Often my gaze pierced, penetrated the
red cloths and the nibs of exclamation points.
You might be among them, one of those who contained
their anguish in closed fists directed at the barricades.

My feet had grown calloused; as did my throat from shouting,
greeting. My hair had stood on end
from terror, each time the echoes of the beats of
flags and fists were advancing, advocating.

It seemed you were begrudged from my embraces
or even from the certainty that you're alive.
This might be the final destination of my search
after stations, camps, morgues, and graves.

Though I failed and was lost in finding the place you promised,
I arrived at the strongholds at the head of your march.
At long last! I glimpsed the towering cry of Freedom! --
In the red cloths harboring your missing face.

July 25, 2007


--

"Tagpuan", from Tugmaang Matatabil, translated from Filipino.

Axel Pinpin, a former political prisoner, is the author of three poetry collections. His latest is Lover's Lane from BlackPen Publishing.

"Huling Lagapak ng Kandado" (Axel Pinpin)

The Lock's Last Thud
BY AXEL PINPIN


The calendar is weathered and withered
The chain is clanging and slamming
Time is slowing and speeding
The bars are bruised and skinned
The cold is here and gone
The heat rose and receded
Boredom mocked and endured
Anger, sneering and jeering

Eight hundred and fifty-nine days
Over and over, a spiralling dance

Two years and four months
Back and forth, spinning with no end in sight

This freedom expected to battle the deepest
darkness of the tomb of the living,
was snatched stolen buried
by the dump of flawed laws
which were even the first to rot and agonize
over the demise of the acrobat, a witness inexpert
in the lessons of walking and balancing.
Ay! He slipped from the rope of lies
knotted by the corrupt fiscal, all reason
mumbled and stumbled,
turned into black magic
each time a false witness sprang
a surprise from the box of evidence, not
the white rabbit which was trained to be swift
and clean, fooling the stunned
masses, guardians of justice
in the Judge’s carnival court.

Eight hundred and fifty-nine days
Over and over, a spiralling dance

Two years and four months
Back and forth, spinning with no end in sight

In an instant, before eyes blink,
The fracas is ended!





     TRANSLATED FROM FILIPINO
     ("HULING LAGAPAK NG KANDADO")

"Apihin Ang Api" (Axel Pinpin)

Oppress the Oppressed
by Axel Pinpin

Cut them clean in half like a shelled coconut,
Hold tight the left hand and slacken the right,
Best to pick out the young buds from the old hand,
Do not regret this, do not ever regret this.
Let anarchy descend and tear them apart.
Their selfishness will sweeten the taste buds
Of our sweet deals, our sugarcoated victories.

Grind like coconut the poor people's power.
Grind, ground, collect all hard workers.
Go grind, ground more, strip down to skin.
Do not feel merciful, do not ever feel merciful.
Their vinaigrette sweat is vintage wine,
Their suffering is the best fodder
For our drunkenness for power.

Squeeze out like milk the poor man's sweat.
Squeeze once, twice; set aside the extract.
If possible, thrice, four times till pure tears well up.
Do not pity them, do not ever pity their fates.
Their hard work is our unequalled joy,
Their suffering our ultimate blessing,
A merry feast prepared in our midst.

And so! Cut clean, grind down, squeeze tight!
Oppress, oppress! Bring down the downtrodden!
Save every scrap, throw not a bit of meat;
Plunder all things, leave nothing behind.
Their wretchedness is their wretchedness alone,
Their misery is our saving grace
From Bathala, good god of the forsaken.

January 28, 2008




- Translated from Filipino
From Tugmaang Matatabil (2008)

"Tinatakasan Ako ng Ritmo at Tugma" (Axel Pinpin)

Rhythm and Rhyme Are Abandoning Me

BY AXEL PINPIN

Poet that I am, I can’t fish out a metaphor,

my love poems are devoid of lust and

spice, versification's uninspired,              

modernism is stale,

beside ice-cold tropes.

How can I rehabilitate the farm                     

devastated by flood? What gold-glint  

will sprinkle the grain                                

when the nickelled price of rice    

is reduced to dirt rust               

in the usurer’s granary? 

Because shortage is black

and because starvation is black,

black will never ever turn to gold.              

As the wise men          

and national artists

and critics advised –

compose, compose and compose with care,

every word must bring a certain magic to it.

