It is time to cut the canes at the hacienda.
“O sakada, O sakada!
Dampa ang simula, dampa ang hantungan
Ng iyo’t aking mga panaginip.
Pati kinagisnan nati’y api’t hirap!
Kamatayan na rin yata ang hangganan
Ng lakas mo’t aking paghihirap!
“O sakada! O sakada!
Ang ‘yong kahapon siya ring hinaharap:
Ubos na’ng lakas, ubos na’ng panaginip,
Dilim sa dampa nati’y kahalip.
Halakhak ang udyok ng asyenda,
Luha ng dukha, halinghing sa dampa!
“O sakada! O sakada!
Tag-ani na naman sa sakada!
Luntian ang bunga, silanga’y pula,
Umaga na rin kaya sa ating mga dampa?
Tag-ani na naman, kapatid sa lupa,
Aanihin din kaya ang ‘yong kalul’wa?
“O sakada! O sakada!
Ibuhos man nating kusa ang ating dugo,
Hahalakhak pa rin ang asendero!
Sa patalim na kaya ang ating umaga?
Sa patalim na kaya ang ating umaga?
O sakada!”
If to kill were as easy as to sing…*
O sing on, drunken friend!
We will gather the cane tomorrow!
It is the hunger on brown wrinkles
lined in the irony of parched lips
parted in smile that convulses
the clot of flames violent in the blood
of these gnoméd comrades now
crouched in the muck of this burning river.
The anger was good while it lasted.
*Added to the revised version published in my A Theory of Echoes and Other Poems (UST Publishing House, 2009).
Thereafter, protest poems were the fad of the day. The students came back to Literature classes and asked their professors to comment on their ``protest poems``. I knew I succeeded in making them think that literature was useful , after all.
The following were poems I dedicated to poets Emmanuel Lacaba and Jason Montana -- authentic heroes of the revolution. Real patriots. Lacaba died fighting. Montana is still fighting.
Aftermath, 1976: Guerrero
For Emmanuel Lacaba, who died in combat, and Jason Montana who fights on.
Bivouac
Where blends the cane leaves with mist and rain
Blends the shadow and the movement,
Each defining courage from fear, fear from pain.
“It is the touch of skin or harsh point of crag
Makes the warrior brother to the rock,
It is crag offers the question between life and slug.”
The stillness between the lads numb with song
And rifles stocked shapes the crackle of campfire
Blending with rustle of grass and night stretched long
By the wordless grief of a valley’s muffled groan.
“Bless the valley’s darkness, brothers of song,
Its pall fallen on grey lips, its silence on a moan.”
The night’s benediction is a promise of dawn.
Song
Dawn is red on this ruddy face
Sun dogging his craggy trail,
The song deep in his throat:
“The last best fight, my brother;
Our blood on the tip of steel!”
Brother to the pulsing spring,
To the bushes and rocks, the wrath
Of days, of quietness descending.
“The last good fight, my brother;
Our blood on the open trail.”
A song arrested in his throat,
The steel tensile in grace,
His still point is a point of steel.
(First published in the Asia-Philippines Leader)
The People`s Revolution is still being written about by even the younger poets who were wee tots then. Some of the older poets have despaired somewhat. Jason Montana, who knows the crags and the rustle of grass and thicket and jungles, and bivouacs, has written about the post-revolution. More on that later.
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