Imagery in a Single Sentence

While poems and songs can paint a vivid picture since they are longer mediums,
imagery can be found in just a single sentence as well. Consider the following imagery
examples:
He fumed and charged like an angry bull.
He fell down like an old tree falling down in a storm.
He felt like the flowers were waving him a hello.
The eerie silence was shattered by her scream.
He could hear his world crashing down when he heard the news about her.
The F-16 swooped down like an eagle after its prey.
The word spread like leaves in a storm.
The lake was left shivering by the touch of morning wind.
Her face blossomed when she caught a glance of him.
He could never escape from the iron grip of desire.
He could hear the footsteps of doom nearing.
She was like a breath of fresh air infusing life back into him.
The pot was a red as a tongue after eating a cherry flavored ring pop.
Though I was on the sheer face of a mountain, the feeling of swinging through the air
was euphoric, almost like flying without wings.
Her blue eyes were as bright as the Sun, blue as the sky, but soft as silk.
The music coursed through us, shaking our bodies as if it came from within us.
The giant tree was ablaze with the orange, red, and yellow leaves that were beginning
to make their descent to the ground.
Here is another example of imagery in music.
She wears a long fur coat of mink
Even in the summertime
Everybody knows from the coy little wink
The girl's got a lot on her mind
She's got big thoughts, big dreams
And a big brown Mercedes sedan
What I think this girl, she really wants
Is to be in love with a man
-Sheila E., Glamorous Life
In this illustration, the imagery gains momentum with each line. It starts out slow, yet
always building momentum through its vivid description of the mystery girl in the long
fur coat of mink.
 Imagery Is Description
Have you ever been in a situation where an instructor mentioned the catch phrase, Be
as descriptive as possible? In short, imagery can best be defined as descriptive
language.
If you take that definition one step further and apply it to the five human sense, then the
definition simply becomes, descriptive language that has the ability of appealing to the
five human senses. That does not necessarily mean that imagery applies to all five
human senses collectively. It merely means that imagery is the use of descriptive
language that can be appealing to one or more of the five human senses.
Although most often used in poetry, imagery can be used in just about any form of
writing. Whether fiction or nonfiction, imagery is what provides the color, or what a
reader can see in his or her minds eye about a particular written work. Contemporary
examples of imagery in action include stories in the newspaper, crime scene reports
and of course, works of fiction.
Imagery is also used in songs, movies, television shows and everyday reports. It is the
way in which the writer or author of a particular work conveys texture and vividness to
the reader. It is also the way in which the writer shows the reader the intended image of
the work, instead of telling them.
If you ever find yourself wondering where you can find good imagery examples, you can
turn on your radio, mp3 player, or even pull out a book, and you will find many
examples.

Read more at http://examples.yourdictionary.com/examples-of-

imagery.html#t0rl0oVSCYLs5JVF.99

Take a look at the following example and see if you can better understand its use of
imagery:
On a starry winter night in Portugal
Where the ocean kissed the southern shore
There a dream I never thought would come to pass
Came and went like time spent through an hourglass
-Teena Marie, Portuguese Love
The sample above was taken from soul, songstress of the 1980s, Teena Maries hit love
song entitled Portuguese Love. Did you notice how descriptive the lyrics are? In this
sample alone, the imagery is increasingly apparent to the reader. Even though this is a
portion of the lyrics from a song, if you read it, you can almost feel the sand of the
beach beneath your feet.
Another famous poem that contains imagery is "Daffodils" by William Wordsworth. As
you read through the poem, he paints a wonderful picture of daffodils such that you can
almost picture them in the breeze:
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way

Read more at http://examples.yourdictionary.com/examples-of-

imagery.html#t0rl0oVSCYLs5JVF.99
THE TREE

By G. Burce Bunao

The tree was very beautiful to me

When I was a boy

I climbed for fruit or out of a branch of the tree

Made me a toy--

A top, for instance, that spun around, carefree

And wound for joy

Until it toppled over and was dead.

No longer the boy,

I find the tree as beautiful as though not

Just for branch

Or a bunch of fruit but-more than that-for a bed

Or to fence the ranch

In which I raise the beasts that fill the pot

In the many shapes

My simple commerce turn them to like bread

Or fish or grapes

To feed the brood the little woman me.

There go the boys.

Go watch them, strong limb; spread up the tree,

They pluck their toys

Out of its branches, as out of my childhood tree

I shaped my joys.

