No Wounded Poet
No Wounded Poet
By Cesare A.X. Syjuco
Published in: The Manila Times, January 28, 1987
THERE are poets of the spirit and poets of the flesh. In his latest volume "Dream of Knives", Alfred A. Yuson is clearly a spirited poet in the flesh. I do not think that any one book – let alone a modest one such as this – could ever contain him.
The itinerant in Yuson, so apparent in this volume, transcends geography. That may sound like a lot of jive, but it isn't. Yuson is never in one place at a time, compelled by a perennial restlessness, moving in a multiplicity of crosscurrents at once. His deft navigational maneuvers chart many a course that wind their way through secret mountain passes, urban dives, and places of the heart. In any case, the same soaring eloquence, the self-same fascination with signposts and their decodification, remains unchanged. Yuson, as migrant chronicler and inveterate romantic, could traverse an ocean in a rubber raft or circumnavigate both sides of a tarnished dime, all with characteristic zest.
There are poets who slobber over rime, their souls turned inside-out like dirty laundry. I do not think there was ever a time when Alfred Yuson felt sorry for himself.
Even in his most intimate passages, his gaze is turned outward with eyes that snatch. A collector of moments – and therefore a collector of memories – his propensity for correlating isolated fragments in time gives his work uncanny peripheral vision, a preternatural sense of disquieting perspective that, to me, is the true test of potent poetic narrative.
There are poets who die a little at a time with each writing, thinking self-emolation a badge of courage. Alfred Yuson is a poet vibrantly alive. His work is almost always an affirmation of life, the tenor of his speech animated, engaging and vital. This is not the stuff of which morose graveyard elegies are made, even as it is generously laden with bittersweet reminiscing.
And indeed, for a poet who revels in irony, Yuson's work is surprisingly devoid of rage or hostility. I am not quite sure if this is good or bad in the long run, grown accustomed as I have become to snarling verse in poetry of hindsight. Yuson never shakes his fist at the wind, never raises his hand to his cherished memories, and practically never trades blows with the scum of the earth. Instead, what we have here is a poet of sensitivity and limitless optimism both, an enviable if somewhat maddening brew. No hushpuppy brooding nor the gnashing of teeth; Alfred Yuson is as sound as he is elegant.
There are poets who would much rather be musicians, adept at saying little or nothing with impeccable melodious flair. These people would do better playing the piano. Alfred Yuson, it can be said in earnest, has a great deal more to share than we may be prepared to hear in one sitting. More importantly, he isn't afraid to sound trite (which, in fact, he does at times), trading the ability to hiss and yoddle for a good stab in the belly. That's no way as easy as it sounds. The world is full of effeminate notions about lilting lyrics and the gift of song.
As for myself, coiffured poems and sculptured poodles have always made me a little crazy with grief. Which is probably why Alfred Yuson has always been a hero of mine.
Perhaps someday we shall be fortunate enough to have him whole. In the meantime, this book will just have to do. There are no heroes where there are no fools. Thank God for poets and for Alfred Yuson.
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Cesare A.X. Syjuco, “No Wounded Poet” (page 1 of 1), The Manila Times, January 28, 1987
