Galatea Resurrects is pleased to have the opportunity to feature two Tagalog poems by Joi Barrios, with English translations by Mark Pangilinan. The first poem, “Siyente Beinte Singko” (“One Hundred Twenty Five”), has the following background:
I read this poem in a forum sponsored by KMU (May First Movement) in UP Manila. At the forum, KMU members reiterated their campaign for a P125 minimum wage increase. Wages were increased only by P22 in 2010, resulting in a P367 minimum wage for agricultural workers and P404 for non-agricultural workers. According to KMU secretary-general Lito Ustarez, the increase could even be made as an excuse for the administration to prevent the workers' struggle for a legislated increase. In a 2010 Social Weather Station survey, 43% or 8.1 million Filipino families described themselves as poor, and 21.2% or 4 million families said they had experienced hunger. According to Ibon Data Bank, the living wage is P957, far above the present wage. Thanks to Ralph Pena for discussing this poem with me, while having coffee and ensaymada, watching Manila Bay, from Jorge Ortoll's Malate apartment (where I stayed for a week in 2008).
“Siyente Beinte Singko,” thus, provides another facet to the need to improve workers’ lives around the world—from the United States to Bangladesh.
Siyente Beinte Singko
Gasino na ang siyento beinte singko?
Apat na kilo ng bigas,
ilang saing sa hapag ng mahirap.
Anim na pirasong galunggong,
Simutin mula ulo hanggang buntot,
at nang makatawid-gutom.
Mag-noodles na lang kaya,
at sa limang pisong pakete mula sa pabrika.
busog ka na sa asin, at betsin, paalam na sa sustansiya.
Gasino na ang siyento beinte singko.
sa kapitalista't may kuwarta
isang tasa ng kape sa Starbucks,
isang hiwa ng kesong maalat,
isang espesyal na ensaymada
na ihahain na pang-meryenda.
Siyente beinte singko lang ang dagdag na suweldong
hinihingi ng manggagawa.
Siyento beinte singkong walang dantay
sa mga guhit ng timbangang sumusukat
sa agwat ng kapitalista't manggagawang naghihirap.
One Hundred Twenty Five
What is one hundred twenty five?
Four kilos of rice grain,
a few pots of steamed rice on a shoddy table.
Six pieces of Galunggong fish,
Scraped to bone from head to tail,
To stave off the hunger.
Maybe just have noodles,
and with a five peso packet from the factory you're
full enough with salt and MSG, goodnight and goodbye to nourishment.
What could one hundred twenty five be?
To the moneyed capitalist
one cup of Starbucks coffee,
a slice of salted cheese,
one ensaymada special,
to be served between meals.
One hundred twenty five more in pay
is what the workers are petitioning for.
One hundred twenty five won't tip or sway
the lines on the scale
that tally the difference
between the capitalist and the starving worker.
****
Giyera
1. Bahay-Pahingahan
Hala, hala, pasok pasok na
sa bahay pahingahan
ng sundalong dayuhan.
Ang babae dito, araw-araw naliligo,
hindi puwede ang may sakit,
sapin sa kama ay laging malinis.
Uno singkuwenta ang Filipina,
para sa sundalong mula sa Taiwan o Korea.
Apatnapung minutong ligaya.
Sa Hapong opisyal na nais ng Haponesa,
gawing sampung piso
at puwede nang magpa-umaga.
Hala, hala, pasok pasok na.
Sa paghimlay sa kanyang dibdib,
may alaala ni ina.
Bukas nang umaga,
bayani kang mag-aalay ng buhay,
ika'y sasahimpapawid,
Hindi na kailanman
sa lupa magbabalik.
2. Inasawa ng Hapon
Hindi ako nakapasok sa simbahan
sa tapat ng bahay-pahingahan
na kung tawagin nila'y Asia Hall.
Ngunit narinig marahil ng mga santa
ang aking mga nobena.
Isang araw, may kapitang dumating.
Kailangan niya ng labandera't kusinera.
Salamat, Santa Clara, salamat.
makatatakas na rin
sa araw-araw na gahasa.
Sa araw, nagluluto ako't naglalaba,
sa gabi, nakahilata sa kama.
Salamat, Santa Regina,
higit na mainam nga ba ang gahasa ng isa
kaysa ng dalawampu't dalawa?
Salamat, Santa Rita de Casia,
salamat sa isda at kanin sa hapag,
salamat sa kamay na hindi lumalapat
sa aking pisngi,
salamat at naituro ninyo sa akin
ang pagiging mabait at masunurin.
Sa kalye, sa palengke,
masakit ang iwasan at umiwas.
Kaya't sa pag-iisa,
nagpapasalamat ako sa mga santang nakakausap.
Natapos ang giyera,
at sa paglikas ng kaaway,
kasama akong napatakbo sa kabundukan.
Ay mga santa, ako'y samahan,
paanong haharap kapag naabutan
ng kababayan?
Ay, Santa Clara, sila'y pumaligid.
Buhok ko'y hinila, hinablot, tinapyas,
sa lupa'y ikinalat.
Ay Santa Rita, kaytalas ng patalim.
Kaylupit ng mga mata.
