The Brooklyn Rail

Kung Gayon

Lumiko ang hangin papunta sa isang bahay at inilipat ang ilang pahina ng Bibliya. Unti-unting kinakain ng mga gamugamo ang liwanag. Ito ay pagpapatuloy ng epekto ng gabi ng pagkabulag. Dumating na ang mga biktima ng mga kaganapang nawa’y nangyari sa ibang lugar. Kung gayon, ano itong bulung-bulungan sa paligid ng bahay? Labis-labis ang impluwensiya ng ilang. Nakakalat sa hangin ang hininga ng mga abay. Isang tasa ng tsaa para sa paghahanda natin sa pagsipat sa dulo ng buwan. Paabutin mo ang misteryo sa lahat ng gabi at pagkatapos, hanapin ang mga tiktik na lulutas sa mga bagay na ito sapagkat ako ay tinanggap lamang bilang isang tulay. Nagsisimula na ang pangako ng tag-ulan. Panahon na upang lumipat sa ibang hanggahan, sa kabila ng mga dahon, baril, at balsa. Ang hiyas na sumasagisag sa laruan ng iyong diwa. Ligtas na nga ba tayo sa orihinal na plano ng pagsira? Nakakalat na sa hangin ang amoy ng mga sunog na pakpak. Nanunuyo na ang liwanag. Kumikislap at naglalakbay ang dulo ng mitsa papunta sa sukdulan ng ligaya ng aking kaluluwa.

If So

The wind veers off course into a house and turns several Bible pages. Moths slowly gobble up light. This is a lingering effect of the night of blindness. They have arrived now, those victims of circumstances that should have happened elsewhere. If this is so, then what is this rumor mill buzzing around the house? The influence of the wild is quite palpable. The bridesmaids’ exhalations have mingled with the air. Here’s a cup of tea for our preparations for investigating the end of the month. You let the mystery infect all the nights, and then after that you find the spies that will solve all these things because I am merely accepted as a mediator. The promise of the rainy season is already starting. It is time to switch over to another horizon, to the other side of the leaves, guns, and makeshift rafts. The jewel that symbolizes your mind’s plaything. Are we truly safe from the original plan of destruction? The smell of burnt wings has permeated the open air. The light expresses new affections. The wick’s end is radiant and is honed in to the seventh heaven of my soul.

Pisara

Isang gabi, iginuhit muli ang katawan ng isang patay na kabayo gamit ang tinungkab na bato, gamit ang galaw ng tubig, gamit ang yeso ng matandang propesor ng isang sinaunang paghahanap ng kahulugan ng katahimikan sa iba’t ibang manipestasyon ng dilim, at naibigan ito ng pisara na para bang ito ang kay tagal nang nawalay niyang hubog. Pagkatapos, nalito ang mga bata noong may nagsulat ng depinisyon ng kamatayan (at sa tabi, ang depinisyon ng pagpatay, panggagahasa, pang-aalipin, at pagmamalupit) sa buhangin at sinabi ng hangin, wala kayong dapat ikabahala, tingnan ninyo, may mga liryong nilulunod ang tubig. Ngunit ang obserbasyong ito’y naging ganap lamang noong dumungaw sa bintana ang kahila-hilakbot at umaandap-andap na tagahayag ng landas ng mga kinatay na gansa: isang trahedyang pinuno ng ibon at mga labing ikinandado sa isa’t isa. Ibalik mo sa akin ang mga alaala ng dalampasigang pinagtapunan ng mga katawang minsang naluha sa liwanag at napipi sa pinagpatong-patong na bisyon ng pagdating ng walang hanggang kariktan! Hingin mo na ang lahat huwag lang ang kulay-kurap na ingay ng aking pangalan, ang pagkagumon ko sa mga ideya, ang pag-iisip kong walang layon ngunit may nais sindihan, ang hinahanap na sayaw ng mga Anak ng Diyos, ang iba pang bagay na may kaugnayan (kahit gahaplos) sa huling-ginto ng mga itinatago kong gunita. Tawagin mo ang kanyonero at kakain muna tayo bago ipunin ang mga harabe sa mga bangang ireregalo sa kabilang barangay. Mag-ingat ka dahil naitayo na ang istana sa kabilang pampang, tahimik ang mga kuliglig (ibig sabihin, may mangyayaring hindi maganda ngunit hindi nakamamatay), nangangatal ang mga gabi at hindi pa alam kung saan ito sasapit, ngunit may haka-haka na sa tubuhan, magtatapos ito sa pagtatalik. O sa likas na init ng ating hininga, maaaring gumawa ito ng kadensiya, kalabit ng lindol, ng pagtakbo nang buong bilis bagama’t hindi natin alam ang destinasyon. Ikaw at ako ay mga piraso ng isang basag na salamin at ang lahat ng ito ay repleksiyon ng isang kasalanang tinikman natin sa ibang buhay at ngayon natin pinagdurusahan. Kung minsan, sinasaniban ako ng mga sinag kasabay ng mga epekto ng salamangka ng Ingkong: mga nag-aapoy na rosas at mga nag-aapoy na mata at bahay na gawa sa apoy. Lahat ito’y isinasalin ng pulso bilang paglunok sa lalamunan at pagpisil sa palad ng katabing dilag habang isang mariposa ang umaalpas (ngunit hindi ito magtatagumpay) sa pagdating ng bukas. Makamundong pagnanasang nilamon ng takot upang ibalik sa ibang panahon. Sabihin mo sa akin na tinatawag mo ako sa iyong pagtulog. Sabihin mo sa akin na tinatawag mo ako sa isang daungang tigmak ng mga natuklap na liwanag ng kalangitan. Sabihin mo sa akin na ito’y hula lamang at maaari pa nating kalkulahin ang posibilidad na masasalag natin ang lahat ng ibabato ng susunod na araw, ang lahat ng ibibintang ng susunod na ulan.

