The divide between prose and poetry in the country has always been present; maybe not blatant, but it is palpable at least.
Whereas the concise verbosity of Filipino prose has so freely graced the palms of bored students and starry eyed wonderers, the same cannot be said of its more abstract and ambiguous counterpart. Its glittering gems are tucked away silently either in the shelves of university libraries or in between commercially popular works of fiction in National Book Store—with people rarely batting an eye on them.
Its presence in academic curriculums—especially in the pre-collegiate levels—is rare, save for the common fixtures Ibong Adarna and Florante at Laura. The other poems that enjoy the privilege of being taught in such stages lean heavily towards the Western hemisphere—Shakespeare’s sonnets and Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken among many others.
What local poetry is discussed later on in college general courses are done so fleetingly, playing second fiddle to the lengthy discussions of the likes of other Philippine literary giants such as Nick Joaquin and Bienvenido N. Santos.
This leads to the question ‘Why is this the case?’ Certainly, Filipino poetry has had an excellent track record over the years, critically speaking, though the debate on what constitutes Filipino poetry is still currently stuck at an impasse. Staunch nationalists such as Virgilio Almario argue it is imperative the local tongue be used in writing. Meanwhile the likes of Gemino Abad and Cirilo Bautista believe that Filipinos already hold ownership of English and must exhibit so through writing.
A great number of contemporary poets in the country, from Genevieve Asenjo to Danton Remoto, studied abroad in prestigious universities on grants and scholarships. The famed Jose Garcia Villa even ran in the same literary circle as that of E.E. Cummings in the middle of the 20th century. Yet bafflingly, this critical validation has yet to translate into the genre’s permeation of the mainstream Filipino consciousness.
To be fair, the resurgence of the spoken word method with groups such as Words Anonymous at the forefront has inched it closer to such an achievement. More so with the growing popularity of foreign commercial poets such as Lang Leav, regardless of the literati’s collective aversion towards her alleged ‘chopped prose’ poetics.
“I personally feel that Lang Leav should be charged with character assassination for just about every striving poet all over the world,” says Belle Cabal (AB LIM, ’15), “But she got poetry back in the market.”
Cabal, who garnered Outstanding Thesis honors for her poetry anthology, For Lasting Architecture, in her undergraduate, knows full well the struggle of getting people to appreciate poetry. Her move to Ateneo Law School introduced her to a myriad of new people from a variety of backgrounds, almost all of which find poetry as an unprofitable endeavor to engage in.
In all fairness, there is a layer of reality to such a dismissing sentiment. Just earlier this year poet Rebecca Añonuevo lost her nearly two decade old professorial job at Miriam College because of K-12’s retrenchment.
“I’m with people who can afford to buy books but they just choose not to. I’m also situated at a humbling community so I get to interact with people from both sides of the fences; they don’t think of poetry either,” Cabal says.
Before the rise to fame of Lang Leav, prospective poetry readers had to gain appreciation of the art form through what was readily available in the bookstores: Rumi, Gibran, Neruda, Plath, and so on. Almost all of which, according to Cabal, are ‘hard to relate to if you’re a teen easily swayed by werewolves and vampires.’
Now there is a springboard. “If you enjoyed Lang Leav and found yourself enjoying poetry, you’ll most likely pick up her contemporaries, but eventually you’ll get to the good ones,” she explains.
While Cabal subtly acknowledges the fact that Filipino poetry is indeed being passed over, there are others who offer dissenting viewpoints. Take Mesandel Arguelles for instance. The Palanca Award winner and National Book Awards finalist is nonchalant about any issue that supposedly plagues his preferred art form. While he does acknowledge that Filipino poetry has a small audience of readers, he sees no crisis present, implying perhaps that public consumption has never been a trait of the craft.
Despite his calm and collected attitude, Arguelles believes that poetry must still maintain a sense of sanctity in the face of selling out for financial profit and reader popularity, even joking that, “It’s just okay for some people to praise chopped prose as a great work of poetry as long as no one listens to them.”
However different the two’s opinions may be, the fact remains—and both of them acknowledge this—that Filipino poetry is read so scarcely by the country’s reading population. Perhaps this is why Filipino poets often parade their works in public, not out of intellectual arrogance but rather out of generosity and realization that a situation the other way around is hard to come by.
Cabal sees it as a projected fear that people think they need a certain level of comprehension to appreciate poetry. “That entire notion is false,” she adds. “You don’t need to come in ready with a degree to read poetry on your own. You can start by just reading.” Yet basing from the reactions of people she has encountered, people seem to feel the need to have acquired either a sense of cultural sophistication or a mindset of a literature major to appreciate a poem.
Nowadays, that invisible barrier is starting to come down. As testament to this, Words Anonymous member Juan Miguel Severo has amassed a Twitter following of north of 100,000. Optimistically speaking, that is 100,000 more people who have taken interest in a local craft that goes as far back as Biag ni Lam-ang.
But local poetry has progressed tremendously since the advent of print. Thoughts flew more rabidly. Ideas which were often so easily articulated have become harder to express. Some, if not most, of the country’s most acclaimed poets have resorted to literal writing as the main canvas for their art rather than performance. Others, unfortunately, have already passed away. Hence, the only way for their poetry to be appreciated is strictly through the page.
And now the discussion arrives right back where it began. Who is to be blamed for the relegation of Filipino page poetry to the background? Frankly, there could be a plethora of answers, with each one bringing forth another row of questions that ask to be resolved.
Anvil Publishing’s partnership with National Book Store has placed poetry books previously attainable only through university presses in accessible ports, ready for buying. But like many things, human action still dictates what is to happen next.
“Attention span is the context in which this century thrives in, and our local poets don’t operate in flashy 10 second snaps,” Cabal says. Indeed, local poets are more inclined towards slow burn poetics as opposed to brief, yet numerous hugots.
If that is so and if such a statement holds any truth to it, then nothing less than a paradigm shift from prospective readers is needed to turn Filipino poetry from an esoteric, acquired taste to a craft that is cherished at its most serene.
