BISAYA ENGLISH: PROSE AND POEMS EVERY DAY

Fucking idiot Lily!

By JC Nigado

                                                                                            Mercedes Cabral

‘Fucking idiot Lily!’

If Cabral is reported right, she’s right.

If she’s quoted right, she’s righter.

And if she well meant it, she’s rightest.

Lily had it coming – any way;

Long after the fall of Miller’s Salesman.

The indie culture reared its Achebe head –

To utter blunt what many always knew.

So what’s the fuss, not really?

When fucking idiot Lily is fucking

Idiot Lily – Botoxed and rhinoplastic,

The post-dated-check Banshee.

And where’s the hypocrite ‘bearded meat’?                              

Who licked Lily’s ass for ages.

She eloped to the new movie itch

Manay, with her toady self as spouse.

The MMFF’s Mercedes rolls in, standing tall

As fucking idiot Lily cringes –

And coils in her own motherly,

Well-deserved reputation won.

           

Innocents Daze, Wednesday, 28 December 2016

Tagurabong City, Philippines                                                 Lily Monteverde

BISAYA ENGLISH: PROSE AND POEMS EVERY DAY

An allergy called and none came                   

By JC Nigado         

An allergy called and none came

It informed such neighbors and friends,

Who whistled, and raised sly rumors

Wild as the sea, and blown over;

The loudest lie laughed the pain out.

And so it is when illness comes;

It strikes a solitary walk.

One must ready in solitude

The cure to heal within without,

Till allergy leaves one’s wellness.

When allergy comes calling again,

Such neighbors and friends shall eke out:

To see no one around the house,

And travel talk of stranger tales --

To feed the sea and make waves tall.

                       

3:30 a.m., Saturday 10 December 2016

Tagurabong City, Philippines

BISAYA ENGLISH: PROSE AND POEMS EVERY DAY

           

 Steal life           

 By JC Nigado

                                                                                   

A thief is always a thief

Ignoble in life and in death;                                              

And final sleep is hard to find.                             

He steals a grave strife,                                         

Alone clothed or in cahoots --                              

The mud thieving never ends                              

Congenital thief of decay.                                     

Indecency reigns supreme,                                  

When justice can be as ugly                                

As crime, if not uglier.                                                                                

Electra’s hallmark of shame                                 

Grasped by Gloria’s Nine;                                     

Brazen corruption and deceit --                            

Marcos’s legacy of revenge.                                             

No sense fretting about One’s

Absence of right or wrong --

That betrays the Populist scheme,

Tracing the Nationalsozialist.

Time to rise, to engage anew

And break sob sympathies,

Against the dread of violence.

To bury outrage in disgust,

Upon the skin of protest,

And in the heart of fury.

The New Society decomposes

Into Federal change coming --

New dress for same old trick,

The tyrant’s kin clothing.

Behold the martial law wake

Disorders the youngling swell --

And work a better soil to grow.

Saturday, 12 November 2016

Tagurabong City, Philippines

Alone the pain feels

By JC Nigado

Alone the pain feels

When one’s sick – abed

Or elsewhere, healing

All by oneself, as Tolstoy

Comforts in his peace of war.

Single at birth and in death –

One’s first breath and last;

And sole the discomfort grows.

A carer or a crowd,  

Around the sickroom,

Doesn’t change the reality

Of pain and solitude.

4:00 a.m., Sunday, 4 December 2016   

Tagurabong City, Philippines

Chin by the night of the first soiree

By JC Nigado

By the night of the first soiree

Chin was the very first

Who engaged me like turtle,

Walking merry on a wire

That burned with fire and water.

Stagers call him “Pusit.”

Is it because of the ink

He pouts and spurts dry?

Or is it because he stains

And stinks their bland desire?

Tell me whatever is so

And I’ll believe you never

Because I’ve felt and known

Chin’s chin in sin or holy

With gin, brandy or beer.

By the night of the first soiree

We measured each other friend

A scale that for days weighed

Weeks, months, ever years

Until the night of the last soiree.

BISAYA ENGLISH: PROSE AND POEMS EVERY DAY

Vean’s dance is street smart                  

By JC Nigado                                                         

Vean’s dance is street smart                                 

On stage borne not out of                                     

Ballet, folk or jazz training;                                    

But from gut and gumption                                               

Of the young and willing                                       

To the tune of life.                                                   

                                                                                   

Vean’s dance is instinct born                               

Like her beauty out of nature,                              

Now invaded by trained hand                              

In the art of appearances --                                   

That enhance or ruin the one                              

Bestowed by rain, sound, air.                               

                                                                                   

Vean’s dance is smarter still                                 

With ballet, pop and jazz                                       

Swaying pirouettes of trumpet:

A challenge to wit and character                         

That seem to break on some                                 

Cold watchers in the rye.                                       

                                                                                   

Dance, Vean, dance!                                             

To the music of life you know

Mind not their inconfidence.

The theater of envy and desire

Is at work all day, cycling --

Recycling the fear of self-doubt.

