UNIT III

THE DIVERSITY OF PHILIPPINE LITERATURE

(2nd Grading Reviewer: 21st CLPW)

Lesson 1: ILOCANO LITERATURE

Lesson 2: BICOLANO LITERATURE
Lesson 3: CEBUANO LITERATURE
Lesson 4: ILONGGO LITERATURE
Lesson 5: EASTERN VISAYAS LITERATURE
Lesson 6: SOUTHERN MINDANAO LITERATURE
Lesson 7: NATIONAL CAPITAL REGION LITERATURE

Literature is composed of different emotions. Hope you enjoy and learn

different moral lessons from the literary pieces that we’ve discussed. –
Ma’am Roe ^_^
Lesson 1: ILOCANO LITERATURE
 Ilocano literature is one of the most vibrant Filipino literatures throughout the ages.
 Ilocano regions are also one of the most active tributaries in the Philippine literature next to
Cebuano, Bikol, Hiligaynon, Pampangainense, and Tagalog.
 Prior to the Spanish colonial period, the Ilocano literature is purely alive in form of
written and oral literature.
 The ancient Ilocano poets expressed themselves in folk and war
songs.
 Another popular form of literature was the dallot (improvised, versified and
impromptu long poem delivered in a sing-song manner.
 When the Spaniards arrived in Ilocos Norte in 1572, it took a toll on Ilocano literature.
 During the Spanish era, Ilocano poetry was heavily influenced by Spanish poetry.
 The earliest known written Ilocano poems were the romances translated from Spanish by
Francisco Lopez.
 Lopez was an Augustinian friar who published his Iloko translation of the Doctrina Cristiana
(first book published in the Philippines by Cardinal Bellarmine) in 1621.

WRITERS:
Francisco Sionil José - is one of the most widely read Filipino writers in the English language. His
novels and short stories depict the social underpinnings of class struggles and colonialism in Filipino
society. (THE MOLAVE AND THE ORCHID)

Melvin Banggollay – wrote “Ikaw Lamang or Siksikalaeng”, “A Breath Without A Life”, “A Burning
Mountain”, “On Your Graduation Day”, “ I Am A Filipino”, “A Love Went Wrong”,
“A Love That Endures” [An Acrostic Poem]

Lesson 2: BICOLANO LITERATURE

 Around 5 million people speak variations of Bikolano dialect in the Bicol region. From Camarines
Sur to Naga to Albay Sorsogon – and every locality in between – Bikolano literature has flourished,
providing a lively literary flavor unrivalled by any other literary tradition.
 Bikolano literature has its roots in orally transmitted poems and mythical narratives that
reflect the history of the people.
 Mariano Perfecto is the first Bikolano writer who published Bikola newspaper, he was also
responsible for the development of the first printing press named “Imprenta de Nuestra Senora de
Penafrancia.”
 While the latter development implied that Bikolano literature was dominated by religious
writing at that time, there was another movement that emerged to give a spicy flavor to the
literarture.
 Protest drama became a form of expressing the people’s growing resentment of the Spanish
rule. Indeed, writers of dramatic forms abounded across the Bicol region. “ Comdia” writers
such as Sabas Armenta , Juan Alvarez Guerra and Juan Miraflor have protest plays credited
to their names.
 The dramatic genre of the “corridor,” popular among the Tagaog-speaking folk, was adapted
into the local ‘Bikolcorrido” ( with “Magamang Pobre” being a popular example).

WRITERS;
Luis Guevarra Dato - worked as a newspaperman for the Bicol Star, Naga times, and the other
newpapers. He was also considered as an “ authority on the Bicol languae and culture.” (DAY ON THE
FARM)
Marne L. Kilates - (A Cloud Named Looking-for-You )
Damiana Ligon Eugenio – known as the mother of Philippine Folklore, was also a Filipino female
author and has several publications in the field of Philippine literature. (ANG DUWENDE)

Lesson 3: CEBUANO LITERATURE

Cebu “ The Queen of the South “ distinguishes itself with its rich and vibrant literary tradition.

How the Diversity Unfolded

 Cebuano literature refers to the literary works written in Cebuano, a language widely
spoken in the southern Philippines. (The term is most often extended to cover the oral literary forms
in both indigenous and colonial Philippines.)
 While the majority of Cebuano writers are from the Visayas and Mindanao region, the
most recognized Filipino literary outlet for them, including the Bisaya Magasin, is based in
Makati City in Metro Manila, while there is also a lively Cebuano community of writers in the
language which is based outside the country. Cebuano literature, therefore, encompasses not
only those Visayas and Mindanao-based writers writing in Cebuano, but all written output in
Cebuano, wherever its source.
 Cebuano Literature may be traced back to several poetic forms.
These included the “balak” (which contains a “balaybay” or metaphor),
the “tigmo” (riddles),
“panultihon” (proverbs),
and “garay” (verses).
Also popular was the “balitaw,” a poetic debate that required the participants (a man
and a woman ) to improvise and even sing their lines.
 Improvised poetry was also present in the dramatic genre of the “kulilising hari”.

