LIKE THE MOLAVE

By: Rafael Zulueta Da Costa

1. Until our people, seeing, are become
Not yet Rizal, not yet. Sleep not in peace: Like the molave, firm, resilient, staunch,
There are a thousand waters to be spanned; Rising on the hillside, unafraid,
There are a thousand mountains to be Strong in its own fibre; yes, like the molave!
crossed; 2.
There are a thousand crosses to be borne. The youth of the land is a proud
Our shoulders are not strong; our sinews are and noble appellation,
Grown flaccid with dependence, smug with The youth of the land is a panoramic poem,
ease
The youth of the land is a book of
Under another’s wing. paradoxes,
Rest not in peace; The youth of the land is a pat on one’s back,
Not yet, Rizal, not yet. The land has need The youth of the land is a huge canvas
Of young blood -- and, what younger of spectral colors,
than your own, The youth of the land is an epic tragedy-
Forever spilled in the great name of comedy,
freedom, The youth of the land is a crashing
Forever oblate on the altar of symphony,
The free? The youth of the land is a child grown old
Not you alone, Rizal. in tears,
O souls The youth of the land is an old man laughing
And spirits of the martyred brave, arise! through a perpetual infancy;
Arise and scour the land! Shed once again A bastard child of a thousand dreams,
Your willing blood! Infuse the vibrant red masquerading and dancing,
Into our thin, anaemic veins; until The youth of the land.
We pick up your Promethean tools and, 3.
strong, Twenty thousand young men march
Out of the depthless matrix of your faith flags unfurled heads lifted high!
In us, and on the silent cliffs of freedom, One two three four!
We carve for all time your marmoreal Twenty thousand young men halt
dream!
at the martyr’s monument
Ha-alt! one two! Youth of the land you are a bitter pill to
Silence and the President begins: swallow.

My fellow countrymen. This is a testament of youth borne

The youth of the land listens, on the four pacific winds;

shifts uneasily, nudges his fellow youth of This is a parable of seed four ways sown

the land: Say look at that dame, some in stone:

number, not bad at all. This is a chip not only on the

The youth of the land listens: Christ, I hope President’s shoulder;

he The nation of our father shivers
cuts the blahblah short, I’m getting fed up; with longing expectation.
say, some legs; hell, it looks like rain! Shall we, sons and daughters, brother
The youth of the land listens, stands erect, youths

nudges his fellow youth of the land: Say, of the land,

that sonofbitching corporal’s got his eye on Walk up now and forever knock

us, one more demerit and I’m done for. the flirting chip off?

The youth of the land listens. Or will the nation of our fathers be forever

The President ends: We shall fulfill their and forever

dream, Lighting candles in the wind?
Applause. 5.
Twenty thousand young men march The answer is tomorrow and tomorrow
One two three four! We shall give you our lives, tomorrow.
Compane-e dismissed! Today? this hour? this minute?
Hell, that’s over; Christ, some dame! We are secure under the Stars-and-Stripes.
4. I went to a movie today gosh I cried.
We, the Filipinos of today, are soft, I went to a movie yesterday gee I laughed
easy-going, parasitic, frivolous, I bought my laughter and my tears.
inconstant, indolent, inefficient. My horse gave dividendanzo yesterday.
Would you have me sugarcoat you? My new dress is the latest note
I would be happier to shower praise upon My parents gave me the best of education.
my countrymen...but let us be realists... I speak English and Spanish and French.
let us strip ourselves... I speak foreign languages without accent.
I can lisp a little Tagalog. your people listen through the centuries;
I think the conga is divine, don’t you? show me one great Filipino song rich with
I think Szostakowics is brilliant don’t you? the

We Manilans are really cosmopolitan. soul of your seven thousand isles; show me

Was not Franco the word divine made one great Filipino dream, forever sword and
incarnate? shield --speech eloquent and simple as our
Were not those leftist reds atrocious? Of the People by the People for the People
Federico Garcia Lorca? Never heard of him. song grand, foreverlasting as our My
Punctually we remember our dead once a Country
year. ‘Tis of Thee dream age-enduring, sacred as
Punctually we worship God on Sunday our American democracy!
morning. Friend, our silences are long but we also
We are the only Christian nation in the have
Orient. our speeches.
I donated a new organ to my parish. Father, with my whole heart I forgive all.
I made a novena to Saint Anthony. Believe me, your reverence.
I give regularly to our missions. Speeches short before the firing squad, and
Our missions cleared the jungle dark. yet
Our missions hoisted God upon of love,
the mountain-top. I want our people to grow and be like the
Our Igorot child says give me money. molave.
At the outskirts of the town A new edifice shall arise, not out of the
the schoolhouse inspires. ashes

