JOSE RIZAL: MOSTLY, A POET by Alberto Florentino
From the age of 9 until the day he died at 35, Rizal had always, almost always, been a poet. He was a novelist only from age 26 with his first novel, Noli Me Tangere. He was a journalist, pamphleteer, and his many other personas only for a few years of his brief stint on earth. He was a poet fluent in at least two languages: Tagalog and Spanish. His first poem was in Tagalog (Sa Aking Mga Kababayan). His last poem was in Spanish (Ultimo Adios). In between he was a novelist (two novels) in Spanish. As he roamed the world, he had in his pocket the masterpiece work of the Tagalog bard, Franciso Balagtas Baltazar. On the eve of his execution on Dec. 30, 1896, he wrote a long poem—unsigned, untitled, undated—on which people have tacked a redundant title, Ultimo Adios. Mystery has always surrounded the time, place and circumstances of the poem’s creation or composition: how the poet wrote the poem in his cell unobserved; how it was smuggled out of his cell by one of his sisters; how it reached his family, friends and followers; how it was published (in Spanish and in translations) all over the world from 1897 to today. On his last day or hour on earth he wrote down 70 lines, in 14 stanzas, and never made a correction. He was, first and foremost, a Poet. Rizal’s role as a martyr (which began only after the morning of his execution), as "National Hero" (which was tacked on him by the Americans, like a sash in a beauty contest in our time) began in the first decade(s) of the 20th century that he never lived to see. Among his personas, he was a poet the longest time, from ca. 1870 to 1896.
Was he a poet? a good one? a great one? The last poem he wrote: is it a poem? a good poem? a great poem? How about his two novels? (ditto) The millions of Filipino people, in the last part of the 19th century, never got to know neither the poet nor his poem(s). Nor did the Filipino people in the next (20th) century. His role as national hero, martyr, novelist, scientist, polyglot, painter, sculptor, ophthalmologist, and a hundred other personas or roles have always gotten in the way. His two novels were seen and read as propaganda, agitprop, proletarian literature, and today, probably as "new journalism" before there was such a name. His valedictory poem was seen as an extended farewell note to his family. What got in the way was that the Filipino people never really adopted the Spanish language like the other colonies under Spain. English was proclaimed an "official national language" with Spanish and Tagalog, and became the lingua franca of the Filipinos in the 20th century but again was never adopted as a national language (except by legislation). The Filipino people in the 20th century (except for the last generation of Spanish-speaking elders) read him and his novels in translation, by force of law that made the reading an academic requirement, as was the reading and possession of them in the last century a crime forbidden by law. The 20th century Filipino reads him largely in translation. The valedictory poem, as well as his other poems, his other literary works (2 novels), have been read in a wide variety of translations by a wide range of translators (teachers, textbook writers, educators, language teachers, poetasters, and rarely by poets). The novels as translated by Leon Ma. Guerrero were not the novels translated by Soledad Locsin in the 90s and different from translations by the American Charles Derbyshire in the early 30s, and translations into languages other than English and Tagalog. Some translations were made by non-Spanish writers who worked on a translation from Spanish or a translation of another translation. It is now the 21st century and the 3rd millennium. The Filipino Americans in the US (the 3rd or 5th generation) have slowly grown aware of their historical, cultural, literary roots in the last decades because of the demand from mainstream America for a multicultural, bilingual, multilingual literature that embraces the cultural luggage that the immigrants in 200 years have brought d own the planks of the Mayflower, through customs at Ellis Island, down the wheeled-in stairs from the sleek, futuristic British Concorde. Lately, the Filipino Americans in New York and in other parts of the US discovered—or rediscovered, since he was never covered or lost—the poet Jose Garcia Villa as poet and immigrant (although retaining Filipino citizenship) and New Yorker, Greenwich Villager, as their own. Soon, with the death of V.C. Igarta, they will re-discover the painter who came during the Depression as a young man and made himself into a painter who became the only Filipino to have hung a painting ("Northern Philippines") in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. As they earlier re-discovered Carlos Bulosan. The time has come to re-discover Jose Rizal and see him as a poet and novelist apart from his role as martyr and national hero. The time has really, finally come.
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JOSE RIZAL’S OTHER POEMS**
Translated from the Spanish by NICK JOAQUIN Published as THE SONG OF MARIA CLARA and Other Poems (translated from the Spanish by NICK JOAQUIN) in 1969 in Manila, Philippines, in cooperation with the National Historical Commission under director Carmen Guerrero Nakpil, by ALBERTO S. FLORENTINO, Publisher. © 1969 by Alberto S. Florentino Printed by Matagumpay Press
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JOSE RIZAL’S OTHER POEMS** Translated from the Spanish by NICK JOAQUIN
1. TO THE PHILIPPINES
Warm and beautiful like a houri of yore, as gracious and as pure as the break of dawn when darling clouds take on a sapphire tone, sleeps a goddess on the Indian shore. The small waves of the sonorous sea assail her feet with ardent, amorous kisses, while the intellectual West adores her smile; and the old hoary Pole, her flower veil. My Muse, most enthusiastic and elate, sings to her among naiads and undines; I offer her my fortune and my fate. With myrtle, purple roses, and flowering greens and lilies, crown her brow immaculate, O artists, and exalt the Philippines!
2. TO THE PHILIPPINE YOUTH
Look up with a tranquil face, Philippine youth, on this day and shine, manifesting the grace and gallantry of your line, fair hope of this land of mine! Spirit of grandeur, uplift and fill them with a noble meditation that will launch with a force more swift than the wind’s acceleration their virgin mind to its glorious destination. Bearing the good light of art and science, to the battleground descend, O youth, and smite: loosen the heavy pound of chains that keeps poetic genius bound. See how the light runs down the ardent zone where dwelt the shadows; and how Spain, a splendid crown, with pious and wise hand, offers the scion of this Indian land. You who, questing, rise upon the wings of your rich fantasy into Olympian skies in quest of poetry more luscious than the food of divinity; You of the heavenly strain, a most melodious rival of Philomel, whose manifold refrain on still nights audible dissipates the pain of the human hell; You who animate the hard rock with the impulse of intuition and can perpetuate with potent hand the vision of genius, for eternal recognition; And you whose hand transfers with magic brushes to a simple board the robe that nature wears and the varied beauty stored in Phoebus, whom divine Apelles adored; Make haste! The sacred flame of genius, laureled Glory comes to crown: while circulating Fame publishes up and down the universe a mortal name’s renown. O happy, happy day is this, sweet Philippines, to your descent! Bless the almighty sway of God, whose love has sent fortune shining upon you, and content!