After dancing,

Wednesday 24 August 2016

Tagurabong City, Philippines

BISAYA ENGLISH: PROSE AND POEMS EVERY DAY

ARIAN GOLONDRINA: The actress sings to life                 

By JC Nigado                                                                                                                                                                                              

EVERY TIME I see or think about Arian I always recall how she covered Gloria Gaynor’s

“I will survive” on videoke, and claimed it for three minutes. Three minutes are all it takes to press a song and groove it to life once more. Covers can be precarious,

they can make or unmake copies, depending on their take of the material. The moment the song turns carbon, the singer is doomed to disappear--perhaps, into the oblivion of the original. But not Arian.

            First time I saw Arian onstage, in a workshop’s immersion piece,

“Sa Bubungan,” I knew an actress was at hand. She was honed to theater, by gut or game, maybe, and she played already well at the onset. She fit the role and roled the character, as it were, like a real addict drugging the scene.

            In the end, Arian was tagged a Stager hands down, no doubt about it. The “doubt” came much later, during the season, when she displayed her own world, a solitude in a crowd that others couldn’t inhabit. That’s when the talk began; and that’s when I noticed her even more.

            Now, Arian’s part of my days in or out of the PSF.

They say she’s not leading-lady material, but for me she leads

everyone in many ways. Onstage she morphs like a chameleon, or a caterpillar transforming into a butterfly – for that effect. And if some people don’t get it, it’s their problem.

            Arian performs not to please people, anyway. In fact, she does best when she keeps things to herself, sharing only her art and soul. 

                                                                After morning afters, Monday, 29 August 2016

                                                                 Tagurabong City, Philippines

BISAYA ENGLISH: PROSE AND POEMS EVERY DAY

CHEA CASTILLO: Bossa nova, literally     

By JC Nigado                                                          

CHEA’S cool singing voice sounds fresh and free, it’s supposedly not

made for musicals, some say, as if voices were “made.” But hers is a gift that

should be nurtured in casual concerts and records. I mean “casual,”

as in easy, simply because it’s where Chea shines best, and connects most.

            Hers is the new for old voice, like the fluid alto of Karen and KZ,

Carly and Cher--relaxed and pleasing to the ear, the singing almost effortless. And what stories it tells!

            Chea is a character addition to the roster of talents in the Philippines Stagers Foundation. She bears watching, despite the fact, or especially because some people think her performance in “Katips: Ang mga Bagong Katipunero” leaves much to be desired. I dare say, and better look again, folks, she’s not the only one whose acting is wanting, as Claire would holler. There are many others, too.

            But off Katips, Chea’s singing is a sight and sound to behold.

Her sing song is her history--calm, natural, and the music is organic,

the rhythm rising and falling to the beat. You watch her sing, looking

plain and simple, artless even, but underneath that voice and simplicity is a storied life whose characters are hewed out from classics, Grace Poe, the scripted Quasimodo  of showbiz and politics would cringe in shame.

            Perhaps, Victor Hugo would relate her to the Good Hunchback of Notre Dame and Cosette in Les Miserables, in the Visayan and Ilocano

setting, who cares? As long as Chea sings her joys and woes, her dreams and failures, in the style she does best, the world will be better for it.

            Songs are everyone’s soundtrack, and how you hear them defines

who and what you are. Indeed, those who sing them are bound to be and do more.

Cheer on, Chea!

After exercise, Thursday, 18 August 2016

                                                                            Tagurabong City, Philippines

BISAYA ENGLISH: PROSE AND POEMS EVERY DAY

ROTSEN ETOLLE: World class                             

By JC Nigado                                                                                  

ROTSEN’S impersonation act stands on its own, holding a candle

to anything of the same sort or other anywhere in the world. Is it unique?

Not exactly, but precisely is the point in picking it out in an 

array of similar club acts: It speaks fluently without words.

            Rotsen raises the bar of lipsynch and impersonation. His impressions

onstage employ not just imitation to details but also pantomime, deftly expressing in gestures the absence of speak. The effect is riotous and resounding,

attentive watchers want more. His repertoire is intelligent entertainment and never boring,

it’s almost a challenge every time. Rotsen roars and soars in angular, jazzy beats,

hinting at the Chaplinesque and the early days.

Best suited for intimate audiences because of its performance-art ambience,

Rotsen’s act, ironically, could also appeal to the masses, if shown on TV, maybe,

but not among large crowds, and live. The throng will drown his genius and

brilliant nuances, simply because his is a “silent act.” His loud moves

and other body language notwithstanding, Rotsen’s comic genius is specified in the

tradition of, well, almost, Marcel Marceau and Buster Keaton, minus the plus-song

vocals, any old time. Is there an “original” mimic bearing torch?

            Rotsen’s basically a comedy bar number sans the risqué features. It’s

seductive, yes, but not in the usual “seducing” way. In his best element, Rotsen

could change theater as we know it.

            Remember the name, Rotsen Etolle: Like many comics, he gives the impression that

he is made of serious, sterner stuff, few poets could capture him in words.

