Ang Uod walang karagatang hindi matatawid!

Amado V. Hernandez

Sa lagas na dahong nasabit sa tinik

sumilang ang isang uod na maliit,

ang pinakaduya’y supot na manipis,

na uugoy-ugoy sa hanging malamig

sa bahay na yaong ulila’t mapait,

ang uod na munti’y natutuong magtiis.

Sa buntung-hininga ng katag-arawan,

ang dahong may sapot ay biglang nabuksan;

ang kawawang uod, ng aking matanaw,

ay wala ni mata, ni bibig, ni kamay

ang mahina’t malambot na kanyang katawan

at pausad-usad lamang kung gumalaw.

Mula sa ibaba ng punong mataas,

siya’y gumagapang, marahan, paakyat;

kung minsa’y halos ay malaglag;

nuni’t ang umaga, noong namumukadkad;

siya’y nasa ubod ng isang bulaklak.

Ang tao’y tila uod ding maliit,

sumilang sa isang ulilang daigdig;

kahit walang pakpak, kahit walang bagwis,

kanyang mararating kahit himpapawid

kung siya’y marunong gumawa’t magtiis…

"Be Beautiful, Noble, Like the Antique Ant"

Jose Garcia Villa

Be beautiful, noble, like the antique ant,

Who bore the storms as he bore the sun,

Wearing neither gown nor helmet,

though he was archbishop and soldier:

Wore only his own flesh

Salute characters with gracious dignity:

Though what these are is left to

Your own terms. Exact: the universe is

Not so small but these will be found

Somewhere. Exact: they will be found

Speak with great moderation: but think

With great fierceness, burning passion:

Though what the ant thought

No annuals reveal, no his descendants

Break the seal.

Trace the tracelessness of the ant,

Every ant has reached this perfection.

As he comes, so he goes,

Flowing as water flows,

Essential but secret like a rose.

The Martyr Being in love means never having to say you’re
sorry
Nick Jooaquin
But I needed to ask forgiveness from the one who
was hurt the most…
Being in love means never having to say you’re Myself.
sorry

After all, at some point in your life

That love was the most important thing to you,

That love might be the one that you hoped would

last forever,

That love made you believe that destiny does exist,

And that love made you question,

Why you were afraid to fall in love in the first

place.

At that time in your life,

Everything just seemed so perfect,

Everything seemed so beautiful,

Everything seemed to glow for you,

And you were my everything.

I wouldn't even think twice about sacrificing my

own happiness for yours,

I was even willing to bare up this walled but

crumpled heart of mine,

Just so I could be with you.

All I ever did was care for you.

All I ever did was to make you happy.

And all I ever did was love you.

I am a Filipino
Carlos P. Romullo
I am a Filipino–inheritor of a glorious past, hostage
to the uncertain future. As such I must prove equal
to a two-fold task–the task of meeting my
responsibility to the past, and the task of performing
my obligation to the future.
I sprung from a hardy race, child many generations
removed of ancient Malayan pioneers. Across the
centuries the memory comes rushing back to me: of
brown-skinned men putting out to sea in ships that
were as frail as their hearts were stout. Over the sea
I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave
and the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty
swell of hope–hope in the free abundance of new
land that was to be their home and their children’s
forever.
This is the land they sought and found. Every inch
of shore that their eyes first set upon, every hill and
mountain that beckoned to them with a green-and-
purple invitation, every mile of rolling plain that
their view encompassed, every river and lake that
promised a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of
commerce, is a hallowed spot to me.
By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every
right of law, human and divine, this land and all the
appurtenances thereof–the black and fertile soil, the
seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the
forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild life
and timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen
with minerals–the whole of this rich and happy land
has been, for centuries without number, the land of
my fathers. This land I received in trust from them
and in trust will pass it to my children, and so on
until the world is no more.
I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal seed
of heroes–seed that flowered down the centuries in
deeds of courage and defiance. In my veins yet
pulses the same hot blood that sent Lapulapu to
battle against the first invader of this land, that
nerved Lakandula in the combat against the alien
foe, that drove Diego Silang and Dagohoy into
rebellion against the foreign oppressor.
That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed that
flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that morning in
Bagumbayan when a volley of shots put an end to
all that was mortal of him and made his spirit
deathless forever, the same that flowered in the
hearts of Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gergorio del
Pilar at Tirad Pass, of Antonio Luna at Calumpit;
that bloomed in flowers of frustration in the sad
heart of Emilio Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst
fourth royally again in the proud heart of Manuel L.
Quezon when he stood at last on the threshold of
ancient Malacañan Palace, in the symbolic act of
possession and racial vindication.
The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed. It is
the mark of my manhood, the symbol of dignity as a
human being. Like the seeds that were once buried
in the tomb of Tutankhamen many thousand years
ago, it shall grow and flower and bear fruit again. It
is the insignia of my race, and my generation is but
a stage in the unending search of my people for
freedom and happiness.
I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and
the West. The East, with its languor and mysticism,
its passivity and endurance, was my mother, and my
sire was the West that came thundering across the
seas with the Cross and Sword and the Machine. I
am of the East, an eager participant in its spirit, and
in its struggles for liberation from the imperialist
yoke. But I also know that the East must awake
from its centuried sleep, shake off the lethargy that Land of the morning,
has bound his limbs, and start moving where
destiny awaits. Child of the sun returning–