3. TO MY CHILDHOOD COMPANIONS
Whenever a people truly love the language given them from above, lost freedom will they ever try to regain, as birds yearn for the sky. For language is a mandate sent to each people, country and government; and every man is, like all free creation, born to liberty. Who does not love his own tongue is far worse than a brute or stinking fish, for we should foster and make it great like unto a mother blest by fate. Like Latin, English, Spanish, or the speech of angels is Tagalog, for God, a wise provider, it was who made and handed it to us. Like the others, our language was equipped with its own alphabet, its own script, which were lost when a storm brought down in woe the barque on the lake long, long ago.
4. WATER AND FIRE
Water are we, you say, and yourselves fire, so let us be what we are and co-exist without ire, and may no conflagration ever find us at war. but, rather, fused together by cunning science within the cauldrons of the ardent breast, without rage, without defiance, do we form steam, fifth element indeed: progress, life, enlightenment, and speed!
5. TO THE CHILD JESUS
Why have you come to earth, Child-God, in a poor manger? Does Fortune find you a stranger from the moment of your birth? Alas, of heavenly stock now turned an earthly resident! Do you not wish to be president but the shepherd of your flock?
6. A FRAGMENT
To my Creator I sing, to my All-Merciful Lord, the Omnipotent, who hushed my suffering and his sweet solace sent to ease me while in tribulation I went. You, with authority, said: Live; and I myself to life came forth; free will you gave to me and a soul that must find worth in goodness, like a compass needle set north. You willed my birth to be of honorable parents, a house of honor; and a country you granted me: rich, fair to all who won her, though fortune and prudence may be scarce upon her.
7. TO THE VIRGIN MARY
Mary, sweet peace and dearest consolation of suffering mortal: you are the fount whence springs the current of solicitude that brings unto our soil unceasing fecundation. From your abode, enthroned on heaven’s height, in mercy deign to hear my cry of woe and to the radiance of your mantle draw my voice that rises with so swift a flight. You are my mother, Mary, and shall be my life, my stronghold, my defense most thorough; and you shall be my guide on this wild sea. If vice pursues me madly on the morrow, if death harasses me with agony: come to my aid and dissipate my sorrow!
8. THE NEW YEAR (A Fragment)
Out of Time’s abyss and Eternity’s vast cavern, I rise: I am the New Year. Now have I come to govern.
9. FELICITATION
I. If Philomela with harmonious tongue To blond Apollo, who manifests his face Behind high hill or overhanging mountain, Canticles sends.
II. So we as well, full of a sweet contentment, Salute you and your very noble saint With tender music and fraternal measures, Dear Antonino.
III. From all your sisters and your other kin Receive most lovingly the loving accent That the suave warmth of love dictates to them Placid and tender.
IV. From amorous wife and amiable Emilio Sweetly receive an unsurpassed affection; And may its sweetness in disaster soften The ruder torments.
V. As the sea pilot, who so bravely fought Tempestuous waters in the dark of night, Gazes upon his darling vessel safe And come to port.
VI. So, setting aside all [worldly] predilections, Now let your eyes be lifted heavenward To him who is the solace of all men And loving Father.
VII. And from ourselves that in such loving accents Salute you everywhere you celebrate, These clamorous vivas that from the heart resound Be pleased to accept.
10. MY FIRST INSPIRATON
Why falls so rich a spray of fragrance from the bowers of the balmy flowers upon this festive day? Why from woods and vales do we hear sweet measures ringing that seem to be the singing of a choir of nightingales? Why in the grass below do birds start at the wind’s noises, unleashing their honeyed voices as they hop from bough to bough? Why should the spring that glows its crystalline murmur be tuning to the zephyr’s mellow crooning as among the flowers it flows? Why seems to me more endearing, more fair than on other days, the dawn’s enchanting face among red clouds appearing? The reason, dear mother, is they feast your day of bloom: the rose with its perfume, the bird with its harmonies. And the spring that rings with laughter upon this joyful day with its murmur seems to say: "Live happily ever after!" And from that spring in the grove now turn to hear the first note that from my lute I emote to the impulse of my love!
11. TO JOSEFINA
Josefina, Josefina, to these shores you came in quest of a dwelling place, a nest, like an emigrating swallow; if your fortune you must follow to Shanghai, China or Japan, don’t forget that on these shores beats for you the heart of one.
12. TO MISS C.O. y R.
Why ask for those unintellectual verses that once, insane with grief, I sang aghast? Or are you maybe throwing in my face my rank ingratitude, my bitter past? Why resurrect unhappy memories now when the heart awaits from love a sign, or call the night when day begins to smile, not knowing if another day will shine? You wish to learn the cause of this dejection— delirium of despair that anguish wove? You wish to know the wherefore of such sorrows, and why, a young soul, I sing not of love? Oh, may you never know why! For the reason brings melancholy—but may set you laughing. Down with my corpse into the grave shall go another corpse that’s buried in my stuffing! Something impossible, ambition, madness, dreams of the soul, a passion and its throes … Oh, drink the nectar that life has to offer and let the bitter dregs in peace repose! Again I feel the impenetrable shadows shrouding the soul with the thick veils of night: a mere bud only, not a lovely flower, because it’s destitute of air and light … Behold them: my poor verses, my damned brood— and sorrow suckled each and every brat! Oh, they know well to what they owe their being, and maybe they themselves will tell you what.
13. GOODBYE TO LEONOR
And so it has arrived—-the fatal instant, the dismal injunction of my cruel fate; so it has come at last—-the moment, the date, when I must separate myself from you. Goodbye, Leonor, goodbye! I take my leave, leaving behind with you my lover’s heart! Goodbye, Leonor: from here I now depart. O Melancholy absence! Ah, what pain!
14. THE SONG OF MARIA CLARA
Sweet the hours in the native country, where friendly shines the sun above! Life is the breeze that sweeps the meadows; tranquil is death; most tender, love. Warm kisses on the lips are playing as we awake to mother’s face: the arms are seeking to embrace her, the eyes are smiling as they gaze. How sweet to die for the native country, where friendly shines the sun above! Death is the breeze for him who has no country, no mother, and no love!
15. THEY ASK ME FOR VERSES!
I. They bid me strike the lyre so long now mute and broken, but not a note can I waken nor will my muse inspire! She stammers coldly and babbles when tortured by my mind; she lies when she laughs and thrills as she lies in her lamentation, for in my sad isolation my soul nor frolics nor feels.
II. There was a time, ‘tis true, but now that time has vanished when indulgent love or friendship called me a poet too. Now of that time there lingers hardly a memory, as from a celebration some mysterious refrain that haunts the ears will remain of the orchestra’s actuation.
