03-15-2017, 11:02 AM
The International
There’s a song waiting to be written
about that time I went to Moscow for two weeks. Now there’s a song
that would make you laugh, that would make you cry,
that would anger and inspire
all at the same time – it would be filled
with psychological insights, as I am wont to uncover,
with mythological references, as I am wont to insert,
and with scatological jokes, as I am wont to create,
provoking the moralist and exciting the intellectual
in equal, escalating fashion.
It shall be composed
in common time, in C-major, in proper sonata or ballad form,
all to make it easy to remember, even anthemic.
Yes, it shall be the anthem of a nation,
at least of a nation’s generation,
describing our feelings of alienation
from idealization and globalization,
from industrialization and Westernization,
all in perfect prosody, using simple rhyming words.
It shall comment first on the places that I visited,
the summer forests of Zvenigorod Oblast,
the mysterious beauty of Savvino-Storozhevsky,
the urban sprawl of Moscow City proper,
the Old World authority of the Tretyakov Gallery,
the Oriental gaudiness of St. Basil’s Cathedral,
the false aspersions of the Kremlin-under-renovation,
the commanding gaze of Pushkin’s statue in Tverskoy,
the world’s busiest McDonald’s – then on the people,
how different they are from us Filipinos,
how much taller, how much stronger, how much whiter,
the women how much more graceful, how much more sensual,
and, overall, how much less hospitable, how their strangers
always refuse to communicate with anyone who knows only English –
and finally, on the politics.
Yes, it shall be relevant!
It shall say things, provide food for thought, spark
discussions – like Kefir, it shall leave a bad taste in the mouth
then make the inexperienced diner’s tummy rumble,
rushing him to the toilet – ultimately, cleansing him of impurities
and replenishing his intestinal flora. Flora! Putangina –
There’s a song waiting to be written
about the time this young illustrado
got enlightened by his European visit
one hundred and thirty-five years too late,
not even to a nation wholly European,
not nearly as brilliant as any illustrado,
and completely irrelevant to anyone but himself.
There’s a song waiting to be written
about that time I went to Moscow for two weeks. Now there’s a song
that would make you laugh, that would make you cry,
that would anger and inspire
all at the same time – it would be filled
with psychological insights, as I am wont to uncover,
with mythological references, as I am wont to insert,
and with scatological jokes, as I am wont to create,
provoking the moralist and exciting the intellectual
in equal, escalating fashion.
It shall be composed
in common time, in C-major, in proper sonata or ballad form,
all to make it easy to remember, even anthemic.
Yes, it shall be the anthem of a nation,
at least of a nation’s generation,
describing our feelings of alienation
from idealization and globalization,
from industrialization and Westernization,
all in perfect prosody, using simple rhyming words.
It shall comment first on the places that I visited,
the summer forests of Zvenigorod Oblast,
the mysterious beauty of Savvino-Storozhevsky,
the urban sprawl of Moscow City proper,
the Old World authority of the Tretyakov Gallery,
the Oriental gaudiness of St. Basil’s Cathedral,
the false aspersions of the Kremlin-under-renovation,
the commanding gaze of Pushkin’s statue in Tverskoy,
the world’s busiest McDonald’s – then on the people,
how different they are from us Filipinos,
how much taller, how much stronger, how much whiter,
the women how much more graceful, how much more sensual,
and, overall, how much less hospitable, how their strangers
always refuse to communicate with anyone who knows only English –
and finally, on the politics.
Yes, it shall be relevant!
It shall say things, provide food for thought, spark
discussions – like Kefir, it shall leave a bad taste in the mouth
then make the inexperienced diner’s tummy rumble,
rushing him to the toilet – ultimately, cleansing him of impurities
and replenishing his intestinal flora. Flora! Putangina –
There’s a song waiting to be written
about the time this young illustrado
got enlightened by his European visit
one hundred and thirty-five years too late,
not even to a nation wholly European,
not nearly as brilliant as any illustrado,
and completely irrelevant to anyone but himself.
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