Robles Clean

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AMERASIA 15 : ( 1989), 1 95-2 18

Hanging on tothe Carabao's Tail

AL ROBLESI was moved by Russell Leong's excellent essay on Asian American poetry,because it brought back many memories-memories that are still alive in mymind-memories that were painful and beautiful then, and still painful andbeautiful now-memories that cannot be erased or buried. To survive in this life,we need to have good memories that bring us joy and happiness; we do not wantto remember the loneliness, the pain, the sadness. Yet as a poet, I would muchrather have all the bad experiences-the pain, the loneliness, the sorrow, thesadness-than all the happiness and joy. I would not give up all the badexperiences for the good and happy ones.

Though I have known many of the poets intimately, and while some havegone to greater things-others have passed on, like Joaquin Legaspi ofManilatown, Serafin Syquia, Edward0 Badajos, Mariano Bayani, and FrancisOka. Furthermore, they were not "tragic figures" in the literary sense of the word.More or less, these Asian American poets played an important role in my life.They still continue to be part of my everyday thinking; they were all powerfulpoets, in the sense that they went beyond the community, beyond themselves,searchingfor a deeper meaning in their poetry and life. When we live in the com-munity or dedicate our lives to it, we become attached or caught by it, as it were,in family ties and friendships-ties so great that they become an integral part ofour thinking. But loyalty in the community should never be one-sided; it shouldnever dictate one's life-nor should it regulate or control one's thinking. This isone of the dangers of a community of poets who do not care to share or be opento other communities.

But there was always a celebration of some kind-a celebration to bring com-munities together culturally. But that would rarely happen, if we did not stepoutside ourselves. Thus I had one vision, then, when I was organizing an AsianAmerican Senior Festival-to bring the Filipinos, Chinese, and the JapaneseAL ROBLES livesinSan Francisco and is a Poet.

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together for one great celebration-to bring them all to a place called Manilatownto celebrate their lives, to honor them with songs, dance, music and poetry. Iremember I was told by some groups to leave them alone. "DOnot bring themtogether. They are satisfied to be in their own communities."I can still hear everything, every single sound-alive and warm as the firstday of spring in Agbayani Village, in Delano, where the cocks cry out as the sungoes down. My mind's struck by lightning, fleeting but returning again andagain to this place which changes and is always different than before.

the lightning flasheshow we walk on!some bend low.some changeand listen, listennothing's leftbut fresh grassIndeed, as we go a step further, do we not in fact unlearn all that we have

learned by listening to new sounds, by not anticipatingor expecting anything butletting it flow with life. Even when you scoop up a handful of rice, there is noneed to measure it, or to know how much or how far the rice will go. It emptiesitself into a bellyful of poetry that flows out so naturally. We rise out of our n i phuts, our mountain retreats, tea houses, from behind tropical mangoes andpapayas and bananas and a bamboo forest into a poetical world. . yet our worldhas always been poetical. We live with our poetry in the neighborhood, the com-munity, in the lives of our people. But we go farther more or less viewing thingsdifferently.

Rebirth of One Hundred Thousand Tribal SongsBaynagyanak-babonyan: lokano-tagalog-bontoctinggian-sabanum-tagbamua-bikol-basaya-bogobo-tiurai-mdyata ok-moro-naboli-bemave-sapao-kiangan-nag~unan-maggocklamot-asin-nigritooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooigoroteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeifugaooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo~ooooo

yao-shun-tai-hao-yen-ti-shao-hao-chuan-hsukou mang-chu yung-hu t'u-ju shou-hsuan ming-fu hsit'ai hawking king-shen nung-shao hao-chuan hsu-ti k'uti k'u: chineseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

pilipinooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

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iulangi-isanamk kakaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaapoho-amatersu-susa-no-o-tsuki-yumi-osa no o mikotoamatsu-hiko-ho-no-bubugi-mikoto-taka-mi-musubi-no-miko

n i h o n j Aashanti-zulu-congo-xohas+heyenne-arapaho-sioux-kiowawalapai-pomo-hopi-navaj o-pit river-paiute-chinook-yarok-k a r o k - h u p a - m o h a w k - a l c a t r a p -mayan-yucatan-aztec-zapoteca-la razaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaFlaming navahcuvapahofish rituals sing out of our ancestral bowels,from kalinga-igorote skins,fromnigrito sky-river spirits,from the burning castration of magellan,from

santa cruz cockfights,from ino's barbershop to international manongs,froma thousanddalits 8 gsa 8 aman 6 Kabunian b bangan b lumawig8 anaos b tumungaws8mang-mangk 8 olibilbayan 8 n-antipakao 8 he pakde ceremony 8 o the ifusaomedicineman8 o the biko woman with a magdagaret basket of sweet coconut rice-his-tory8 ales of the manongs 8 he brown feet ofchildren in the south of market street 8 otheir spirit that swirls round a thousand ricefields8 laygrounds of America8 o theclappingofkayaomung@hands6 snapping ifuga+forestfingers 6 o the yellow-brown-black-red breaking loose in the kearny street wind 8 o thefishheads in the pilipinosky bto the tribal spirits waiting to return to the ancestral bellies&from siouxghost chants 8sun dances,fromblazing kayaomunggi suns bursting in fo basket offishnets8 o thenihonmachi issei8 o the lo yun8 o if upo bells8 ongs Sfiom tibetan horns scream-ing khamandhu mountains to bend-we celebrate our poetry falling likea thousand tribalrains 8 inging a hundred thousand songs8 hru la raza machetes8 apao bolos-cut-ting themoon of civilization in hay:we come out of tule-manzunar concentration cam psmy lai-golden chinatown mou nta ins wa tt~ wou nd ednee-kearny stree-mission streetbarrios-singing our poetry.

