different rhymes, different times

actually, here's luis francia's entire article, which is well worth reproducing here for many reasons of awesomeness, though i find this following statement especially meaningful: Reflecting on Villa made me think of the younger Filipino-American poets, who are a very different breed, less into intramural sniping and one-upmanship than into what appears to be a genuine spirit of encouragement and mutual respect.

this story was taken from www.inq7.net

URL: http://www.inq7.net/mag/2004/jun/06/text/mag_4-1-p.htm

Different Times,
Different Rhymes
Posted:10:23 AM (Manila Time) | Jun. 06, 2004
By Luis H. Francia
Inquirer News Service

New York-In a previous column I wrote about the late José Garcia Villa's archival material and what possible future awaited it and its creator. With the recent death of his peer Nick Joaquin (a man to whom Pigafetta's encomium for Magellan can be applied, "our mirror, our light, our comfort, and our true guide"), that generation of outstanding writers has all but disappeared. Reflecting on Villa made me think of the younger Filipino-American poets, who are a very different breed, less into intramural sniping and one-upmanship than into what appears to be a genuine spirit of encouragement and mutual respect. In contrast, Villa had an almost Darwinian sense of competition and he would tear down some of his contemporaries, often with unabashed glee (though to be fair, when he liked a writer, he was generous with his praise). Part of it was simply Villa's outsized ego, one that matched his talent. Part of it stemmed from the status accorded him, as arbiter of literary worth, by Manila critics. Part of it might have been that in his time, in addition to himself, there were only a handful of Filipino writers who had made their mark here: Carlos Bulosan, NVM Gonzalez and Bienvenido Santos, pioneers in Filipino-American, and indeed, Asian-American, literature who, while incredibly brave, nevertheless must have felt fragile, exposed, and misunderstood, not the least by their own compatriots and often deliberately so.

The Filipino-American population has since grown exponentially, with estimates of at least three million, with several centers across this wide, wide land, from Honolulu to New York, from Chicago to Los Angeles, from Virginia to San Francisco, a literary diaspora that revolves around cyberspace more than any geographical location. Along with that has come a greater degree of ease in inhabiting the skin of a hyphenated citizen, one who looks upon difference no longer as an oddity (if it ever were) or merely a peculiarity to be tolerated like a sixth finger, but as a prized asset, to be celebrated and explored for all its layers of richness. The empire does write back, not only from afar but from within as well.

That degree of confidence can be seen in the way that contemporary Filipino-American poets move through the American landscape, not furtively or at a frenzied and hurried run (a moving target is harder to shoot at), but openly, in measured, even leisurely, strides. In the 1970s and through the 1980s, it seemed to me that few Filipino-American poets were visible; there were surely more kindred spirits around-in the Bay Area, for instance-but I had no sense of who they were. I didn't feel as though I belonged to a specific poets' community.

Even organizing, with a few others, a writers' group in the mid 1980s didn't help. Called by the rather stolid-sounding Filipino-American Writers of North America (FAWNA), after some well-attended readings, and a couple of newsletters, however, the organization, like an extremely endangered species, perished. (In the mid '90s two other poets and I created the NPA, or New Poets' Army, but that was more a concept than flesh-and-blood and still exists as such.)

Today, there are scores of us. From the Pacific, from both coasts, and in between, rises the chorus of distinct voices, astonishing for its range. A consequence of the boom in Asian-American literature as well as of demographics, the vibrancy and diversity of the poetry scene has come as a welcome development. I don't mean that I like everything that is being written. Far from it. Like any poet, I have my preferences, my intense prejudices, of what works and what doesn't. A lot of the writing I find to be informed by a prose sensibility, with its emphasis on narrative and linear meaning, so that the lyric line and the cultivation of indirection and music suffer. As in jazz, it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing. Could this be due to the proliferation of writing workshops, where the bland often lead the bland? Perhaps, but no matter. What counts most is the vitality, the tremendous, buoyant poetic energy that feeds off, and is fed on, all sorts of styles. This is what keeps the Republic of Poetry democratic, chaotic, and constantly in a state of flux-precisely all the qualities which got us bards banned by Plato from his version of a republic.

Kundiman, a group of thirtysomething New York-based poets, embodies this new energy, this bold participation in helping to shape the literary zeitgeist. In late April, Kundiman held a benefit to raise money for its summer retreat (at the University of Virginia) for emerging Asian-American poets, the first ever offered by an Asian-American literary organization, and modeled after Cave Canem, an influential African-American poets circle, whose workshops have drawn many of the most promising in African-American poetry.

I read at that benefit along with some of the better known Asian-American poets-Mei-Mei Bersenbrugge, Vijay Seshadri, Timothy Liu, Meena Alexander, and Patrick Rosal, the last named a rousing reader, whose powerful debut collection Uprock Headspin Scramble and Dive successfully incorporates elements of hip hop. The place-the Yale Club-was packed, and ensuring that the evening proceeded smoothly, and humorously, was Regie Cabico, a performer/poet himself. Audience and readers afterwards imbibed good wines while savoring dark, gourmet chocolates, heady complements to the night's show.

Kundiman aims laudably to foster the "discovery and cultivation of Asian-American poets," its mission "to celebrate and promote a strong and positive Asian-American culture and identity." Forming the core of Kundiman are Sarah Gambito, Joseph Legaspi, and Sanjana Nair, with the three being part of a larger, loosely knit group that includes, among others Rosal, Oliver de la Paz, Paolo Javier, Barbara Jane Reyes, Rick Barot, Aimee Nezhukumathatil, and Leslieann Hobayan. Kundiman also sponsors a regular series at a Lower East Side bar, the aptly named Verlaine, which features both established and up-and-coming poets. I've attended readings there, lured as much, I have to confess, by free vodka cocktails as by the proffered verse. These poets exhibit a welcome bent for hedonism, looking both to Dionysus and Apollo for inspiration.

I hope Kundiman will soldier on and thrive once the first flush of excitement and welcome wears off. The group emerges at a time much more encouraging than it was almost two decades ago. Since the dawn of the new millennium, there has been a veritable deluge of Filipino-American poetry titles. Among them have been Rosal's book, Luis Cabalquinto's "Bridgeable Shores," Eugene Gloria's "Drivers at a Short-Time Motel," Eric Gamalinda's "Zero Gravity," Reyes' "Gravities of Center," Eileen Tabios's "Reproductions of an Empty Flagpole," and de la Paz's "Names Above Houses." This year alone, books are forthcoming from Gambito, Javier, Oscar Peñaranda, Lou Syquia, Nick Carbo, and yours truly, by no means a complete list. This is one deluge that needs, and brooks, no royal sanction, and one I encourage you, dear reader, to drown in.

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