III. A scarce-grown plant I seem, uprooted from the Orient, where perfume is the atmosphere and where life is a dream. O land that is never forgotten! And these have taught me to sing: the birds with their melody, the cataracts with their force and, on the swollen shores, the murmuring of the sea.
IV. While in my childhood days I could smile upon her sunshine, I felt in my bosom, seething, a fierce volcano ablaze. A poet was I, for I wanted with my verses, with my breath, to say to the swift wind: "Fly and propagate her renown! Praise her from zone to zone, from the earth up to the sky!"
V. I left her! My native hearth, a tree despoiled and shriveled, no longer repeats the echo of my old songs of mirth. I sailed across the vast ocean, craving to change my fate, not noting, in my madness, that, instead of the weal I sought, the sea around me wrought the spectre of death and sadness.
VI. The dreams of younger hours, love, enthusiasm, desire, have been left there under the skies of that fair land of flowers. Oh, do not ask of my heart that languishes, songs of love! For, as without peace I tread this desert of no surprises, I feel that my soul agonizes and that my spirit is dead.
16. SONG OF THE WANDERER
Dry leaf that flies at random till it’s seized by a wind from above: so lives on earth the wanderer, without north, without soul, without country or love! Anxious, he seeks joy everywhere and joy eludes him and flees, a vain shadow that mocks his yearning and for which he sails the seas. Impelled by a hand invisible, he shall wander from place to place; memories shall keep him company— of loved ones, of happy days. A tomb perhaps in the desert, a sweet refuge, he shall discover, by his country and the world forgotten… Rest quiet: the torment is over. And they envy the hapless wanderer as across the earth he persists! Ah, they know not of the emptiness in his soul, where no love exists. The pilgrim shall return to his country, shall return perhaps to his shore; and shall find only ice and ruin, perished loves, and graves—nothing more. Begone, wanderer! In your own country, a stranger now and alone! Let the others sing of loving, who are happy—but you, begone! Begone, wanderer! Look not behind you nor grieve as you leave again. Begone, wanderer: stifle your sorrows! the world laughs at another’s pain.
17. TO THE FLOWERS OF HEIDELBERG
Go to my country, go, O foreign flowers, sown by the traveler along the road, and under that blue heaven that watches over my loved ones, recount the devotion the pilgrim nurses for his native sod! Go and say … say that when dawn opened your chalices for the first time beside the icy Neckar, you saw him silent beside you, thinking of her constant vernal clime. Say that when dawn which steals your aroma was whispering playful love songs to your young sweet petals, he, too, murmured canticles of love in his native tongue; that in the morning when the sun first traces the topmost peak of Koenigssthul in gold and with a mild warmth raises to life again the valley, the glade, the forest, he hails that sun, still in its dawning, that in his country in full zenith blazes. And tell of that day when he collected you along the way among the ruins of a feudal castle, on the banks of the Neckar, or in a forest nook. Recount the words he said as, with great care, between the pages of a worn-out book he pressed the flexible petals that he took. Carry, carry, O flowers, my love to my loved ones, peace to my country and its fecund loam, faith to its men and virtue to its women, health to the gracious beings that dwell within the sacred paternal home. When you reach that shore, deposit the kiss I gave you on the wings of the wind above that with the wind it may rove and I may kiss all that I worship, honor and love! But O you will arrive there, flowers, and you will keep perhaps your vivid hues; but far from your native heroic earth to which you owe your life and worth, your fragrances you will lose! For fragrance is a spirit that never can forsake and never forgets the sky that saw its birth.
18. FLOWERS AMONG FLOWERS
Flower among flowers, soft bud swooning, that the wind moves to a gentle crooning. Wind of heaven, wind of love, you who gladden all you espy; you who smile and will not sigh, candour and fragrance from above; you who perhaps came down to earth to bring the lonely solace and mirth, and to be a joy for the heart to capture. They say that into your dawn you bear the immaculate soul a prisoner —bound with the ties of passion and rapture? They say you spread good everywhere like the Spring which fills the air with joy and flowers in Apriltime. They say you brighten the soul that mourns when dark clouds gather, and that without thorns blossom the roses in your clime. If then, like a fairy, you enhance the joy of those on whom you glance with the magic charm God gave to you; oh, spare me an hour of your cheer, a single day of your career, that the breast may savor the bliss it knew!
19. A TRIBUTE TO MY TOWN
When I remember the days that saw my early childhood spent on the green shores of a murmurous lagoon; when I remember the coolness, delicious and refreshing, that on my face I felt as I heard Favonius croon; when I behold the white lily swell to the wind’s impulsion, and that tempestuous element meekly asleep on the sand; when I inhale the dear intoxicating essence the flowers exude when dawn is smiling on the land; sadly, sadly I recall your visage, precious childhood, which an affectionate mother made beautiful and bright; I recall a simple town, my comfort, joy and cradle, beside a balmy lake, the seat of my delight. Ah, yes, my awkward foot explored your sombre woodlands, and on the banks of your rivers in frolic I took part. I prayed in your rustic temple, a child, with a child’s devotion; and your unsullied breeze exhilarated my heart. The Creator I saw in the grandeur of your age-old forests; upon your bosom, sorrows were ever unknown to me; while at your azure skies I gazed, neither love nor tenderness failed me, for in nature lay my felicity. Tender childhood, beautiful town, rich fountain of rejoicing and of harmonious music that drove away all pain: return to this heart of mine, return my gracious hours, return as the birds return when flowers spring again! But O goodbye! May the Spirit of Good, a loving gift-giver, keep watch eternally over your peace, your joy, your sleep! For you, my fervent pryers; for you, my constant desire to learn; and I pray heaven your innocence to keep!
20. HYMN TO TALISAY
Hail, Talisay, firm and faithful, ever forward march elate! You, victorious, the elements —land, sea and air— shall dominate! The sandy beach of Dapitan and the rocks of its lofty mountain are your throne. O sacred asylum where I passed my childhood days! In your valley covered with flowers and shaded by fruitful orchards, our minds received their formation, both body and soul, by your grace. We are children, children born late, but our spirits are fresh and healthy; strong men shall we be tomorrow that can guard a family right. We are children that nothing frightens, not the waves, nor the storm, nor the thunder; the arm ready, the young face tranquil, in a fix we shall know how to fight. We ransack the sand in our frolic; through the caves and the thickets we ramble; our houses are built upon rocks; our arms reach far and wide. No darkness, and no dark night, that we fear, no savage tempest; if the devil himself comes forward, we shall catch him, dead or alive! Talisayon, the people call us: a great soul in a little body; in Dapitan and all its region Talisay has no match! Our reservoir is unequalled; our precipice is a deep chasm; and when we go rowing, our bancas no banca in the world can catch! We study the problems of science and the history of the nation. We speak some three or four languages; faith and reason we span. Our hands can wield at the same time the knife, the pen and the spade, the picket, the rifle, the sword—companions of a brave man. Long live luxuriant Talisay! Our voices exalt you in chorus, clear star, dear treasure of childhood, a childhood you guide and please. In the struggles that await the grown man, subject to pain and sorrow, your memory shall be his amulet; snd your name, in the tomb, his peace.