the long nightsitting aloneeating fishlisteningtomandolin stringsof the old manongsthey came onlyto change their liveswhere are they now?international hotelpassing an empty hole

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here on kearny streeton jackson streetwhere a whitemanin the pastwaited in his truckto bring pilipinosto salinashere on kearny streetmemoriesso deepstillcan hear the crieswailing inside of menever leavingcuts so deeplike a boloi see their facesespiritufelixagnesosoriollamerabeforethey carried so much rice& pig headin the rainhere nowon kearny streeta placecalled manilatownis still alivewith songsechoing-lives changinglike the windwe move on to other things:sit down with usand eat; listen toour poetry:we risetallerthan redwoods.

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But I never stop just there-walking past them. For this space is sacred, asacred burial ground of the manongs. Twelve years later the I-Hotel remains. Theancestral remnant of the past haunts my mind like tribal ifigao ghosts. So I amstill here in Manilatown, a tribal link to the past-existing for so long as the rainsfill my mind with song, music, and poetry. I have created a Manilatown seniorcenter for the manongs, so to speak, to call their home, to speak to their hearts and

minds, and to let their spirits run wild into the Kearny Street wind. When all isquiet in their rooms, we stand close protecting them. The manongs are still here,though others have passed on, we continue to the day-in and day-out struggle.But we walk on. We continue to create our own poetry, to create a poetical worldfor them, a world that will take care of their needs. Asian American poetry willlive on in their lives in the Nihonmachis, Chinatowns, and Manilatowns ofAmerica. We create in their vision the songs and poetry of their life. But I feellike a waterbuffalo, salivating molten lava, ploughing up the sacred fields andmountains of Chinatowns, J-Towns, and Manilatowns. I have grown up in theghettos of wailing cries and bursting dreams-through our people we learn howthey have suffered; we learn from the first that came. And as a poet I sing theirsongs to the wind, to a thousand bursting suns, until we can all sit down andenjoy life with a bowl of rice and fish. We need not look any farther than in theireyes. Right there! Right here! Cant you see it?

i have livedso farso muchknowing their livesliving in the same roomsas smallas tea potsin j-townin Chinatownin manilatownthe old flats convertedbroken upinto individualroomstiny kitchens.. .concentration campsafter the warthey cameback homein the sadnessofa thousand winter snowsthey can fill

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a hundred thousandsnowcrane diariesdeep scarsin their heartsyet and yetthe songs, the dreamsare still alivepoems of a thousand autumn leavesnihonmachithe karita-sansthe kume-sansthe sato-sanshow i remember themin my childhood dayshow i remember them nowj-townmanilatownChinatown.. is my life.and in j-townsi knew them allthe old, the youngthe comer grocerheavy rain poemswaka tanka poemsbreak loosein the nihonmachi windnext door to pilipino townpilipino barbershopssittingthereon a little stoolhow i remember havingmy hair cutthe soundof my youth & the chatteringof pinoys in the backgroundand the fresh smellof manjucoming from Benkyodo's pastry shopbuchanan & geary streetcri smoss ing my mind

torn spirits

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street travelingfrom manjuto daikonto banchato bop atylistening to"there'll never be another you"to manilatown& back againto Chinatowna l l over againinside every room-strong smell of incensefacing a brick buildingold hands in minea thousand flowersin the streetsthe bloods ranfightingagainst white boysup the hilldownhillin the marina & northbeachwhen all was whitefell overa large pignext doorto the iloilo centerthe circle of brownon buchanan & ellis streetdown the block from fillmoretwoblocks from j-towna hidden backyardwhere a whiteman's eyesnever touchedgone foreverpassed awayin the forgotten dreamskept alivein a poemand the streets crowded with blacks

pilipino ritual

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rememberingwhen i was only 10years oldthe erection of all day thinkingstretched block after blockthe prostitutesone story highi was only 10years oldknew them allby their first nameevery face & dimplecreasedmy mindterry, the madamasked, how my mama wasas the shades were pulleddown & a whitemanran upstairs-looking backfillmore of my youth.But the main theme was poetry. Tocelebrate through poetry, the lives of Asian