For I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous peoples Ne’er shall invaders
of the West have destroyed forever the peace and Trample thy sacred shore.
quiet that once were ours. I can no longer live, a
being apart from those whose world now trembles
to the roar of bomb and cannon-shot. I cannot say of
Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles,
a matter of universal life-and-death, of freedom and
out of the heartstrings of sixteen million people all
slavery for all mankind, that it concerns me not. For
vibrating to one song, I shall weave the mighty
no man and no nation is an island, but a part of the
fabric of my pledge. Out of the songs of the farmers
main, there is no longer any East and West–only
at sunrise when they go to labor in the fields, out of
individuals and nations making those momentous
the sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in Mal-lig and
choices which are the hinges upon which history
Koronadal, out of the silent endurance of stevedores
resolves.
at the piers and the ominous grumbling of peasants
in Pampanga, out of the first cries of babies newly
born and the lullabies that mothers sing, out of the
At the vanguard of progress in this part of the world crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in the
I stand–a forlorn figure in the eyes of some, but not factories, out of the crunch of plough-shares
one defeated and lost. For, through the thick, upturning the earth, out of the limitless patience of
interlacing branches of habit and custom above me, teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the clinics,
I have seen the light of the sun, and I know that it is out of the tramp of soldiers marching, I shall make
good. I have seen the light of justice and equality the pattern of my pledge:
and freedom, my heart has been lifted by the vision
of democracy, and I shall not rest until my land and
my people shall have been blessed by these, beyond
“I am a Filipino born to freedom, and I shall not rest
the power of any man or nation to subvert or
until freedom shall have been added unto my
destroy.
inheritance—for myself and my children and my
children’s children—forever.”

I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What

pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of my
inheritance? I shall give the pledge that has come
ringing down the corridors of the centuries, and it
shall be compounded of the joyous cries of my
Malayan forebears when first they saw the contours
of this land loom before their eyes, of the battle
cries that have resounded in every field of combat
from Mactan to Tirad Pass, of the voices of my
people when they sing:
Prayer

Francisco Arcellana

Close all open things, Lord.

Open all closed things.

All those who have long received, let them give.

All those who have long given, let them receive.

All those too long apart, let them come together.

All those too long together, sunder them.

Let the wise be fools for once, Lord,

And let the fools speak their minds.

Affirm the long-denied, Lord.

Fulfill the unfulfilled.

Payo sa Bumabasa ng Tula Usok-at-ulang nagsabato,

Rolando S. Tinio Garing na ‘di pa nakakatam,

Siksik na taguan ng yabong,

Hindi nalalayo Lilim, at tatal.

Sa pagpangos ng mangga

Ang Pagbasa ng Tula. Huwag mithiin asetikong buto,

Ang puting ermitanyo,

Amuyin, sapulin sa kamay Bago mapagdaanan ang mga ehersisyong karnal.

Ipalasap sa palad Bayaang maganap

Ang init at kinis ng balat, Tamis, pait, saklap

Sa isang panlasang wagas

Saka hubarin ang dilaw na katad

Na minsan man itim na pekas, Huwag kainipan ang labo

Parang matang ibig mangusap. Ng Pisnging humuhulas.