LITERARY PIECE:
The Santo Niño of Cebu- [there was a poor fisherman who had a dream that the firewood
which he "caught" had turned into a statue of a beautiful child who is the Santo Niño]
Usahay - A Visayan Love Song

Lesson 4: ILONGGO LITERATURE

 The lingua franca of the West Visayas in Central Philippines is called Hiligaynon.
 Hiligaynon is spoken in Iloilo City in all the coastal towns north of Iloilo City, in all of Guimaras,
in most of Roxas City in Capiz, and in Bacolod City and most of the towns of NegrosOccidental.
 Kinaray-a or Hiraya is the mother language of West Visayas, the language spoken by
thecentral and southern towns of Iloilo, all of the province of Antique and most of Capiz. The
language is also spoken in South Cotabato, in Mindanao, where many West Visayans have
migrated.
 The northern towns of Negros Occidental speak Cebuano or Sugbuanon, the lingua
franca of Central Visayas.
 The province of Aklan speaks Aklanon which, like Hiligaynon, developed from Kinaray-a.
Though distinctly different from Hiligaynon, Kinaray-a and Aklanon are conveniently considered by
many linguists and literary researchers as subsumed in the lingua franca.
 Folk literature ranges from brief riddles, proverbs, ditties, ritual chants to elaborate love
songs, tales and extensive epics. A poem is called binalaybay and the tale is the asoy or the
sugilanon.
ILONGGO STORY:
THE STORY OF THE FIRST DURIAN
Baro4m-Mai was an he was helpless Barom-Mai asked THREE The king finds the
old and ugly king when it came to his advisers to help INGREDIENTS egg through the
who lived in a winning the love of him win his bride’s FOR THE POTION: help of Pawikan, the
kingdom called his young bride, love, and Matigam EGG (soften the king of the sea
Calinan Madayaw-Bayho (the wisest of bride’s heart), MILK turtles. He luckily
(daughter of Tageb, advisers) told him (make her kind) gets milk from a
king of the pirates). about Impit Purok, NECTAR ( make her white carabao the
a hermit who lived see BArom-Mai as a following breakfast,
in a cave in Mt. Apo. young and handsome thanks to his cook.
king) Hangin-Bai, the
nymph of the air,
leads him to her
sister, the wood
nymph who had the
magic flower in her
hair.

HINILAWOD
Alunsina – Goddess of Kaptan – King of the Datu Paubari – Suklang Malayon – Labaw Donggon –
the Eastern Sky Gods Mighty ruler of sister of Alunsina / eldest son
Halawod helped Alunsina and
Datu Paubari to
escaped
Handug - where a Manalintad - the Abyang Durunuun- Tarambang Burok – Sikay Padalogdog -
beautiful maiden father of Angoy sister of Sumpoy, the the place to win has a hundred arms.
named Angoy Ginbitinan asked lord of the underworld Abyang Durunuun’s
Ginbitinan lived. Labaw Donggon to and whose beauty was hand.
fight the monster legendary.
Manalintad as part of
his dowry
Gadlum – place to win biday nga inagta shores of Aso Mangga – son of Abyang Baranugon –
Malitong Yawa (black boat) Tulogmatian - which Angoy Ginbitanan son of Abyang
Sinagmaling Diwata’s was the seaside Baranugon
hand. fortress of
Saragnayan.
Saragnayan - Lord of Humadapnon – brother Buyong Matanayon of Lubay-Lubyok Piniling Tubig – was
Darkness of Labaw Donggon Mount Matiula - well- Hanginun si ruled by Datu Umbaw
known for his skill in Mahuyokhuyokan – Pinaumbaw
swordsmanship. wife of Dumalapdap
Burigadang Pada Buyong Makabagting- Dumasig - the most Dumalapdap – Brother Balanakon – two-
Sinaklang Bulawan - son of the mighty powerful wrestler in of Labaw Donggon headed monster
goddess of greed Datu Balahidyong of Madya-as.
Paling Bukid
Uyutang – bat-like Tarambang Buriraw-
monster with sharp In this place was a
poinonous claws. ridge called Talagas
UYUTANG CRIED: Kuting-tang where a
seductive sorceress
named Piganun lived.
the three brothers left for different parts of the world.
Labaw Donggon == went to the north,
Humadapnon == went south,
Dumalapdap == to the west and
Datu Paubari == remained in the east.
Lesson 5: EASTERN VISAYAS LITERATURE
 The literature of Eastern Visayas refers to the literature written in Waray and Cebuano
by writers from the region.
 Of the two, it is Waray literature that has been collected, recorded, and documented by
scholars and researchers, a movement largely spurred by the interest of German priests,
managing a university in Tacloban City, who saw the necessity of gathering and preserving the
literary heritage of the region.
 It is in this light that whenever East Visayan literature is written about, it is usually Waray
literature that is being described.
 Earliest accounts of East Visayan literature date back to 1668 when a Spanish Jesuit by
the name of Fr. Ignatio Francisco Alzina documented the poetic forms such as the candu, haya,
ambahan, canogon, bical, balac, siday and awit.
 He also described the susumaton and posong, (early forms of narratives). Theater tradition
was very much in place – in the performance of poetry, rituals, and mimetic dances. Dances
mimed the joys and activities of the ancient Waray.
With three centuries of Spanish colonization and another period of American occupation,
old rituals, poetic forms and narratives had undergone reinvention.
 A case in point is the balac, a poetic love joust between a man and a woman. According to
Cabardo, the balac retained its form even as it took new names and borrowed aspects of the
languages of the colonizers.
 During the Spanish period, the balac was called the amoral; during the American occupation, it
was renamed ismayling, a term derived from the English word “smile.” * *
 According to a literary investigator, in certain areas of Samar, the same balac form or
ismayling has been reinvented to express anti-imperialist sentiments where the woman
represents the motherland and the man, the patriot who professes his love of country.

