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ALBERT B. CASUGA, a Philippine-born writer, lives in Mississauga, Ontario, Canada, where he continues to write poetry, fiction, and criticism after his retirement from teaching and serving as an elected member of his region's school board. He was nominated to the Mississauga Arts Council Literary Awards in 2007. A graduate of the Royal and Pontifical University of St. Thomas (now University of Santo Tomas, Manila. Literature and English, magna cum laude), he taught English and Literature (Criticism, Theory, and Creative Writing) at the Philippines' De La Salle University and San Beda College. He has authored books of poetry, short stories, literary theory and criticism. He has won awards for his works in Canada, the U.S.A., and the Philippines. His latest work, A Theory of Echoes and Other Poems was published February 2009 by the University of Santo Tomas Publishing House. His fiction and poetry were published by online literary journals Asia Writes and Coastal Poems recently. He was a Fellow at the 1972 Silliman University Writers Workshop, Philippines. As a journalist, he worked with the United Press International and wrote an art column for the defunct Philippines Herald.

Friday, February 26, 2010


I wake up these days with an Ilocano duay-ya (lullaby) humming in my head. I could recall the title of the lullaby --- Dungdungwen Kanto (I Will Always Cherish You) --- but could merely elide through all the words I could not remember. Quite like Sinatra substituting do-be-do-be-do to elusive lyrics.

I suspect my mother must have sung this to lull me into slumber from the time she carried me in her womb and through all those difficult times when I would disturb the peace of our evacuation camp (WWII) with incessant colic wailing. Born asthmatic, I was neither easy to hush nor rock to sleep. Mother assured me, not even native cane wine would benumb me to la-la land.

Come to think of it, at almost my seventh decade, I crave for sleep --- a commodity I devoutly wish for. I have not found the switch-off button that all insomniacs can only fervently dream of if not earnestly covet from sleepy heads that were gifted with this facility they sadly could never share with needy ones even if they tried.

Hence, lullabies.

I must be regressing into senility, I auto-diagnose quite often. Or, putting a cyber spin to it, my brain must be re-booting! (I hope it won’t take forever, just like these infernal Internet thingamajigs!)

I have always known the melody line, always hummed it from youth, too. I would put my own children (now grandchildren, too) to sleep with the lullaby. There is a haunting melancholic tone to the lullaby.

Not able to rely on my flickering memory, I Googled the ditty, and even got the You Tube version of this venerable Ilocano lullaby. I have not been attentive to the nuances of the lyrics, but as soon as I got all of them from the archives of an Ilocano Song website, I was disturbed to realize that it is a sadder song than I have always thought.

Why would his Duay-ya (Lullaby of Love) also include a lachrymose refrain that speaks of crippling heartache and a supplicant’s prayer for nurture and caress?

Could this be the reason why the grandchildren I have sung to sleep preferred Edelweiss and Rock-a-bye Baby to this native lullaby that rings in my old head every morning now?

DUAY-YA (Lullaby of Love)

Dungdunguen kanto unay unay, (I will love and cherish you always)
Indayonen kanto iti sinamay, (I will cradle you to sleep in a soft-cloth swing)
Tultuloden kanto nalumanay, (I will swing you ever so gently)
Pagamuanen inkanto mailibay. (And soon enough you will be asleep)

Apaman nga inkanto makaturog (As soon as you have fallen asleep)
Iyabbongkonto ta rupam daytoy panyok. (I will cover your face with my handkerchief)
Tapno dinakanto kagaten ti lamok (So no mosquitoes would bite you)
Ken maimasmonto't maturog. (And so you would enjoy a good slumber.)

Apaman nga inkanto makariing (As soon as you awaken,)
Dagdagusen kanto a sappuyoten (I would immediately hold you)
Nga ililili kas maysa nga ubing (And dandle you like an infant)
Ta nanamem sam-it ni issem. (So you could see my sweet smile)

The Refrain:

*Annay, pusok, annay, annay, (O, my aching heart, it aches, it aches,)
Nasaem, naut-ut la unay. (It hurts badly, it hurts to the core.)
Itdem kaniak ta pannaranay (So, please, please your nurture give)
Ta kaasiak a maidasay. (For it is pity if I would die.)