Every little thing that happens in our childhood is somewhat memorable. It makes
us smile every time we reminisce to those memories. This poem is also pertaining to
the joys of the children while playing in the tree. Those moments still remains every
time a child see the tree that becomes a part of their lives.

CREDENDA

By R. Vinzons Asis

I remembered God and I came

asking bread, became

tearfully insistent, heard

only ringing hunger: no word

So I left, cursing

but the thunder of my words

were as raindrops falling.

Saw God in my hunger:

heard his voice ringing

in my ears; saw the beauty

of his silence.
Wishes are always asked by people. Like in this poem wishes are not been given
right away. We need to wait for those wishes, because there is always a right time
for all. It doesnt really mean that if our wish is not given right away, we are taking for
granted. God knows the right time that is good for us. We dont need to rush
everything. Remember that there is something better when we are waiting patiently.

PHILOSOPHERS LOVE SONG

By Tita Lacambra-Ayala

If truth is real

it will

become true

If truth is

unreal it will

not become

as you

are truth

as you are real

you will

become true

if not to me

at least to your self

at least to the part

thats real

to me when I

touch you

The authors feeling seems to be hurt. Maybe his fianc is being dishonest. The
poem is very true, that in a relationship it is right that we need to be true, not only for
the person that we love but especially for our own self. Being true and honest is the
foundation of all relationship.

MGA BUKAD HA MAYO

kan Eduardo Makabenta

Magpapakaruruyag ngan pinili,

burak ngan tsampaka, marol nga hamili,

rosas, asusenas. Rosal nga mahambot

ngan nagangalimwag sa hangin talambot,

an ira alimyon abot ha hirayo

Magpakawiwili nga bukad ha Mayo.

Bukad nga kadaman luob an at tuna,

magpakabibihag ha panhunahuna,

may walingwaling ngan may mga manan-aw

nga makalipay ha mata pagtan-aw

may sangyaw, may diri, may masarayo,

magdamit Malaya, di bukad ha Mayo.

Inin tarukanga nga labi kahayaw

ha pagkakaaga daw na naparayaw,

bisan kalatsutsi, bisan surangga,

may hamot may dagway nga sadang ibangga:

dina mapakadto lain nga ibayo,

damo an bukad ta ha bulan ha Mayo.

Magpakadilain nga kabukaranan,

di na kinahangalan ngatanan ngaranan;

may bukad hin kahoy, may bukad nga buhi

nga say rayandayan hinin kinabuhi;

bukad nga nasunog sugad han kalayo,

hinin kasingkasing, kun bulan ha Mayo.

Every month of May, there is what we called Flores de Mayo. These are done by
beautiful ladies walking and they have used different flowers for their arko and for
their bouquet. Flowers to be used are selected carefully. They symbolize many
things and selecting the right flower becomes more attractive to the judgemental
eyes of the people watching it. It also gives beauty to the lady that uses the flower
as her design in her arko. The beauty of those flowers that we have seen during the
month of May is really priceless.

SOOTHING AS NIGHT WINDS ARE

Salvador B. Espinas
Love is gentle, love is quiet

Like any distant star

Love is beauty, love is music

Soothing as night winds are.

Love is patient and unselfish

Divine, true, neutral, fair

Love is ageless and immortal,

Lost love is just somewhere

And the heart that abandons,

Nurses a tender scar,

Softly stabbing, and yet sweetly

Soothing as night winds are.

Love is unconditional. You can never predict what love is. Love can make things go
right and beast will turning to a Good Samaritan

SPEAK NOT

Soledad R. Juan

Speak not to me of great reception halls

Where stately ladies walk with stately men;

Speak not to me of dancing long at balls

Nor revelry till goodness knows but when.

I would not hear of how an endless round

Of parties, concerts, shows-all the rest forgot-

Is heaven. No, those pleasures find me bound;

They are not mine to taste-I know them not.

But speak to me of quiet, calm repose,

When I may think and give my thoughts free play,

Explore each nook imagination knows,

And roam the world a million times a day.

Then shall my soul find joyful hours alone

When all is mine that Fancy bids me own.

This poem was written by a teen-aged girl who was bound to a sickbed all he life,
and yet she did not find her life monotonous and boring. Many people measure
enjoyment in terms of a good time. They welcome their vacation as one long
opportunity foe a good time, and they dread nothing more than being sick in bed.

QUIETNESS

Amador T. Daguio

I am lover of quietness-

Unechoed songs within a silent heart,

A sliver pond, a statued loveliness

Where words can take no part.

