Mt. Mayon by Simeon Dumdum Jr.

(In which I got the chance to see it again . . . in someone else's eyes.)

***

Mt. Mayon
(From the airport in Legaspi City)
Simeon Dumdum Jr.
As to this jacketed, hunting-cappedAnd skippered man following me as thoughAfraid I might ogle his daughter,Perhaps he is really just a tricycle driverStalking a fare, but beast enough to standWide-eyed, watching this mountain tooAs it goes déshabillé, while the windShoos away the clouds of sheep untilnothing remainsBut a lamb sucking the blue nipple.

***

At first read, or even at the second or third, a reader will simply find a scenario typical of provincial mountainside life in Simeon Dumdum Jr.'s Mt. Mayon. It is just a fleeting moment, a scene captured through the lens of a camera and could even be an abstract emotional memories of one's first visit to a province. But the structural brevity and simplicity of the poem actually exude beauty and love for it.

I have been to Bicol only once and was granted a visit to a mountain where we got a better look at Mt. Mayon. Some of the memories I had from that trip include children running barefoot after our vehicle while shouting greetings of welcome, and old men and women smiling toothlessly at the sight of local tourists. It was so heartwarming, light and human. Yet those adjectives always fell short of full description. So when I read how Dumdum described the man he encountered at the airport, I was amazed both by the simplicity and the weight of words he used.

As to this jacketed, hunting-capped
And skippered man following me as though
Afraid I might ogle his daughter,
Perhaps he is really just a tricycle driver
Stalking a fare . . .

And then the sight of the mountain. It had been a long time since it was branded for it conical perfection. But I dare say that at time, I, the amateur self-proclaimed connoisseur of beauty that I am, saw no apparent disgrace to its name, based on postcards from which my judgment emanated. It was no wonder why the man was,

. . . but beast enough to stand
Wide-eyed, watching this mountain too . . .

It was just a moment, a fleeting moment when wind and mist of evaporated water waltzed to uncover a beauty capable of putting other beauties to shame. The excitement one experiences while watching the mountain come into clearer view is akin to the expectation of a gallery spectator for a celebrated masterpiece to be unveiled. As the clouds, which Dumdum referred to as "clouds of sheep", moved away, what remains is the perfect mound of earth, déshabillé. At the peak of it was "a lamb sucking the blue nipple", the tip of the cone kissing the blue sky.

As it goes déshabillé, while the wind
Shoos away the clouds of sheep until
nothing remains
But a lamb sucking the blue nipple.

Poetry, in its purest and most perfect state, is a reproduction of ephemeral beauty with the hope of making it last for posterity. In Mt. Mayon, Simeon Dumdum Jr.'s artistic play of words was a gift to people who love nature as well as verses. It could even be a call, a reminder for people to look around and marvel at how wonderful the world is, and perhaps ruminate on the fact that serenity could be sometimes found in a glance at a beautiful mound of earth.

Rains, Winds and Hands

(In which we should all go back to her.)

***

I have to go to school a little bit later today to discuss the research paper we were supposed to defend before a panel this Friday. But as you have guessed, I have not come up with a good write up yet. In fact, I have not written a paragraph yet. So I have to go see my professor.

On my way, I saw a terrible traffic at 8 in the morning. Whatever happened? I heard the driver of the van talking to other drivers through the radio. I was so sleepy since I had a terribly little sleep last nigh. But I was awaken when the driver turned left.

“Isn’t this place still flooded?” I thought. And yes, it still is! I saw two other cars get stuck on their way to escaping a terrible traffic. I looked at the place again and remembered that I haven’t passed this road eversince Ondoy hit the Philippines. The place looked like a dark lake full of water spinach with stems as thick as a piccolo, or a flute for that matter. Oh I remembered our fateful walk through the flood from Santolan to Brookside. And this place, until now, is still suffering from the aftermath. I held my breath as we get nearer to dry ground. I looked back and saw the waves of dark water slowly fade.