EASTERN VISAYAS POETRY:

Flowers of May (Translated by the staff of Leyte-Samar Studies)
Like a Joke That Seems True (Iluminado Lucente)
The Least Miracle : Carlos A. Angeles

Lesson 6: SOUTHERN MINDANAO LITERATURE

 Southern Mindanao is composed of Compostela Valley, Davao del Norte, Davao del Sur and
Davao Oriental.
 Natural attractions include cold springs, cascading falls, butterflies and exotic wildlife. White
sand beaches include Copiat Island.
 The Mansakas, the indigenous natives in Compostela Valley, are known for their native dances,
tribal jewelry, and unique musical instruments.
 Natural sites include the islands of Talicud, Ligid and Palma Gil, and the Caliclic
and Talicud Caves.
 Davao City is the center of travel and trade in the Southern Philippines, known for the
exotic fruit 'durian', the Waling-Waling orchid, the Philippine Eagle and Mt. Apo, the highest peak in
the country.
 Natural attractions include caves, waterfalls, rapids and mountains.
 Cultural sites include the Davao Museum, UP Mindanao Cultural Center, General Luna Art
Gallery, and the T'Boli Weaving Center.
 Shopping malls and department stores include Shoe Mart, Gaisano Mall of Davao, Victoria
Plaza, J.S. Gaisano Citimall, University Mall, New City Commercial Center and Aldevinco
Shopping Center.Davao del Sur is rich in agriculture and farms which include fish farms at
 Kiblawan and Santa Maria, a prawn farm and cocoa plantation in Malita, a sugar mill in Magonoy,
a coconut desiccating plant in Santa Cruz and a
fruit farm in Mt. Carmel nursery in Bansalan.

MINDANAO POETRY:
A Story of the Orphan Girl

Lesson 7: NATIONAL CAPITAL REGION LITERATURE

 Tagalog literature has been born, cradled, nourished and peaked into fruition in the
provinces of Southern Luzon, Central Luzon and the present Metropolitan Manila or the
National Capital Region.
 Among the Southern Tagalog provinces are Cavite, Batangas, Laguna, Quezon, Aurora,
Oriental Mindoro, Occidental Mindoro, Marinduque, Palawan and some towns of Rizal province.
 In Central Luzon, there are three provinces where Tagalog is predominantly used and
these are the provinces of Nueva Ecija, Bataan and Bulacan.
 Tagalog region is the birthplace of a rich tradition of Philippine culture in language, politics,
economy and literature.
 The oldest university in the Philippines, University of Sto. Tomas is located in Manila.
 The first printing press was established in Manila. This gave way to the publication of the
first book, Doctrina Cristiana in xylography in 1593, written in Spanish and Tagalog versions.
The bible was first translated into Tagalog in Barlaan and Josaphat in 1708 and 1712. The life
of Christ in epic tradition known popularly today as Pasyon was written in Tagalog by various
writers like Gaspar Aquino de Belen and Fr. Mariano Pilapil.
 The literary tradition in the Tagalog regions is especially outstanding in the field of oral
literature like bugtong (riddle), proverbs, native songs. These oral literatures are always in
poetic forms, usually seven-syllabic rhymes, so Asian in form and perspective.
Considering this rich and envigorating cultural matrix, it is not surprising that it is the Tagalog region
that was destined to be the birthplace of historic men in Philippine politics,
culture and literature that includes Francisco Balagtas Baltazar, Jose Rizal, Andres Bonifacio,
Apolinario Mabini, Emilio Jacinto, Marcelo H. del Pilar, Jose P. Laurel, Claro M. Recto, Amado V.
Hernandez, Lope K. Santos, Lazaro Francisco, Faustino Aguilar, Jose Corazon de Jesus, Alejandro
Abadilla, Modesto de Castro.
 It is not noticeable that such men are not only man of history that played a great role in
Philippine independence movement but men of letters as well.

NCR POETRY:
To My Sweetie Polly : (An Elegy) Dr. Kristine Molina – Doria
Balete: Home of Spirits : Vicente Paolo Langit
Only God Can Make an Egg: (Analogously, according to Joyce Kilmer, “Only God can make a tree.”)
Dr. Abe V. Rotor
 LITERARY PIECES:

THE MOLAVE AND THE ORCHID (F. Sionil Jose)