I love the quiet ways of memory,

The quiet looks to give you loving praise,

The quiet secrets of my misery

Through quiet nights and days.

The quiet mountains of the earth I love,

The moving clouds, the sun, the dewy leaf.

My quiet questioning o God above,

My quite, tearless grief

City people are bombarded by noise. The numble of trucks passing, the screech of
the brakes, the blare of radios and jukeboxes forever blast our ears. To a person
who spends days and nights in the noisy city, the longing for quiet and serenity is
understandable

Photograph: Father and kids at home

ni Imelda Morales Aznar

There is no balance in composition: all three persons

are pushed to the left, and on the right

only the water meter, mailbox, and the number 17

in your delicate handwriting near the doorway.

My sister stands wearing a naughty grin

and a pendant of the crucified Christ over her shirt.

My year-old nephew is sitting in his carriage, buckled

at the waist. His tiny, white toes alert.

In the background, the steel gate

of your sisters house looms gray.

Yet like a child you sit on your haunches,

both hands clutching the prams handle bars.

And your whole face smiles

like the world is yours.

Family that prays together stays forever

MARIA CLARA`S SONG

JOSE RIZAL

Sweet are the hours in one's native land,

Where all is dear the sunbeams bless;

Life-giving breezes sweep the strand,

And death is softened by love's caress.

Warm kisses play on mother's lips,

On her fond, tender breast awaking

When round her neck the soft arm slips,

And bright eyes smile, all love partaking.

This poems states all the memorable experiences that the writer want to share. It
shows also shows one of the great characters of Dr. Jose Rizal and his true
appreciation to his land and great love to our country and to his countrymen.

TO THE FILIPINO FLAG: A SALUTATION

Guillermo V. Sison

Raise our flag and hail it proudly,

Keep it there and guard it bravely,

See it waving in the sun;

Hail the symbol and the flower

Of our people's pomp and power,

See it's grandeur in the sun.

In its colour is the story

Writ in blood of dead men's glory-

Fly it for our martyred brave;

In our dreams we will remember,

In our breasts will grow forever,

All the valor of our brave.

Where are all the hands that held it,

Lips of fire that kissed and hailed it

in balintawak's first cry?

Where are those who died defending

Tirad Pass, their flag up holding,

Flashing it against the sky?

Here we are, the young and daring,

Ready with the country sharing

Sharing in the love of flag;

Here we are beneath its shadow,

Soul undaunted. True to follow

Valiantly our country's flag.

Drape our flag about our bosom

Warmly, till in us will blossom

Flame for our beloved land;

Breathe on it our burning spirit,

Bless it with our life, defend it

With a bold, heroic hand.

Let the flag, as fire to weld us,

Bind our fibres firmly, make us

Strong, invincible, and all

Thus united we shall flourish,

From the earth we shall not perish

Our young nation shall not fall.

Holy flag of God's fair country,

Flag of hope and faith and glory,

Holy Filipino flag!

Be in peace our inspiration,

Guiding gleam and veneration,

Radiant Filipino flag!

Wave, O flag, o'er farms of golden

Grain; o'er mountains, fields,

wealth-laden

O'er this paradise of peace!

We will work with warmer passion,

Build our dreams a living tension,

Grow in God's sweet light and peace.

Flag that loosed us our serfdom;

Flag that gave us morning, freedom;

Lead our race, the the brown and free!

None shall haul thee down and trample

On our freedom's sacred temple,

None shall slave again the free!

In this poem, it states that our flag is one of the most important treasures of our
country, because it reminds us to the fight of every Filipino and all of the heroes who
dedicate their lives for freedom. It reminds us to the true meaning of freedom, unity
and love for our country.

MACTAN

Virginia B. Licuanan

A messenger from the Spaniards came

That day in fifteen twenty-one;

He came in in Magellan's name

To the island of Mactan.

To Lapulapu who was the chief

That on Mactan did reign

He said I ask in our leader's name

A tribute name for the king of Spain.

A tribute for a foreign king?

He heard proud Lapulapu say.

Tell your leader not tell a thing

Will the of this island pay.

We and their fathers before

Have on this island live:

We owe no tribute to any king,

And no tribute shall we give.

if you do not give what we ask

Was the messenger's reply

The Spaniards will come with swords and guns

And you and your men shall die.