American senior citizens. The Asian American poets were close to the black poetsas they were close to the Chicanos and Native American Indians. It was a verycreative period for Asian American poets. We were all drawn together by a com-mon bond-brothers and sisters under the same skin, fighting against the oppres-sion of Third World people. I remember Richard Oakes, the Mohawk NativeAmerican Indian. He was sitting behind a large glass of beer looking at somepoets in the Precita Club, near Bernal Heights. When we started to read, he ap-proached me and asked if he could read something. I told him it was fine withme. I remember his linesso clearly. "You know the colorof oppression. You knowwho you are.. .you're out there." This brought a clear picture of the whitemanand what he represents. Somehow, if we were to ask, how does poetry come alive?Where does it come from? We may safely say that poetry comes alive when thepoet breathes into it-when it becomes part of his blood, his eyes, when all thatis inside of him is brought alive in one word, or a single line. So poetry comesalive when it touches you-when the feeling is so intense that you are no longerthinking of the lines. That particular moment can bring about a quick change inone's life-when the poet and the listener become one. But then, from wheredoes poetry originate? It comes from the heart. When all of us wrote poetry then,it was the changing of times. It is true what Russell Leong said of the VietnamWar, and the political struggles in all Third World countries. Had it not been for

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the war, the racism, the oppression of our people, we would not have had anyreason to belong, to be drawn together as one tribal family. But we must remem-ber that we also wrote of our loves, our rituals, our loneliness n the farms, moun-tains, cities, barrios and countrysides.But the poet is also a storyteller in that he speaks through the eyes and earsand tongues, minds and spirits of his people, letting %" takes its natural course.And so who are the storytellers? The manongs-they can tell a thousand water buf-falo river-wind stories in Manilatown and can hold a hundred thousand locusts still-inflight, still as ice cold winter. . the Issei, they can ell tales of Nihonmachidreams in moun-tains of all night sushi, where Bush Street Konko bells echo sad memoriesof Tulelakeascherry blossomsfallfrom thesky. And you a n hear them reach outforfloating salmon inthe sky, hen watch what happens: a hand reaches out and suddenly sseifaces appear likesoft uji moss, waying with songs and cries: nihonmachiiiii. Daikon journals ferment.Tokomo-silence. Tule-Manzanar concentration camps. Kakemono-barbwire cries deepin hara rock gardens. Amida Buddha nightmares.The Amo, who can chant rain stories of angel rock prisonsof blood sweat and tears-chant al l day under a tree in portsmouth square, of Sierra wind-mountain talesand golden mountain-rivers of steel tracks-chinatowns of America stretchfrom coast towast,from Trinity country to siskiyu mountains,from ockecar$ to King Street, Seattle,from tockton to S .E hidden cobblestone alleyways,from canton to faitfield: GeorgeLeong, Russell Leong, Kitty Tsui, Nellie Wong, Curtis Choy, Merle Woo, NancyHom, Wing Tek Lum-lo yun rise likea thousand winter storms. Steel rails whip roundgolden mountains. blood &sweat and tearsflow deep two centuries back-yangtiz river-memories sink deep. backbreaking in the sacramento-san jouquin delta. thick, long braidsswing8 tretch in the sierra jagged-mountain winds-whipping the white snow wherechinamen lay buried-screamsfrom chinatown dragons burn. . flyfrom china camps,from angel island,flyhome calif: chinatown-leaping withfire r a m sharp sharkfins. can-ton visions.

How one creates a poem is as interesting as the spaces in one's life. We maynot wish to dwell in such intellectual matters. But what serves as a frameworkfor poetry should be quickly destroyed. To understand tribal poetry, we mustleave the whiteman behind. He cannot understand us, nor should he even try.Our tribal poetry, if one can call it that stems from the fact that we draw from ourown culture. Our memories, our culture, serve us well. The best part of ourpoetry is our struggle, and the best part of our struggle is our poetry. We have apersonal responsibility to our people, and a commitment to strengthen the worldthey live in, by creating something new-through poetry.

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1have lived in the Manilatowns, Chinatowns, and ]-Towns of America, in the ghet-tos of b o p ci ty dreams, and soulsville loneliness6 Fillmore Street blues crying the bluesof Big Mama Thornton-Bop city-listening to "AlltheThingsYou Are." I knew everyblack, brown,yellow, red face.

Sometimes my heart isJapaneseSometimes my heart is ChineseSometimes my heart is Japaneseand Chinese at the same timeSometimes my mind is JapaneseSometimes my mind is ChineseSometimes my mind is Japaneseand Chinese at the same timeSometimes my belly is JapaneseSometimes my belly is ChineseSometimes my belly is Japaneseand Chinese at the same timeSometimes my heart is HopiSometimes my heart is NavajoSometimes my heart is Hopiand Navajo at the same time.Sometimes my heart is BlackSometimes my heart is ChicanoSometimes my heart is Blackand Chicano at the same timeSometimes my mindis BlackSometimes my mind is ChicanoSometimesmy mind is Blackand Chicano at the same timeSometimes my belly is BlackSometimes my belly is ChicanoSometimes my belly is Blackand Chicano at the same time.Sometimes my belly is NavajoSometimes my belly is HopiSometimes my belly is Hopiand Navajo at the same timeSometimes my belly embraces all thingsSwallowing black, brown, yellow, redbelchingup poemsSometimesi am a water buffalo-

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my tailwind-snappingin the four corners of the world.We have become brothers and sisters. We gathered with Chicanos, Blacks,