Not very long ago, there lived in the jungle an old and arrogant molave. He deemed it right that he should be
overbearing and proud, and why not? He was the oldest of all the trees; moreover, he towered over all of them and caught a
lot of sun so that in spite of his age, he continued to grow, his huge trunk getting stouter, his leaves always greener. Many
of the trees around him had been felled by loggers and kaingineros so that there would be more land to plant, more
firewood for the stoves of the farmers, and more lumber for the houses of the wealthy. But the old molave could not be cut
down even if so many had tried. Their axes couldn’t bite into his trunk, and were often broken, so they gave up soon enough
and let the old molave be. Indeed, the old molave was the sturdiest tree in all the land, its wood so hard that if it were
made into house posts or railroad ties it could easily last more than a hundred years.
It was not difficult for the ancient tree to become smug, to ignore completely the smaller trees that had survived
around him. He liked the independence and though he resented the doves that sometimes rested on his branches, they did
not stay long for they soon flew away. Then one shimmering morning in April, he woke up to find a stranger a solitary orchid
clinging to his trunk. Monkeys, too, not just birds and even insects, had many times been his unwelcome guests, but they
always left to pursue their own destinies. This young orchid, however, had fastened herself to his trunk with the intention
of latching on, a permanent parasite.
“Go away, go away,” the old tree hissed at the intruder when he realized that the young orchid’s roots had already
attached themselves to his bark. “I don’t want anyone sponging on me.” The orchid was surprised, taken aback at the
venerable tree’s rudeness, not so much by his inhospitable outburst. “I am no parasite,” she objected vehemently. “First, I
did not elect to cling to you, fate blew me here, just as fate dropped the seed that had become you on this very spot.” “Fate
or not, I don’t want you clinging to me.” “I am a free spirit, can you not see that?” the orchid said. “And you do not sustain
me other than give me an anchor so I won’t be blown away anymore by the wind. God’s sweet air is all I need to live. And the
sun, and the rain which are not yours to give.” “Free spirit!” the old tree roared in derision. “No such thing on earth; each
living creature has a logic, a reason for existence…” “I am meant to be free,” the orchid insisted. “And since you are the one
who mentioned it, what is your reason for being? You are so old, so tall, but the truth is, your life has no logic, you
old fool.” All through these many years, nobody had ever spoken to him brashly. Everyone had given him obeisant politeness
which his age, his height demanded. He was shocked at the youthful insolence, he could not react immediately. How can he
deal with this impudent whelp? Briefly he recalled how it was when he, too, was a tender sapling, how he had craved for
attention, for breathing space from the bigger, taller trees. And in the end how he had grown taller than all of them and
coveted most of the sunlight above the forest canopy. He was now forced to think, not so much to reply to this upstart but
to reaffirm for himself, the pith, the reason for being. “I am this old and tall,” he said, clearly mustering his self-control,
trying not to respond angrily to the obvious insult, “because I had patience, perseverance. My roots go deep, very deep,
which is why I am firm, which is why no typhoon can bowl me over or break me. Through the years, my dear young punk, they
have tried to cut me down. Look below you at the scars and welts their axes left but they all gave up. I am the hardiest of
all the trees.” “And even if you are, I wouldn’t care because for all your claimed attributes, you are really useless except for
yourself. No one has really lived if he has not been useful to others!” The venerable molave thought it best to keep quiet for
a while and ponder what the young pest had said. Indeed, he bore no fruit for people or the creatures of the forest to eat.
Yes, his roots were sunk deep in the soil and he had really thrived, drawing sustenance from the earth, the
sun and the rain. Had he offered shade to any weary traveler? Who sought his shade except some poor, tired workman or
kainginero. But wait, he was giving some anchor now to this impudent weed. He had some use, then, even if that silly little
orchid refused to recognize it. He was about to announce this in the loudest bluster he could manage when he decided it was
not really worth quarreling with that tiny clinging parasite down there. He was much, much bigger than that.
Anyhow, soon the hot breath of the dry season will pass and with its passing, the typhoons of
the monsoon will rage. Indeed, the rains came, first in soft gentle drizzles then in lashing sheets that blotted out the sun.
The old tree was quiet in his pleasure, his thick trunk immobile and firm, his branches waving with each gust of wind. “Now,”
he smirked to himself, “that little nuisance will be blown away and I will rid myself of her silly taunts.” The wind broke many
of the younger trees but soon enough it lifted with the rain. When the old tree looked down, he found, to his surprise, the
orchid still clung to him soaked, bedraggled, but defiant as ever. “No,” she whimpered. “You cannot get rid of me easily and
neither can you answer the question that I asked.” “And can you answer the same question if it were asked of you?” “Of
course,” she said, her voice coming to life. “Beauty is its own excuse for being. I adorned Cleopatra’s hair when she made
love to Caesar. I brought life, color, to an Indian woman’s hut in the Amazon. I gave livelihood to thousands of people
through the ages when they traded me for gold and goods. I was ground to a pulp by those who believed I had curative
powers, or could revive flagging energies. I did all these, although like I already said, beauty is its own excuse for being.
Like virtue is its own reward… So what if you are the tallest, the hardest. But
you are not beautiful like the cypress. Your branches have no symmetry. Your trunk is gnarled. In fact, you are quite ugly. A
homely father only his dutiful daughter could love. I think you know this which is why you are so irascible!”
The old tree took in every word and for a while was quite astounded by the truth and profundity as uttered by the
pesky weed below. He wanted very much to shout her down but remained silent instead, the rage in him seething, his own
impotence now becoming clearer, more obvious to himself. Impotence that was not too distant from uselessness. There must
be a way he could get rid of her. Maybe the seasons will take care of that, for so soon, the drought came and for days on
end the sun scorched the land. Not a single cloud blotted the sky to impede the white heat that deluged all living things. The
earth cracked, the grass turned brown and died, even the old tree’s leaves wilted in the unremitting heat. Around him the
grass and the young trees were burned but the molave was not even singed. Eventually, the drought had to end and the
coolness that presaged rain came upon the faded green.

The molave looked down. The orchid was still there, her leaves wilted, her roots all withered
but on the whole, she was alive and breathing. “Will I ever be rid of you?” the old tree asked. “Only death can set us apart.”
The young plant said in quiet triumph. “But who can cut me down? All those kaingineros with their axes they all gave up. Have
you forgotten I am the hardest tree ever? Life has no logic for me.” “Braggart!” the orchid flung at him. “Work is the logic
of life. And sacrifice is the logic of love. You have not worked for anyone, nor sacrificed for anyone. Even to someone as
fragile and helpless like me you cannot even be kind. What then is your purpose? I do not think you know
what love is.” Again, such impudence, and yet such meaning. He decided to humor her. “What does someone as young as you
know about love that you can talk so glibly about it?” For a while, the orchid was silent. When she finally spoke, her words
were slow in coming but they were all crystal clear. “I know a lot about love because I have seen what those in love do, the
pain they bear, and their joys as well. Someday, I will love someone for we are destined to do so. And since I am so close to
you, and I am grateful, who knows I may yet get to love a cantankerous and conceited ancient like you.” “I am deeply
touched,” the old tree said mockingly. Then he ignored her. But how can he ignore what she had said? What had his own life
really meant to him! Must he now also think of death an abhorrent word which never troubled him before, but now it did, for
all who live must die; isn’t death the logic of life, too? And while he was deep in thought, it came to him with a shock of
recognition, the truth about himself, about what the orchid had said in derision to his face. Did he really get nettled by
what this little weed said? Could it be that deep within his own pith, there was, after all, some feeling
of affection, of concern for this plant that was now irrevocably attached to him? A long night and he woke up to a morning
adorned with dazzling light, dew glistening on his head and birds that had nested on his branches yes, he had some use after
all flitting about and fluting in song. He looked down then, and there below was an effulgent splash of color, bluish purple
with specks of yellow and gorgeous angel white the little orchid had burst in bloom!