The children inspire. Of the past, but out of the standing

materials
Philippines my Philippines.
Of the present.
When Washington was a boy
Speeches short, blooming with hope
his father gave him a hatchet.
on the threshold of the sun.
We must not tell lies. We have no money
I want to be a plain Juan de la Cruz.
for education.
Speeches short, of a man remembering
6.
a man long and long.
My American friend says:
Friend, our songs are legion but all songs
show me one great Filipino speech to make
are one. he filled his pockets by the sweat
Land of the Morning is but one; of the little brown
the others are a kaleidoscope of tunes brother and packed for home,
rimmed by the pentagram of the Pacific -- taking with him but one song for souvenir:
of Luzon, of Visayas, of Mindanao, O the monkeys have no tails in Zamboanga.
songs lush with brown earth The lady visitor wishes to study Filipino
and the tides of tears and laughter, culture and life: our museums are open, our
and all songs are one. history rich with generations; under her
Friend, our dreams are rooted in the earth, nose at every turn the vital life of a child-
but all our dreams are wings; nation beating its hopeful beat with eager
rising in the first sweep of sunrise avian pulse, giving her tokens: a mestiza
tumultuously abovethe hills, dress, a bamboo flute, a song.
in the sinking wake of sundown She gives something in return: she pays an
swift along the curve of shore, urchin to undress and pose climbing a
from the hollows of dark silence coconut tree for the folks back home.
soaring up the astral solitudes; Over and over returning parable.
and all wings are dreams, Friend, are these the ways of the West?
and all dreams are peace. Friend, this is not the American Way.
7. The little brown brother opens his eyes
My American friend continues: to the glorious sound of the Star Spangled;
you are a nation being played for a sucker; dreams to the grand tune of the American
you are susceptible to lachrymal dream; is proud to be part of the sweeping
inducement; American magnitude; strains his neck upon
a man comes to you with a sobtale and soon the rising skyscraper of American ideals,
you are a poor fish swallowing and on it hinges faith, hope, aspiration;
hook-line-and-sinker. sings the American epic of souls conceived
And I answer with parable of analogy: in liberty; quivers with longing brotherhood
one adventured into port and called of men created equal; envisions great
brothers; visions
we fed him with the milk and honey of the land across the sea where dwell his
of the land; strong brothers.
And then the fact. The crushing fact of a big white brother blasting the gold out of
world our
no longer shining through the exalted word; hills, surely, the little brown brother will not
the world where the deed is, the intolerable be grudged the picking of lettuce leaves
deed. from

Across the sea the little brown brother is no his fields.

longer a creature terrorized by hatred, Dear child, hoping and hoping.

shamed by contempt and the sting of The Shanghai refugee arrives:

prejudice: he is a child fondling the smashed this is the new home.

remains of a toy given by mother and by The Jewish refugee arrives:

mother shattered; this is the new home.

he is a child wondering, questioning, are The Hongkong refugee arrives:

these the ways of a mother? he is a child this is the new home.

perplexed and hurt, yet fondling the ghost Philippines, you are not a sucker.
of Philippines, you are the molave child,
a toy; hoping and hoping mother will mend questioning, wondering, perplexed, hurt;
the toy. the

The repatriate returns sullen and broken: he molave child hoping and hoping mother will
is mend the shattered toy.
that child. Weknow the story, the black 8.
looks, the scowls, the placards in the The Philippine canvas is flushed
restaurants saying: Neither Dogs nor with heroic hues;
Filipinos The Philippine canvas is not one vicious
Allowed; the warning at the fair: Beware of daub
Filipino Pickpockets; the loneliness, the of machinations, politics, pot-bellied
woman denied. softnesses and youth gone waste.
Yet what say you, repatriate? Our dead heroes have been mummified
America is a great land. into books for youth to read and say, some
Dear child, hoping and hoping guy!
mother will mend the toy. Our dead heroes have been pigeonholed
The emigrant thinks: surely if we welcome into
the
dates we make public show of inspire, elevate the people with a
remembering. rotogravure
What are dead heroes if from the wells of of the man in the fields at his noonday
their tomato and rice; the fisherman hauling his
lives we draw not the water to slake our net; the policeman beating his beat; the
long
teacher bent over lesson plans; the hospital
thirst?
doctor and the nurse asking not: race?
What, if from the springs of their spirits we
drink color? creed? the clerk at his constant

not of faith and the strength of our days? figures; the workers waist-deep in mud; the

Where are the living heroes? Who are they? miners choking in the gold-dust, -- yes, the

Close your books and come with me where living heroes, bluepenciled, wastebasketed,
tread heaped on dumping ground.
unsung heroes, great men and women Only, I have an inkling such newspaper
standing up to the challenge of life. items

