POEM I READ ON A TERRACE
By: Iris P. Concepcion

This was written by a poet, Ophelia Dimalanta who is quite a celestial sight at my University of Santo Tomas classroom in the '80s. I was under one of her classes but I doubt if she remembers me.

She was advising for Flame staffers then(this was exceptionally edited). This was printed in that student magazine in October 1984. This was her opening note:

"Driving through North Bay Boulevard, coming from the town proper of Navotas, one cannot miss the stench, and then, the sight: a mountain of garbage gathered through the years, its sides filled up with forlorn-looking shanties of all makes and patches."

I am just quoting a portion of the poem; it is quite long. It is about the Smoky Mountain, where comfortable houses should have been built. They could have seized it, transforming what it represented, where "urban rejects are ejected" ; but they'd rather play dumb in meetings when grilled by the head where the funds went.

I shall start from third stanza.I hope the writer wouldn't mind my quoting her here; but it is my bloodline pumping. People like her must be spoken about, written about, seen.

"here in north bay boulevard
of burnt up dreams.
where a mountain huffs and puffs.
for isn't it there is fire
where there is smoke?
you cannot miss it.
a special sign post points to it,
pointing fingers propped up
in the mounds of the mind.

unbelievable, they exclaim,
as they click away from a distance.
a virtual man-made mountain.
refuse-rise terraces of north bay.

no they will not come for mayon.
there is enough of beauty
where they'd been.
it is here they click away
at something long glossed over;
for the likes of them to gloat over.
unbelievable, shaking their heads.

yes, believe,that here
in this part of god's country
exists a part of the human race
in this elevated space of mounting
rage for anyone to sniff at
poverty's all year round resort
here it may claim a permanent leasehold.
here they may not be ejected.

and at a day's end
this one dump of a space
reaches out, phases out
into a sidereal scene,
upon one angry sky.
and here is etched
a coalition of mountain-blazing
and color-chaffering
quite something to remember
this country by.
as the rest of our own smoked away
bottom-heavy world
go fuming, smouldering by."

This is my argument for creativity that goes beyond time. It is timely. I own it as a personal lament against the hypocrisy of scribblers in some parts of the halls who would rather polish their Swiss Alps boots than own up to their misdeeds. I love Ophelia; she mentored students who remain great.I am friends with two of her wards and I enjoy reading and looking at their outputs.

It is in this campus too, that I attended a church service where I almost wept at the beauty of a beloved's sermon; where I am surrounded by my own. I know them; I see them; I feel them.

I take my word of one of the quilters:

"Mom, the kids are still ONE and they love each other."

I sleep better at night keeping this in mind.

Thank you Ophelia for your enduring words. You are better than the socialites in denial. I love you for your lettered voice.