Wednesday, 17 August 2016

                                                                                       After meditation, 5:47 a.m.

                                                                                      Tagurabong City, Philippines

BISAYA ENGLISH: PROSE AND POEMS EVERY DAY

Nobody like Boy

By JC Nigado

 

Nobody like Boy.

There’s no one

Who likes everybody.

The bottomline is –

He doesn’t show.

Eugenio is Español,

A genius, giving name?

The female is a shrub

Of bright, pied blades

Bush plenty and pretty.

A kind nickname,

Boy pets the young male

In a place of female strong.

A man so kind, grown

To surpass superstars.

Boy’s generosity is legend.

He buys art, four or five –

To size the fund, raising

All aware of the dires 

To call shared memories.

A text, a call or a letter

Is all it takes, friend

And some small days

For Boy to heed in earnest

Without any question.

Nobody like Boy.

There’s no one

Who helps everybody.

Except the bottomline,

He doesn’t know.

Tuesday, 23 August 2016

Tagurabong City, Philippines

There’s a dragonfly off the window

And so it goes, roaming signal

Wondering what went wrong

With Babylon’s roaded rage –

A Colombian killing spree; Davao orders

Steamed in viral, drowning applause.

N.B. Gore Vidal claimed: “it is possible to stop most drug addiction in the United States within a very short period of time.” President Duterte has vowed to stop the same  menace in the Philippines within three to six months.

After rain, Friday morning, 12 August 2016

Tagurabong City, Philippines

VISAYAN ENGLISH: PROSE & POEMS EVERY DAY

There’s a dragonfly off the window

By JC Nigado

There’s a dragonfly off the window

It caught my eyes – Chinese

Spreading its wings at rest;

And shifted my thoughts

Bolivian, in and between sleep

From Indian rain to Morning Sun.

Is this dragonfly forging work?

Hemming around to Seoul on third,

Or is tea finding Ceylon space –

In this Mexico jungle,

Where guilt is felled

By Chile drugs and bullets.

Is this dragonfly Nigerian lost?

Rambling Soviet from the garden

Or the realm of its own –

An old Nicaraguan at play

Trying to fit in ice; dry

Suspects in our uneasy midst.

Dragonflies fly American high

Ugly or clean on thin air.

The unseen seldom matter

As long as it does the hour

And the breath is Parisian –

Where Romans fall to stray.

In style the dragonfly floats

Flitting from Peru to pleasure;

Sans  loch and dragon light –

To dazzle and freeze police

Characters on a Nordic chase

In the land of Anatolia.

In the Malays of dragonflies

The wind blows Greek and doubts

Fearing hearts and minds with Siam

Of sachets, smoke, solvents, syrup

And pills – to please Persian seekers

Of life’s leisure trap.

The trip back flowed silent dead,

Flying alive, both of us thinking

Calling nothing, but oblique looks

That could change the moment

In this tale of two for the taking.

I thanked him for such a night

And wished the driver God luck!

Good luck! he replied, as I graced

A hand to make him feel I was

Not taking it against him at all.

Days rofled on, and I got a call --

Glad he recalled my name on the phone,

But sad to hear him down and mad.

My comrade spied the taxi’s number

And dialed the owner, the breaker’s old man.

The license of the cab and the gun proved

To be a police colonel, around retiring.

The talk of the armed forces came

To cool; but the guy was frantic

Over his father’s nagging, with much ado.

I prayed my comrade to cease

From firing at a word, to plane

The situation. I gave back his money

And took mine, retracing the whole thing.

Thence, smooth facts turned out to roost.

Drive, holdup, friends

It now is, with feelings unheld;

He returned the old phone and wanted

To do the same with the money

That, at last, we took joy in a song.

A month later, Saturday, 26 March 2016

Tagurabong City, Philippines

Posted 6 months and 6 days to the Day

Thursday, 1 September 2016

Five hundred in current, I said

Straight; the rest were old bills

Of the stuff only banks would

Pay until December end.

And my cellphone’s Jurassic!

Perplexed for a moment thin

The driver pressed, and moved

That I change the old for new money,

Anywhere, with anybody -- at once!

Else, he’d give it the gun.

I kept the quiet, knowing

Its might in times like this.

My mind’s presence now him,

To go back the distance, where

The house of a comrade held uncertain.

 

Was he home or was he home?

I shuddered the question,

Hoping not otherwise; but not in vain. 

On the way, we made a deal

To glance each other from whatsit.

I laid my things, and the car strode

To knock, my friend wary at the door.

No questions asked; I requested

A switch for friendship’s sake,

Cash for cash, again, no questions asked.

I cared my comrade, self seeming

Not quite, to be sure, but i

Had a canny feel I was on

The right track to engage

A condition of my nature.

I handed the phone and money, funny

We carried on to where I was going

At first: Cinema One. Off the dot,

A fortune dream was crushed. Failing,

I walked exhausted, yet undefeated.

It’s strange the cabby stayed,

And drove me back to where I hailed him.

Thank Heavens, for small graces; for pits

That closed different people. And for

Being senior strong in the field of the weak.