If they have guns,Lapulapu said,

So have we our weapons too;

If the Spaniard to our island come,

They shall see what bamboo spears can do.

The Spaniards sword are made for steel

And their armors are strong and bright

Against all weapons we shall win

While we are in the right.

Lapulapu's eyes flashed as he repeated ,

And his voice did proudly ring:

We are freemen and will pay

No tribute to a foreign king.

When Magellan heard Lapulapu words

He said with all disdain

How dare this little chief affront

His Majesty of Spain.

Our guns and this man's

False pride will break,

If he will not tribute give,

Then tribute we will take.

Well show this chief that our words

We can follow with our deed

Prepare three ships and sixty men

And I myself will lead.

For the island of Mactan

The Spaniards did set sail,

Their and swords are in great display

To make the enemy quail.

Their ships and armor were glittering show

Of military might

Never had the peaceful Mactan waters,

Mirror was a warlike sight

And when they anchored dropped

Off the palm-fringed Mactan shore ,

I'll teach this chief a lesson,:

The Spanish leader swore

He lead his soldier to the beach

In full battle array.

My men, for our king ' Magellan said

Let us make this a proud day.

We have guns and armor

Our enemy has none

Our sword against those bamboo spears.

The fight as good as won.

But Lapulapu stood proudly

As the Spanish drew near

No Spaniards armor

Will save them from my spears.

Aim true ! he told his men

when your spears fling

Remember the freemen do not bow

To any foreign king.

Steel sword against bamboo spears

It seemed an uneven fight

And the Spanish armor

Increased each Spaniard might.

But Lapulapu and his brave men

Into the battle led

And soon the blue-green Mactan waters

With the Spaniard blow red

Fight on my men Magellan cried

Fight for gracious Majesty.......

Fight on ,men in Mactan.Lapulapu said,

Fight for our liberty.

: The Cause of the Liberty lent more strength

Than the Spanish steel and lead

And soon Magellan lay dying ,

And his soldiers all had fled.

And Mactan is an island

That lives in history

Where man brave men died for a king

And another lived for liberty.

The story of our past would not be complete if we leave out the story of our struggle
for freedom. The poem that followed shows vivid glimpse of our fight for liberty. The
historical account of arrival of Magellan and Lapu-lapu fought to keep our country
from foreign rule.

THE SAMPAGUITA
Natividad Marquez

Little sampaguita

With the wondering eye

Did a tiny fair

Drop you where you lie?

In the witching hour

Of the tropic night

Did the careless moonbeam

Leave you in its fight?

As a child you must have looked for the tiny buds as the early rain began to fall.
You probably watched this buds develop into a flower which perfumes the air. The
sampaguita is tiny and fragrant. We use to make leis with which to greet our friends
who come to visits us.
Last Love

by: J.D. Mariposa

Best of friends
together took a leap
Now true friends
ahh! feelings run deep
Two hearts fused
hands ever entwined

Ti's all worth the wait

to care for one as kindly
Never never too late
to love but not blindly

So, to you my friend first,

my last love, i say
I'll be true every and
each of my waking day!

2.
Last Piece in the Puzzle of My life
Vic P. Yambao

The sweetness of your Voice

Your soul searching eyes
Throw in the smiling lips
Makes my life complete

Missing you,when you're gone

But frozen stiff
when you're around
As my worthless life
is now complete
This dream might end...
if I'll stir...

3.
 Who Am I
Brian Joseph Sy

Who am I to blindly believe that

I can become parcel of this sacred ground?
To pretend that I am a strong wind
to guide your ever sturdy wings

Who am I to change this persistent blue rain?

To pretend that I can wash the sorrows away
from your ever beating heart

Who am I to care for this mortified soul?

To pretend that sanctity ascends in my
figureless touch

I am none. Transcending only the littlest of

existence only meager eyes could see.
In the skies I plead alms
to catch your merciful grace;

To rescue me from this

lonesome cloud of misery
that I call self

4.
Tracing You
Kristina Aquino

Imagine the train tracks,

the train speeding away from you.
We were somewhere
and someone else a minute ago.

So I give you this,

the poet, the imagined martyr,
unmoving in her seat--she is one
of the firsts, she is daybreak today--
it does nothing but stare back.
She is so still the train stops with her.
"Cubao", she mouths.

Imagine the train tracks,

the train speeding away from
you, Cubao.
We were with you
 some minute ago.

There are buildings

on the way to the end of the line,
but structure
eliminates the idea of a horizon.
It is sad when imagined things
start dying, too.