21. MY RETREAT
Beside a spacious beach of fine and delicate sand and at the foot of a mountain greener than a leaf, I planted my humble hut beneath a pleasant orchard, seeking in the still serenity of the woods repose to my intellect and silence to my grief. Its roof is fragile nipa; its floor is brittle bamboo; its beams and posts are rough as rough-hewn wood can be; of no worth, it is certain, is my rustic cabin; but on the lap of the eternal mount it slumbers and night and day is lulled by the crooning of the sea. The overflowing brook, that from the shadowy jungle descends between huge bowlders, washes it with its spray, donating a current of water through makeshift bamboo pipes that in the silent night is melody and music and crystalline nectar in the noon heat of the day. If the sky is serene, meekly flows the spring, strumming on its invisible zither unceasingly; but come the time of the rains, and an impetuous torrent spills over rocks and chasms—hoarse, foaming and aboil—to hurl itself with a frenzied roaring toward the sea. The barking of the dog, the twittering of the birds, the hoarse voice of the kalaw are all that I hear; there is no boastful man, no nuisance of a neighbor to impose himself on my mind or to disturb my passage; only the forests and the sea do I have near. The sea, the sea is everything! Its sovereign mass brings to me atoms of a myriad faraway lands; its bright smile animates me in the limpid mornings; and when at the end of day my faith has proven futile, my heart echoes the sound of its sorrow on the sands. At night it is a mystery! … Its diaphanous element is carpeted with thousands and thousands of lights that climb; the wandering breeze is cool, the firmament is brilliant, the waves narrate with many a sigh to the mild wind histories that were lost in the dark night of time. ‘Tis said they tell of the first morning on the earth, of the first kiss with which the sun inflamed her breast, when multitudes of beings materialized from nothing to populate the abyss and the overhanging summits and all the places where that quickening kiss was pressed. But when the winds rage in the darkness of the night and the unquiet waves commence their agony, across the air move cries that terrify the spirit, a chorus of voices praying, a lamentation that seems to come from those who, long ago, drowned in the sea. Then do the mountain ranges on high reverberate; the trees stir far and wide, by a fit of trembling seized; the cattle moan; the dark depths of the forest resound; their spirits say that they are on their way to the plain, summoned by the dead to a mortuary feast. The wild night hisses, hisses, confused and terrifying; one sees the sea afire with flames of green and blue; but calm is re-established with the approach of dawning and forthwith an intrepid little fishing vessel begins to navigate the weary waves anew. So pass the days of my life in my obscure retreat; cast out of the world where once I dwelt: such is my rare good fortune; and Providence be praised for my condition: a disregarded pebble that craves nothing but moss to hide from all the treasure that in myself I bear. I live with the remembrance of those that I have loved and hear their names still spoken, who haunt my memory; some already are dead, others have long forgotten— but what does it matter? I live remembering the past and no one can ever take the past away from me. It is my faithful friend that never turns against me, that cheers my spirit when my spirit’s a lonesome wraith, that in my sleepless nights keeps watch with me and prays with me, and shares with me my exile and my cabin, and, when all doubt, alone infuses me with faith. Faith do I have, and I believe the day will shine when the Idea shall defeat brute force as well; and after the struggle and the lingering agony a voice more eloquent and happier than my own will then know how to utter victory’s canticle. I see the heavens shining, as flawless and refulgent as in the days that saw my first illusions start; I feel the same breeze kissing my autumnal brow, the same that once enkindled my fervent enthusiasm and turned the blood ebullient within my youthful heart. Across the fields and rivers of my native town perhaps has travelled the breeze that now I breathe by chance; perhaps it will give back to me what once I gave it: the sighs and kisses of a person idolized and the sweet secrets of a virginal romance. On seeing the same moon, as silvery as before, I feel within me the ancient melancholy revive; a thousand memories of love and vows awaken: a patio, an azotea, a beach, a leafy bower; silences and sighs, and blushes of delight … A butterfly athirst for radiances and colors, dreaming of other skies and of a larger strife, I left, scarcely a youth, my land and my affections, and vagrant eveywhere, with no qualms, with no terrors, squandered in foreign lands the April of my life. And afterwards, when I desired, a weary swallow, to go back to the nest of those for whom I care, suddenly fiercely roared a violent hurricane and I found my wings broken, my dwelling place demolished, faith now sold to others, and ruins everywhere. Hurled upon a rock of the country I adore; the future ruined; no home, no health to bring me cheer; you come to me anew, dreams of rose and gold, of my entire existence the solitary treasure, convictions of a youth that was healthy and sincere. No more are you, like once, full of fire and life, offering a thousand crowns to immortality; somewhat serious I find you; and yet your face beloved, if now no longer as merry, if now no longer as vivid, now bear the superscription of fidelity. You offer me, O illusions, the cup of consolation; you come to reawaken the years of youthful mirth; hurricane, I thank you; winds of heaven, I thank you that in good hour suspended by uncertain flight to bring me down to the bosom of my native earth. Beside a spacious beach of fine and delicate sand and at the foot of a mountain greener than a leaf, I found in my land a refuge under a pleasant orchard, and in its shadowy forests, serene tranquility, repose to my intellect and silence to my grief.