The three stanzas followed by the refrain are sung by the persona who lulls the loved one to a peaceful slumber. But what intrigues me is the doleful refrain. Is this a lullaby that coaxes one to go --- to leave, to bid goodbye?

If it is, then the irony is quite palpably blistering. So much love is protested in the three lullaby stanzas, only to end in each refrain with a foreboding of demise.

Is it a lullaby that forebodes some trouble in a subsequent awakening? What is it that wounds the heart? What is it that injures the persona?

It is ambiguity like this which characterizes significant poetry. It is quite endemic then to the oral poetry that preceded the postmodern prosodic attempts at poetic utterance.

During those war years (1941 to 1945) when the Japanese occupied the Philippines, mother lost her first son, Francisco, who did not survive the rigours of birth in a time and clime of direness and uncertainty. She did not have the chance to sing this lullaby to my stillborn brother. In quite a serendipitous manner, this lullaby would have been the muted dung-aw (dirge).

When, in the midst of that war, I was born with a weakened heart (it was too big, from too long and strenuous a labour by my mother in a half-deserted hospital in the Mountain city of Baguio, then the resort city of the retreating American colonial government), and an uncertain viability compounded by asthma, this would have been the “appropriate” lullaby for a vigil to mark the undetermined days that I would live.

But I lived through that evacuation to the mountains of Baguling, in La Union, in the Northern Philippines, when the Japanese were involved in mop up operations before surrendering to the liberating allied forces (Americans and Filipino guerrillas). The Igorot tribes of Baguling sheltered us. My mother had no milk in her breasts, so our native brothers boiled camote (sweet potato) and used the broth to suckle me.

If our evacuation host, Juan Tuangan, sang this lullaby to his own children, it would also have been a recognition of their perilous lives while under siege from the Nippon marauders or even the allied forces for sheltering a family that had the Japanese surname “Casuga” (originally Kasuga).

The refrain of the lullaby must be the ache in my mother’s heart. Prescient, she would know what pain awaited her surviving son. Yet, at last count, I know there are more happy moments now.

In Canada, years later in the 1980’s, my first grandson, Julian Ashley Casuga-de la Rosa, succumbed to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (at 4 months). This would have been the lullaby on my lips while I held him limp and lifeless in the emergency ward where my daughter, JA’s hapless mother, simply murmured over and over: I love you, Jayjay.

Why all these remembrances? It is my Zeit Schinden, (a play for time) while prepping to write a lullaby for Louis Martin Casuga-Lalonde, 2, because he has gotten tired of Edelweiss.

When I switch to Rock-a-bye Baby, it suddenly dawns upon me, that the same foreboding of Dungdungwen Kanto highlights the lullaby:

Rock-a-bye, Baby, on the treetop,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby, cradle, and all.

Why have our lullabies taken a grim turn? Or are we preparing our wee ones for the nasty world out there, and nobody is checking on our gloom?

But I must hie now and write that lyric for my unsleeping grandson.

Saturday, February 20, 2010


It is a poet's constant dread. The poem will be stillborn. So one plays for time. Wait for the surprise that creation is. One recalls the decapitated Orpheus nailed on the lyre, singing still. There must be a song arrested in his throat. The poet plays for time, a zeit schinden. Sometimes, the poem dies in the waiting.


If playing for time is idleness regained,
a game of dunking Orpheus’ head
in a pot of boiling water would indeed
buy us the song screaming to drown
silences that are midwives to poems.
Did not the head nailed to the lyre
sing still of the beauty that was Greece?
What does it matter that limbs are shorn
from limbs in prurient violence?
A paean in darkened rooms is still pain
that seeks its balm in threnodies
muted now as dirges for the final quiver
of the song arrested in his throat,
a stillborn sigh that could have been
the dying gurgle of our descending
into a sandbox of absent games
and players gone and quietness fallen.

Mississauga, February 20, 2010
(Drawing by Matisse)

Tuesday, February 9, 2010



(For my ballerinas: Chloe, Sydney, and Taylor)

“Adios, adios, abuelo. Te Amo. Je T'aime! Mahal Kita! Luv ya!”
---- Chloe speaking in tongues.