Huwag na huwag ngangatain. Pagkatapos na makipagtapatan

Tubo at mangga’y magkaibang sining. Sa mga istasyon ng pagkalaman,

Kusang liliwanag ang sagradong buto–

Tandaang laman ay hindi parang laman, Na ‘sim bigat ng katotohanan,

Humihingi ng ingat, pagmamahal. ‘Sing gaan ng pangarap at kalawakan!

Turuan ang ngiping dumagan

Nang hindi mag-iiwan ng sugat.

Unti-untiin ang pagsisiwalat

Sa buto…

Na namimintog, lumalapad–

Kutsilyong walang talas,

Pinatuyong sinag ng araw,

My Islaands

N.V.M. Gonzalez

Even as the bough breaks

from the sheer weight of song

so does my heart break with love,

soo will my rivers flow

to kiss the sea's warm eternal breast,

so will my islands poise their hills

against the sun.

My heart is proud

of this dream and prouder yet my rivers

of the fate that keeps the pace

of tides and moons, and prouder

still my islands of their hills.

Afternoon of a Sea Faun

Edith L. Tiempo

Still we foster

The acquiescent shape

By our rejection,

Giving voice, blood, name

To the random breath;

Love is many and truth is just:

And so we are: Both

What we choose,

And we refuse.
My Brother’s Peculiar Chicken
Alejandro A. Roces
My brother Kiko once had a very peculiar chicken.
It was peculiar because no one could tell whether it
was a rooster or a hen. My brother claimed it was a
rooster. I claimed it was a hen. We almost got
whipped because we argued too much.
The whole question began early one morning. Kiko
and I were driving the chickens from the cornfield.
The corn had just been planted, and the chickens
were scratching the seeds out for food. Suddenly we
heard the rapid flapping of wings. We turned in the
direction of the sound and saw two chickens
fighting in the far end of the field. We could not see
the birds clearly as they were lunging at each other
in a whirlwind of feathers and dust.
“Look at that rooster fight!” my brother said,
pointing exactly at one of the chickens. “Why, if I
had a rooster like that, I could get rich in the
cockpits.”
“Let’s go and catch it,” I suggested.
“No, you stay here. I will go and catch it,” Kiko
said.
My brother slowly approached the battling
chickens. They were so busy fighting that they did
not notice him. When he got near them, he dived
and caught one of them by the leg. It struggled and
squawked. Kiko finally held it by both wings and it
became still. I ran over where he was and took a
good look at the chicken.
“Why, it is a hen,” I said.
“What is the matter with you?” my brother asked.
“Is the heat making you sick?”
“No. Look at its face. It has no comb or wattles.”
“No comb and wattles! Who cares about its comb or
wattles? Didn’t you see it in fight?”
“Sure, I saw it in fight. But I still say it is a hen.”
“Ahem! Did you ever see a hen with spurs on its
legs like these? Or a hen with a tail like this?”
“I don’t care about its spurs or tail. I tell you it is a
hen. Why, look at it.”
The argument went on in the fields the whole
morning. At noon we went to eat lunch. We argued
about it on the way home. When we arrived at our
house Kiko tied the chicken to a peg. The chicken
flapped its wings and then crowed.
“There! Did you hear that?” my brother exclaimed
triumphantly. “I suppose you are going to tell me
now that hens crow and that carabaos fly.”
“I don’t care if it crows or not,” I said. “That
chicken is a hen.”
We went into the house, and the discussion
continued during lunch.
“It is not a hen,” Kiko said. “It is a rooster.”
“It is a hen,” I said.
“It is not.”
“It is.”
“Now, now,” Mother interrupted, “how many times
must Father tell you, boys, not to argue during
lunch? What is the argument about this time?”
We told Mother, and she went out look at the
chicken.
“That chicken,” she said, “is a binabae. It is a
rooster that looks like a hen.”
That should have ended the argument. But Father
also went out to see the chicken, and he said, “Have
you been drinking again?” Mother asked.
“No,” Father answered.
“Then what makes you say that that is a hen? Have
you ever seen a hen with feathers like that?”
“Listen. I have handled fighting cocks since I was a
boy, and you cannot tell me that that thing is a
rooster.”
Before Kiko and I realized what had happened,
Father and Mother were arguing about the chicken
by themselves. Soon Mother was crying. She
always cried when she argued with Father.
“You know very well that that is a rooster,” she
said. “You are just being mean and stubborn.”
“I am sorry,” Father said. “But I know a hen when I
see one.”
“I know who can settle this question,” my brother
said.
“Who?” I asked.
“The teniente del Barrio, chief of the village.”
The chief was the oldest man in the village. That
did not mean that he was the wisest, but anything
always carried more weight if it is said by a man
with gray hair. So my brother untied the chicken
and we took it to the chief.
“Is this a male or a female chicken?” Kiko asked.
“That is a question that should concern only another
chicken,” the chief replied.
“My brother and I happen to have a special interest
in this particular chicken. Please give us an answer.
Just say yes or no. Is this a rooster?”
“It does not look like any rooster I have ever seen,”
the chief said.
“Is it a hen, then?” I asked.
“It does not look like any hen I have ever seen. No,
that could not be a chicken. I have never seen like
that. It must be a bird of some other kind.”
“Oh, what’s the use!” Kiko said, and we walked
away.
“Well, what shall we do now?” I said.
“I know that,” my brother said. “Let’s go to town
and see Mr. Cruz. He would know.”
Mr. Eduardo Cruz lived in a nearby town of
Katubusan. He had studied poultry raising in the
University of the Philippines. He owned and
operated the largest poultry business in town. We
took the chicken to his office.
“Mr. Cruz,” Kiko said, “is this a hen or a rooster?”
Mr. Cruz looked at the bird curiously and then said:
“Hmmm. I don’t know. I couldn’t tell in one look. I
have never run across a chicken like this before.”
“Well, is there any way you can tell?”
“Why, sure. Look at the feathers on its back. If the
feathers are round, then it’s a hen. If they are
pointed, it’s a rooster.”
The three of us examined the feathers closely. It had
both.
“Hmmm. Very peculiar,” said Mr. Cruz.
“Is there any other way you can tell?”
“I could kill it and examined its insides.”
“No. I do not want it killed,” my brother said.
I took the rooster in my arms and we walked back
to the barrio.
Kiko was silent most of the way. Then he said:
“I know how I can prove to you that this is a
rooster.”
“How?” I asked.
“Would you agree that this is a rooster if I make it
fight in the cockpit and it wins?”
“If this hen of yours can beat a gamecock, I will
believe anything,” I said.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll take it to the cockpit this
Sunday.”
So that Sunday we took the chicken to the cockpit.
Kiko looked around for a suitable opponent. He
finally picked a red rooster.
I was glad the whole argument was over.
Just then the chicken began to quiver. It stood up in
my arms and cackled with laughter. Something
warm and round dropped into my hand. It was an
egg.