5.
Friendship
Vener Santos

Days will pass,

And things will grow old.
Flowers will bloom,
And soon will decay.
But when friendship starts,
All of the year it will remain fresh.

Friends will grow old,

But friendship will never.
As long as we both care,
It will remain young forever.
Death will separate it on earth,
But it will reborn in heaven.

6.
No rest
Kyo Zapanta

It's time for me to rest for a while

My condition is not that good
But hell, I can't seem to leave behind
Whatever it is that I must do

c pI know its been in overtime

I shouldnt be here anymore
But that workaholiart of me
Seem to like the stress in store

But then again by heads in pain

My body is just saying no
My eyes are swollen and tears are forming
 I could cry in stress ever so

But I wouldnt cry even if I feel it

For when I do Ill be okay
Then I would again want to work
And Ill be working for the rest of the day

7.
Distillation
Jan L. Velasco
Watching the rain spilling down,
drowning the earth below,
reminds me of
life's perpetual change.

The storm that we dread,

is a sea of kindness
that lifts--the mask
of (world's) avarice and sufferings
and fills the thirst, up to the brim of our souls.

8.
Now I Know
Jose Paulo Tolentino

Seven months felt like seven years

and now I face my greatest fears
Why before I could never wait
but now I know the heavy weight.

In a strange world, a mad city,

it is tough to be an adult
you take responsibility
to bear frustration and insult

There are days I would like to die

life is not pretty as it seem
Leave this and what do I redeem?
many I have learned is just a lie

They say I should create a goal

Love and life is what you make it
but somehow it just could not fit
All I have is a hollow soul
 From here I don't know where to go
Being an adult, now I know.

9.
Hot
Karlo Pineda
A wrinkled forehead
alters your fair face.
Furious stares nest
in your eyes--sanctuaries
for nothing save fears and fires.

By this time
you are a swollen sun
ready to punish
my city with the scorching
of twin hells.

And in your mad radiation

I am a giant sunburn.

As I write this poem

my heart has already exploded
to myriad embers.
10.
My unfinished verse
Ulysses Palmones

You were sitting on the coach, you stole my glance

My heart leaps, nowhere to run
I tried to hide, pretended and lied
You were just a dream
Part of my foolish game.

How can I disguise those sleepless nights?

Where silhouette of thy beauty
Humming to my serenity
A glowing ember
A feeling next to never.

Chasing my illusion, my eventual desperation

Tasted the nectar of bitterness
and plan tomorrow, how to clean my mess
A test to my sanity
Or maybemy stupidity..
 Will you came to unlock my chain?
Maybe a piece of gem
To replace the wedding ring
A cradle to my loneliness
and craziness.
http://10poemsthatwrittenbyfilipinos.blogspot.com/

PROEM
Jose Garcia Villa

The meaning of a poem is not a meaning of words.

The meaning of a poem is a symbol like the breathlessness of birds.
A poem cannot be repeated in paraphrase.
A poem is not a thought but a grace.
A poem has no meaning but loveliness.
A poem has no purpose than to caress.

Back to main

SONNET I
Jose Garcia Villa

First, a poem must be magical,

Then musical as a sea gull.
 It must be a brightness moving
And hold secret a bird's flowering.
It must be slender as a bell,
And it must hold fire as well.
It must have the wisdom of bows
And it must kneel like a rose.
It must be able to hear
The luminance of dove and deer.
It must be able to hide
What it seeks, like a bride.
And over all I would like to hover
God, smiling from the poem's cover.

PICTURE SHOW
Guillermo Castillo

By God's divine will,

I waken sitting in the dark
with my attention set
upon a Screen before me
while God behind me in His closet
with His intricate machines
projects a Moving Picture Show
a masterpiece which we call-Life.

O MY NATIVE LAND
Tarrosa Subido

Beloved Land, let me explain to thee

Why thought of nearing death provokes a pain;
 'Tis not that I again shall never see
These Orient Isles of kindly sun and rain;
Not that the visionary spirit must
Forego the wonders she had fondly schemed;
Not that the flesh must soon succumb to dust,
With Love's avowals only half redeemed.
O my beloved Land, whose air I breathe,
Whose bounty is my daily sustenance,
How sad to leave with nothing to bequeath,
Thy weal to serve, thy glory to enhance;
How shameful, finally, to dare to rest
My thankless dust upon thy noble breast!