With just an interval of a week, the Philippines was hit by three typhoons – Ondoy, Pepeng and Ramil, respectively. And in these deathly days, everyone prayed for the heavy rains to stop and that this be the last typhoon to come. Nature seemed not to listen as she sends three – in the same manner that men didn’t listen as she pleads for her to be saved.

The reasons for these kinds of calamities are really alarming. We have been used to rains and typhoons but the recent events were enough to heighten our awareness on natural disasters and climate change.

I got home just in time to see a news about the tree planting campaign of GMA 7 in Tanay, Rizal was bering aired. According to the participants, this was done to help save nature and to lessen the effects of climate change. I was happy to see and hear about people who care for the earth. Actually, it’s high time that all of us should.

Struggles, Patience, Humanity and Sisterhood

(In which everyone has their own version of my narrative.)

***

“It’s six thirty. Wake up.”

I slowly woke up and my eyes wandered around an alien room. Oh yes. I have spent the night in my sister’s dormitory. I remembered how I struggled to get out of Recto to meet my younger sister. I rose from the bed and felt my body ache. I didn’t sleep well.

“Let’s eat our breakfast and go home. Mother must be very worried.”

“Yes. Perhaps they ran out of battery and there isn’t any electricity so they couldn’t reply to our messages. I wonder how they are.”

“Do you think we can get something to take us home?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had a clearer view of what this typhoon has done. But I do hope we can get home. Anyway, did they give forecast regarding this?”

“Of course not. They will be releasing news today saying that there has been a strong typhoon yesterday.”

I chuckled. “Asa ka pa sa PAG-ASA.” Translation at this point is futile.

I finished my food and got ready.

“We’re leaving now. Thank you very much.” I bade the dormitory owner goodbye.

We rode a jeepney to Cubao and headed to the LRT station. We saw a lot of people on the streets.

“They must be the ones who didn’t make it home last night.”

When we get to the Santolan station, our eyes widened because of the disastrous picture before us – mud, uprooted trees and plants; vehicles of all sorts stuck on the street and barefooted people walking. My sister told me to start walking to Sta. Lucia East Grand Mall. I looked at her, bewildered. That was too distant for me. I suggested something else.

“It’s better than going to Ortigas through MRT. It’ll be impossible to pass Floodway,” she said with a tone that is both apologetic and overbearing. Then, with a serious face, she said, “Because you see, it’s Flood way. And we’re avoiding flood.” Our serious faces burst into a loud laugh.

We walked. And no matter how much we tried to be careful, we didn’t save our legs from being abstract artworks made of thick mud. I am carrying the heavier bag which contains my sandals and rubber shoes and jacket. She’s carrying my school bag.

We held on to each other especially in times of battling a more slippery and muddy road. I tried to keep my gasps low. She might have noticed and said “Don’t get sick now. I can’t carry you home.”

As we get farther and farther, our slippers become so heavy with mud that we have to wash our feet in ochre water. The only water we see is ochre anyway.

“It’s still mud.” I chortled. “We wash our feet to eliminate mud in mud-filled water. How miserable.”

The feeling of being pathetic augments my fatigue. But my sister has her uniquely cute way of lightening things up.

“Ate, do you enjoy this one-of-a-kind trip with me?”

I smirked and shook my head. Ah. I almost forgot that the longest time I’ve been spending with my sister nowadays is when we share the same bed when we sleep every Saturday at home. We ceased shopping and eating together. We don’t even laugh together more often. However, I don’t find this “make-up bonding time” quite enjoyable. Yet my sister has another punch line to deliver.

“Look. The mud is so thick and creamy it looks like chocolate. If it’s real chocolate, I’ll dive into it.”

“But it’s not chocolate.”

“Aw come on! Don’t be too serious! Just think it’s chocolate so you’ll be happy.” And she hummed a tune while smiling.

We reached the mall and saw a truck full of people passing a can of biscuits to one another and a couple of men taking their pictures. We turned right and saw an ochre river flowing among houses and trees and shops. We saw people clinging on to each other while holding their belongings tightly on top of their heads.

“Wait. I need my medicine.” She unzipped my schoolbag and got a fur pouch. From it I got my inhaler and gave myself some “air”.