The old molave was speechless with wonder and the full meaning of what the orchid said came
to him in all its truth and brilliance beauty is its own excuse for being. Above the tumult of his feelings, deep within him, he
was glad that the orchid had clung to him through typhoon and drought. Was it loyalty or an act of faith? He did not bother
anymore with the answer to such questions it was enough that his eyes were finally opened to such ineffable grandeur. His
joy, alas, was short-lived. Down, down at his base appeared a group of men, and one of them pulled a rope which started a
huge chain saw. The old molave cringed as he felt the sharp teeth of the machine bite into his flesh, rip into his innards,
slowly and surely, the steel much harder than him. “They are going to cut you down, kill you, and they will kill me, too,” the
orchid shrieked. “My dear old molave, this is the end.” In his death throes, the old molave was stoic; he did not have to
speak, for by then, he also knew what love was and beauty, too. He stood erect for the last time, then severed from all
those roots that had sustained him, he keeled over and fell with a loud crash that reverberated in the entire forest. The
fall had bruised the orchid and crushed some of her flowers but she still clung to the old molave.
One of the men came forward and gently pulled her away from the old tree. “We will scrape a
bit of the bark,” he said to his companions, “for this beautiful thing to cling on. I have never seen anything like this wild and
rare orchid.” The man who wielded the chain saw surveyed the huge tree stretched before him. “I thought the saw would
break. It is really very tough.” The man who coveted the orchid said, “I will give sections of it to Billy Abueva he should be
able to create sculpture of lasting beauty from them. The rest, I will have a big coffee table made for the living room. And
this precious orchid I am sure my wife will place it on the table to grace our living room, too.”

Ilocano Poems both written by Melvin Banggollay

IKAW LAMANG (SIKSIKA LAENG) A LOVE THAT ENDURES
Ikaw lamang A love that endures is
Aking mahal L-iving for someone dear
Sa aking buhay O-ffering unconditonal passion
Aking sasambahin V-alueing one's right so fair
Hanggang kamatayan E-nduring pains and depressions.
Ikaw lamang T-eaching the heart to be fair
ang paglingkuran H-ealing with gentle communication
at mamahalin A-cting what your heart declare
na pag-ibig T-ouching with prudent conviction.
na dalisay E-ntwined with forgiveness flare
at totoo N-urtured with tender passion
ng walang katapusan D-evelop with motives so clear
U-nderstanding amidst confusion
R-esolve to be always just and fair
E-ndures to serve even at oblivion
S-acred vow to serve without fear.
DAY ON THE FARM (Luis G. Dato)
I’ve found you fruits of sweetest taste and found you
Bunches of Duhat growing by the hill,
I’ve bound your arms and hair with vine and bound you
With rare wildflowers but you are crying still.
I’ve brought you all the forest ferns and brought you
Wrapped in green leaves cicadas singing sweet,
I’ve caught you in my arms an hour and taught you
Love’s secret where the mountaion spirits meet.
Your smiles have died and there is no replying
To all endearment and my gifts are vain;
Come with me, love, you are too old for crying

A CLOUD NAMED LOOKING-FOR-YOU (Marne Kilates)

May heart aches like the heaving sea;
My tears riddle the face of the water;
My pain comes in guests, emptying me.
Cursed with wandering, thin as air,
How can I touch the bottom of this grief?
How can I lift this shroud that covers
My love’s grave?
My heart heaves like the aching sea;
My tears riddle the face of the water;
My pain comes in guest, emptying me.

“They say that it is the Princess Nhanzao forever drifting over the Sea of Er, Looking for her lovewho had
been turned into stone and sunk into the depths – from the song by Shi Zhi – You about the Yunnan legend.”

ANG DUWENDE (Damiana Ligon Eugenio)

Malalim na ang gabi at abalang-abala pa sa pananahi ang dalawang magkapatid na babae.Tinatahi nila ang mga kamisa
at saya nila, na isusuot nila para sa isang misa kinaumagahan. Ibinilin ng kanilang ina na siguruhing nakasara ang pinto at mga
bintana ng kanilang bahay, kundi ay papasok ang duwende, na bumibisita sa kanila tuwing hatinggabi. Upang malaman ng
kaniyang mga anak kung ano ang duwende, ikinuwento niya ito: “Katulad lang ng mga ordinaryong tao ang mga duwende. Tuso
silang mga nilalang, ngunit matulungin din. Ilan sa mga kapilyuhang ginagawa nila ay ang pagsira sa mga muwebles at mga
larawan, pagbasag sa mga salamin, baso, plato, at tasa. Kung hindi sila makahanap ng mga bagay na sisirain o babasagin,
kinukurot nila ang mga pisngi, braso, at katawan ng mga tulog na babae, upang maging mabigat ang pakiramdam nila
pagkagising. Kung hindi kinaasaran ng mga duwende ang mga nakatira sa bahay na madalas nilang bisitahin, nagpapakita sila ng
kabaitan sa mga ito. Sinasabing dinadalhan nila ang mga kaibigan nila ng mga masasarap na pagkain at ipinagtatanggol sila mula
sa mga masasamang nilalang. Maraming tao tuloy ang sabik ngunit balisang makakilala ng duwende. Itinuturing nila ang mga
nilalang na nagtataglay ng kakaibang karunungan dahil sinasabing alam na alam nila ang mga
lihim at ikinikilos ng mga tao. Ngunit kung sakaling ang mga naging kaibigan ng duwende ay biglang nagsabi ng anumang masama
o nagbalak ng masama sa kanila, kahit pa hindi sila marinig ng mga duwende, ay parurusahan sila at hindi na muling babalikan.
“Ang duwendeng binabanggit ko rito ay madalas sa bahay namin habang ang nanay ko, o ang lola ninyo, ay buhay pa. Parati
niyang sinasabi sa aming isara ang pinto at mga bintana bago kami matulog. Isang gabi, nang nagtatahi rin kami ng kapatid ko
ng kamisa at saya, nakalimutan naming isara ang mga bintana at pinto. Ilang segundo bago maghatinggabi, naroon ang isang
maliit na nilalang na nakatayo sa aming pinto. Maliit siya, kasinliit lamang ng isang dalawang taong gulang na bata; pula ang
kaniyang mukha; mayroon siyang mahabang bigote at maputing kulot na buhok. Maigsi ang mga braso niyang balingkinitan,
ngunit malaki ang mga kamay niya– malaki para sa kaniyang braso.”Nang marinig ng mga dalaga ang kuwento ng kanilang ina,
natakot sila. Nang maghatinggabi, narinig nila ang mga tunog: takla, takla, takla. Gawa ito ng duwende. Takot na takot ang
dalawa. Lumingon ang panganay, at nakita niya ang duwende na pumapasok sa pinto.
At katulad ng inaasahan, tumakbo at tumalon siya papasok ng bahay, papunta sa mga dalaga. Dahil doon, nasipa niya ang isang
gasera, na nagpaliyab sa mga kamisa at saya. Mula noon, naging maingat na ang magkapatid at ang buong bayan ng Legaspi sa
duwende. Isinasara na nila ang kanilang mga pinto at mga bintana bago sila matulog sa gabi.

