Jet-Black Guns Before The Troubadour

by Ramzzi Fariñas

 

Eyes concealed by his hat; the guitar’s strummed
without his voice. While in boots and camouflage:
jet-black guns come near before the troubadour.

Protest is also part of the process,
                                                the strings cry his sonnet.

Without consent, a foreign hand stops the instrument.
“Manong, we’re talking to you,” the hand interrupts.

“I’m listening, officer,” he replies, “but beware—
                                                the strings are sharp.”

 

Ramzzi Fariñas: “Jet-Black Guns Before the Troubadour” is a response to President Rodrigo Duterte’s signing of the Anti-Terror Bill, or much ridiculed as the “Terror Bill”, as it causes more harm than good. Contrary to what the bill states (as it is redundant to other legal mandates to counter terrorism), the Duterte administration may use it in their tyrannical pursuit to silence critics. This is to note that President Rodrigo Duterte considered the passing of the bill to be “urgent”. That the president would say this in a time of pandemic, where the enemy is Covid-19, was dubious. What is drastic and demonic is that—if, time and time again, applied with militaristic power, the bill would result in inhumane incarceration and extrajudicial killings. Just as happened with his anti-drug campaign where the poor, the innocent, journalists, activists and artists alike, were caught in the crossfire. This bill, now signed into law, can give full authority to arraign anyone without an arrest warrant or requiring to afford them immediate legal help.

My poem was supposed to be a part of an online anthology to be published by a collective that focused on organising and supporting the legal concerns of many workers in Metro Manila. When one of my friends in that collective messaged me to write again, gravitating on the Anti-Terror Bill as the “inspiration”, I immediately took the day off to imagine a scenario, to put a spin on the perennial question, “What if?” Most of the time, I would only explore the crevices of memory in writing. However, in this poem, I delved into my imagination to reflect on times artists were detained by police. Especially a poet, a musician who would voice out publicly against injustice and inhumane treatment.

“A great lyricist is a poet, a great poet is a lyricist,” the Vietnamese American novelist and songwriter Monique Truong said in support of Bob Dylan winning the Nobel Prize in Literature, asserting that poetry is not only oral in tradition but also musical. If you look at it, lyric poetry is indeed meant to be sung, not read. Where else do the structures of stanza and refrain come from? On no authority, for whatever purpose, would I distinguish a poem from a song, but I have always believed a poem is a song without the instrument. Because, through the use of an instrument, the written lyrics would need to abide by the demands of harmony, melody, and other important musical measures. In spite of the intricate difference between poem and song, both are celestially bound by their similarity.

I have always been fascinated by the troubadours, ever since I started reading Pound’s earliest works, be it his prose or poetry, where they were not only referenced, but seemed to be alive, having their own presence. Scholars have long known them as poets with “strings,” hailing from Italy or Provence. They had the quirkiest activities of bygone days, singing great lyric poetry to get lovers, or disparage rival suitors. In modern times, their personae have turned from being exclusively Western poets to popular singers, especially in the guise of Lorca, Woody Guthrie, Dylan, Leonard Cohen, or, in the Philippines, Gary Granada, who, like Dylan, wrote protest songs. They can be hailed either as poets or songwriters, depending on how they might be viewed in the eyes of the public. In “Jet Black”, I realised the power of the troubadour. The word itself has that austere beauty. Instead of “poet,” I resorted to a long word where the r’s need to roll, much like the waves crashing on the granite shore, to borrow a Poundian image. Now, answering my question, the troubadour is in the midst of an arrest, where he’ll no longer sing of love, but rather sing for the moment—sing to resist.

Published: Tuesday 19 October 2021

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Ramzzi Fariñas grew up in Ilocos Sur and Abra. He would soon become a pioneering member of The Time of Assassins Literary Guild (TTALG). Recently, his poetry and prose were published in CCP Intertextual Divisionʼs ANI 41 and Novice. Previously, his poems and stories have appeared in Philippines Graphic, Buhawi: Ang Unang Hagupit, Digital-Hypertext GardenCheap Lives & Hard Drives: A Cyberpunk Anthology, and Open Fire, among other places. He’s currently studying for an MA in Philosophy at the University of the Philippines Diliman.

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