JUNGLE RAIN
Maximo Ramos

Sudden claps of thunder and now the rain

Comes at a gallop to the shadowy jungle
Beating pitter-patter on the leaves overhead
And on the jungle floor of roots and fallen leaves
And on the rotting log where a python lies asleep.

Then a wild fowl gives a crow from nowhere

And the hoarse call of a hornbill
Breaks out of a top branch.
And the unknown voices of the wilderness
Have soon resumed their long low chorus
With the passing of the jungle rain.

SONG IN EXILE
Aurelio S. Alvero
 It is harvest-time in Polo and the fields bear ripened grain,
Stalks on stalks of gold and yellow; fruit of sun and rain-
There's a moon of gleaming silver looking down on fields below,
Stars that sprinkle dark blue heavens with their ever-sparkling glow;
List to songs of voices joyful sing of love and joy and gain.
For 'tis harvest-time in Polo and the fields are ripe with grain.

When it is harvest-time in Polo, all the folks are in the fields,

Gathering all the fruit so mellow that the good earth gladly yields-
Little maidens fresh as blossoms, gay young swains with happy smiles,
Busy women ever thinking of the coming afterwhiles,
Sturdy men whose iron bodies bend unmindful of the pain,
For 'tis harvest-time in Polo and the fields are ripe with grain.

Scythes are moving in the silver glowing of the harvest-moon,

Keeping time to strains of music of a lively native tune;
Dainty fingers gather rice stalks, quickly tie them into sheaves,
Gleaners picking the remainders that the owner gladly leaves;
Bent to earth, they all are working-but there rings a happy strain
For 'tis harvest-time in Polo and the fields are ripe with grain.

Now 'tis harvest time in Polo; I can hear their happy songs,
But I must stay in city walls while my sad heart fondly longs
To be with them and join the harvest of the laden stalks of gold;
I can see them gaily working 'neath the moonrays brightly cold-
And oh! to be with them this evening, to do the harvest once again
In this harvest-time in Polo where the fields are ripe with grain.

MANG TEBAN AND THE

WEATHER
Josue Rem. Siat
 One April noon when all was bright
And clear and dazzling to the sight,
Beside the road Mand Teban stood
Wiping his face in sullen mood.
He saw the heatwaves in the glare
As devils on the stage afire
And chafed in the sultry air
And wish for rainy days.
Then (when salt sold at treble price)
And muddy pools mocked cloudy skies,
Mang Teban, passing dripping trees,
With trousers rolled up to his knees,
Reproached the sky and saw the rain
As diablos dancing in the mire-
And shrank in the pelting rain-
And wished for sunny days!

SHADOWS
Gerson M. Mallillin

They are like strangers on the ground,

These shadows shy,
Walk upon them, strike them,
They never cry.

And yet within me something says

Thay are the hosts,
And we-but strangers in a place
Whose kings are ghosts.
TO THE MAN I MARRIED
Angela Manalang Gloria

I can not love with a love

That outcompares the boundless sea,
For that were false, as no such love
And no such ocean can ever be.

But I can love you with a love

As finite as the wave that dies
And dying holds from crest to crest
The blue of everlasting skies.

VISAYAN POEM
Joseph B. Man

How can I ever finish this mat I am weaving? Each

time I look at it, each strip turns into the former
reeds that bent and bowed as he parted them with
his hands by the river's bank where we first met.

He stepped out of his canoe and offered me a jar.

He said he and his people made them down there where
the river bends.

He culled some water hyacinths which he said would

beautifully go with the jar. I remember I only
cast my eyes down and stupidly looked at his feet.

He said he had to stay a while; much paddling had

 made him tired. I said I had to go; the moon was
already high, I had to cook rice. I started to move
but when he pleadingly looked at me I lingered.

He said my lips were like the macopas in his garden;

my teeth some white gourd seeds. He said my hair was
like a vinta's sail; my slender arms unfurled banana
leaves.

Before he left he whispered he would wait for me

where the reeds grow thickest by the river's bank
tonight. He asked whether I would come or not. I
did not say no, I did not say yes.

The moon is now up. Is that the noice of paddling I

seem to hear by the river's bank? Why do my heart-
beat deafen me? Must I go or...Ah, what care
I if this mat would never be finished?