“Ate, don’t get sick.” She slid the strap of my schoolbag off her right shoulder and handed it to me. “This is lighter. Give me that.” As we were switching bags, she told me, in a manner that sounded like an encouragement and an order at the same time “You can do it, ha?”

I saw danger. My sister saw a challenge. In her, I saw hope.

We started off our fateful journey on a knee-high flood. The surface felt hot but cold to the feet. As we approach Karangalan, my heart broke at the sight of houses and cars – the former half deluged and the latter completely submerged in water. After an hour, the water started to rise up to my shoulders. We saw traffic enforcer agents wearing life vests and ordering people.
“There is a strong current approaching! Hold on to the rope to your left!”

I looked at the river in front of us and saw people holding tightly to the rope to keep themselves from being carried by the strong water current. A man in his forties, who have been walking with us for an hour, told me to hold on to his shoulder. A pregnant woman, who has also been our companion, sought protection from my sister.

As we approach the deadly road, the current seemed to grow stronger and stronger. People were walking toward us from the other side, making my grips to the rope weaker. We needed to step up to somewhere safer. I held on to the man’s shoulder. He told me to hold on to the rope as I climb. But my left hand is holding the bag on my head and my right hand is gripping his shoulders. I tried to get nearer to the rope but the flow is too strong to battle. When I got a better distance from the rope, I reached it with my right hand. As I did so, someone stepped down from the gutter to catch the rope and the water suddenly flowed towards me. I lost balance and felt the cold, dirty water wash my face. I didn’t know what to do with my hands and feet as the flood started to overwhelm me. I heard people yelling. “Get her! Get her!” the next thing I know was I was embracing my bag with my left hand while my right is gripping the rope.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

I just smiled. And we continued walking. For hours, we walked against high and low water level, held on, talked and laughed with strangers. Some people noticed that my sister has been carrying the heavy bag with the same patience and strength that she had at the start of our journey and comfortably told me to help her.

But she refused. She always refused. At times, she will even insist of carrying my bag for me when she noticed that I am having a hard time, which makes me feel less than an older sister. And she has always been a troublesome imp to me. But now, I seemed to be more of a burden to her.

We reached Junction Cainta and had to walk until Brookside to finally see land. The dry ground under my feet felt queer. Now I understand how sailors feel. When we are finally aboard a jeepney to Binangonan, I felt relieved. However, it feels strange that the area of Taytay is relatively dry compared to Cainta and we have to apologize to people who sit beside us again and again because we were soaking.

When we got to our house, everything was messed up. But it’s definitely better than the ones we saw hours ago. Our parents went downstairs at the sound of our voices.

“We’re home.”

"Heaven is twice heaven only to those who have tasted hell.”
- Angela Manalang-Gloria

It’s Raining

(In which nature reminds of me of things I can’t escape from.)

***

After months of being nearly-baked under the sun while waiting for the van, or walking to the nearest store or getting to the supermarket from the drugstore, the heavens showered the drying earth. What a relief! It’s been a long time since the last time I felt the cold breeze. It’s been a long time.

And April is waning. The overcast sky and the rain and the cold wind are giving me a feeling that something will come alive, again. It’s the kind of feeling that will tell you where you are before you open your eyes, or what the time is without seeing the clock. It’s a feeling that makes you reminiscent of something unknown. It’s something new and different. It’s something I can’t explain or understand and it’s something that will never leave. It’s something like the feeling I got one rainy April afternoon as I was so enthused in making a diary to put all the positive things I feel about my cute flute instructor that I don’t mind skipping lunch and snacks. It’s close to the excitement of walking around the school ground with new clothes and school stuffs or seeing old friends and making new ones in the campus. But it’s something more than the relief and amazement of staying in a company for a year or the excitement of going back to school. It’s happiness and fear and doubt and excitement and hatred.

And the rain falls again. And the wind blew. The sky remained overcast. Days will pass and the sun will shine mightily again, making every thing which breathes life feel its warmth. And the rain will kiss the earth again. The cycle goes on. But this feeling, this knowing feeling deep in me, remains.