22. TO MY—
No more is the muse invoked; the lyre is out of fashion; no poet cares to use it; by other things are the dreamy young inspired to passion. Now if imagination demands some poesies, no Helicon is invoked; one simply asks the garçon for a cup of coffee please. Instead of tender stanzas that move the heart’s sympathy, one now writes a poem with a pen of steel, a joke and an irony. Muse that in the past inspired me to sing of the throes of love: go and repose. What I need is a sword, rivers of gold, and acrid prose. I have a need to reason, to meditate, to offer combat, sometimes to weep; for he who would love much has also much to suffer. Gone are the days of peace, the days of love’s gay chorus, when the flowers were enough to alleviate the soul of its sufferings and sorrows. One by one from my side go those I loved so much: this one dead, that one married; for fate seals with disaster everything that I touch. Flee also, muse! Go forth and seek a region more fine, for my country vows to give you fetters for your laurels, a dark jail for your shrine. If to suppress the truth be a shame, an impiety, would it not then be madness to keep you by my side deprived of liberty? Why sing when destiny calls to serious meditation, when a hurricane is roaring, when to her sons complains the Filipino nation? And why sing if my song will merely resound with a moaning that will arouse no one, the world being sick and tired of someone else’s groaning? For what, when among the people who criticize and maltreat me, arid the soul, the lips frigid, there’s not a heart that beats with mine, no heart to meet me? Let sleep in the depths of oblivion all that I feel, for there it well should be, where the breath cannot mix it with a rhyme that evaporates in the air. As sleep in the deep abyss the monsters of the sea, so let my tribulations, my fancies and my lyrics slumber, buried in me. I know well that your favors you lavish without measure only during that time of flowers and first loves unclouded by displeasure. Many years have passed since with the ardent heat of a kiss you burned my brow … That kiss has now turned cold, I have even forgotten it! But, before departing, say that to your sublime address ever responded in me a song for those who grieve and a challenge for those who oppress. But, sacred imagination, once again to warm my fantasy you will come nigh when, faith being faded, broken the sword, I cannot for my country die. You’ll give me the mourning zither whose chords vibrate with elegiac strains to sweeten the sorrows of my nation and muffle the clanking of her chains. But if with laurel triumph crowns our efforts, and my country, united, like a queen of the East arises, a white pearl rescued from the sty: return then and intone with vigor the sacred hymn of a new existence, and we shall sing that strain in chorus though in the sepulcher we lie.
23. KUNDIMAN
Now mute indeed are tongue and heart: love shies away, joy stands apart. Neglected by its leaders and defeated, the country was subdued and it submitted. But O the sun will shine again! Itself the land shall disenchain; and once more round the world with growing praise shall sound the name of the Tagalog race. We shall pour out our blood in a gread flood to liberate the parent sod; but till that day arrives for which we weep, love shall be mute, desire shall sleep.
Ang Dalaga't Ang Binatilyo by Alberto Florentino Rizal's Ultimo Adios in World Language Translation
ANG DALAGA'T ANG BINATILYO by Alberto Florentino
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ANG DALAGITA'T ANG BINATILYO
Ang lihim na pag-iibigan nina Pepe Rizal at Segunda Katigbak Isinadula ni Alberto Florentino batay sa "Memorias de un Estudiante"* na sinulat ni Jose Rizal
© Karapatang-ari 2000 ni Alberto Florentino
Ang Eksena:
Ang kalsada patungong Batangas. Makikita sa malayo ang isang binatilyo na nakasakay sa puting kabayo. Tinig ng Taga-salaysay: Noong kanyang kabataan, mula 1878 hanggang 1881, sumulat si Jose Rizal ng isang talambuhay, "Memorias de un Estudiante," tungkol sa kanyang buhay bilang isang mag-aaral sa Ateneo de Manila sa Intramuros, Maynila. Ginamit niya ang sagisag na "P. Jacinto."
Ang sumusunod na madulaing tagpo na tawagin nating "isang dagli," na pinamagatang "Ang Dalagita't ang Binatilyo," kinatha ni Alberto Florentino batay sa nasabing talambuhay. Ang dula ay tungkol sa samandaling pakikipag-kaibigan at pakikipag-ibigan ng binatilyong si Pepe Rizal at dalagitang si Segunda Katigbak. Unang itinanghal itong maikling dula noong 1970s sa Rizal Park Open-Air Auditorium sa Luneta, sa direksiyon ng mandudula. Ang gumanap ay sina Ariosto Reyes sa papel na Pepe Rizal at Leila Florentino sa papel na Segunda Katigbak.
ANG DALAGITA'T ANG BINATILYO ni Alberto Florentino
Para kay Leila, na siyang unang gumanap sa papel na Segunda
PANAHON: 1882
POOK: Sa harapan ng Colegio de Concordia sa Intramuros, Maynila (Mangyayari ang eksena sa harapan ng Colegio de la Concordia sa Intramuros, Maynila, taong 1882. Sa likod, makikita ang iskwela. Isang maliit na glorietta na may iskayolang inuman ng mga kalapati. Isang bahay-kalapati at mga kalapati na naglisaw—nagliligawan, naghahabulan, naglalaro, at umiinum sa tubigan.) (Si Pepe ay may 19 taong gulang at si Segunda, 16 o 17.) (Si Segunda ay nakasuot ng isang saya na tinawag ngayong "Maria Clara." Papasok si Segunda na kasama ng ilan sa kanyang mga kaiskwela at kaibigan na nakasuot ng karaniwang uniporme ng kanila eskuwela.)
Kaibigan 1. Naku, Segunda, ang ganda mo kanina! Segunda. Kanina lang? Eh ngayon?
Kaibigan 2. At ang ganda mong sumayaw!
Segunda. Siempre naman!
Kaibigan 3. At ang guwapo din ng iyong katambal!
(Isang sandali)
Kaibigan 1. O, ano, Segunda, balitaan mo naman kami.
Kaibigan 2. Oo nga naman. Kailan ba?
Kaibigan 3. Tuloy ba?
Kaibigan 4. At siya na bang talaga?
(Isang sandali)
Kaibigan 2. Hindi ka pa ba magpapalit ng suot?
Segunda. Hinihintay ko si Pepe …
Kaibigan 3. Si Pepe? Bakit hindi si—
Kaibigan 4. Huwag mong sabihing—
Segunda. Hoy, huwag nga kayong mag-umpisa ng sali-salita. Walang ibig sabihin ito.
Kaibigan 2. Bakit nga ba si Pepe Rizal?
Segunda. Nangako ako na matapos ang velada, iguguhit niya ang aking larawan habang naka-suot ako nito.
Kaibigan 3. Ang suwerte mo sa mga kalalakihan, Segunda …
Segunda. Kaya … pagdating niya, iwan n'yo 'ko, ha?
Kaibigan 4. Kung iyan ba'ng gusto mo e …
Segunda. Alam naman ninyo na masyado siyang mahiyain. O, ayan na siya!
Mga Kaibigan (lahat sila). O sige— … Aalis na kami … Basta langimbitahin mo kaming lahat sa malaking piging!
Segunda. Adios!
(Mag-aalisan silang lahat. Bubuksan ni Segunda ang dalang supot na puno ng mais at palay. Isasabog niya ito at papakainin ang mga kalapati.) (Papasok si Pepe na nakasuot ng uniporme ng mga estudianteng lalaki: puting "amerikana serrada" at sombrero. May dala siyang ilang pirasong papel at mga lapis o krayola. Sa kanyang pagdating, mabubulabog ang mga kalapati.) (Ilalapag ni Pepe ang kanyang sombrero sa damo at maghahanda siya sa pag-guhit. Hindi siya mapalagay.)
Pepe. Siyanga pala, Segunda …
Segunda. Ano 'yon, Pepe?
