kundiman
And a senator says:
every radio station broadcasting
over the West Philippine Sea
should air our songs in Tagalog
so invaders know whose waters they’re on
as if our love songs alone
can turn away a fleet of ships
I imagine nightguards
lulled to sleep
by our serenades
and the next morning
continuing with their constructions
and extractions
the frequency of ocean crashing
haunts our harana
though we don’t recognise who
is singing
we listen to the water and respond
by drawing a line
Vidya: Tell us about your artistic practice.
Eunice: I’m a poet and educator. Most of my poetry is informed by the ways I’ve survived in a brown, female immigrant body. I teach workshops on ecopoetry, protest, and “writing the body”.
What prompted this poem?
As someone who has lived in diaspora for seven years, there is always pain lurking under the surface of the moment. The pain of living away from home, the pain of hearing news about the ways your homeland and people are still denied true sovereignty, pain when a Chinese news anchor declares the Philippines a province of China “by mistake”, pain in going back home to a country whose land and waters are ravaged by imperialism. This poem is one in a long series of poems I’m writing that are in conversation with each other about environmental imperialism in the Philippines or affecting the Philippines.
I loved the gentle rhythm of this poem, and the firm ending. By the time we get to ‘drawing a line’, it feels inevitable and honest: love songs are not enough.
I wanted to keep this poem simple and stark because so much of Philippine geopolitics is beyond parody. My favourite politician is Regine Velasquez, who’s not actually a politician but is one of the Philippines’ most beloved singers. My favourite line from her is not from one of her ballads, but from one of her tweets to the Foreign Affairs Secretary Teodoro Locsin Jr about his comments on the illegal harvesting of clams from the West Philippine Sea: “Ang akala ko pa naman matalino ka” – and I thought you were smart.
A harana is a serenade. Kundiman is a genre of Filipino love songs.
What is your relationship with editing in poetry?
I don’t love editing my poetry, but that’s because of the kind of poet I am (or have been in the past). I think the nature of my writing and editing process is changing now, but in my past self-editing I’ve agonized over every imperfect word, line or stanza in the aim of getting it “right”. So much so that I’ve abandoned poems I’ve deemed to be unsalvageable by any kind of editing. That kind of editing process was influenced by the external pressure I had internalised as a young WOC writer who came to love poetry through spoken word—a form that old white Australian writers love to delegitimize – the white gaze (fuck off), the idea of writing from a “page”/ “stage” voice, etc.
I’m learning to be kinder and more self-compassionate in my editing process now and it feels so good to allow myself to do that. I also love working with women of colour editors who challenge and interrogate my work from a place of love and understanding.
Who are some poets you’re currently reading or turn to?
I’m currently reading the work of Kei Miller and Raymond Antrobus after meeting them in literary festivals in Canberra and Ubud. For guidance, comfort, and groundedness, I often turn to the work of poets like Ada Limon (The Carrying), Bhanu Kapil (The vertical interrogation of strangers), Tusiata Avia (Spirit House) and Craig Santos Perez’s ecopoetics.
About the author
vidya rajan is a writer, editor and performance-maker. she currently lives in melbourne and is a writer in residence at the malthouse theatre. you can get in touch on twitter.