Blackboard

One night, the body of a dead horse was once again being sketched using a dislodged stone block, using the movement of water, using the plaster from an old professor of the ancient search for the meaning of silence in the dark’s various manifestations, and the blackboard liked it, as if it was its long lost form. Afterward, the kids were confused when someone scrawled the definition of death (and next to it, the definition of murder, rape, slavery, and torture) on the sand and the wind said, you have nothing to worry about, see, lilies were being drowned by water. But this observation only became real when the monstrous flickering light exposed the route of the slaughtered geese: a tragedy filled with birds and lips that were locked together. Take me back to the memories of sandy beaches that served as dumping ground for bodies once driven to tears by light and to voicelessness by the stacked-up vision of infinite -beauty’s arrival! Ask me to give you anything, except for the blink--colored clangor of my name, my addiction to ideas, my mindset that’s adrift but wants to ignite something, the coveted dance of the Children of God, the other things related (even superficially) to the last gilded form of my secret views. Call the cannoneer and let’s eat first before collecting the harabe into jars to be given as gifts to the neighboring town. Be careful because the istana has already been erected on the opposite shore, the crickets are silent (meaning, something bad is about to happen but no one will die), the nights are chilly, and there is no clue yet as to where all this is going, although there are speculations about it leading to the sugarcane fields, that it will end in sex. Or from the natural heat of our breath, a cadence may be produced, a twitch of earthquake, of a sprint towards an unknown destination. You and I are pieces of a shattered mirror, and all this is a reflection of a sin we tasted in another life and now end up atoning for. Sometimes, though, I am possessed by light rays that come with the effects of Ingkong’s sorcery: burning roses and burning eyes and a house made of fire. All this is being translated by the pulse as a swallowing attempt and as a pinching of the palm of a woman seated next to me while a mariposa tries to get away (though it won’t succeed) from tomorrow’s daybreak. Earthbound lust consumed by fear in order to return it to another era. Tell me you’ve been calling my name in your sleep. Tell me you’ve been calling my name at a pier drenched with the sky’s sloughed-off light. Tell me this is only guesswork and we can still calculate the possibility of fending off all that the next day will lob at us, all the accusations of the next rain.

Rosanna

Mga pusong-lutang na dinadala sa puntod. Mga paraisong iginuguhit sa buhanginan ng isang islang muling lalamunin ng tubig sa ikalima ng hapon. Karambola itong tumama sa mundo mo at sa mundo ng mga pinabayaan mo sa guho. Anong guho? Ito ngayo’y isa nang gusali, may higanteng ahas sa itinagong palapag, may maliit na silid para sa tahimik na pagsamba. Sa walang orasan, ito ay simula ng gabi. Sa walang minamahal, ito ay simula ng makamundong pagniniig, laway at puson, pawis at halik, kalmot at sabunot sa sarili. Kumusta pala ang iyong paglilitis? Nasalo ba ang nagpatiwakal? Hindi ko napansin ang paglipas ng panahon, may mga sugat na pala ako sa buong katawan. Alang-alang sa iyong kahubdan, isang kurap at isang kuwaderno. Isang relikaryo at isang humuhuning yokong. Kahit pumaroon ako sa gubat, kahit pumaroon ako sa kulungan, kahit pumaroon ako sa taguan ng mga leon, kahit pumaroon ako sa pinto ng kamatayan, naroroon ang kanyang mga tugon. Langit na pabago-bago ng mukha. Sa sampayan: bestida ng nobya at bestida ng kapatid ng nobya. Sa sala: kamison sa sahig at pantalon sa bukana ng pinto. Sa bintana: isang pusang natutulog. Sa isang haligi: isinulat na pangalan (Rosanna) at ipinahid na dugo. Sa kusina: nabulok na kamatis at itlog. Dila ng aking Tagahatid, nasaan na ang aking silid? Mata ng aking Tagasundo, bakit puro bangin ang paligid?

