Next up in the Poetry Wednesdays series is Janis Salvacion, reading her luminous poem about her grandmother, “Kahayag.” It’s not evident in this recording, but Janis carried on through the sound of trikes and motorcycles revving past her bookstore (where we snuck in this recording).
Janis opened Bookstorm about a year ago in downtown Tacloban, some months after Typhoon Yolanda destroyed the books she had collected over the years. It’s the only indie bookshop in Tacloban.
When asked if this had been a dream of hers, if she had always wanted to run a bookstore, the answer was no. She just felt the need to open a bookstore, post-Yolanda. That urgency is something I heard echoed by other new Tacloban entrepreneurs I met, like Trixie and Jacques Palami of Yellow Doors Hostel, and one of the Alunans, who opened Pizza Canto within months of the storm.
Here’s “Kahayag.”
Kahayag
“Ano ini didi? Purtahan?”
An sukot niya nga pakiana samtang
gintutudlok an aparador ha ulohan
han iya kama. Gin-ubos han katarata
an nawo-tawo han iya mga mata.
An saringsing han iya ginmamat
nga bougainvilla, an mga bag-o nga linya
ha ligid han akon baba—
puro lambong ha iya panan-aw.
Ginhadkan ko an iya ulo,
ginpakianhan kun san-o
an iya utro nga pagbisita.
Ngan naniguro pagbuhat an iya mga paa
nagpirit pagdanas han iya tiil
nga kun haros diri nakakaakos
han natirok nga bug-at
han iya bug-os nga kinabuhi.
An iya mga mata nakulaw ha hirayo
natutok ha kun ano nga kahayag
nga di ko pa nalalantaw.
“Mabalik ako kun nakita na ako,
kun nakakalakat na ako utro.”
Ha gawas, ginlalam-oy han maya
an mga bunga han harang
ha akon hardin. Narangrang ha sirak
an mga taluptop han bougainvilla.
Ginhawiran ko an kamot ni Nanay,
an apoy nga nagtutdo ha akon
pagsurat ngan pagbasa. Gintugwayan ko hiya
tikadto ha sarakyan. Ngan ginpugos ko
an akon kalugaringon nga magyakan,
“Balik.”
– – – – – – – – – –
Light
“What’s this here? The door?”
Her frequent question,
pointing at the closet
back of her bed. Cataract
is eating up her irises.
The buds of bougainvilla
she had nurtured all her life,
the lines of poetry
blossoming out of my mouth–
all these, mere shadows to her now.
I kiss her brow, asking
when her next visit would be.
She tries to rise
dragging her feet which
could barely carry all
the weight of her years,
her whole life’s burden.
She turns her gaze far,
towards some distant light
still hidden from my eyes.
“I’ll come back when my sight
returns, when I can walk better.”
The mayas outside
devour with gusto
the ripe chilis in my garden.
In this heat, bougainvilla explodes
in flowers. I hold Nanay’s hand,
this old one, grandmother,
who first taught me my letters
and how to write.
I lead her to the car
and will myself to speak,
“Come back.”