Japanese, Native American Indians, addressing certain political issues that affectthe lives not only of our people but all Third World folks. We have come together,not only for a common cause, not only through culture but through poetry. Itwas so imminent then-and now I am reminded again and again in a poem:

Soon the white snow willmeltand the black, brown, yellow,red earthwill come back to lifeSoon the white snow willmelt.While living and working in our little, tiny communities, n the midst of tower-

ing highrises, we fought the oppressor, the landlord, the developer, the banks,City Hall. But most of all, we celebrated through our culture; music, dance, songand poetry-not only the best we knew but the best we had. The poets were al-ways and have been an integral part of the community. It was through poetry-through a poetical vision to live out the ritual in dignity as human beings. Andup on the hill they came, the Sioux Indians, from South Dakota, at the GraceCathedral Church, not too far from Chinatown or Manilatown, where DennisBanks arrived for the longest poetry walk, sharing with the plight and struggleof Wounded Knee:

A Thunder Being Nation i am, i have saidA Thunder Being Nation i am, i have saidyou shallliveyou shall liveyou shall liveyou shallliveListen to the cries of Wounded KneeListen to the cries of Wounded Kneecome rescue your people

grab their naked bodies witha thousand summer buffaloskinThe pounding drums echoed closer and closer to home-through Nob Hill,

like ancient Sioux gods and spirits breaking loose in the wind. Here on the hillwas the longest walk of Wounded Knee-the longest walk of our lives with theSioux Indians:

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wounded kneecominghome to manilatownto Chinatownto j-townallover againSo through the neighborhoods of tribal folks, in one way, it nurtured my

vision, my attitude, my songs, and my poetry. I have never felt that culture wasa source of isolation, nor did I feel that it was one-sided or non-meaningful. Itsmeaning was never describedor explained to me. There was actually no need toexplain it, anyway. This was beyond my understanding. I lived in a community,neighborhood, a barrio of mixed blood, where feelings were woven out of loveand sharing.What is understood by Asian American poets. What is culture, in one way,did not enter my mind. It was not intellectual. We did not have to understand it,it was enough just to live it-live out the ritual, the celebration, if you will, theceremony of our life through poetry in America. The pig celebration my brother,Russell, created in the South of Market Cultural Center, was created for the pur-pose of keeping the ritual alive. And now a poetical feeling has been woven froman ifusao tribal fabric-creating something new and alive.

yeUow/brownblack/redi die, yeti risebut one learns only if onelets go of everythingand goes on to unlearn& unlearn what one has learned.

from ten thousand carabao tulesW e ive our poetry in the lives of the manong, the issei, and the elderly Chinese. But

we are careful and alerf that we do not wallmin OUT own selfihness and greed and be-come like the whiteman, lost in the whitemans carpsociety, losing everything,even ourown identity, our culture, our poetry-we become white. W eget too comfortable in ourcommunity,siftingbehind a desk toweringover our jaguar, mermdes, and bmw. W egetso comfmtable n our classrooms, in our universities and institutions. W eno longer createor change-to beanything or anyone. We re no longer concerned with the oppressed, theplight of our people.

Moreover, I do not see myself as a critic of Asian American poetry and culturebut as a poet who draws upon two views and no views-one view that sees the

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birth of Asian American poetry, and how it came about, and the other view thatsees it coming full circle. The view of no views, if you will, may dwell on how farwe have gone. And by rebirth, I mean from its lifelessness, a coming back to life,coming back from death-rising as it were to something new-to a new dawn(like a frozen dead snowcrane that suddenly comes back to life-spreading itswings across the four pillow worlds of black, brown, yellow, red. . touchingevery-thing all at once: north, south, east, west.) We have already arrived, creatingourown place, barrio, Agbayani Village. Henceforth we are creating our own des-tiny, instead of accepting the world as it is arranged; we come with a vision rear-ranging our own lives, rearranging the world, in the community-creating a newworld through poetry.

Our hearts, minds, and spirits are not confined or locked up in some institu-tion or sealed inside a marble coffin. Actually a poem has nothing to do with thepoetical feeling unless it is brought to life. The poem is best understood by notunderstanding it, not grabbing it with your intellect, and dissecting it until no-thing is felt. For what is said is not actually what is felt. But it is precisely the no-poem that is significant here. When we bring a poem to life, give it life, the poetactually creates it, breathes into it. When I say the rice grains pass through myfingers like a thousand water buffaloes, I mean exactly that. What seems non-sensical, or is nothing at all, may have a deeper meaning because of its utterstupidity or emptiness. The sound of ones life in a poem cannot be described butfelt. Once again, when a woman cries out in the early morning, the sound of hervoice can sweep the mind through a thousand seasons. But it isclearly stated thata poem is best understood by listening-only if the poet and listener are one.

who cares forsuch trivialdead talesand forgottenmemoriesof oldwrinkled waysanaent livesbonesbrittlecrackedachingforwildflowers inwalnut grove

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salinaswatsonvilleChinatownsj-townsmanilatownschildren overbrown-yellow grassare gonebut nowthe dreamscut in halfalone & forgottenwho they areno more respectno need to botherwith the old wayit brings you downway downold iron pots & pansrun with greasesmell of fish & pigold mildew ragspile of dustin the fieldsstains of the pastlaboredin the valleysconcentration campswatsonde riotshawaii sugarcane manongsscars so deeplike a rake gardena poemdeeperthan allthe oceans cancontain(bring back alivethe laughter from pain)they sit

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in a small rooma few flowerson the windowsilltea in a potchatteringin the hallway-a toilet flushesfish smellsin the kitchenthe wind-talesdown a long, narrow pathall the chattercanfilla mountain journalof sad rainof my people.Henceforth we all came from the same place: a community, a barrio, a village.