A glimmer of a sylph on the gossamer bay,
She pirouettes and is gone into her chrysalis
Not unlike the sylvan truants that waylay
The wary wanderer among the trees,

Or the papillon flitting from blossom to bramble,
Hidden but always there, some surprise grace,
A magical fairy light to dispel the creeping pall
Coiled on the winter ennui of fallen days ---

O, she dandles dearly with her ragged ragdoll,
Caressingly delicate in a wistful pas de deux
Of her shadow Fonteyn caught in a sudden fall
By a prancing Baryshnikov vaulting off the shadow.

Was that his pas de chat to snatch her from disaster?
Quickly now, urgently now, hold the hapless Dame
As would a cat curl on the legs of its Master,
Dream now of a demure pas de bourree of fame,

While dreams still enthrall, while the dancing
Is still your language of love, of boundless courage,
While the arguments of your young body moving
To the beats of passion are still the true language

Of the good, the honest, and the beautiful:
Until then, mon amour, these decrepit hands cannot
Stop the deluge of fear, of hurt, and of the frightful
That would drown us all, before our windows are shut.

Even now, as you wave from your window,
I know you will be brave.

Mississauga, February 9, 2010

Thursday, February 4, 2010



Posted here for a wider circulation, A Theory of Echoes and Other Poems was published by the University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, Manila, Philippines, in February 2009 as part of the 400 books written by university alumni to commemorate the university's 400th anniversary. University of Santo Tomas is one of the world's oldest universities (established in 1611) and was at one time under the aegis of the Papacy as Royal and Pontifical University of Saint Thomas. It is now run fully by Filipino Dominican friars for more than 50,000 scholars from the country and internationally.The collection of poems by Albert B. Casuga was to have been the other half of a volume featuring the short stories of Cesar Leyco Aguila and Casuga's poetry. The publishing house decided to publish it separately, and is Casuga's eighth collection of poems. Aguila is a Philippines-born Australian writer who came out recently with a novel, Between Two Worlds, and lives in New South Wales.

( FOR LARGER ZOOMS, PLEASE GO TO Click on the image to zoom in on the text.)

The author acknowledges the assistance of Dr. Ophelia Alcantara-Dimalanta, UST Writer in Residence, in the publication of this collection. Dr. Alcantara introduced Casuga's first collection of poems, Narra Poems and Others (San Beda College, Philippines, Publications), in 1968.

Monday, February 1, 2010

J.D. SALINGER, 1919-2010


(JANUARY 1, 1919 – JANUARY 27, 2010 (+))

Media had its final revenge on J.D. Salinger (Jerome David).

When his family announced his death “through natural causes” in his reclusive refuge at his rural Cornish , New Hampshire house, newspapers all around the world were ready with his obituary the next press roll – all the four national Canadian dailies, for instance, front-paged his unexpected demise, and got archivists salivating with full-page obits, and tried scooping each other silly with coup de grace stories on his being the grand recluse, the nemesis of “phoniness”, “the great writer, even better recluse”, with his “early fame, then decades of silence”, a “generation’s silent hero”, “an authentic in a world of phonies, Salinger gave us the gospel of Holden”, was a “silent hero (who) changed a generation”, oh, yes, a “literary giant (who) lived as a recluse”, and Hollywood film producers drooled over what may be “Salinger’s unpublished Gold Mine”, yah-dah-yah-dah.
O, how he would have turned in his yet un-dug grave to read about the news on his untimely demise. At 91, “untimely” would have been phony, and, indeed, the news about his death is embarrassingly “exaggerated.” After all, did not his recondite existence in cemented bunkers all through these years forswear any of these extravaganzas?

After the 1951 publication of his debut novel The Catcher in the Rye in 1951, he foreswore media interviews (including an appearance in Oprah’s TV show), publication, unauthorized biographies, fictionized sequels to Catcher, all communication with the literary world especially with publishers. No more publishers. No more stories (except that 1965 Hapworth 16, 1924, that ran in The New Yorker). After all, 65 million copies of Catcher have sustained his hermitage, and all publishers, book-tours, and book hawking be damned!