TO JOSEPHINE
Jose Rizal

Josephine, Josephine
Who to these shores have come
Looking for a nest, a home,
Like a wandering swallow;
If your fate is taking you
To Japan, China or Shanghai,
Don't forget that on these shores
A heart for you beats so high

TO THE CHILD JESUS

Jose Rizal
 Why comest thou Child-God
To earth in a humble home?
Does fortune already thee scorn
When hardly thou hast come?
Oh! How sad! Of heaven King
And come thee like common man!
Than Shepherd of thy flock
Won't thou rather besovereign?

To Virgin Mary
Mary, sweet peace, solace dear
Of pained mortal ! You're the fount
Whence emanates the stream of succor,
That without cease our soil fructifies.

From thy throne, from heaven high,

Kindly hear my sorrowful cry!
And may thy shining veil protect
My voice that rises with rapid flight.

Thou art my Mother, Mary, pure;

Thou'll be the fortress of my life;
Thou'll be my guide on this angry sea.
If ferociously vice pursues me,
If in my pains death harasses me,
Help me, and drive away my woes

To Josephine
Rizal dedicated this poem to Josephine Bracken, an Irish woman who went to Dapitan accompanying a man seeking Rizal's
services as an ophthalmologist.

Josephine, Josephine
Who to these shores have come
Looking for a nest, a home,
Like a wandering swallow;
If your fate is taking you
To Japan, China or Shanghai,
Don't forget that on these shores
A heart for you beats high.
Song of Maria Clara
A poem, found in Rizal's book Noli Me Tangere, sung by Maria Clara, which accounts for the title

Sweet are the hours in one's own Native Land,

All there is friendly o'er which the sun shines above;
Vivifying is the breeze that wafts over her fields;
Even death is gratifying and more tender is love.

Ardent kissed on a mother's lips are at play,

On her lap, upon the infant child's awakening,
The extended arms do seek her neck to entwine,
And the eyes at each other's glimpse are smiling.
It is sweet to die in one's own Native Land,
All there is friendly o'er which the sun shines above;
And deathly is the breeze for one without
A country, without a mother and without love.

A Poem That Has No Title

To my Creator I sing
Who did soothe me in my great loss;
To the Merciful and Kind
Who in my troubles gave me repose.

Thou with that pow'r of thine

Said: Live! And with life myself I found;
And shelter gave me thou
And a soul impelled to the good
Like a compass whose point to the North is bound.

Thou did make me descend

From honorable home and respectable stock,
And a homeland thou gavest me
Without limit, fair and rich
Though fortune and prudence it does lack.

Kundiman
Truly hushed today
Are my tongue and heart
Harm is discerned by love
And joy flies away,
'Cause the Country was
Vanquished and did yield
Through the negligence
Of the one who led.

But the sun will return to dawn;

In spite of everything
Subdued people
Will be liberated;
The Filipino name
Will return perhaps
And again become
In vogue in the world.

We shall shed
Blood and it shall flood
Only to emancipate
The native land;
While the designated time
Does not come,
Love will rest
And anxiety will sleep.
Our Mother Tongue
A poem originally in Tagalog written by Rizal when he was only eight years old

IF truly a people dearly love

The tongue to them by Heaven sent,
They'll surely yearn for liberty
Like a bird above in the firmament.

BECAUSE by its language one can judge

A town, a barrio, and kingdom;
And like any other created thing
Every human being loves his freedom.

ONE who doesn't love his native tongue,

Is worse than putrid fish and beast;
AND like a truly precious thing
It therefore deserves to be cherished.

THE Tagalog language's akin to Latin,

To English, Spanish, angelical tongue;
For God who knows how to look after us
This language He bestowed us upon.

AS others, our language is the same

With alphabet and letters of its own,
It was lost because a storm did destroy
On the lake the bangka 1 in years bygone.

To the Philippines
Rizal wrote the original sonnet in Spanish

Aglowing and fair like a houri on high,

Full of grace and pure like the Morn that peeps
When in the sky the clouds are tinted blue,
Of th' Indian land, a goddess sleeps.

The light foam of the son'rous sea

Doth kiss her feet with loving desire;
The cultured West adores her smile
And the frosty Pole her flow'red attire.

With tenderness, stammering, my Muse

To her 'midst undines and naiads does sing;
I offer her my fortune and bliss:
Oh, artists! her brow chaste ring
With myrtle green and roses red
And lilies, and extol the Philippines!

Andy Warhol Speaks to His Two Filipina Maids

by Alfred Yuson

Art, my dears, is not cleaning up

after the act. Neither is it washing off
grime with the soap of tact. In fact
and in truth, my dears, art is dead

center, between meals, amid spices

and spoilage. Fills up the whitebread
sweep of life's obedient slices.