Strictly speaking, however, we had come for a large pig to celebrate our poetry."Huh?"replied the white farmer. "DOyou know what a poem is? Do you knowwhat a ritual is?" "No, I don't,'' said the farmer. "It is a poem." So we step out ofour culture and backagain-to create. Suffice to say, it is what Russell Leong saysof poetry-that some wrote in prisons and bars. Those, therefore, not only wrotefrom their personal experience but followed their own way until the very end. Towrite poetry is to live again-and it is precisely this love of beauty that speaksdeeply in us.

And, in a way, I do not see beauty and revolution as separate entitie-nor doI see love and politics as separate. As apoet I have been involved in social changefor so long, I feel like a hundred years oId. Therefore, if nothing changes it dies;it becomes monotonous and boring. It dies because of isolation. How, then do Ithink of Asian American poets? I think of the poet as a storyteller. I have alwaysthought of the poet as a storyteller, anyway-transmitting tribal ways, tales,stories, songs and myths. Tribal visions and rituals seem to go beyond ordinaryminds, but in reality they stem from the most primitive and most ordinary in na-ture. The mnong, the Issei, and the lo yun live through our poetry. Yet thestoryteller is one who transmits from mind to mind, brown to brown, yellow toyellow, black to black, red to red. And from the Luzon forest to Frisco blondiescurling their hair in the boxing ring of America.

d%@ng

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Beforecoconut dreamsflow rom carabao skulls, listen to the ifusao visions ruttle inyour hands. Theyare sacred. Do not wait. Taste them, like theLuwnspring eaves bend-ing to touch the passing river. Agbayani Villagesunset. Flyingfish in ancient eyes ofkalinga breasts. Thrust the bambooflutebetween your thick brown lips. Blow munbunotales into the manilatown wind. See your face in the ifugaomountains. Get drunk withthe "basiof your people" at the international hotel.Lorca, Lorca, Lorca. . rough as the Batangas waves. Youa n ardly see out of youreyes. One can only guess what one sees or what onefeels. Yet 1canfeel the tuba riverflowfromyour hands into mine-pointing to where the sound is comingfrom:bata-bata-bata-bata-bata-bata ka ba-keep the"skinof your f i f ealive. Thevision s in your hands. "Bata,1cannot see."

manilatown carabaefishtail upriver-downriveruphill-downhill round steep northern Californiacoastal ridges whipping clear round snowboundbrown minds.wandering north-southeast-westinside a salmon belly with kayaomunggi eyestasting the eggs like volcanic ifugao myths & dreamsin the wind. winter knotted & gnarled brown handskearny street rain. alaska snowstorm: brown, brown, brownfrozen tribal dreams inside a manong's mouth&git tribes crawled inside. snowbending. rice bendingfishswimmingin kearny street pool halls.scalesof two brown people meeting in one world.I would like to confine my comments to lkounds of one's life" in poetry-how

poetry affects one's life. Long ago a manongnamed Ricardo Cayabyab told me aninteresting story about when he was a child in the Philippines. He said he wasawakened early one morning by the sound of an eagle flapping its wings in thefar, far distant sky. . so far and yet so near, he was moved by the sound. In somenorthern mountain province, so remote and isolated that one could hear everysingle sound. And yet he was moved by another sound-the sound of an oldwoman grinding corn. She was chanting. The sound of her voice could move athousand mountains-shook his mind loose. His spirit took flight to America, inMontana snowbound box-car dreams. Back to a little place called Manilatownnear Chinatown-where fish, pig, chickenadobo and rice spread the landscape ofKeamy Street. I asked manong Cayabyab, how he was able to survive in America?He said, 'Do you hear that sound?"

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And in a way, we need to twist this a bit. Turn it upside down, inside out. Weshould not be confined by literary form, which is to say, the best way to under-stand form is to destroy it. Our generation of Asian American poets is one of manyvoices. Thus, our poetic songs came from a deep reservoir inside each of us. Theywere our poetical cries. We were not only singing with anger but with love; wewere singing for social change, revolutionary change, of all oppressed ThirdWorld people. And it was coming to light, our tribal poetry, as I recalled whenwe all converged on a little whiteman's pig farm, in Sonoma with Pilipinos,Blacks, Samoans, Chicanos, Chinese and Japanese. It was Buriel Clay, a blackpoet, who pulled on the pig's entrails-dangling it, stretching it far. . and mybrother stretched it even more in the Sonoma wind. Dangling like a loose poemin the earth. Running water over it, through it, like a river, clearing out the deadpast, while the white farmer shouted obscenities at us. And said, "where you folksfrom?"