The Toronto Star obit written by its books columnist Geoff Pevere said, “He seldom spoke to the press, except in 1974 when, trying to fend off the unauthorized publication of his uncollected stories, he told a reporter from The New York Times: 'There is a marvellous peace in not publishing. It’s peaceful. Still. Publishing is a terrible invasion of my privacy. I love to write. I love to write. But I write just for myself and my own pleasure.’ ”

The Globe and Mail obit by Hillel Italie (Jan. 29) subheaded: “The Catcher in the Rye’s Holden Caulfield defined an emerging postwar adolescence, in all its rebelliousness and alienation. He also embodied the author’s disdain for the world. Though the novel became an instant sensation, Salinger eschewed the trappings of literary stardom and retreated into a fiercely defended solitude.”

Italie quotes Salinger: “I love to write and I assure you I write regularly,” Mr. Salinger said in a brief interview with Baton Rouge (La.) Advocate in 1980. “But I write for myself, for my own pleasure. And I want to be left alone to do it.”

Italie cites New Hampshire neighbour Jerry Burt who said that the author had told him years earlier that he had written at least 15 unpubblished books kept locked in a safe at this home.” His literary representatives ( Ober Agency’s Phyllis Westberg. Heather Rizzo of Little, Brown and Co., however, disavow any information to that effect or that there are plans to open the vault to plan “for future releases.”

Mark Medley of the Weekend Post (National Post) quoted novelist Jay McInerney, “whose novel Bright Lights, Big City was compared to The Catcher in the Rye when it was published in 1984, told ABC News that he wasn’t sure Salinger had even written anything worth reading since publishing his final story, Hapworth 16, 1924, in the June 19, 1965 issue of the New Yorker.”

“I think there’s probably a lot in there, but I’m not sure if it’s necessarily what we hope it is,” McInerney told the network on Thursday (Jan. 28) when asked about the contents of Salinger’s legendary safe, where it ‘s alleged he ‘s kept his unpublished work. “Hapworth was not a traditional or terribly satisfying work of fiction. It was an insane epistolary monologue, virtually shapeless and formless. I have a feeling that his later work is in that vein.” Medley reported.

In the Globe’s January 29 front page, novelist Andrew Pyper chimed in with his estimate of Salinger’s legacy: “What stays with me from The Catcher in the Rye aren’t the events of the story, not even its oft-imitated prose style (trust me when I say you can’t teach a writing course today without finding at least one student trying to “do” Holden), but the sour consciousness of its protagonist, its prep school god of gloom.

“Holden Caulfield is the American Hamlet: a troubled maybe-genius haunted not by his father’s ghost, but by the ghouls of phoniness, the posturing culture of self aggrandizement that, at the time when Salinger was writing his novel, was only just beginning to come into fully realized hideousness.” Pyper pitched in to explain the influence of Salinger in the works of beat generation authors like Jack Kerouac (On the Road) and mores of a generation who would deify James Dean as filmdom’s reincarnation of Holden Caulfield.

National Post’s Barbara Kay explained Holden Caulfield (aka J.D. Salinger as an “urban, middle class Jewish, alienated John O’Hara for some; for others, a mystic whose principal motif was the ‘human exchange of beatific signal,’ a kind of Central Park Dostoevsky.”)

“Certainly, the slim Salinger oeuvre marks a turning point in American literary and social culture. Before Holden Caulfield arrived in the scene, maturity was something young people looked forward to with impatience and eagerness as a state in which one could set about doing things. After The Catcher in the Rye, the title a reference to Holden’s evocative image of himself saving children from falling off a cliff into a abyss of sexualized adulthood, maturity began to be perceived by adolescents as a place you become “phony” (the worst sin for Salinger), a kind of death of the soul’s authenticity (which itself is presented as a yearned-for state of being that is possible only in pre-sexualized children).”

Among North American school boards, Catcher became “both required and restricted reading, periodically banned by a school board or challenged by parents worried by its frank language and the chip on Holden’s shoulder.

Italie reports Salinger responding to this situation: “I’m aware that a number of my friends will be saddened, or shocked, or shock-saddened, over some of the chapters of The Catcher in the Rye. Some of my best friends are children. In fact, all of my best friends are children,” Mr. Salinger wrote in 1955, in a short note for 20th Century Authors.”

