Tula

Santiago examines the second-generation-immigrant experience in a debut collection that is a spare, elegant engagement with language. The book is replete with echoes of Tagalog, as well as lullabies, the trill of birds, and fragments of family lore. These features are evidence of Santiago’s desire to connect “a poet’s obsession with sound” with a culture and language half a world away. He references a pair of politically radical uncles, one of whom possessed “the silverest/ tongue in the Philippines,” who haunt the poet’s dreams with lessons on ancestry and language. Santiago illustrates well, through references to the Philippine-American War, the psychic dissonance that occurs when one’s country of residence has a history of violence and imperialism toward one’s ancestral lands. He suggests that even the afterlife has been colonized, with “The Kings & Papacy of the Dead” having sent forth emissaries to “scorch the forests & libraries// into cities of black glass.” Santiago’s language obsession pays off in enchanting and incantatory riffs: “Tail end of a squall./ Shoals like a backlit sundress—// soft fire, tombstone, frogspawn,/ organ pipe—coral// teeming with damselfish.” He also reflects on fatherhood and the fragility of nascent human life. Santiago’s struggles with identity are well-explored, but his linguistic savvy and precision truly stand out. (Dec.)