Pepe. Binabati kita sa inyong sayaw kanina.
Segunda. Salamat naman …
(Isang sandali)
Segunda. Matagal ba ito, Pepe?
Pepe. Hindi naman …
Segunda. Kasi … mainit itong suot ko. Ayaw mo ba ako iguhit sa aking uniporme?
Pepe. Mas maganda kung ganito'ng suot mo … Nagmamadali ka ba?
Segunda. Hindi naman. Baka biglang dumating ang aking sundo—
Pepe. Huwag kang mag-alala. Di ito magtatagal.
(Aayusin ni Segunda ang kanyang suot at ang kanyang pagkakaupo. Nakatayong pupuwesto si Pepe sa harapan, at mag-uumpisa ng pag-guhit. Habang gumuguhit, wala siyang kibo.)
Segunda. Pepe … sino ba’ng katipan mo?
Pepe. Huwag ka sanang malikot, Segunda.
Segunda. Ni hindi ba ‘ko maaaring magsalita?
Pepe. Maaari. Huwag ka lang masyadong malikot.
(Isang sandali)
Segunda. Ang tanong ko sa iyo … sino ‘kakong katipan mo?
(Mapapatigil sandali si Pepe.)
Pepe. A, wala… Wala akong katipan.
Segunda. Bakit naman? Wala ka bang napupusuan sa mga kadalagahan?
Pepe. Ah, basta wala.
Segunda. Bakit nga?
Pepe. Pagkat ni minsan … di ko pinag-isipan na ako—sa hitsura kong ito—ay papansinin ng sino mang dilag …
Segunda. Bakit naman?
Pepe. Sino sa kanila—lalo na ang mga maririlag—ang papatol sa akin?
Segunda. Bakit naman napakababa ng pagtingin mo sa ‘yong sarili?
(Isang sandali)
Segunda. Kung gusto mo, Pepe … ihahanap kita—
Pepe. Ng ano?
Segunda. Ng isang magiging katipan mo. Ang dami ko yatang mga kaibigan na kay gaganda! Pihong isa sa kanila ay mapupusuan mo … at mapupusuan ka rin.
Pepe. Imposible! Mahirap mangyari! Ibahin nga natin ang usapan. Ikaw naman ang matanong ko. Mayroon ka bang … katipan?
(Matitigilan si Segunda at biglang lulungkot ang kanyang mukha.)
Segunda. Wala ka bang alam, Pepe?
Pepe. Na ano?
Segunda. Tungkol sa akin? Wala bang nababanggit sa’yo ang kapatid ko?
Pepe. Si Mariano? Wala.
Segunda. Magtapat ka sa ‘kin!
(Isang sandali)
Pepe. Minsan … mayroon siyang nabanggit sa akin … na may katipan ka na raw …
(Hindi sasagot si Segunda. Tatapusin niya ang ginagawa niyang papel na bulaklak.)
Pepe. At nalalapit na raw ang araw ng inyong… pag-iisang-dibdib. Totoo ba ito? At kailan ang kasal? Totoo ba na uuwi ka sa inyo sa Lipa ngayong bakasyon at di na muling babalik sa Maynila?
Segunda. Gusto ko sanang tumigil pa rito upang ipagpatuloy ang aking pag-aaral … ngunit ang mga magulang ko …
Pepe. Gusto nilang papagtaliin ang inyong dibdib? Pinipilit ka ba nila?
Segunda. Hindi naman. Bakit mo natanong iyan?
Pepe. Kung gayon, ikaw ang may kagustuhan nito?
(Magkikibit ng balikat ang dalagita.)
Segunda. Ang lagay ay … nakikinig lang ako sa mga nakakatanda sa ‘tin.
Pepe. Kailangan bang sundin ang mga magulang sa lahat ng panahon? At sa lahat ng bagay?
Segunda. Oo, sapagkat nakakatanda sila sa atin … at alam nila kung ano ang nararapat para sa atin.
Pepe. Maski na tungkol ito sa mga bagay na may kinalaman sa puso? Gaya ng… kung sino ang nararapat para sa atin?
Segunda. Lalo na. Pagkakatiwalaan ko na muna sila bago ang aking sarili.
Pepe. Bakit?
Segunda. Maaaring mas tama sila pagkat di sila nabubulagan …
Pepe. At maaari ding magkamali sila, di ba?
Segunda. Maaari din …
Pepe. At malalaman mo ito—na tama ka at sila ay mali—kung kailan huli na ang lahat? Kung kailan naaksaya na ang kalahati ng iyong buhay? At marahil wala ka nang magagawa?
Segunda. Ano pa nga ba ang magagawa ng isa kung tinalagang mangyari ang ganoon?
Pepe. Kailan ang uwi mo ngayong bakasyon?
Segunda. Sa Sabado. Isang grupo kami na magsasabay-sabay. Ikaw?
Pepe. Uuwi rin ako sa amin sa Calamba.
Segunda. Bakit di pa tayo magsabay-sabay? Ibababa ka namin sa Calamba. Kasya sa aming carromata ang isa pang katao.
Pepe. Naipangako ko kasi sa aking Mama na Biyernes ang uwi ko.
Segunda. Kung maaari din lang, bakit di mo gawing Sabado? Baka huli na ang Biyernes …
Pepe. Ano'ng ibig mong sabihin?
Segunda. Para nga makasabay ka sa amin.
Pepe. Hayaan mo at titingnan ko.
(Iaabot ni Pepe kay Segunda ang larawan na ginuhit niya.)
Pepe. O, et o… Ipagpaumanhin mo sana kung di ko nahuli ang taal mong kariktan.
(Titingnan at kikipkipin ni Segunda ang larawan sa kanyang dibdib. Titingin siya kay Pepe nang walang patumangga.)
Segunda. Maraming salamat, Pepe.
(Bilang kapalit ng larawang iginuhit ni Pepe, kukunin ni Segunda ang sombrero na nakalapag sa damo, isusuksok ang papel na bulaklak sa banda, at iaabot ito kay Pepe. Magsasalita si Pepe, animo kausap niya ang bulaklak sa kanyang sombrero na hawak-hawak niya. Nakatitig siya sa bulaklak habang sinasabi ang sumusunod.)
Pepe. Alam mo ba, Segunda … na ikalulungkot ko nang labis … ikauulila ko … kung mangyaring … mawala ka … sa buhay ko? Ngayon pa namang… nagkakilala na tayo at … at …
Segunda. At ano, Pepe?
(Biglang tutugtog ang kampana ng simbahan bilang tanda ng agunyas. Mabubulabog ang mga kalapati at magliliparan sila sa bakuran ng escuela. Susundan ng kanilang mata ang mga naglipanang ibon.) (Nakahanda nang lumikas si Segunda.)