We come for poetry for our people. And exactly what is it that we need to do.First of all, we are not white missionaries who have come to save our own souls-nothing like that. Those days are gone, but the scars the missionaries left on ThirdWorld people cannot be wiped away, erased-nor can the oppression and theenslavement by the white traders be forgotten. We need to realize that life is alsobeautiful, and through poetry we can see ourselves as we really are-not awhiteman's version. Perhaps the only meaningful thing in life is poetry. We needto create a better life for our people.

To tell the truth, we must be more than mere poets; we must stand up for therights of our people-against the injustices brought upon them. But certainly weare poets, first and foremost. The Asian poet seems more appropriate to me thanAsian American poet. For the American part is a member of this white society,which I am against. Sowheredo we belong? In the mainstream of white people?If we do not saveour lives,our community,our culture,our identity,our tribe;wedie. If we belong to a segmentof society, what segment do we belong to, anyway?For it never entered our minds. What is contained in our culture, in our com-munity, is "too precious for society." And what exactly is recorded in history?

It certainly belongs to our hearts-only to those who have suffered. It is true,however, we always wanted to live our lives as human beings. Thuswe were athome with our own kinds. "Talkof our life in n a t u r e A i l y to be shown matter, tocome n contact with it-rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! the solid earth, theactual world!the m m o n ense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? Where are we?" Well, who can tellus of our Ownculture? Who can felfus of the drama of our communities? Hence we are

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not solitaryfigures, we cry out for fiee dm and social change. Do we seekglory? For thepovertyof our life is so longoverdue. Therevolt in our hearts is pure. . we wanted to livelike human beings, whatever the cost, whatever the dreams. So, what is our dream? toliberate our people together- strong poetical voice, present and wai ting to break loose.A s poets, our poetry was to give "spiritualstrength to our people.'' On he other hand,what exactlymakes the community so important to us. ..is thefact that w e draw our sus-tenancefiom our culture.

Indeed, the voice of the poet comes forth dressed in the rags of his people-smelling of fishtails and water buffalo hide. You see, I have walked so long withmy people and listened to the "sound of their lives." How else could I rememberwhat they said to me, had I not sat down with them?

Across the street from the Royal Hotel where a manong's mandolin cries out-where manongasoria and espiritu are laid out on the bed-rain-soaked rags. . andthe crunching sound of pig ears caught between carabao teeth. Two blocks fromthe International Hotel and next door to Manilatown and close enough to hearmanong Ricardo Cayabyab cough up blood, splattering it on a white canvass ofhis life. Asking him, one day, how he was able to live, struggle in America, inDelano, Agbayani Village. Looking at his eyes that spread like the Pasig river."One day I heard a sound coming from an old woman grinding corn, chanting inthe far distance. No matter how silent, we go forth Montana snowbound boxcardreams-listening to the steel wheels spin round and round. Do you hear thatsound?"

Sohow did manong Gallo find his way here, in a small room, forty years ago?A tribal spirit inside a wood frame, dressed in a tailored macintosh suit. You canhear songs: memory, memory, memory. Nothing but memories. Yet, this manongand friend, a brother, a father, a tribal link, the ancestral remnant to thepast. . strutsdown Manilatown in such tribal elegance-and the unfinishednessof his life has just begun. He said, while sitting in his small room measuring therice with his eyes. "Donot be ashamed, for you nakedness is natural; eat, eat withme. Your hands-the rice; it tastes better."

A sound never heard before, so pure. Nothing's said. But then, you see, heturns to me and says, "I saw this woman in the sky, and she said I was the boy ofthe forest, the mountain, the animals. . please protect them. . please take care ofthem." I asked him how he came to America, to this place called Manilatown?And he turned and pointed to the blank wall and said, "One day I climbed thetallest coconut tree to the moon and kissed the moon. And the moon said, Wheredo you want to be?' So I looked down below and saw the ocean. And I said,

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'Dagat,ocean, someday am going to cross over you and see the other side of yourface.' And suddenly all the coconuts fell from the sky, so here I am."

Can you not hear the coconuts fall?lfind brown faces ofthe manongs treading mrrow paths ofAmerica. I am afected bythe sound of their feet treading in a thousand directions, like carabaos alonga riverflow-ingacross Manilatown. . by their oppression, I cry out through m y poetry, weaving out,in ritual, celebration, a tribal feast. 1cry out the sound of their life-fish xales scattered

like past dreams, and 1gather them up one by one, decipher them in the rain-river of ifugaos o n p t a s t i n g the sweet coconut visionsfrom watsonville tofigueroa to imperial valleyto Guadalupe, Calif. How far do 1go as a poet? 1gofar-stretching m y mind in waterbuffalo skin and raftzingbones, bringing me back to who1am-bothfishtai l and cue stick6 guitar strings echoing-wandering, living their life in m ypoems, n a handful of ricekept alive inside a wild pig. wild wrinkled Guadalupefaces creased in the burning sun.