Rosanna

Floating hearts brought to the grave. Portions of paradise sketched on the sandy beach of an island that will once again be submerged at five in the afternoon. Chaos is what has hit your world and the world of those you have left in the ruins. What ruins? Are they the one that is now a building, a building with a giant snake on a secret floor, with a small room for silent prayers? For those with no clocks, this is the beginning of the night. For those with no loved ones, this is the beginning of earthbound lust, spit and navel, sweat and kiss, scratch and tug of one’s hair. So how was your trial? Has the suicide been saved? I have not been able to pay attention to passing time, I already have wounds all over my body. For the sake of your nakedness, a blink of an eye and a notebook. A reliquary and a crying yokong. Whether I go to the jungle, whether I go to jail, whether I go to the lions’ lair, whether I go straight to the gate of death, his answers are there. Sky that keeps changing its face. On the clothesline: the girlfriend’s dress and the girlfriend’s sibling’s dress. In the living room: a chemise on the floor and a pair of pants by the doorway. On the window: a sleeping cat. On one of the pillars of the house: an etched name (Rosanna) and slathered blood. In the kitchen: a rotten tomato and an egg. Tounge of My Deliverer, where is my room? Eye of My Death, why are there cliffs everywhere?

Translator’s Note

The Filipino-language prose poem collection Glossolalia, published in 2013 by the now-defunct Manila-based small press High Chair, is Marlon Hacla’s second book. Glossolalia is a sweeping departure, both stylistically and thematically, from his debut collection of lyric poems, May Mga Dumadaang Anghel sa Parang (National Commission for Culture and the Arts/Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts and Practices, 2010), which I translated into English as There Are Angels Walking the Fields for Broken Sleep Books in 2021.

Glossolalia’s release was met with less fanfare in the Philippines than Hacla’s first book, an injustice to the book’s towering cultural significance—it is the first and only Filipino poetry collection that uses maximalism as an aesthetic and as a generative tool, a means to obfuscate or clarify through a persistent barrage of incongruous ideas and questions. It shuns spare, efficient language, and is in a class of its own in contemporary Filipino literature. Fluid from its lack of lineation and a near-unbroken stream of consciousness—at times almost impossible to follow with its ever-shifting moods and delirious revelatory arcs—Glossolalia is a soulful exploration of material ­reality’s underlying twisted logic; of immortality and timelessness; of religious ecstasy; of Philippine urban legends; of psychogeography; and of the uncomfortable and sometimes seedy aspects of music, cinema, and art. It is also an expanding maze of unexpected imagery.

In translating Glossolalia, I was quite conscious about staying true to the text’s heightened sense of drama, its hyper-attentiveness, creeping unease, and manic intensity. I chose the language that I felt best captured the spirit of the book. For example, I decided to translate “kaguluhan ng kanyang kaselanan” [which literally translates to “stirring in the sensitive area” because Filipino language does not have gendered pronoun equivalents] into “bedlam in her loins.” I also took liberties where I thought they were appropriate and still tapped into the maximalist vein that conveys the lifeblood of Glossolalia. “Idinuduyan ako ng isang dila upang ibalik ang lahat ng iyong nalimutan” lacked any mention of sleep (just being in a hammock), but my translation is “I am rocked to sleep by a tongue in order to bring back everything that you have forgotten.”

Another thing to note about my translation is my tendency to explain, to illuminate. If there are no context clues in the original text, I add descriptors, sometimes liberally, but of course with permission from Marlon Hacla. I am not into footnotes in translation. They’re not just ugly, they also transform the look of an otherwise enjoyable art such as poetry into a mind-numbing remembrance of a thing that looks like a college term paper. So what I do is to add a phrase or a clause, one that is worded carefully so it does not look out of place. Take, for example, this section from “Sa Gitna ng Kailanman” (“Halfway Through Eternity,” pages 30-31):

“Wala nang ibang kakatwang nangyari maliban noong napuno ng dahumpalay ang paligid at naalala namin ang pangako mong hinagilap namin sa mga banga, ngunit sa kasamaang palad, napuno rin ng mga dahumpalay, kaya napilitan kaming gumawa ng mga bagong pangako para sa aming kaligtasan.”

“Nothing interesting has happened since then, except for that one time when masses of dahumpalay—those green venomous snakes—overran this place and we were reminded of your promise that we had to fish from earthen jars, but sadly, the jars were also filled with dahumpalay, thus we were forced to come up with new promises for our salvation.”

“[T]hose green venomous snakes” is not in the original text. It is my insertion in lieu of a footnote. This intrusion is a reflection of my phi­losophy as a literary translator, how much I take my role seriously even if nobody notices—because that’s not the point. A translator is a trafficker of information, of truth. And the truth is only as good as its intelligibility. A translator is also a laborer, burdened by individual prejudices and haunted by histories, damned to work along the ethical line between invisibility and visibility, while each time redefining (or maybe undermining) the concept of authorship. I try to think of myself as a useful go-between, defusing the unnecessary tension between the need to preserve the text’s innate mysteries and the reader’s patience with ambiguities. I want to assist the English-language reader of Glossolalia in moving as smoothly as possible through the book’s convoluted passageways.

Kristine Ong Muslim
April 1, 2023
Sitio Magutay, Maguindanao, Philippines