I reel at the prospect of what I think is an enormous shift in the literary canon in the Philippines when Filipino-Australian Eunice Andrada writes:

When I return to the storm
of my islands
with a belly full of first world,
I wrangle together the language I grew up with
yet still have to rehearse.
I play with the familiar rattle of consonants
on my tongue and do not think myself
a serpent. 

It is akin to reading something from the minds of Balagtas and the Philippines’s national hero, Jose Rizal (whose Mi Ultimo Adios alone informed many a revolutionary voice), bringing back the sense of pride and empathy for brotherhood and towards nationalism, despite the impact of diaspora.

Where Andrada questions self-alienation in forgetting one’s mother tongue (an epitaph to language), a young poet like Angel Cruz of the Manila-based spoken word group, Words Anonymous , asserts with assured confidence and luminosity:

Do not forget about the good days.
when your body feels foreign,
when your skin teaches you acid, teaches you “I do not belong here”,
hum a sad lullaby and ask your skin to sleep. 

Cruz is writing and speaking about hope and solace in a bewildering world in the simplest, yet lyrical, way that only performance poets like him could. Imagining him standing in front of his peers – being silently judged by strangers in a dim-lit bar or café – orders shivers down the spine of someone like me; somebody who had never even entertained the idea of being in an open-mic session for fear of having a fit and sweating uncontrollably. It’s the courage of the microphone-hugging, spotlight-chasing spoken wordsmiths like Cruz that propels the poetry scene to a wider scope of public appreciation.

It is the same motivation embodied by literary movements such as Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro (NAGMAC) , convened by Zola Gonzalez-Macarambon in Northern Mindanao, that now drives the scene by reaching out to audiences through poetry nights in bistros and pubs, and holding poetry and spoken word workshops. Also, notably, one of the most-widely anthologised contemporary Filipino poets in the States, Kristin Ong Muslim, resides in Mindanao, making the region a thriving hub for contemporary poetry. Mindanao is Duterte’s hometown, and it is ironic that NAGMAC and other progressive literary initiatives enjoy this freedom of expression when parts of the region are currently subject to the threat of martial law. It makes me think (and fear) that the dark period of creative and literary censorship during the Marcos era still casts a shadow after all these years.

NAGMAC’s regular poetry nights also produce astounding resistance pieces and political anecdotes that query the status quo. Most times, they deal with the interaction between the community and the police force, a precarious imbalance brought on by Duterte’s infamous ‘war on drugs’ (which regrettably led to what the media and the human rights movement call extra-judicial killings or EJKs). Writing vigorously on various issues, NAGMAC member Gari Jamero could be heard on one of the poetry nights, narrating an incident that estimates the gruesome possibilities of EJKs or the tendency of the police force to sow fear among the local constituents that they are supposed to protect:

Police officers, numbering in the 100s or 120s, got off their vehicles parked near the Loyola Crematorium in Guadalupe and were armed to the teeth; mere footmen turned god-slayers. They were in no formation but rather a single cluster, strolling along. With each of their steps, the ground seemed looser; and their grins grew wider. Their collective gait exuded victory, high off of the conquest in Caloocan; where anyone who fought back was put down for good.

Whereas the mere narration of such an incident back in the 1970s was perilous, the spoken word poets and performers of today face the very real ire of authorities without fear of persecution or prosecution. Nowadays, the poets’ faces are illuminated brightly, their voices recorded, their gestures and heartaches displayed on social media for the whole world to see.

It is not just these political writings that populate bookstores or invite crowds; poems that address previously taboo themes of sexuality, lust, eroticism and LGBTQI issues also enjoy huge popularity. Not surprisingly, the sentinels of the Catholic Church are always close by to potentially shut down such allegedly immoral enterprise. Nevertheless, foremost LGBTQI writers and poets Danton Remoto and J Neil Garcia remain provocative, something that hounds the religious sensibility of a big chunk of the largely Catholic or Christian population.

On quickly browsing one of the books I recently picked up – the sensually titled, Sound before water , by Jim Pascual Agustin – I can’t help feeling elated by this progressive literary evolution. I ponder on the possibility of Australian poets like me finding readers there, the way millennial poets like Leav, Sierra DeMulder and Tyler Knott Gregson have. And I find myself wanting to be part of that Filipino zeitgeist and by engaging more with the local scene.

As far as trailblazing it into Australia is concerned, I turn to Australia-based Filipino poets Deborah Ruiz Wall and Merlinda Bobis, who both continue to confront the challenges of being an ‘outsider’ and deal with issues of belonging. They manage to cross the divide between the Australian aesthetic and the Filipino identity by being bilingual writers, thereby addressing the need to be read and understood widely while preserving their heritage and cultural pedigree.

Ruiz Wall, in one of her brilliant collections, for instance, exerts fully the energy of an eager itinerant and migrant to a strange land by reconciling the virtue of remembrance with the challenge of trying to fit in: ‘Two faces: a single fate, / Traces of the past are written tomorrow. / Open to a fresh perspective, / whichever land we may be, / the quest for our history’s meaning / and wholeness will never fade away.’ Translated into Tagalog in the same book, the poet recites:

Dalawang mukha, isang tadhana
mga bakas ng lumipas ay nakaguhit
sa kinabukasang bukas sa panibagong pananaw:
lupaing kahit saan ma’y di pumapanaw
sa paghahanap ng kabuluhan at kabuuan
ng ating kasaysayan.