By the time Salinger wrote his final story, Hapworth 16, 1924, (in 1965) “he was viewed increasingly like a precocious child whose manner had soured from cute to insufferable. “

“Salinger was the greatest mind ever to stay in prep school,” Norman Mailer remarked once, Italie reported in the Globe obit.

That explains his disappearance from the scene.

Sulking about the “phoniness” that The Star’s Geoff Pevere assigned as among the “most tantalizing of Caulfield’s neuroses, given the nature of the man who created him, is the kid’s somewhat overwrought disinclination for social interaction. In short, whether out of fear or loathing, he can’t stand people: ‘I thought what I’d do was, I’d pretend I was one of those deafmutes,’ says Caulfield in the book. ‘That way I would not have to have any stupid useless conversations with anybody. If anybody wanted to tell me something, they’d have to write it on a piece of paper and shove it over to me. I’d build me a little cabin somewhere with the dough I made.”

“That’s more or less exactly what Salinger, with all the dough he made from Catcher (which still sells some quarter-million copies a year), did by purchasing a 36-heactare compound on a wooded hillside in Cornish, in 1953.” Pevere concluded.

Salinger, as his Caulfield, kicked the can out of the sandbox, ran away, and hid in the forest. In the process, he made hermitage another literary event that must now be grazed upon by the media in their frenzy to strip carrion from the deceased “recluse extraordinaire.”

I write for my own pleasure, Salinger said. Leave me alone, he said. Is that a plausible reason for ceasing publication of one’s works? Did he continue writing? Will his literary estate reveal that to an incredulous literary world?

To the credulous fans, why not? To every scribbler, a motive.

One writes not only for the money (Salinger got that with his first novel). But would one write to satisfy the cravings of the ego which has decided to anoint oneself as a vessel holding gems of wisdom that readers would be poorer without?

Or could one cocoon oneself into a universe of letters to explain phenomena that infringe on one’s existence? A escape into an organized world designed by contrived plots, characters, and epiphanies?

Would the solitude of writing without publishing help in shaping an understandable Weltanschauung for the author who virtually continues Adam’s work of naming things in one’s Paradise Regained? Would that process of identifying experience (necessarily through an aesthetic mode) make for a more acceptable universe, a fortiori a more tolerable existence?

Did Salinger simply want to explain his world without “phoniness”, so that every innocent Phoebe would inherit the earth? Why write at all?

I read The Catcher in the Rye eight years after its publication. I was a freshman at the university then. A published campus writer by that time, my university publication, The Varsitarian, accepted my short stories that might have serendipitously been “influenced” by Salinger’s Catcher.

Among those stories, I remember my protagonist, a young man impatient to understand his world and arrive at an acceptance of its grotesqueries: El Gato, (published by then literary editor Caesar Leyco Aguila); On a Hill Verdant (accepted by then literary editor Jaime Maidan Flores); Monday Morning in a Bus (published by then literary editor, Francisco S. Tatad), Orpheus in Canaoay (published by then literary editor Cirilo F. Bautista). All of my editors were themselves writers of excellent standing in the Philippine literary scene in the 60’s, (and certainly at present) a generation for those who lived and died by the code of the James Deans and the Marlon Brandos, and certainly the Holden Caulfields.

Literary pundits assign Salinger’s Holden Caulfield the quintessence of the unsullied conscience of the “authentic” and the rebel with a cause, but they seem to have forgotten that James Joyce in his A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man presented a more sterling Stephen Dedalus, who had himself exiled “to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.”

Caulfield is a phony for not seeing experience as fraught with the aberrations of scarred humanity. Dedalus would ask: Are you weary of ardent ways, /lure of fallen seraphim? /Tell no more of enchanted days.”

J.D. Salinger has gone to his ultimate retreat – may his reclusion give him peace. In Barbara Kay’s words: “Several generations of readers evidently have shared the same longing --- which is why Salinger lives on as a nostalgia figure, if not a prophet. Unless and until inner peace becomes the new American norm, his niche in the American canon is secure.”

Meanwhile, in Mark Medley’s National Post obiter dictum: “Read a headline on The Onion soon after the author’s death: “Bunch of Phonies Mourn J. D. Salinger.”

Further, this blog sayeth naught.