Not in books alone are gods; not in would be circused in some special tent;
newspapers: really, an amusing sideshow.
the rotogravures do not reckon them of 9.
human interest. From the hinterland holes and seacoasts,
The newspaper must portray Miss Social barrio

Satellite picking an olive with finger-tips in wastes and city slums they come;

the latest nail-tone; From profound darknesses they come

rubbing
The newspapers must depict Mrs. Social
Service their eyes in the light of government.

mahjongging for the fleeing in the city of You in whose hands is government,

Whocares: We charge you with the people:

They are of human interest; they are big Are your hands holy for the
business sacred trust?
to be splashed across the pages for the Blaze fiercely, government; you
veneration of the faithful are the way
Some day, some enterprising publisher will Out of the wilderness
visualize the business possibilities of human of withered institutions.
concern in the humble, and resolveto uplift, From schoolrooms, factories, offices,
mine-holes and sewers they come; wrong hands, are you charged with waving
From pits of drugged sleep they emerge red flags in your poems?
remembering wild dreams and angry winds; In Pampanga they wave little red flags
On the tide of dark and light they stand and they are not poets.
with brave assertions: Because you would write flesh-poems,
Once you struck fear in our hearts. do they snarl?
We can no longer listen to you. Have they forgotten flesh is loving
We have no faith in your tabernacle of

vacuous promises. soul, and to sing of flesh is to sing of soul?

From pulpit and pedestal shout In covert wilds and cloaked fastnesses

yourselves red in the face: they also know and are no poets.

The sapling you would bend Do you blush because you could pour your

is grown like the molave; faith, your hope, your blood, into a poem,

Yes, like the molave. and tremblingly lay it at a woman’s feet?

10. And do exalted poems confuse you at first,

and
“Guilty!” said the judge, adjusting his
glasses, finally become embodiments of light?

to the man who had helped himself to After the tremendous impact of a poem
with
an ounce of gold.
soul, have you not felt a benediction
And, taking them off, he smiled an released
appeasing
as from eternity?
“good-morning” to the man who had
Would security -- a steady job, an insurance
pocketed tons of it.
policy, a bankbook, a pension -- bribe you
11.
into smugness and finally buy you off into
Brother poets, what is your lay?
silence?
I know the story well, the twofold struggle
If tomorrow heaven and all under it, earth
with riches of soul and hunger of body, yet and
you sing. all over it, were offered you in barter of a
What is your message? single poem, would you trade it?
Because you would mobilize starved Could you forsake home and loved ones to
dreamers
forever dedicate your dreams to earth and
against too much money in too few hands,
the supreme goodnesses thereof? Body and soul are one prophetic surge of
Does every object you touch, every sight wave on wave dashing across oceanic
you solitudes laden with Sargasso of tidal
see, every pulsation and breath, every dreams.
sound
The canvas is not life nor its delineation:
and every silence become a pang, a joy, and
The canvas must be alive with the throb
at last a poem uttered and lesson shining, or
of boundless intimations.
unsaid yet inwardly shining?
And the artist who intimates beyond spirit
Do you not hear the haunting accents of the
paints beyond the boundaries of sense;
perfect poem still to come from you?
And no frame can contain the infinite
Would it not be the grand epitome of all
breath extensions of art; wave mounting on

crystallized into credo, the magnific wave, height upon height.

utterance What do you perceive behind the finished
of you striding the earth, gathering painting and beyond?
centuries I see man standing up to the challenge of
gone and aeons to come, cupping the centuries, head flung skyward, proud,
bittersweet of a thousand lives and a pushing darkness back with the fire of a
thousand deaths, a clinging armful of single candle;
woman? I see man naked and unshivering in the four
And, having written, would it not be your winds, defiant and arrogant in the clamoring
last?
blast, warm with the fire of his single candle;
And, having written it, would you not surely
die? In him I see a multitude of long
accumulations
And, would death startle you more than the
and great prophecies hastening into
perfect poem, being the poem beyond
fulfillment;
perfection, uttered in the silence of
In him, the sinews of a billion years and
becoming? divine
12. energies poured into the rearing of edifices
Not the poet alone nor the poem: not built of stone and steel, and not with
remember the artist and his canvas. hands alone;
The soul of the canvas is not art; In him, illimitable horizons extending
the body of the canvas is not art; beyond
and on. The government builds for progress.
Poets, philosophers, painters, musicians, -- The capitalist builds for more capital.
artists all, your time is always and ever! The architect builds for achievement.
Your place is wherever and everywhere! The engineer builds for enterprise.
In you, advancement and regeneration! The holy one builds for the glory of God.
In you, the sacred fire of a single candle What does the worker build for?
magnified In the year before Christ there
into a nation! were whips.
In you, precipitations of the individual into In the year of our Lord there
people, are also whips.
Strong as the molave! Other than leather.
13. 14.
The building is a landmark of progress. They also count the masses:
The last stone has been laid, the last bolt buffeted and baffled, steady in routine,
riveted. wing-clipped somewhere in flight, and now
The big boss beams; the architect, the unconscious, unconcerned over wing beat
engineer
beyond the senses; lost, lost, lost.
smile.
They also count, these poets, philosophers,
Handshakes. Pretty speeches. The noble
dedication. artists in the nameless way that is the

