Tatlong Bayani

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.

The Martyrdom of Rizal (1960) by Carlos Francisco

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!

Andres Bonifacio Poster Design Project (2015) by Carlo San Jose

THE HOUSE OF AGUINALDO
To Emilio Aguinaldo

Your name means Christmas gift,

And yes, you bestowed

Upon your country

A fine gift, your house,

A generous patrimony,

Memorial to courage,

Summons to hope.

As travelers approach,

Many-gabled red roofs

Notably rise into view,

Presided over by a tower

Six storeys high,

A lookout embellished by

Five quaintly pointed spires.

Gracing the front esplanade,

Your bronze statue—

Your visage, undaunted,

Drawn sword at the ready,

Riding your stately mount,

Foreleg upraised, purposefully.

Entering the vestibule,

We see behind glass displays

Your bleached military uniform,

High-cut boots, rusted rifles,

Glossy buttons adorned

With Masonic symbols,

And the sword of the defeated

General Ernesto Aguirre.

Ascending the main stairway,

We encounter at the landing

A crossroads of sorts—

Left, doorways, the first

To a ladder-like stairway

To the third-level Music Room,

Rising to the Mirador

At the top, a tower

Overlooking sweeping views

Of Manila Bay and its environs;

Further down the hallway,

Your children’s bedrooms;

End of the hallway, a patio,

Galeria de los Pecadores,

Your venue for hatching plots

Against the Spaniards—

Right, your living room, commodious,

Harboring the original window,

Now converted into a balcony,

From which you declared

Philippine Independence,

Unfurling the first flag

Of the first Republic,

Marcha Nacional playing.

Mosaics, triangles galore,

Wood carvings in relief,

A plethora of symbols

Adorn walls and ceilings—

Eight-rayed, a sun

Honors the first eight provinces

To revolt against Spain;

Inang Bayan flourishes a banner;

Bearing a letter, a dove flies

Towards flags representing

The League of Nations.

Appointments, darkly varnished—

Cabinets of costly hardwood,

Flashing full-length mirrors;

Ornately wrought clamshells, which,

Pulled out from their niches,

Serve handily as pot stands

Attached to pilasters;

Grandiose, an outsize dining table;

Desks with sidewise compartments

To store important documents,

Or arms, for quick brandishing.

One corner of your sala,

A wooden panel swings open,

Disguised as a hat rack,

Concealing a corridor

That exits into your bedroom.

Herein positioned, an aparador

Built by your carpenters

To serve as your hiding place—

Dodging unwanted visitors,

You would sit inside, quiet.

A trapdoor from your bedroom leads

Two ways—one descends to

An indoor swimming pool;

The other, same level,

Is a corridor to your kitchen.

This hallway, Veterans Hall,

Is where you would meet

Your comrades-in-arms.

Their portraits line the upper wall.

Below, benches with backboards

Flip open to reveal hollows for

More documents, more arms.

Your spacious kitchen houses

A central table, its solid wood top

Hiding another passageway

Descending to an underground

Bomb shelter cum tunnel leading to

Santa Maria Magdalena church,

Five hundred meters

Down the main street.

Back of your storied mansion,

Your tomb, very large,

Monolithic, a single block almost.

Round the corner, in the garden,

Your Packard limousine, gleaming

Inside a house of polished glass.

Cleverly constructed, wily—like yourself—

Your entire second floor conceals

False panels, secret passageways,

Hiding places, an underground tunnel—

All of which gives us pause.

Never look a gift horse

In the mouth, they say.

To your consternation,

You might discover jutting teeth,

Or worse, dark jaws of betrayal.

Malacañang portrait of Emilio Aguinaldo (1964) by Galo Ocampo