By Tony Huang
Parade of Past Lives will be published next week (Aug 17, 2024) by PGN Publishing. It is a compelling collection of poems that eludes easy classification, as its author, K. A. Ramil, deftly explores themes of fluidity, transformation, and the profound wonder inherent in the human experience.
In the evocative poem “Becoming,” resilience is portrayed with striking imagery; the poet’s voice resonates like the “acquired sound the way trees lean/ to defy breaking.” This piece serves as an exuberant celebration of the indomitable spirit and the readiness to embrace metamorphosis, urging us to discover “where to stand.” The lines encapsulate a profound understanding of self-acceptance amidst the tumult of life, as the speaker reflects, “Roots don’t care; they thrive in the dark./ Wind won’t win against the sound// rolling on the street—wheels/ & blisters.” After “chasing enough twisters,” the poet boldly declares, “I became a hurricane,” embodying the overwhelming tumult of emotions where “the air [is] too much,/ the lungs can no longer accommodate the heart.” The journey continues with the haunting realization of “names I swallowed frozen/ in the cords,” and the poignant acknowledgment that “my voice tasted rust,” further emphasizing the speaker’s struggle for identity. Ultimately, the resolution to “learn where to stand—to choose myself despite myself” highlights the triumph of self-acceptance.
Ramil’s work exemplifies a Whitmanesque optimism, brilliantly illustrating the potential for becoming and the transformative journeys one must undertake to confront life’s adversities. It is unsurprising to encounter the voice asserting, “I’m a work in progress.” The narrator’s willingness to embrace the fluidity of existence is both heartening and inspiring, particularly in a world rife with forces that often stifle personal growth. The repeated affirmation of “I’m a work in progress,” coupled with “I wonder how many bodies have I shifted into,” resonates deeply, evoking an affirmative belief in the in-betweenness of modern experience and confidence in one’s self in the face of the viccissitudes of life.
However, the poems do not shy away from exploring darker sentiments; they are equally infused with defiance and indignation. We hear a fervent voice boldly proclaim, “call me anything—anyone’s name—but mine.” The realization that “nothing is permanent enough” leads to a poignant reflection on the impermanence of existence, as the speaker identifies with the “bookmark/ between chapters, dried flat flowers.” This imagery, while perhaps not contributing directly to the ontological significance of the self, invites a heightened aesthetic awareness of identity. The speaker’s plea for clarity is compelling:
Call me what you want as i try to get a sense of i.
Say it—louder, please—until it leads clarity,
until the echoes become the voice, the flood
into blood, until I’m certain a rendezvous remains
where i tell my own tales.
The work in the collection evinces moments of profound introspection, with the speaker reflecting on a life that begins amid complexity and challenge. Rather than starting with “short straight lines for beginners,” he “learned to draw early, traced full circles…[and] made life into a bubble out of embraces/ until it bruised into bursts of small & smaller circles.”
Yet, the poet also grapples with an ardent desire to forget, to unburden himself from the weight of memories. In “Reflex,” he articulates a longing to understand “the dynamics of forgetting/ the way babies develop the reflex/ to grasp at an object./ How it disappears in about six months./ A perfect disappearing act./ Perfect for dropping the weight of selfish memories.” In the relentless ebb and flow of life, the ability to shed certain memories appears crucial. Thus, leaving the heaviness of memories behind, the poet likens himself to “a kite snapped into flight,” welcoming the wind “into a parade of all [his] past lives.” In the poem titled “Because the City Was Empty,” from which the collection derives its name, the narrator celebrates liberation from memories:
I could not
become who I already was.
I forgot the string.
I forgot there is a string.
However, this pursuit of oblivion poses the risk of severing essential connections that shape a complete self. There exists a poignant realization that “my fingers are suddenly alien to touch./ I search for the fractures, / there’s a new one each count.” The world shifts with dizzying rapidity, and even the poet is suspicious if he has given “too much too fast.” In this whirlwind, our sense of our past or even our complete self is but “a Pangaea in/ memoriam.”
Ramil articulates a tension between departure and the yearning to remain unchanged while awaiting a return. The figure who departs is metaphorically akin to “a stone launched at 20°, the magic angle, then spun/ in a straight line, the shortest line—/ away from me.” The one leaving even urges the poet to “enjoy—just enjoy!” Yet, this is a lesson, like others in life, that we hesitate to embrace; instead, we hear the speaker left behind admits that “I’ve learned to hold the hour hand in the same riverside/ where I witnessed more going than coming.”
K. A. Ramil’s poetic style is often lyrical and resonant, reminiscent of Poe’s haunting lyricism. In “Dear Other,” lines such as “Too early for promises so heavy./ Let me exist in the lyrics I envy—/ your hands. An experience. I tell the world/ pieces that it will remember/ when I’m tired of trying.// I was always trying.// I am trying;” and in “In Between: Crossroad,” particularly lines like “Synchronicities appear/ when I stop looking, sudden prodding/ when I slow down breathing--/ deeper, fuller—filling the/ empty crevices/ I never knew existed,” we hear again and again the musical ghost of Poe’s raven.
Again, K. A. Ramil’s debut collection Parade of Past Lives is a compact yet intricately woven mosaic of work and poetic masquerades that resists easy classification. The poet acknowledges that “we couldn’t afford/ sincerity even at its most discounted.” The collection brims with explorations of the “reflections we kissed/ goodbye & found smudges no one dared to wipe.” Each reading uncovers layers that beckon for revisitation, and it is kind for the poet to caution us that “even light has parts waiting to be named.”
Tony Huang is the founder and editor-in-chief of The Hong Kong Review. He is also the founder of Metacircle Fellowship, Metacircle (Hong Kong) Culture and Education Co., Ltd. and Metaeducation. He works as a guest-editor for SmokeLong Quarterly. His poems, reviews and translations have appeared in Mad Swirl, The Hong Kong Review, The Best Small Fictions Anthology Selections 2020, Tianjin Daily, Binhai Times, SmokeLong Quarterly, Nankai Journal, Large Ocean Poetry Quarterly, Yangcheng Evening News and other places.
Copy editor: Nancy He
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