THE STO. NINO OF CEBU

One day a poor fisherman went out early to the sea as usual. But the day turned out to be a very unlucky one for
him because, every time he cast his net, all he would catch was a piece of firewood. Thrice the fisherman threw the
firewood back to the sea; each time he pulled in his net, thesame piece of firewood would turn up. Disgusted yet fascinated
by what had happened, the fisherman took the driftwood home with him. When he got home, he saw his wife drying palay on
a mat out on their yard. The fisherman threw the firewood on top of the palay and muttered to himself, "If you are indeed
a thing of magic, let's see you keep the birds and the chickens away from this drying palay." Astonishingly, no bird or fowl
came near the drying palay. When evening came, the fisherman brought the piece of wood inside the house and forgot all
about it. But that very night, the fisherman had a strange dream. He dreamed that the firewood which he "caught" that
morning had turned into a statue of a beautiful child. True enough, when he awoke in the morning, he saw a strange
transformation happening before his eyes. The firewood had somehow taken on a form that looked like that of a little child.
As the days went by, the child's features became clearer and clearer until at last it became the image of the Santo Niño as
we would see it today.

THE STORY OF THE FIRST DURIAN

Barom-Mai was an old and ugly king who lived in a kingdom called Calinan in the Visayas hundreds of years ago.
Although he was powerful, he was helpless when it came to winning the love of his young bride, Madayaw-Bayho (daughter of
Tageb, king of the pirates). Barom-Mai asked his advisers to help him win his bride’s love, and Matigam (the wisest of
advisers) told him about Impit Purok, a hermit who lived in a cave in Mt. Apo. They went to the hermit and he asked for
three things: the egg of the black tabon bird, twelve ladles of fresh milk from a white carabao without blemish, and the
nectar from the flower of the tree-of-make-believe. The egg will be used to soften the bride’s heart; the milk, to make her
kind; and, the nectar, to make her see Barom-Mai as a young and handsome king.
The king finds the egg through the help of Pawikan, the king of the sea turtles. He luckily gets milk from a white
carabao the following breakfast, thanks to his cook. Hangin-Bai, the nymph of the air, leads him to her sister, the wood
nymph who had the magic flower in her hair. Barom-Mai gives the three things to Impit Purok, who asked him to prepare a
big feast after Barom-Mai wins his queen back, and to invite Impit Purok as the king’s guest of honor. Impit Purok mixes the
three ingredients and instructs Barom-Mai to plant the mixture in the royal garden. The morning after it was planted, a tree
grew. It had a sweet smell and tasted good. When Madayaw-Bayho was given the fruit, she fell in love with Barom-Mai. The
king throws a big feast but forgets to invite Impit Purok. In retaliation, Impit casts a curse upon the fruit: The sweet smell
was replaced with a foul odor while the smooth skin of the fruit was covered with thorns, which is how the durian smells and
looks today.

FLOWERS OF MAY
How lovely and how choice
are the ilang-ilang, champaca and sampaguita
the fragrant roses, rosal and azucena:
their scent fills the air
and is wafted far away . . .
sweet flowers of May.
Flowers cover our native land
So exquisite they captive the mind
the waling-waling and other orchids
with colors to delight the eyes
loved or not, they are still admired
Though they wither fast, they are flowers of May.
Even the common gumamela
in the morning very proudly blooms,
the calachuchi, the marigold,
have beauty and fragrance to rival others,
we don’t have to go to other places,
we have many flowers of May.
Flowers of all kinds have we
no need is there to name them,
who are the adornment of our existence,
like fire in month of may

LIKE A JOKE THAT SEEMS TRUE

Pest and lightning may strike them in Manila
But pray not there in restaurant of Go Bani
The fifth “pansit” still delights the tongues,
Palates, and throats of us here in tacloban.
Cruel ! How oppressive these Manilans are
Who wants their bread and rice clean;
How unfortunate for Kim On, for Tin Siugaw
They’ll never get rich in the business.
We do not have their likes in Tacloban
I’ve grown bleary-eyed, stopped, white-haired since.
And we Taclobanos, whether of the towns or of the barrios,
Allow the Chinese to become millionaires
Who cares if the bones in the soup are already a year old
In that can to which they keep adding water?
We might be slurping hot pig slop,
Fine enough if it thick and well – flavored.
We do not have to follow the ways of Manila.
For tasty is the chopsuey blended with rising water;
It is not in keeping for our government to just follow;
Or to go this way or that or be indecisive.