The shining placard: Erected A.D. 1940. people’s: little drops? Somehow, I think, the

Who records the history of an edifice? ocean; and in the swollen waters of the

Who tells the story from cornerstone people’s faith, found, found, found.

to ceremony? 15.

Who peers into the humanity Out of the tangled threads of multicolored
dreams
of daily-wage earners?
the land weaves intricate and
Who rehearses the drama of diggers, undecipherable
pale-drivers, riveters, masons, designs;
wood workers and painters? Upon the margin of forever shifting sands
Who investigates their motives? flesh
Who speaks the tongue of myriad fluctuates with mute interrogations.
interpretations?
The city lights flare up, and from the Make my husband a Saint Joseph with
sanctuary others.
of shelter we emerge with faces avid for the Give me a child, boy or girl, but if possible.
night-time mystery, poised for the Give me a raise and I will offer a candle.
unexpected Forgive me the sins by which I earn my
flight. living.
Who sells wings? Ten centavos a pair. Black Nazarene, give me wings.
The orchestra explodes and there is flight. In Antipolo every May there is also great
Who sells wings? Two bucks a pair. praying

What do you say, hah? How about it, hah? before the dancing and the lovemaking.

Who sells wings? Ten bucks a pair. Holy Mother, make him dance with me.

I want them highclass and hygiene, see? Holy Mother, a yearly pilgrimage

Who sells wings? Fifteen bucks a pair. I promise if only.

Plus drinks. Holy Mother, I am not worth of the grand

prize.
I gotta try a white some time, don’t I?
Holy Mother, only a small prize and I
Who sells wings? A pair for every pocket. promise.
The kitchen fires light up. Let us pray. Holy Mother, a good husband.
The radio barks. Spain, China, Africa, Holy Mother, more profits for more candles.
Finland,
Holy Mother, give me wings.
Holland, Belgium, France. Time for a glass
The orchestra conductor raises his baton.
of beer.
Give us wings.
Weep generous prayer. Join the Red Cross.
The train careens into the night.
Fair weather generally with passing showers
Give us wings.
and Thunderstorms. Catalog novenas
The autocab speeds, the bus, the tram.
and te deums
Give us wings.
Who sells wings? A pair for every pocket.
This is my own native land.
From sun to morning star , in Quiapo church
Give us wings.
there is great praying every Friday.
On the threshold of enchantment youth
Molave Christ, give me wings. stands
Forgive me my trespasses as I cannot graduate with vision:
forgive others. Where is the immutable scroll?
Give me this day a little more than bread.
Where the unscalable altitude? They say the molave is extinct
Give us wings not only for the heights, But they are blind or will not see.
Wings also for the depths and the descent. Stand on the span of any river, and Io!
Wings for every pocket: Relentlessly to and fro, cross and recross,
Who sells wings for the pocketless? molave!

16. Yes, molave strike roads into the darkest

core!
For the pocketless, Elementary Psychology:
Yes, molave builds seven thousand bridges
It is easier for a camel to pass through the in blood!
eye of a needle. Bagumbayan planted the final seed.
For the pocketless, a resonant voice; Balintawak nurtured the primal green.
My countrymen the day approaches. Molave, uprooted and choked, will not
For the pocketless, the darkglasses of $ and succumb.
₱ Molave presses on and will not be detained.
For the pocketless, Higher Psychology: Let Spain speak.
Yours is the promised land of Canaan. Let America speak.
You will inherit the earth. 19.
Come follow me. Not yet, Rizal, not yet.
Children, if you behave well, a glorified The glory hour will come.
lollypop. Out of the silent dreaming,
17. From the seven-thousandfold silence,
Let the words fly and boom and crash. We shall emerge, saying: WE ARE FILIPINOS,
Let the centuries spin and calculate. And no longer be ashamed.
The mathematical certainly endures: Sleep not in peace.
Philippines minus (Spain plus America) The dream is not yet fully carved.
equals
Hard the wood, but harder the blows.
MOLAVE
Yet the molave will stand.
Who will decipher the Philippine
hieroglyph? Yet the molave monument will rise.

Who, unravel the intricate formula? Gods walk on brown legs.

Who, enter the jungle, mount the steep,

And find molave proud, knowing no death?
18.