Structure the hate

into a whistling song,

gently tell a tale.

And so –

the gleam of leech fat               

is golden in the field                  

moist and glassy when kissed by dawn –                

in the dam                      

neatly stacked up                   

the bloated bodies –                

of farmers slain!                       

July 21, 2008

__________________
 

After reading “I Know I’m Not Sufficiently Obscure” by Ray Durem

Translated from Filipino
From Tugmaang Matatabil (Southern Voices Printing Press, 2008)

"Pahupain ang Ligalig ng Maghapon" (Axel Pinpin)

Becalm the Day's Troubles

Allow the peaceful waves to reflect
the cooling rays of the sun;
the sprays will rub
our companioned shoulders.
A calm posture is noble.
Our evanescent silence is indigo.
And those who were insensate, who did not listen
will be deafened by soundlessness;
the brilliance of the rays that rose into a shout
will flower, will rise tomorrow.

(translated from Filipino)


(Axel Pinpin, Verses from Behind the Bars)

"Ang Pangamba ng Makatang Nakapiit at Di-Makasulat ng Tula" (Axel Pinpin)

The Predicament of a Poet Incarcerated and Unable to Write a Poem

If the poetry-maker is dream,
his illusions are well-versed in that routine,
in half-sleep the dream is alive, resting
between freshness of memories
and nearness to truth of colors,
                 scurries,
                     scurrilous verses,
                         versed songs.
The colors of his hopes are singing.

But the poetry-maker is not dream,
the poet awakens in chains,
                                                   in haste
to escape the pull of hiss-hitch-heat
which dissects the pith of fury and hate,
the fitfulness to truth of techniques,
                 tactics,
                     counter-magic,
                         praxis and tricks.
The geometry of his experience is practical.

August 20, 2006



- translated from Filipino, from Axel Pinpin's Tugmaang Matatabil (Southern Voices Printing Press, 2008)

"Ang Tula Ko Ay Hindi Ako" (Axel Pinpin)

I Am Not My Poetry
by Axel Pinpin

I am not my poetry.
My poetry is unlaurelled, ungroomed in Barong Tagalog.
My own voice is not my own poetry.
My poetry is not a canvas of color, odor, shape or music.

My poetry neither fits into figures of speech
nor rhymes with the passages of mysteries.
It’s neither as free as fantasies in flight
nor as wild as lovely illusions.

My poetry lacks for love and love-making.
It is tone deaf and is ignorant of creative writing.
My poetry is lacking in playful wordplay.
Indifferent to the terror and tingle of meaning.

I am a poet with no self-made lines.
I am a poet who gatecrashes, impoverished.
I am a poet starkly starving, broken and destitute.
I am a poet begging for your alms of true lives.
I am a poet forgotten in the muck of poetics.

I am the poetry of the poet they can never recite.
I am the poet of poetry that they will never recite.
I am the poet, beginning and ending in poetry.

September 5, 2007


translated from Filipino
from Tugmaang Matatabil (Southern Voices Printing Press, 2008)

"Ang Gabi ay Gabi " (Axel Pinpin)

The Night is the Night

If,

He is the double of sleeplessness and dream,
he’s the expert in doubt and slumber

His youth enlivening and aggressive,
his depth an invitation to drowning.

He is patient waiting for the burglar,
He is brave gambling in wakes.

His essence starving in unease,
the extent of his threats is worrisome

Fear awakens his pallor
his heat, yawning, is alert

The night is the night
If,

His water tide is stretching its limbs from the bed.

August 18, 2006

(translated from Filipino)



( Axel Pinpin, Tugmaang Matatabil, Southern Voices Printing Press, 2008 )

"Awit ng Bilanggong Politikal" (Axel Pinpin)

Song of the Political Detainee
BY AXEL PINPIN

My prison walls more than cold and sticky
Are framing whips of twisting agony.
My floor isn’t only rough and dirty,
In it is trapped a searing ennui.
The iron bars coated with rust,
The freedom I so want has greased its crust.

Smear with verses the slipping freedom!
Tear and tear down the silken iron!
Shut and shut off the plague’s kingdom!
Rise from the darkness lighted by anguish!
Smash and smash the walls of cowardice!
Smash the corral with the cry of release!

August 23, 2007

Translated from Filipino
From Tugmaang Matatabil (Southern Voices Printing Press, 2008)