(The following were remarks given by the author in the panel discussion on ‘Reading the National Artists’ at the Teatro Amianan of the University of the Philippines Baguio in time for the observance of National Literature Month this year. The subjects were two National Artists for Literature, F. Sionil Jose and Cirilo F. Bautista.)
A young Cirilo Bautista
I usually write with music playing in the background. And this Glen Campbell song, Gentle on My Mind, kapanahunan namin (in our era), was playing as I began the Good Friday task of remembering the life of our National Artist, Dr. Cirilo F. Bautista. He looms gently on my mind as I type these words.
Cirilo Bautista’s books of poems
He was the first to workshop and critique my sophomoric poems in the early 1980s at Heritage Art Center in Cubao, Quezon City. The center was owned and operated by Odette and Mario Alcantara. They made it into an alternative cultural center, alternative to the humongous and more establishment-oriented Cultural Center of the Philippines. The workshop was an activity of the original non-formal organization called Women Writers in Media Now, WOMEN for short.
It perplexes me to this day why Cirilo, Edgardo Maranan, and Alfred Yuson were chosen panelists to analyze the merits and weaknesses of our early compositions. The other poet whose pieces were workshopped was Aida F. Santos. It was an all-male panel—what sympathy could we expect from them, especially on the woman question?
I hazard to guess now that even if the WOMEN members had early feminist leanings, we were too in awe of those men and considered them our mentors more than the likes of Ophelia Alcantara Dimalanta, our co-member Marra Lanot, even Edith Tiempo from far Silliman University.
But we were stuck with the triumvirate of Cirilo, Manong Ed and Krip. My manuscript was not exactly shredded to pieces with cutting criticism. Rather, I found Krip’s expressive reading of my poem, a tribute to the paintings of Juvenal Sanso, an early exercise in ekphrasis, most touching. Based on his suggestions in strengthening the poem, I was able to rewrite it, submit it to the AAP or Art Association of the Philippines Newsletter, which published it.
For some reason, I cannot recall Cirilo’s critique of my sheaf of poems. I must have been terribly traumatized that I blocked all memory of his part in the panel.
The next time I would see him was in Baguio, where he had taught (at St. Louis University) and lived, in Lexberville Subdivision in Balacbac, for a workshop organized by the Baguio Writers Group (BWG). I was then its president. It was BWG member Napoleon Javier, a retired broadcaster and Cirilo’s good friend, who facilitated his visit and encouraged us to nominate him to the Order of National Artist.
If my memory is correct, it was Chancellor Priscilla Supnet Macansantos, her husband, the poet Francis Macansantos, and Nap Javier who drafted the nomination letter. All the workshop attendees, including Junley Lazaga, then a struggling poet and student and now a representative in the National Literary Arts committee of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts, the organizers, guests like poet Ralph Semino Galan, signed the letter after Cirilo conducted an afternoon-long poetry workshop.
During that workshop, he was cautious with his words, for this was an audience of undergraduates, even some high school students. Perhaps he was aware what sensitive souls these people were. At the same time, he was witty and funny.
During that workshop, he was cautious with his words, for this was an audience of undergraduates, even some high school students. Perhaps he was aware what sensitive souls these people were
At one point, he asked the writer of a poem who wrote unclear lines on prison: “Ano ito, Jailhouse Rock?” Which pretty much dated him because Jailhouse Rock was a song from the Elvis Presley era.
I remember the workshop venue—the fast-food section of Porta Vaga building on Session Road. The place was closed for the weekend or at least for our workshop. We didn’t have to pay rent because one of the pop-up sellers there was my friend, Toottee Chanco Pacis, a brownie-lemon square baker. She pulled strings with management so we could use it.
Toottee brought a big thermos of coffee and some pastries to feed young appetites. I was cheered by the fact that someone of the stature of Cirilo would agree to conduct a workshop in such a setting. That was when I was convinced how committed he was to The Word and to imparting his knowledge and experience.
The next big project of the BWG was an anthology of literary works timed for release during the celebration of the centennial of the founding of Baguio City. When the editors had gathered the poems, fiction, essays, I was tasked to ask Cirilo if he could also contribute something to add prestige to the planned publication.
I had only his landline, not his mobile number, which would have lessened my nervousness in accomplishing my assignment. When he came on the line, I explained what the project was all about in an almost convoluted way. I asked if he could please turn in a piece.
He cut me short, “Ganito na lang, Babeth. Send me all the manuscripts, and I shall write the introduction.” He was, after all, a founding member, if not the founder, of the BWG along with Francis, Luisa A. Igloria, Gaby Keith, Nap, even Frank Cimatu. Seniority took over, so write the intro he did, which reached me via LBC or JRS (I forget which). It was a hard copy with nary a typographical error. Ang linis ng kopya—isasalpak na lang sa layout ng artist (All the artist has to do is layout).