Pepe. Segunda …
Segunda. Paalam na … Pepe. Paalam!
Pepe. Bakit paalam? Di ba magkikita pa tayo? Sa inyo sa Lipa … kung di man dito sa—
(Tatakbo ang dalagita na dala-dala ang lahat ng kanyang kagamitan.)
Pepe. (pahabol) Segunda!
(Titigil at lilingon si Segunda. Lalapit si Pepe kay Segunda.)
Segunda. Ano iyon, Pepe?
Pepe. Segunda …
Segunda. Magsalita ka, Pepe.
Pepe. Segunda …
Segunda. Pepe, nariyan ang sundo ko.
Pepe. Anong oras ang daan ninyo sa bukana ng Calamba?
Segunda. Marahil sa ganitong oras din.
Pepe. Baka abangan ko ang inyong carromata sa daan papuntang Lipa.
Segunda. Bakit pa? Sayang lang ang panahon mo! At … mabibigo … mabibigo lang siya …
Pepe. Sino?
Segunda. Ang iyong Mama.
(Biglang tatalikod at tatalilis si Segunda.) Susundan ng tingin ni Pepe ang dalagita.)
Pepe. Segunda! . . .
Tinig ng Taga-salaysay:
Gaya ng ipinangako niya, sa takdang oras sa sumunod na Sabado, si Pepe, sakay ng kanyang puting kabayo, ay nagtungo sa bukana ng Calamba, sa daan papuntang Batangas. Nagbakasakali siyang makita niya ang carromata na sakay sina Segunda at ng kanyang mga kaibigan. Dumaan nga ang carromata ngunit mabilis ang takbo nito. Malapit na ang sasakyan nang makita ni Pepe na sila na nga iyon. Itataas ni Pepe ang kanyang kamay upang patigilin ang carromata, ngunit mabilis ang takbo ng kabayo at ng hilahilang carromata. Makikita ng mga dalagita si Pepe nang nakalampas na ang carromata. Inakala ng mga dalagita na kumakaway lang si Pepe, kaya kumaway sila at buong siglang sumigaw ng "Pepe! Pepe! Pepe!" Makikita ang mukha ni Pepe na pagpugaran ng lungkot at kabiguan. Hawak-hawak niya—sa kanyang kanang kamay na kumakaway pa rin—ang isang liham. Gusto sana ni Pepe na makarating kay Segunda ang laman ng liham: ang pagtatapat ng taus-pusong pagmamahal ng isang binatilyo sa isang dalagita. (Makikita ang kalsada patungong Batangas. Sa malayo, ang binatilyo na sakay ng kanyang puting kabayo.)
Tinig ng Taga-salaysay:
Wala sa kaalaman ng binatilyong si Pepe—pati na rin ng dalagitang si Segunda—na ang pag-iibigan nila na sumilang at nag-usbong ay walang pag-asang lumabong at mamulaklak … sa kanilang maligalig na daigdig … at sa kanilang takdang panahon. Saka lang nila malalaman ang katotohanan … na bago pa man napamahal si Pepe kay Segunda—at si Segunda kay Pepe—mayroon nang taglay na ibang minamahal si Pepe: Ang Inang Bayan. Ang pinaka-una, ang pinakahuli, at ang pinakamatinding pag-ibig na mararanasan niya sa buong buhay niya, hanggang sa kanyang mga huling oras sa Bagumbayan: Ang pag-ibig sa Bayang Pilipinas. Hindi nila alam ito noon. At nang malaman nila ito, huli na ang lahat.
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1861-JR's b-day
1878-JR starts talambuhay; he is 17
1882-JR ends talambuhay; he is 21???
1882- petsa ng talambuhay
1896-JR dies on Bagumbayan
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JOSE RIZAL'S ULTIMO ADIOS IN WORLD LANGUAGE TRANSLATIONS
RIZAL'S THIRD MYSTERY by Alberto Florentino
When Jose Rizal died on December 30, 1896, on Bagumbayan (now the Luneta), he brought with him to his grave three mysteries of his life that have continued to baffle his countrymen—from the man in the street to the Rizalist-scholar:
• Did Rizal make a retraction on the eve of his execution?
• Did he "make an honest woman" of Josephine Bracken before he died?
• When did he write his "valedictory poem" ("Ultimo Adios")? Scholars have differed in their beliefs regarding the precise time when Rizal wrote the 14-stanza poem:
• Some say Rizal wrote "Ultimo Adios" long before he knew he was going to die in the hands of the Spaniards.
• Others claim he wrote it over several days during his incarceration, long before he learned of his sentence (death by musketry).
• Still others believe that he wrote it in one day—or in one evening, on the eve of his execution. The first speculation—that Rizal wrote the poem over several months or years—would give credence to the theory that Rizal choreographed his life and worked out the scenario for his eventual death and martyrdom. The second speculation—that he wrote it over several days—seem most realistic. After all, a poet, even one of great talent, usually needs time to write a poem with such power and beauty. The third—that he wrote it in one day or even less—is the most alluring: the image of the condemned poet, on the eve of his execution, surrounded by his jailers and guards, receiving his relatives and friends (and even some of his enemies), dashing off the 70-line poem in one sitting, unseen by anybody in the midst of the turbulence going on around him. The last version taxes the imagination much, even if it underscores the ability of a genius—which he was—to write a poetic masterpiece in a creative frenzy under the conditions of a crowded, well-guarded cell. All these speculations raise questions which invite further speculations:
• If Rizal took days or weeks to compose the poem, did he write drafts? Do geniuses write drafts?
• If he did, where are the drafts? Did he compose and rewrite the poem in his head until he put it down on paper in its final form? If Rizal composed the poem in his cell during his incarceration—between the sentencing and the execution--and made drafts, they would have been found among his papers. But Rizal was so closely guarded that even the original—written on both sides of a small, single sheet of paper in near-microscopic handwriting—had to be smuggled past the guards inside an alcohol stove which he handed to one of his sisters with a whispered message in English: "There is something inside." The poem, of course, survived and reached the Filipino people and the world. Like the other two mysteries, this third mystery continues.
