Fort Santiago

FORT SANTIAGO

To José Rizal

I visited your cold, stone prison.

Bereft of spirit,

Empty of words.

Your cell rang like footsteps

Inside a bell. I could not

Imagine you alive.

Supine, you lay

Motionless, a pigeon

Strangled by the hand

Of forces greater than

Your idealism, stronger than

Overpowering sentiment—

Your love of country exceeding

Your love of life, a pearl.

Yes, you penned poems, essays,

Two novels. You wrought

Drawings, paintings, sculptures—

At least one famous piece:

The Triumph of Science over Death.

Buildings, cities, towns, streets

Today carry your name.

Yet you are not deathless.

You are dead,

Slain by migrant necessity

Born of want, poverty

Pulling grubs from the soil,

Nailing down rusty iron sheets

To fashion flimsy shelters

Soon blown apart like paper

By tornadoes, locusts

On annual rampage.

But wait—now I see you rise,

Arms bound, marching off.

As if on a stage, players assemble.

Your back is to the firing line.

At that moment of volley

I see you transformed:

You turn—shot as a traitor,

Dying as a martyr.

Despair spinning into hope.

Jose Rizal (2012) by Amen Zamora

Te Quiero Verde: Cuatro Poemas

PLANTING RICE

To Fernando Amorsolo

You capture the special quality

Of the light of our land—

Brilliant but blinding,

Vitalizing yet enervating,

Turning fields green

When the rains arrive,

Roasting grass brittle

When skies are dry.

Beneath broad sun hats,

Sheltered faces shine

As they labor cheerfully

In your pastoral idyll.

Truth be told, planting rice

Is like shoveling coal

In the boiler room,

Bowing constantly.

No matter, art is license

And vision is heritage

Of which we all partake:

We celebrate your genius.

Yellows, radiant pears,

Reds, multihued plums—

Your palette, a fruit bowl,

Vivid feast for hungry eyes.

Your virtuoso brushstrokes

Travel boldly all around,

Testifying to your mastery of oil,

Not to mention draftsmanship.

Your deep rich browns

Bind us to the soil.

Your radiant light

Keeps our sun blazing.

Planting Rice (1953) by Fernando Amorsolo

SUPREMO

To Andres Bonifacio

Your bones may be lost forever,

But we are possessed, fortunately,

Of your photograph, in which

You glare—proud, sullen,

Belligerent, yet also brave, staunch,

Inspired—Supremo indeed.

I do not doubt your genius,

Testified by, for one,

Your marvelous capacity

For self-education, though

You must admit that

Your keenness is blunted

By your weakness

In the aspect of strategy:

Your inability to ride

Rapidly transforming events

So that they instead

Rode you, shamefully,

To your wretched execution—

Unjust, no doubt,

Still, result of your failure

To play your cards well.

Unyielding to a fault,

Prickly, reckless,

Flawed by fatal hubris,

You forecast your own fate

In the red and black flags

Of the Katipunan.

Now, standing in dust and smoke

Beclouding your monument

By the illustrious sculptor,

Guillermo Tolentino,

I see the Great Plebeian

Brandishing bolo and gun

And wonder about the message

He purportedly signifies.

Is there wisdom in violence?

Behold, the sword that liberates

Is the selfsame weapon

That tragically destroys!

Filipino Struggles Through History (1968), detail by Carlos Francisco

TAG-INIT

This time of year is a spear of broken grass, dryly curling like famine.

The wind droops, feverish. Tufts of old bread strewn about are picked at by hopping birds wielding knives.

High above, the sun wears a scorching beard, hair crackling, his puffy face, angry red.

Scornfully, the sky holds itself aloof, cerulean—the color of cruelty—unsullied by the gathering promise of rain.

Darkness rushes in at low tide of daylight. Black hordes silently clatter weapons.

Moonlight rises long and slender as a cold fish, flint head glinting in silvery water.

Momentary, this desert: a puff of dust exploded by a gusty fist.

...the sky holds itself aloof, cerulean...

VIGAN

Let us go to the dry land where hundreds of years ago, tobacco leaves broad as parasols hung from the dark rafters of wooden sheds riddled by sunlit rapiers.

Let us visit the town, your hand in mine, touring the passage of time, nodding inwardly toward our own thoughts as if they were pedestrians, as the sun gradually sheathes his sword and dusk heavily casts a shadowy blanket.

Let us enter the house of old stone and weathered wood, greeted at the doorstep by sharp complaints of aching hinges and grousing floorboards, as in the fronting street tiny whirlwinds of dust and gravel and bits of leaves explode like fluttering insect wings.

Let us ascend the gleaming stairs, shuffle off our shoes, one after the other, lean forward above a window overlooking a wide boulevard lined with cobblestones hot as bread and, shutting our eyes to slowly turning fans of radiant heat, inhale sumptuously, our nostrils stung by cooked air like ground pepper.

Let us make our way to the window of the house in the town in the dry land where hundreds of years disappearing, hardy fields flourished like shining children of the day watered by the tireless sun.

Una Mestiza (1887) by Juan Luna