He couldn’t join us for the grand book launch of The Baguio We Know, edited by Prof. Grace Celeste Subido, on Sept. 1, 2009 at the National Bookstore branch at SM Baguio. It was a memorable affair, even graced by the presence of Amando Doronila, the journalist and longtime columnist of the Inquirer, and Sr. Perla Macapinlac of the ICM House of Prayer, among others. But Cirilo requested a complimentary copy be sent to his Quezon City address by Anvil, the publication arm of National Bookstore.
Nor was he present in the subsequent launch of Baguio Calligraphy, edited by Francis Macansantos and Luchie B. Maranan early in 2010. Again, a copy was sent to Cirilo posthaste.
I would hear from our common friends how his muscular dystrophy—defined by Google as a group of diseases that cause progressive weakness and loss of muscle mass—was worsening. This condition compromised his ability to stand and walk erectly. He became confined to a wheelchair, plus his doctor ordered him to live a life without stress.
Write the intro he did, which reached me via LBC or JRS. It was a hard copy with nary a typographical error. Ang linis ng kopya—isasalpak na lang sa layout ng artist
But this did not deter him from compiling his own essays in the University of Santo Tomas (UST) Publishing House collection, The House of True Desire, and his new poems into another UST publication, simply called Things Happen, his 11th collection of poetry. Can you beat that? Eleven books of poetry!
The essays were a selection of his columns in Philippine Panorama Magazine, the Sunday supplement of Manila Bulletin, back in the day when newspapers still had weekend supplements. His column on a vast range of topics was called “Breaking Signs.” This title led to some joking that it came close to the expression “breaking wind” or farting. Who knows? Cirilo might have been playing word games and referring to mental farts!
PLAC founders include Bautista at center with Gemino Abad, Felix Fojas, Ricardo de Ungria, Alfredo Salanga, Krip Yuson, and Eric Gamalinda.
I heard of his confinement in the hospital, followed later by his death. The BWG again assigned me to speak at the necrological rites at the CCP Main Theater with other seasoned public speakers, including Krip and Cirilo’s fellow poet and Philippine Literary Arts Council (PLAC) co-founder Ricardo de Ungria.
My remarks were largely unscripted, and I spoke of how the ICM nuns, who were responsible for the education of Cirilo’s wife, Rose Marie Jimenez, played Cupids in their love story.
What the St. Theresa’s College nuns didn’t expect was the two would indeed fall in love, but what was to become of sheltered Rose Marie if she were to pursue a life with an impoverished poet? That was how my short speech ran. Rose Marie, I guess, took it upon herself as an architect to support her husband’s vocation of writing, while he carved out a career in the academe by taking his masters and doctorate. Meanwhile, he won one Palanca literary prize after another, which added to the family’s coffers.
According to Krip’s account, Cirilo even worked for a time with the President’s Center for Strategic Studies (PCSS) at the UP Diliman campus, where he, Krip, and Ricky de Ungria wrote speeches and messages for former President Marcos.
I’m moving forward. I again guess that it was friendship with the Adrian Cristobal that united these men in their work. During Marcos Senior’s era, little gainful employment could be had by literary writers with families—it was either the resistance or the dungeon. The middle ground was swallowing one’s pride and working for the regime.
Gemino Abad looks like he is shimmying in front of Rose and Cirilo Bautista.
As Krip recalled in his Philippine Star column, “Until Benigno Aquino was assassinated in 1983. PLAC then decided to publish a ‘poetic tribute’ titled In Memoriam, with five poems each from the five of us. Jimmy (Abad) gained funding for its printing from then University of the Philippines acting president Emmanuel Soriano.
“When Adrian found out about it, there was no other recourse but to quit PCSS. The consequence of disseminating our protest poems ended Cirilo’s full employment. But there’s one vivid image that remains, through all these years: of him working at his desk in the small room where I usually chatted him up during idle hours.”
In between ghostwriting, although a short-lived stint, Cirilo composed poems, epic poems at that, essays, fiction, or did oil paintings. With him, there was never an idle moment. He gained controversy with his statement that all poets can paint, but not all painters can write poetry. And in this he stood his ground.
Come Back
to Nap Javier, d. 2015
I lie in bed nursing my skeleton.
I can hear my bones creak
as I turn to my side.
I can also hear you walk
up the sky where the clouds of Benguet
slice the tops of pine trees. It’s where
you’re going that I don’t know. You never told me
since the time they rushed you to the ICU.
Yet there’s no need to know. From my end
at first bat I can count
a thousand reasons—Because what’s the use?
The sunflowers have covered the mountains
with yellow carpets from Hindustan, or Istanbul,
or Yugoslavia. Because I can’t write any more,
because time slips through your busted heart.
Ten years we never got together,
each unable to walk on his own,
each year I lost parts of your face,
parts of your body, parts of your soul
to the fractured cauldron of memory,
and now what’s the use?
Bring me back a rose from wherever you’re going,
drop it where my legs stick out of the bed.
I’ll follow the scent back to you
and then we’ll talk, perhaps.
~ CIRILO F. BAUTISTA