THE LEAST MIRACLE [Carlos Angeles]

Someday there will be sudden miracles
Conjured in the potent noon and male hour
And shall be no news, nor shall appear in papers.
In the only bed then in the old house
I lay with my leg broken from a fall
And bathed in my own blood and marrow.
We all thought wrongly I might die,
And for a time I could not walk again.
It was a sorcerer who limned a fertile cross
Above those in the gallery , upon seeing, knelt
Before the formal triumph of the saint,
While my father wept out me who had
The last, the least faith of us all.

A STORY OF THE ORPHAN GIRL

There was once an orphan girl. One day, she was surprised at noontime with a great drowsiness. She wondered at
this sleepiness, but not being able to resist it, she folded up her sewing
and, stretching herself out on a mat, feel asleep. As she slept she dreamed. A beautiful woman came to her and said,
“Formerly, the place where you live was full of people, instead of uninhabited save by you, as at present. But one day, the
Manamat came and devoured them all, save you, and they are coming again to get you. So on the third day front now, leave
this place lest you be devoured also. On
awakening, the orphan girl wondered at the dream, but did not act upon it. “After all,” she said, “it was only a dream,” So she
remained where she was. At dawn of the third day a huge spider approached her and said: “I understand that you were
warned in a dream to leave this place. Why you have not done so?” The orphan girl replied, “There are two reasons why I
have not left this place; first, because her warning was merely a dream, and second, because where my father and mother
have died it is fitting that I should die also.” But the spider reproved her and told her to leave at once, “for,” he said, “the
manamat are at this moment on the way hither to devour you.” So the orphan girl went into her room and put on her best
clothes, and weeping at the remembrances of her father and mother she went down the notched log to join the great
spider.
The spider and she went on till they came to a well. They had no sooner reached the well than they heard a great
noise of people in the house they had just left. “I shall remain here,” said the spider, “while you had better flee this way
pointing out a direction to the orphan girl. So she fled up the path he had pointed out, for she was now filled with terror.
She had scarcely disappeared when three persons came running up the well. They wore black breeches that reached only to
the knees, and black jackets, while on their heads they wore black kerchiefs. Their chins were bearded and their eyes were
red. “What are you seeking?” asked the spider, “You are in haste.” We are seeking the orphan girl,” replied one of the three,
“but why do you ask? You must have seen her.” “We smell her recent present here; “but where she went or we kill you. “Then
the spider pointing one of his crooked legs, said, “She went this way.” Now the spider wished to give the orphan girl a start
over the manamat, so he did not straighten out his leg when he pointed, thus the manamat were led astray. Soon they came
running back, saying, “We cannot see the tracks; we have also lot her scent. Tell us the truth.” So the spider held out a
second crooked as before. The manamat dashed off again, but soon came back with the same complaint. After the
fourth false start one of the manamat lifted up his stick to kill the spider. So the spider straightened out his last remaining
legs and showed the right direction. Then the manamat rushed off again, and this time they could follow the scent and the
footprints. Finally they caught sight of the orphan girl who had reached the ridge of a mountain; but she looking back also
caught a glimpse of the manamat and when they reached the top of the ridge, she was in the valley on the other side.
Finally, in the middle of the afternoon of the second day, she saw a little hut. In front of the
hut was a young man, a servant who was cooking rice. She was so exhausted that she staggered and fell on the floor and fell
asleep without saying a word. Meantime, the youth saw a multitude approaching, three persons being in front of the rest. He
also noted one person of gigantic size. This was Gunluh, chief of all the manamata. Now it happened that the hut was a
hunting lodge of the widow’s son. His serving man told him what he had seen and seized a spear. The widow’s son took no
weapon, but came out with bare hands. On one of the manamat arriving at the hut, the widow’s son asked what was wanted.
“We are pursuing the orphan girl in order to eat her,” he replied “but since we have to encounter you two men, so much the
better we shall now have three persons to devour instead of one. “One of the manta tried to seize the widow’s son by the
waist, but receiving a great blow from his arm went a head over heels into the air, ‘stuck a stone on falling to the ground and
so was killed. Another tried to seize him by the leg but receiving a powerful kick was likewise killed.
So the fight went on between the serving man and the widow’s son on one side and the manamat on the other, until all the
latter were killed, save the chief, the Gunluh, whose name was
Makayaga.This giant raised his club, the thick head of which was as large as calabash, to bring it down on the head of the
widow’s son; the latter dodging the blow, seized the giant, and pulling down a rattan together with some of the several
leaves and branches of the tree around which it clung, tied him hand and foot with thorns and all. Then Makayaga gave
himself up as conquered and begged for his life. He offered to give independence and acknowledge the widow’s son as his
lord; to give up the custom of devouring human being and to assist the widow’s son at any time he should be called upon. In
addition, he offered his conqueror a great pearl. He offered to take the widow’s son to the cave where he and his manta
dwelt and to turn over everything to him. The widow’s son released him and gave his permission to return to his own place.
Then the widow’s son turned to the girl and asked whence she came and who her people were. The girl told all she
knew, and he asked her to follow him to the home of his mother, seeing that the girl was orphan and her people had been
devoured by the manamat. So the girl lived for a time with his mother. The widow’s son was not of chieftainly descent, but
his head and heart were so good that the chief of the settlement had taken him into the government and the older men
never held a bitchar without the widow’s son sitting at their side. Now the sultan of a neighboring region heard of the
orphan girl, for she was very beautiful, with straight eyebrows, and very skillful in all womanly arts, such as weaving. So he
sent a representative to the chief to ask her hand for his son. The chief receive the sultan’s representative to the chief to
ask her hand for his son. The chief receive the sultan’s representative well, but said that although he was chief he had to
consult the widow’s son. So he sent a message to the latter on the subject. But the widow’s son refused to let the girl go,
saying that she might have relatives somewhere, and in that case it wouldn’t be right to marry her off without consulting
them.
When the messenger brought back this word to the sultan he was very angry, and sent a man to bring the widow’s
son by force, but on looking on him the man was afraid and came back without him. “Coward!” exclaimed the sultan, and sent
another man. But he back too returned without the widow’s son. Meanwhile, the booming of a great gong came from the
river’s mouth. The sultan himself had arrived and a shareef from Mecca with him to witness the marriage. The sharer
remained in his boat while the sultan went to the chief’s house. He had invited the shareef to the wedding, for being a
sultan he did not think of even the possibility to the girl being refused. When he heard of the state of things, he was angry,
and sent men to bring the widow’s son into his presence. The man wished to tie the widow’s son’s hands and feet and bring
him by force, but the latter said, “Leave me free and I will follow you of my own accord,” The sultan’s messenger said, “I am
afraid you will run away into the forest.” Then the widow’s son was angry. “Never from my childhood up have I ever run away
from anyone,” he said. So the sultan’s messenger, fearing further trouble, left him free, and the widow’s son followed of his
own accord. When he had come into the presence of the sultan the latter like his fine, manly looks. He wished to treat him
kindly, but when the sultan began to talk of the marriage and asked the widow’s son what he had to say, the latter said, “My
mouth does not say a different thing each time. What I had to say before, I say again. The girl may have some relatives
somewhere and I cannot give her in marriage without consulting them, although I recognize you as sultan. “Then the sultan
was very angry and ordered him seized by one of his men. But on trying to seize the widow’s son his hand would not go
around the latter’s wrists, nor his arms around his waist. Then the sultan was furious. He ordered the widow’s son killed. A
man tried to bring down his kris, but it refused to descent.
The widow’s son did nothing. The sultan finally crying out that all his men were cowards, dew his own kris, saying “So
you are greater than I, are you?” But on bringing down his own kris flew over the widow’s son’s head. A second attempt
resulted the same way. Finally, the sultan in despair sent for the shareef. The sharer came, bringing with him his book.
Looking into the book he said it was not right to kill the widow’s son and that in case the sultan insisted on killing him, he the
shareef, would return to Mecca. The sultan continuing in his rage; the shareef returned to the boat and went back to
Mecca, whence he had come. Now the sultan had heard of a wise man in Mecca who had a familiar spirit. He sent for his man
to come to the widow’s son’s place to make peace between the sultan and the young man. So the familiar spirit came, in
human shape, to the house of the chief. Hundreds were gathered together and there was drinking rice beer and feasting,
and the spirit, looking at the palms of the hands of the interested person’s said that the widow’s son should marry the
orphan girl, and as for the lines of his hands, marry a certain beautiful woman of Mecca. So these marriages were arranged,
and there was peace between the sultan and widow’s son.