“Don’t match your hen against that red rooster.” I

told him. “That red rooster is not a native chicken. It
is from Texas.”

“I don’t care where it came from,” my brother said.

“My rooster will kill it.”

“Don’t be a fool,” I said. “That red rooster is a

killer. It has killed more chickens than the fox.
There is no rooster in this town that can stand
against it. Pick a lesser rooster.”

My brother would not listen. The match was made

and the birds were readied for the killing. Sharp
steel gaffs were tied to their left legs. Everyone
wanted to bet on the red gamecock.

The fight was brief. Both birds were released in the

centre of the arena. They circled around once and
then faced each other. I expected our chicken to die
of fright. Instead, a strange thing happened. A
lovesick expression came into the red rooster’s
eyes. Then it did a love dance. That was all our
chicken needed. It rushed at the red rooster with its
neck feathers flaring. In one lunge, it buried its
spurs into its opponent’s chest. The fight was over.

“Tiope! Tiope! Fixed fight!” the crowd shouted.

Then a riot broke out. People tore bamboo benches

apart and used them as clubs. My brother and I had
to leave through the back way. I had the chicken
under my arm. We ran toward the coconut groves
and kept running till we lost the mob. As soon as we
were safe, my brother said:

“Do you believe it is a rooster now?”

“Yes,” I answered.
Tinuturuan Tayong Magpigil at Maghintay And it's nice to hear that at the very least

Virgilio Almario We're able to repay what our parents invested in us.

