TO CELEBRATE the 121stPhilippine Independence Day, and some emancipation of my own, I published in the United States my book of prose poems called AFTER on June 8, 2019.
Two writer friends introduced the obra: Felino Garcia, Jr., who has been evaluating and scholarly elucidating my works since like forever, and Jonell Segador Gregorio, who I have met last year in one of my online poem-a-thon and writing workshops.
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You have been generously treated to the words of Felino in my previous columns.
And you haven’t seen the last of them yet.
But for this week, I would like to share Jonell’s reading of my latest poetry collection.
The poems were actually written five years ago, in May 2014.
But I’m only sharing them to the public now.
Because, well, I wanted to produce at least five books this year of my 50thbirthday.
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In February, I released At My Father’s Wake.
And I have already shared with you Felino’s masterful prolegomenon.
That counts for my first quarter output.
AFTER is my second quarter offering.
I have successfully found a point where to divide Jonell’s excellent (but judge for yourself) essay so that this becomes a two-part series.
I think I like keeping you hanging with instalments.
No doubt the effect of my new (TV series) addiction.
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Jonell joined my June 2018 Poem-a-thon and Poetry Workshop with Peter Solis Neryon Facebook.
And he was one of the better poets.
Unfortunately, while he can speak Hiligaynon, he doesn’t write in the language so he didn’t qualify for last year’s Peter’s Prize for Mga Binalaybay Sabat sa Panghangkat (Poem-a-thon) which was won by Serafin Plotria, Jr. from Bacolod City.
I saw him again joining Peter Solis Nery’s February 2019 Master Class in Creative Writing.
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I met Jonell only once. In Roxas City, Capiz.
Although he is really from Altavas, Aklan.
That’s when I awarded the certificates for the poem-a-thon finishers from Aklan and Capiz area.
Because Jonell was shameless to confess that he admires my work (even the ones in Hiligaynon), and he is/was a language and journalism teacher, too, I decided to share my AFTER poems with him.
Just to have a fresh perspective.
And a different point of view from the often scholarly Felino.
So, here’s the first half of Jonell’s essay, which continues on Wednesday.
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Grief, Anger, and Love in After:
Peter Solis Nery’s Catharsis
By Jonell Segador Gregorio
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Peter Solis Nery never minces words. He writes and wails.
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In his latest collection of poems simply entitled AFTER, Nery, the foremost Ilonggo poet whose award-winning works earned for him the prestigious Palanca Hall of Fame Award and the title Prince of Ngoyngoy, writes about the inexpressible. Death is no longer sacred; the dead no longer revered. Indeed, love has no fury than a scorned Peter Solis Nery.
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“The dead does not live here anymore! He cannot even right the wrong!”he writes, pertaining to his husband.
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AFTER showcases Nery’s month-long collection written in May 2015 to process the grief over his husband’s death. This time, Nery, with his usual flair (nay, flare!) brings to his readers the irresistible beauty of prose poetry — crisp words, continuous lines, uninterrupted thoughts.
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The prose poetry collection challenges readers to read and re-read. Needless to say, it requires for an intelligent reading. As an accomplished prose writer, Nery melded his lyricism with economy of words. The effect is beautiful — the staccato and aria effect resonates in every poem.
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The Prince of Ngoyngoy starts with a shy shrill then crescendoes into a walloping wail, whopping the memories of his dead husband in its wake.
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In Breakfast Is Served, Nery is straightforward, piercing: I wanted you to die again, and again, and again, and again. There is no use pretending — Revenge is best served like breakfast in bed.
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At one point, he meanders. This is apparent in Burns,
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Do not ask me how I feel. I will tell you that I am okay. That I’m trying to cope as best as I can. I will lie to you. And you will tell me. That I am so strong, so brave, so incredible. What’s the point of telling you I’m not okay, I’m hurting, I’m dead inside. So you will hold my hand? Tell me. All the clichés that I don’t want to hear? You will never understand second degree burns until you have them.
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Then he halts.
Yet in a select few, he gets hysterical midway and ends in sobs, not unusual for Iloilo’s Prince of Ngoynoy, exemplified in these lines from Canities Subita:
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My husband, my husband! Betrayed me. He died in my arms. But left his money to his sister. His sister can build the Taj Mahal.
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In all these, PSN’s Ilonggo identity shines through — sweet, sometimes naïve. And unforgiving when betrayed. He minces no words in expressing his disgust of his husband’s betrayal.
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Oh! Oh! I wanted you to turn in your grave. To curse yourself for denying me. My inheritance. — Beyond Hate
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He also writes the most honest of elegies, replete with vengeance and vindictiveness for his deceased husband. His words are razor-sharp. But isn’t it that truth is liberating?
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Indeed, beauty and truth have emancipated Peter Solis Nery. (To be continued; 500tinaga@gmail.com/PN)