TO MY SWEETIE POLLY (An Elegy) Dr. Kristine Molina - Doria

How can I ever thank you, dear Polly?
For you have shown your true love and loyalty;
How can I ever repay your service, dear Polly?
For you took care of me whenever I was lonely;
How can I ever forget you, dear Polly?
For you always brought happiness to my family
I still can see you struggling,
You never show that you’re in pain;
You still can manage to smile,
Though I really can’t help but cry.
But I am ready to accept it…
If inevitably you’re going to die.
You may just be a small pedigree,
But let me remember you in ,y simple way;
For most nine years that we were together,
Wherever you are now my little sweetie,
You will always be loved, dear Polly,
And your name will always in me.

BALETE: HOME OF SPIRITS (Vicente Paolo Langit)

The balete (Ficus Benjamina) is said to be the home of bad spirits which cause s
ickness in people who gonear it. Balete has indeed a bad reputation. In fact , its
real name is strangler’s fig because its branches slowlystrangles its host tree to death,
using its host’s trunkas if it were its own until it decomposes underneath itsinterlacing
roots and branches. Years after, nothing willremain of its once benevolent host.
The tree house in the house in the novel The Swiss Family Robinson, written by Johann
David Wyss in the 17th century, was ensconced in a huge balete. Proof of this is that the
core of the trunk is hallow, which means that the core of the trunk is hallow, which means
that the tree strangled its host tree to death. I had the chance to climb the Swiss Family
Robinson tree house in Disneyland through its interior spiraling stairs. From the tree
house everything below is miniscule. In this tree house, the Robinson were safe from the
beast that roam the forest. Of Course, the tree house in Disneyland is made of steel and
concrete, but it reminded me of the tree house portrayed in Wyss’ novel.
Anyone who gets near an old balete along Balete Drive will get goosebumps. Old folks say
that it was from a balete tree were Judas Iscariot hanged himself. Others will relate how a
kapre ( black hairy monster) sits high up in the tree, with its cavernous prop roots dangling
with legs of the Kapre. But in India and other parts of Asia, the banyan tree, a relative of
balate (Family Moracede) is the home of kind spirits.
Banyan is the longest living tree species after the redwood and the bristle pine. Unlike the
balete, the banyan actually “walks around,” its prop roots colonizing its immediate
surrounding Imagine how massive and extensive the banyan is - it can house a temple
under its prop roots, making it Ripley’s only living house of worship.

ONLY GOD CAN MAKE AN EGG (Dr. Abe V. Rotor)

Once there was a scientist in the like of Frankenstein, the doctor who
created a monster in Mary Shelly’s novel in the late 18th century. This
scientist wanted to make an artificial egg, but one that possesses all
the qualities of a natural egg. With his intensive knowledge in
chemistry and biology and engineering he succeeded at last in making
one that is complete with albumin (white), yolk (yellow center), and
of course a perfect eggshell.
Confident that he was after testing his masterpiece in the laboratory,
he then proceeded in having it incubated, placing it in the center of a
dozen natural eggs and had a mother hen sit on them. Days passed by
and finally sweet sounds came from under the brooding hen. There
were twelve beautiful, little chicks. All the eggs hatched except one,
the thirteenth – his artificial egg.

PS: READ!!! READ!!! READ!!!

GOODLUCK XD