Art is the letters you send home

about the man you serve. Or the salad
you bring in to my parlor of elites.
While Manhattan stares down at the soup
of our affinities. And we hear talk of coup
in your islands. There they copy love
the way I do, as how I arrive over and over

again at art. Perhaps too it is the time

marked by the sand in your shoes, spilling
softly like rumor. After your hearts I lust.
In our God you trust. And it's your day off.

Principe by Eman Lacaba

I do not know my own position.
Somewhere behind me is a structure
of masks and walls that have been my life
in plays with lives. Each four-cornered

room unknown to and unknowing of each other

contains me, knowing all, known
to all, and yet unknown. I have come
to a room of mirrors and am caught

by my selves. It is different,
for I escape before and behind,
left and right of me, a stage without

the curtains and yet with them,

stage by stage, a pattern of deception.
I do not know my own position.

KUNDIMAN
by Eman Lacaba
Ang sabi mo pula ang paborito mo.
Ang sabi ko puti ang paborito ko.
Kagabi nang tayong dalawa'y nagkita,
nakapula ako at nakaputi ka.

KUNDIMAN

What you said was red is a favorite of yours.

What I said is white was a favorite of mine.
When the two of us saw each other last night,
I dressed in red and you wore white.

(translated from the Tagalog by Paolo Javier)

Philippine Poetry
The Rural Maid
By Fernando M. Maramag

1.
Thy glance, sweet maid, when first we met,
Had left a heart that aches for thee,
I feel the pain of fond regret
Thy heart, perchance, is not for me.

2.
We parted: though we met no more,
My dreams are dreams of thee, fair maid;
I think of thee, my thoughts implore
The hours my lips on thine are laid.

3.
Forgive these words that love impart,
And pleading, bare the poets breast;
And if a rose with thorns thou art,
Yet on my breast that rose may rest.

4.
I know not what to name thy charms,
Thou art half human, half divine;
And if I could hold thee in my arms,
I know both heaven and earth were mine.

When I Was No Bigger Than A Huge

By Jose Garcia Villa

When, I, was, no, bigger, than, a, huge,

Star, in, my, self, I, began, to, write,
My,
Theology,
Of, rose, and,
Tiger: till, I, burned, with, their
Pure, and, Rage. Then, was, I, Wrath-
Ful,
And, most,
Gentle: most,

Dark, and, yet, most, Lit: in, me, an,

Eye, there, grew: springing, Vision,
Its,
Gold, and,
Its, wars. Then,

I, knew, the, Lord, was, not, my, Creator!

--Not, He, the, Unbegottenbut, I, saw,
The,
Creator,
Was, Iand,

I, began, to, Die, and, I, began, to, Grow

And If the Heart Can Not Love

By Jose Garcia Villa

And if the heart can not love

death can not cure it nor sleep
no splendor of wound the heart
had no sound

Bloom has escaped it and

birth the miraculous flower
and music and speech leave
it unbewitched

God it can not spell nor sun

nor lover the beautiful word
and it has no sound no sound
nor wound.
First, A Poem Must Be Magical
By Jose Garcia Villa

First, a poem must be magical,

Then musical as a seagull.
It must be a brightness moving
And hold secret a birds flowering
It must be slender as a bell,
And it must hold fire as well.
It must have the wisdom of bows
And it must kneel like a rose.
It must be able to hear
The luminance of dove and deer.
It must be able to hide
What it seeks, like a bride.
And over all I would like to hover
God, smiling from the poems cover.

THE GUERILLA IS LIKE A POET

Jose Maria Sison

The guerilla is like a poet

Keen to the rustle of leaves
The break of twigs
The ripples of the river
The smell of fire
And the ashes of departure.

The guerilla is like a poet.

He has merged with the trees
The bushes and the rocks
Ambiguous but precise
Well-versed on the law of motion
And master of myriad images.

The guerilla is like a poet.

Enrhymed with nature
The subtle rhythm of the greenery
The inner silence, the outer innocence
The steel tensile in-grace
That ensnares the enemy.

The guerilla is like a poet.

He moves with the green brown multitude
In bush burning with red flowers
That crown and hearten all
Swarming the terrain as a flood
Marching at last against the stronghold.

An endless movement of strength

Behold the protracted theme:
The peoples epic, the peoples war.

1968