But what old Cain's mark on our nape

Tinuturuan tayong magpigil at maghintay
Rules when vision blurs in anger
Mahigpit man ang pangangailangan, Adre.
Or lures us to the way of all flesh?
Tinuturuan pa nga tayo ng dasal
At asal na kapuri-puri ng mga taong disente.
Now, learned though we might be in holding back,
Just the bladder about to burst drives us
Masarap namang isiping tayo'y sibilisado
To face a wall, pissing like dogs.
Kahit sa paggamit lang ng kaliwa't kanan;
Masarap ding marinig na kahit paano'y
May magandang bunga ang pawis ng magulang.

Ngunit anong magandang nunal sa ating batok

Ang nananaig pagdidilim ng paningin
o nag-uudyok pumasok sa landas ng alikabok?

Ngayon nga, tinuruan man tayong magpigil,

Dahil waring puputok na ang ating pantog
Ay parang asong humaharap tayo sa pader.

We Are Taught to Hold Back and Wait

We are taught to hold back and wait,

However intense the need,
We are even taught the prayers
And manners of people of decency.

Of course it's nice to think we're civilized,

Even in the use of the right hand and the left;
Taglish Hanggang Saan?
Bienvenido Lumbrera
May nagtanong kung ang paggamit ng Taglish sa
kolum na ito ay recognition on my part na tinaggap
kong maaaring gawing basis ng wikang “Filipino”
and Taglish. Ngayon pa man ay nililinaw ko nang
hindi lengguwahe and Taglish. Ito ay isa lamang
convenient vehicle para maabot sa kasalukuyan an
isang articulate sector ng ating lipunan na unti-
unting nagsisikap gumamit ng Pilipino.
Importnanteng makita nang sinumang gumagamit
ng Taglish na limited and gamit nito. Dahil sa
binubuo ito ng mga salitang galling sa dalawang
wikang not of the same family, makitid ang range of
expressiveness nito. Ang sensibiliteng ni-reflect nito
ay pag-aari ng isang maliit na segment ng ating
lupinan, at ang karanasang karaniwang nilalaman
nito ay may pagka-superficial.
Isang makatang malimit banggitin kapag pinag-
uusapan ang paggamit sa taglish ay si Rolando S.
Tinio. Sa kanyang koleksyon ng tulang tinawag na
Sitsit sa Kuliglig, may ilang mga tula na
pinaghalong English na sulatin. Effective lamang
ang Taglish, gaya ng pinatutunayan na rin ng mga
tula ni Tinio, kapag Americanized intellectual and
speaker, at ang tone ng tula ay medyo tongue-in-
check or sarcastic. At kahit na sa ranks ng
Americanized Filipino intellectual, and profounder
aspects of cultural alienation ay hindi kayang
lamanin nang buong-buo ng Taglish.
Better described marahil and Taglish as a “manner
of expression.” Ibig sabihin, sa mga informal
occasions, mas natural sa isang English-speaking
Filipino na sa Taglish magsalita. Sa light
conversation, halimbawa. Pero para sa mga
okasyong nangangailangan ng sustained thought,
Taglish simply won’t do. Walang predictive
patterns and paghahalo ng vocabulary at syntax ng
dalawang lengguwaheng magkaiba ng pamilya.
Dahil dito, maraming stylistic and logical gaps na
nag-iinterfere sa pag-uunawaan ng manunulat at
mambabasa.
Kailangan sa Taglish ang spontaneaous
interactionng nagsasalita at ng nakikinig. Sa
pamamagitan ng physical gestures, facial
expressions, o tonal inflection, nagagawa ang
filling-in na siyang remedyo sa mga stylistic at
logical gaps. Maaari naming sa pagtatanong linawin
ng nakikinig ang anumang ambiguity sa sinasabi ng
kausap.
Sumakatuwid, ang pagsusulat sa Taglish, cannot be
a permanent arrangement. Kung talagang nais ng
manunulat na magcommunicate sa nakararaming
mambabasa, haharapin niya ang pagpapahusay sa
kanyang command ng Pilipino. Para sa manunulat,
isang transitional “language” lamang ang Taglish.
Kung tunay na nirerecognize niya na napakaliit at
lalo pang lumiit ang audience for English writing,
hindi siya makapananatiling Taglish lamang ang
kanyang ginagamit. Maliit pa rin ang audience na
nakauunawa sa Taglish pagkat nagdedemand ito ng
adequate control of English. Magbalik sa English. O
tuluyang lumapit sa Pilipino. Ito ang alternatives
para sa Taglish users ngayon na hangad pa ring
magpatuloy sa pagsusulat.