However, as we go a step further, do we not in fact unlearn all what we havelearned by listening to new sounds, by not anticipatingor expecting anything butletting '5t" flow with life? But we go farther outside, if we discover that our lifeis more poetical, more or less, by viewing things differently. We need to be care-ful not to wallow in our own selfishness and greed. We become like thewhiteman, lost in a white cargo society; we do not budge. We no longer createor change. We no longer care for the oppressed. We are no longer disturbed orangered at the injustice thrust upon Third World people because we have attaineda position in society. Because we do not demonstrate, we do not create.We merely die. We are like zombies of a white society.

The legacy of Joaquin Legaspi, Mariano Bayani, Serafin Syquia, EdwardBadajos, and FrancisOka should not be forgotten, dismissed, rejected or shuffledaside to collect dust-nor should it be buried in the dark-nor should it remainsilent. The epitaph should not read: "Times are Changing." We are concernedwith getting on with our lives, to accumulate what we desire-what we deserve.Who knows best but those who have struggled and suffered? We deserve more.Yet, what is our share as Asian American poets? Our culture has been castrateda thousand times round. We need to create a better life through our writing,through our literature. We need to create poetry and bring it into the lives of ourpeople. The only meaningful thing in our life is to create. The only true thing inour life is poetry. Mountain-stirring salmon caught in the streets of America.Poetry walks the streets of Manilatown, Chinatown, J-Town.

Culture wrapped in banana leaves, in loincloths and macintosh rags. I havenot given up the bozo or the fish or the water buffalo. But the manonglives like a

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bird. He hunted back then. So let the manongs who are dying in the woodenshacks of America, Tenderloin, 6th Street, Manilatown rise up one more time. Letthem taste the smoked salmon over rice-the h p n till smells strong in the wind.Let them rise for a better life, dancing gracefully away from the whiteman whotaught him so well to be enslaved.

manongthe clearing on the mountainslope is ready, and the kugon grassis thick round your bodyswallow seven starsit's time now for me to cut the grassround your bodytrap wild pigs& lay down your bolo in a basket of ricesquat on the floorbalance your mind on heelslistening to the tinklingof bellsand of brass amulets, and the beatingof gongs.pour coconut oil over our hairrub down the body hardpin-stripe macintosh suitsclingto hot brown bodiesrise up on heels and toesbend the kneestwist the body & circle round the gongsdance in the small roomsmanongthe rice is readycome out of your roomlet the ifugao women cook bangkodoover little fires, balancingpotssunk in abed of tribal ashes.Asian American poetry-what is missing?Nothing. Perhaps everything has already been said. Everything is out in the

open. Our anger has not subsided-has not become subtle. We were angry backthen, and now we have come to a fruition in our poetry, a peaceful cwxistencewith our brothers and sisters. But I think we need to get angrier, not to retire intosome comfortablebackroom studioout in the country-dreaminglife away. How

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wonderful it is now to gaze at the stars, while everything n life, the suffererspassus by. The Third World struggle at State College and the struggle of theInternational Hotel, and the racism, and the Vietnam War, are tantamount to forg-inga new vision-to be angry for social change. How comfortable should we be,now, in the Asian American Studies department and Ethnic Studies? Should webury ourselves up in the classrooms, wrap ourselves up with paperwork and callit quits because we have finally acquired teaching jobs? We must always be alertand continue to foster the need for change-social change, education, but mostof all to create poetry, to strive for creativity. The institutions can be a dying breedleft in some decadent age. They provide nothing but monographs, etc.

But we need them anyway like we need the whiteman, white king powdersoap. As Asian American poets, it was essential to dwell on our identity, to feelthe need to find out who we are. This was not just mere talk. This has been thestepping stone of Asian American poetry. Yet, however, no matter how brown,black, yellow or red we are-whether we like it or not, we should live as one tribalfamily, not dividing the communities of poets running amok.

The farthest the poet can see may go beyond a thousand Navajo sunsets.What we have seen before is no longer the same. We see differently, because weare different. Our poetical world and feeling are different, nurtured with layersand layers of carabao skin, snowcrane wings, shark fins and bamboo. What is therange of our vision? What isour range as Asian American poets? We see only asfar as our expression in life. If we cannot see the face across the street on the otherside, we will breed our own isolation. We go forth, walking the Chinatownstreets, listening to stories of the old who struggled in America, thrown ontoAngel Island, caged on rockbehind bars, sucking up the loneliness and the suf-fering of their life on the walls-the poetry so deep, SD moving-carved out oftheir o w n blood and tears-their bitterness, their loneliness, their wailing spiritsechoing throughout the bay, forever sacred speaks to us, in such fog-moaningt o n e k e s out to be heard-cries out for the injustice.An d w e tread through walnut groves and stockton, and in agbayani village of themanongs-brown feetjcnottedfrom the toil-their burnt brown skin etched in the burn-ing landscape. . cominghere so long ago in thefarms of calij-my brown people--how ilove them, in their laughter and in their silence, and in the lonely wood shacks stretchedfromwatsonville to lompoc, salinas; I heard them so clearly-their bodies, their mindsaching, bending, their spirit heavy as a hundred ifupo mountai-the forgotten brownpeople. . now I hear the cock croaking and see all of them treading over grass while thefrogs leap toward the sunset-they carry themselves toward the sun, eady to sit down

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and eat rice andfish.But we must go further, in the truest sense of the word, Itin the truest sense of

things,"-further than the warped anthropologist. We cannot allow theanthropologist, the sociologist or the researcher to dig deep into our hearts, minds,and spirits, and make out of it a kind of "utilitarian aim." The Asian Americanpoets cannot afford to be White. We have been baffling to untie ourselves fromthis knot for a long time. We become close to our community when we forgetwho we are. Do we not see ourselves better in this way? But we must createpoetry day by day. We revise best away from revision, and we write best awayfrom ourselves. When all that is left back home is taken outside and brought backanew.