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RIZAL'S ULTIMO ADIOS
MI ULTIMO PENSAMIENTO
Farewell, dear isles beloved of sea and sky, Where once we envisioned the gleam of Paradise, For your dear sake seems it divine to die, And were life fresher, brighter still would I Walk smiling onward to the sacrifice. Down fields of battle in the undying faith, Others face death without questioning why: Place matters not: the laurel or the wreath, The scaffold, torture, or the plains of death, All are the answer to the country’s cry. I die just when the sky purples in the dawn, And day at last arises from the night, And if your dawn a deeper hue would own, My blood take also, may the color strown* Shine as it mirrors the wakening light. The dreams which fancy to my childhood gave, My darling dreams when into youth I came, Were to behold you, Pearl of the Orient wave, One day with dark eyes clear, the brow held grave Aloft, unfurrowed, free at last from shame. Dream of my life, my burning, living desire, Hearken my soul to you at parting cry. Hail, my country! how lovely ‘tis to expire, To die that you may live a life yet higher, The dead to slumber underneath your sky. If some day** by my tomb a flower blows From eyes half-hidden in the tufted grass, Please draw it to your lips and press it close, And I shall feel deep down whence it uprose, Your kiss and sigh as by my tomb you pass. Let moons look on me in the brooding night, Let morn its passing splendor o’er me bring, The wind let whisper o’er me in its flight, And if a bird upon my cross alight, Its hymn of peace, above me, let it sing. Let the hot sun up gather cloud and rain And skyward turn them pure even as my plea, Leave friendship o’er my early tomb complain, And in the evening when some pray in pain, Pray also, O my country, pray for me. And pray for all who in ill-fortune taken Died in the night in thankless martyrdom, For widows, orphans, men who groan forsaken, For our mothers with bitter sighing shaken, And for yourself who sees redemption come. And when the tombs in night are darkened round And but the dead keep watch there all night through, Seek not to break their slumber underground; And should by chance you hear a windborne sound, My soul it will be, singing unto you. And when my grave by none remembered more, Bears neither cross nor stone o’er my remains, Let plow and plowman, treading, turn it o’er; I will have turned to dust, and long before I will have spread, wind-blown, upon your plains. What matter then if you forget the slain, When I will roam your sky, your space at death? With tremulous note will I your hearing gain, Turn beam and hue and scent and sigh that fain Would echo still the burden of my faith. O woe of me, my motherland, my own, Philippines dear, hear you my last goodbye. From those I loved and loved me I’ll be gone; I’ll dwell where slave and tyrant are unknown, Where faith brings life and god rules o’er on high. Farewell, dear parents of my spirit part, Dear comrades in the land loved best, farewell; Give thanks that I from living will depart, Goodbye, sweet stranger** friend and joy of heart; Goodbye, my dear ones; death is rest. Farewell!
* strewn?
** someday
*** foreigner?
Note: Mr. Dato’s translation, which he entitled "Mi UltimoPensamiento," has appeared in a number of publications in wholeor in part, and is here published with new revisions by thetranslator. (A.V. Hartendorp, editor, Phil. Mag., ca. 30s)
Twin Treats in D Major: Dapitan and Dakak By Amadis Ma. Guerrero
(Fe) Yo la tengo, y yo espero que ha de brillar un dia/ en que venza la Idea a la fuerza brutal. (Faith) I have it, and I foresee that a day will dawn/ when the Idea will triumph over brutal force.
-- Rical, "Mi Retiro (My Retreat)" Dapitan, Zamboanga (1892-96)
One hundred and two years after his death, national hero Jose Rizal - novelist, poet, essayist, physician, linguist, sculptor and playboy - still casts a long shadow over the district where he spent the last four years of his life in exile: Dapitan, the verdant, green-laden Shrine City of Zamboanga del Norte. Coming from Dipolog City and approaching Dapitan, the traveler immediately feels the difference. The panorama is exhilarating: On your left is Dapitan Bay, and on your right the mountains and trees. The highway is smooth and well-maintained. And mangrove swamps, waving coconut palms, and a tributary of the bay welcome you to the clean, quaint, and historic city. City Hall exemplified the ambience of Dapitan, for its architecture is imposing and old-world. Complementing this, around the plaza, are a monument to Rizal and several lovely, well-preserved ancestral homes. There is an airy but lived-in and caring atmosphere about Dapitan, something that is not always present in other Philippine cities and towns. Standing guard over the plaza is the stone Church of St. James, constructed by the Jesuits in the 1870s, with its stark, striking faade, its twin belfries providing perfect symmetry. Plaques inside the church (in English and Tagalog) inform us that "on this spot Rizal stood while hearing Mass every Sunday during his exile here..." In the church courtyard are a prewar, globe-shaped monument with plaques (this time in Spanish and English), and a relief map in grass of Mindanao, carved out by Rizal the sculptor. Identified are the bays and coastal area of the big island. The markers remind visitors that the hero "spent four years of banishment in this town (from July 17, 1892 to July 31, 1896), freely devoting his energy, intelligence and property to the economic and social needs of the district, and his skill as engineer, farmer, teacher and surgeon for the benefit of the community of which he was an involuntary resident." Gingerly, photographer Benjie Espartero and I ascend the belfry to get a better look at the fascinating relief map; and then we are rewarded with a commanding view of this city which is bracketed by sea and mountains. For the history-conscious tourist, another must-see is the Rizal National Park by the bay in Talisay, a short drive from the city proper. The park features sturdy replicas of Rizal's clinic and residence, which the hero fondly described as "my hut so plain" -- actually a big bahay-kubo (nipa hut) type of cottage. The house was in disarray when we were there, for a feature film on Rizal ("Dapitan" directed by Tikoy Aguiluz and starring Albert Martinez) was being shot. Near the house is an "Ancient Historical Tree" which Rizal "personally nurtured and cared for," notes the sign. In the community school established by Rizal, the following subjects were taught: reading, writing, languages (Spanish and English), geography, history, mathematics (arithmetic, algebra and geometry), industrial work, nature study, morals and gymnastics. The names of the three who administered oral examinations are given, along with the 24 pupils of Rizal (all boys). Why were the girls not educated?
What is not a replica in the park is the Mi Retiro Rock or Lovers' Rock overlooking the bay, and with a stairway apparently man-made. Here, Rizal and Josephine Bracken "spent many romantic moments." And it was here, presumably, that the poet wrote "Mi Retiro (My Retreat)," one of his longest and best poems, although critical opinion is divided. Antonio Manuud, for one, considers "Mi Retiro" better than "Mi Ultimo Adios (My Last Farewell)," but Nick Joaquin has lambasted it as "boring." From history and literature to a jet-set hideaway. In the Dapitan barangay of Taguilon, a 15-minutes drive from the city proper, lies the Dakak Park Beach Resort. It is set amidst towering cliffs, palm trees, well-tended lawns, hidden cottages, a white-sand beach cove, and two swimming pools with running water cascading along the plants. The beach is inviting, but there's a sign cautioning swimmers against jellyfish. A balikbayan visitor once complained in a letter to the Philippine Daily Inquirer that the warning sign was put up only after she had been severely bitten by jellyfish. You might say that the Dakak of the Jalosjos family offers a different kind of retreat from the Dapitan of Rizal.