Kaysakit ng mga salita.
Bilis, bilis,
itarak niyo na sa dibdib.
Ay Santa Regina, wala nang talab
ang mga nobena.
Ang inasawa ng kaaway
ay walang takas.
Sa simula't wakas ng giyera
ay babaeng bihag.
3. Gerilyerang Huk
Ano ang kulay ng tagumpay?
Kasing-bughaw ba ng langit
na ngayo'y natatanaw
at ng bandilang pinangarap
makipagsayaw sa hangin?
Ano ang kulay ng tagumpay?
Kayumangging tulad ng lupang mapagbiyaya?
Luntian bang tulad ng mga dahon
na nagkubli sa akin sa kabundukan?
Gintong tulad ng palay
na inaasam kapag anihan?
Ano ang kulay ng tagumpay?
Ito ang aking nalalaman:
Kulay-gatas ang balat
ng mga sundalong dumating
pagkatapos ng digmaan.
Pagkatapos naming magwagi at maagaw
ang bayan mula sa mga kaaway,
Kulay-gatas ang balat ng mga sundalong
inangkin ang aming tagumpay.
Nagdilim ang aking paningin
nang pinilit nilang agawin
ang aming mga armas.
Ay, nagsa-hunyango ang mga Pilipinong
kaydaling isuko sa ibang mananakop
itong kalayaan.
Kami'y tinambangan.
Sunod-sunod na putok ng baril.
Ay inang, ay amang,
kulay-pula ang lupa na aking niyakap
nang bumagsak,
at natiyak ng puso
bago ang hininga'y mapugto,
na hindi, hindi dito dapat,
ang digmaa'y magwakas.
War
1. The Rest-House Brothel
Come on, come on, come in
to our rest house for
foreign soldiers.
The girls here, they bathe everyday
the sick ones we throw out,
the bedsheets and linens are always clean.
Only one fifty for a Filipina,
for a soldier come down from Taiwan or Korea.
forty minutes of pleasure
For a Japanese official who prefers Nipponese
make it ten pesos,
leave when you please.
Come on, come on, come in.
When you rest on their breasts
you’ll remember your mother.
Come tomorrow morning,
you’ll give your life as a hero.
Kamikaze in the air,
Spirit flying, falling faster.
2. The Japanese Soldier’s Mistress
I could not get into the church
beside the rest-house brothel
they call Asia Hall.
But it seems the saints have heard
my novena.
One day, a captain arrived.
He needed a washerwoman, and a cook too.
Thank you, Saint Clara, thank you.
I escape at last from this life
and the rape that comes daily.
By day, I cook and wash his clothes,
by night, he lays my body across the bed.
Thank you, Saint Regina.
Is it better to be raped by the same man
or by twenty-two different ones?
Thank you, Saint Rita of Casia,
thank you for the rice and fish on the table,
thank you for the heavy hands that don’t land
on my face
thank you for teaching me how
to be polite and obedient.
On the streets, in the market,
it stings to be avoided and to avoid.
So whenever I’m alone,
I give thanks to the saints that speak to me.
War is over,
and in the enemy’s departure
they have dragged me with them into the mountains.
Blessed saints, be with me,
how will I face my people
when they find us?
Oh, Saint Clara, they have us surrounded.
They pull my hair, tear it from my head, cut
and scatter it on the ground.
Blessed Saint Rita, their blades are so sharp.
Their eyes so cold.
Their words so cruel.
Haste, haste,
thrust the blade through my heart.
Oh, Saint Regina, my novenas
fall on deaf ears.
The enemy’s mistress
will meet no mercy
From start to end of war
a woman captive, spoken for.
3. The HUK Guerilla
What is the color of victory?
Stunning azure of the heavens
now mirrored from a distance
in the banner of our hope
that flies in the wind?
What is the color of victory?
Deep dark brown of the earth in all its bounty?
Lush bright green of leaves and grasses
that cover and conceal me in the tallest mountains?
Sticky sweet gold like a grain of rice
treasured and lucky come harvest time?
What is the color of victory?
I have learned this much:
Milk white is the color
of the soldiers come
after the war.
When we had finally rent and wrestled
our lands from the hands of our enemies,
Milk white is the color of the soldiers
who claimed our hard won victory.
My vision grew dim
when they bid us
put down our weapons.
Strange, how quick and easy we Filipinos
relinquished that
freedom.
We were overwhelmed.
Shots fired without end.
Oh mothers, oh fathers,
blood red is the color of the ground
that embraced my falling body,
and my heart grew sure
before I took my last breath,
that here was not, and is not
the place this war will end.
*****
Joi Barrios is the author of three poetry collections including Ang Pagiging Babae ay Pamumuhay sa Panahon ng Digma (To Be a Woman is to Live at a Time of War), 1990. In 2012, her Bulaklak sa Tubig: Mga Tula ng Pag-ibig at Himagsik (Flowers in Water: Poems of Love and Revolt) received the Gintong Aklat (Golden Book) Award from the National Book Development Book of the Philippines (with translator Mark Pangilinan, book designer Fidel Rillo and publisher Anvil). Barrios teaches Filipino and Philippine literature at the University of California Berkeley.
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