"A day or two surveyingis equal to a journey." But a journey into a poetry isequal to treading through four seasons in one step. But let me ask the question:how few of the Asian American poets are aware of other things?

how few are aware thatin winter, when the earthis covered with snow andice. . the sunset sky is double.the winter is coming i shall walk the sky. . thereis anannual lightin the darkness of the winter night.Have Asian American poets listened to other sounds in life? And we must go

further-learning, relearning, unlearning the processes of what is outside-na-ture. There are trees in the communities, in the barrio. There are flowers. Thegrass in winter is wet. And in autumn everything turns golden-yellow and red.What makes it that way? We need to follow the tree and listen to what it says to

We must walk with it, saunter; we must take it as it is, as it comes along, as itmoves, as it plunges deep, as it stalks after its prey from high up, "read it slowlyover a period of time, and read consecutively." We must not turn our back fromthe community, from our tribal family, our ancestral link. Henceforth, we mustmake great effort. All this insufferable routine speaks deeply to us. But we riseup in the morning. Put on our clothes. Wash our faces. Meet the day. Thougheach of us may follow different paths, and need to make a living-ur brothers,the Navajos, the Hopis, the Apaches, the Pomos (all of them linkwith Asians), andit is this tribal link to mother earth that we share together. We must rememberthat the uranium was stolen from the Sacred Land of the Hopis and Navajos tokill and destroy an Asian country of mothers, fathers, and children. How ironic!Our tribal family is more than just across the way; they are brothers and sistersunder the same skin; they cross their blood with ours-the plight and struggle.

US.

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They are not a mere historical picture in some phoney two-bit Hollywood movie.No! For the Native American Indians, the Chicanos, and the Blacks all speak tous as brothers under the same skin-keen observers, sufferers; for we must notlose sightor forget it was through them, knowing "their association makes a dif-ference to the outcome of their lives." What is the commitment of Asian Americanpoets-to create, foremost.. a family tribal connection. The most important forceof Asian American poets is "not merely how he gets a living, but how he decidesabout the uses of his time when he is not writing."If I do not gooff outside myself, sauntering say through Walnut Grove, Locke,Watsonville and Salinas, Manilatown, J-Town, and Chinatown, then I no longercan see my people. The Asian American poets must "give yourself wholly to it."Our experience is like a mad river surging forth in winter. When covered thickin snow-melting in summer-we see all over again. Yes! We see all over againwith new eyes, so it seems. Recording the lives of Third World people is onething-to survive is another. So we must embrace all those who came first, thatsuffered: the Issei, the Chinese, the mnongs,along with the Blacks, the Chicanos,the Vietnamese, the Koreans, the Native American Indians, all Third Worldpeople.

We all share the same commitments to our people. We must always return tothe things that make us belong, so that we can break away and come back fresh.We return to a new sense of things. Sowhat is the best in Asian American poetry?Whatso touches us most, at this time, at this moment, in history, dreams,or mythsand songs. And so, what does the Asian poet lack? Each one has to find it in hisown way-"to learn his owndiscipline," and "to learn to live with what he lacks."But how should one know the poverty of one's poetry except by being poor inmind, by stepping outside of oneself. If we are not kept moving, creating, we be-come dull; we die of boredom, of creating nothing but repetitious nonsense.

What is the purposeless purpose of Asian American poets? It seems to me itis not only to listen to the stories of the old but to sit still and have a bowl of riceand fish with them. You are in the company of your people. You are in the com-pany of sacred lives, who have lived a thousand times, filling every surging river.Sowe must always be in their company,to learn what it means to suffer. And thelesson they teach us is clear: "we must always be in the company of the poor, theoppressed, the lonely-to bring us closer to the reality of ourselves. . in the tribalcompany of brown, black, red, and yellow brothers and sisters under the sameskin."

We come close through a sense of respect and openness, and in the presence

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of our own people we become one tribal family. But I must speak as though I haveonly a few seconds to live. If the children of the rainbow can speak to us of thewoods in winter, of the rains and snows, of the sadnessof autumn, of the chillywinds in Harlem, of the smellof plum sauce dripping from the old in Chinatown,of the old Pilipino men whose bodies smells like a hundred water buffaloes soakedin the Kearny Street mud, then we should lend an ear and listen to them. Forthose who speak. . speak like a poem. And so, how do we arrive at a picture ofthe community? Andmost importantly, how do we see the world? By making itour own-by creating poetry through tribal dreams and tales. We celebrate ourfreedom through Asian American poetry.

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