Jimmy Abad of SWS
My friendship with the multiawarded poet Jimmy Abad goes back to student days in the 1960s. In 1976, after I had directed the Social Indicators Project for the Development Academy of the Philippines, Jimmy (along with Cesar F. Dizon) readied the resulting 574-page book “Measuring Philippine Development” for publication. In 1985, he and his wife Mercedes R. Abad, the marketing research expert, were among the seven founding fellows of Social Weather Stations. They are proof that poems can cohabit with surveys.
Last week’s festschrift for Jimmy had a reading of his poems by his literary friends. I extend the celebration here by setting out, with his permission, a poem he gave me in 1986.
The Emperor Had No Clothes,
His Queen Had 3000 Shoes
Tell us the story, poet,
and tell it to us again—
it is God’s gift,
It is also our prayer.
First, it was forbidden to say
that the Emperor had no clothes,
Next, it was treason to see
that the Queen had 3000 shoes.
It was the best of times,
it was the worst of times—
we had no cities,
but we had no tale.
And then it happened—
why, no one could see,
or how, no one could say.
An impossible tale
because what happened,
at the time that it did,
had already happened.
Tell us again, poet,
to tell our children—
the monotony of evil,
the terror of God’s gift.
First, the Emperor had already walked
a hundred thousand miles
in the full regalia of his nudity,
he could not recall the first,
and so null was his plumage
the organs of speech were quite unstrung
before the tale returned
and found the city in ruins
across another ocean.
Next, the Queen had already worn
in a hundred thousand dreams
the full museum of her wandering
she could not recall the first,
and so void was her odyssey
the organs of sight were quite denuded
before the tale returned
and found her city in tears
under alien palms.
Yet tell us, poet, why
and how, and the turning point—
the strangeness of common good,
the suddenness of giving.
O, in the Emperor’s tale,
there was a child in the crowd
who found suddenly the word for truth—
the high nudity of royal clothes!
And the people laughed
because terror had lost its shadow.
O, in the Queen’s tale,
there was a widow in the crowd
who suddenly found the word for power—
the feet’s humility, and loveliness of soil!
And the people wept
because love is such strange law.
O, tell us again, poet,
tell us what it means—
Our story,
God’s gift as also our prayer.
I have told you a parable.
The child, the widow, and—
always last—the poet,
who is both widow and child:
they are the Other of Revolution.
The poet in retrospect
is the last revolutionary,
because he speaks not for others,
he alone finally can speak.
He speaks the hue and cry
of the lost and powerless.
He speaks
the total abolition of Power:
not the desire—a secret city;
not the experience—a teeming metropolis;
But power.
Gémino H. Abad
3 Aug ’86
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