JOSÉ GARCIA VILLA

1908–1997

José Garcia Villa was born in Manila in 1908. He attended the University of the Philippines,
but he was suspended in 1929 after publishing a series of erotic poems, titled “Man-Songs,”
in the Philippines Herald Magazine. That same year, he won a short story contest through
the Philippines Free Press and used the prize money to travel to the United States, where
he studied at the University of New Mexico.

From New Mexico, Villa moved to Greenwich Village in New York City. There, he became
the only Asian poet in a community that also consisted of E. E. Cummings, W. H. Auden,
and other modernist poets. In 1933 his Footnote to Youth: Tales of the Philippines and
Others (Charles Scribner’s Sons) became the first book of fiction by a Filipino author
published by a major United States-based press.

Villa also continued to publish in the Philippines, and his poetry collections Many
Voices (Philippine Book Guild) and Poems (The Philippine Writers’ League) appeared in
1939 and 1941, respectively. In 1942 he published his first poetry collection in the United
States, Have Come, Am Here (Viking Press), which was a finalist for the 1943 Pulitzer Prize.
He went on to publish several more poetry collections in the Philippines, including Poems in
Praise of Love (A. S. Florentino, 1962), and two in the United States, Selected Poems and
New (McDowell Obolensky, 1958) and Volume Two (New Directions, 1949).

Villa was the recipient of numerous honors and awards, including a Guggenheim Fellowship,
a Philippines Heritage Award, a Poetry Award from the American Academy of Arts and
Letters, a Rockefeller Foundation Fellowship, and a Shelley Memorial Award. In 1973 he
was named a National Artist of the Philippines, and he also served as a cultural advisor to
the Philippine government. He died in New York City on February 7, 1997.
 AMADO V. HERNANDEZ
National Artist for Literature
(September 13, 1903 – May 24, 1970)

Amado V. Hernandez, poet, playwright, and novelist, is

among the Filipino writers who practiced “committed art.” In
his view, the function of the writer is to act as the
conscience of society and to affirm the greatness of the
human spirit in the face of inequity and oppression.
Hernandez’s contribution to the development of Tagalog
prose is considerable — he stripped Tagalog of its ornate
character and wrote in prose closer to the colloquial than
the “official” style permitted. His novel Mga Ibong
Mandaragit, first written by Hernandez while in prison, is
the first Filipino socio-political novel that exposes the ills of
the society as evident in the agrarian problems of the 50s.

Hernandez’s other works include Bayang Malaya, Isang

Dipang Langit, Luha ng Buwaya, Amado V. Hernandez:
Tudla at Tudling: Katipunan ng mga Nalathalang Tula 1921-
1970, Langaw sa Isang Basong Gatas at Iba Pang Kuwento
ni Amado V. Hernandez, Magkabilang Mukha ng Isang
Bagol at Iba Pang Akda ni Amado V. Hernandez.
 NICK JOAQUIN

Nick Joaquin, byname of Nicomedes Joaquin, (born May 4, 1917,

Paco, Manila, Phil.—died April 29,2004, San Juan, Phil.), Filipino novelist,
poet, playwright, essayist, and biographer whose works present
the diverse heritage of the Filipino people.

Joaquin was awarded a scholarship to the Dominican monastery in Hong

Kong after publication of his essay “La Naval de Manila” (1943), a description
of Manila’s fabled resistance to 17th-century Dutch invaders. After World War
II he traveled to the United States, Mexico, and Spain, later serving as a
cultural representative of the Philippines to Taiwan, Cuba, and China.

Starting as a proofreader for the Philippines Free Press, Joaquin rose to

contributing editor and essayist under the nom de plume “Quijano de Manila”
(“Manila Old-Timer”). He was well known as a historian of the brief Golden
Age of Spain in the Philippines, as a writer of short stories suffused with
folk Roman Catholicism, as a playwright, and as a novelist.

The novel The Woman Who Had Two Navels (1961) examines his country’s
various heritages. A Portrait of the Artist as Filipino (1966), a celebrated play,
attempts to reconcile historical events with dynamic change. The Aquinos of
Tarlac: An Essay on History as Three Generations (1983) presents
a biography of Benigno Aquino, the assassinated presidential candidate. The
action of the novel Cave and Shadows (1983) occurs in the period of martial
law under Ferdinand Marcos. Joaquin’s other works include the short-story
collections Tropical Gothic (1972) and Stories for Groovy Kids (1979), the
play Tropical Baroque (1979), and the collections of poetry The Ballad of the
Five Battles (1981) and Collected Verse (1987). Joaquin’s later works are
mostly nonfiction, including Manila, My Manila: A History for the
Young (1990), The D.M. Guevara Story (1993), and Mr. F.E.U., the Culture
Hero That Was Nicanor Reyes (1995).
 FRANCISCO "FRANZ" ARCELLANA

Francisco "Franz" Arcellana was a Filipino writer, poet, essayist, critic,

journalist and teacher. He was born in aka Frank V. Sta. Cruz, Manila.

He is the fourth of 18 children of Jose Arcellana y Cabaneiro and

Epifanio Quino. He was married to Emerenciana Yuvienco with whom he
has six children, one of whom, Juaniyo is an essayist, poet and fictionist.
He received his first schooling in Tondo. The idea of writing occurred to
him at the Tondo Intermediate School but it was at the Manila West High
School (later Torres High School) that he took up writing actively as staff
member of The Torres Torch, the school organ.

In 1932 Arcellana entered the University of the Philippines (UP) as a pre-

medicine student and graduated in 1939 with a bachelor of philosophy in
degree. In his junior year, mainly because of the publication of his
“trilogy of the turtles” in the Literary Apprentice, Arcellana was invited to
join the UP Writers Club by Manuel Arguilla – who at that time was
already a campus literary figure. In 1934, he edited and published
Expression, a quarterly of experimental writing. It caught the attention of
Jose Garcia Villa who started a correspondence with Arcellana. It also
spawned the Veronicans, a group of 13 pre-WWII who rebelled against
traditional forms and themes in Philippine literature.

Francisco Arcellana's Works:

 Selected Stories (1962)
 Poetry and Politics: The State of Original Writing in English in the
Philippines Today (1977)
 The Francisco Arcellana Sampler (1990).
 CARLOS P. ROMULO
(January 14, 1899 – December 15, 1985)

Carlos P. Romulo‘s multifaceted career spanned 50 years of

public service as educator, soldier, university president, journalist and
diplomat. It is common knowledge that he was the first Asian president
of the United Nations General Assembly, then Philippine Ambassador to
Washington, D.C., and later minister of foreign affairs. Essentially
though, Romulo was very much into writing: he was a reporter at 16, a
newspaper editor by the age of 20, and a publisher at 32. He was the
only Asian to win America’s coveted Pulitzer Prize in Journalism for a
series of articles predicting the outbreak of World War II. Romulo, in all,
wrote and published 18 books, a range of literary works which
included The United (novel), I Walked with Heroes (autobiography), I
Saw the Fall of the Philippines, Mother America, I See the
Philippines Rise (war-time memoirs).

His other books include his memoirs of his many years’ affiliations
with United Nations (UN), Forty Years: A Third World Soldier at the
UN, and The Philippine Presidents, his oral history of his experiences
serving all the Philippine presidents.
 NESTOR VICENTE MADALI GONZALEZ

Nestor Vicente Madali Gonzalez (guhn-ZAH-lehs), who sometimes adopted

the surname spelling “Gonzales,” was born into a family of educators, his
mother being a teacher and his father a school supervisor. When he was four
years old, Gonzalez moved with his family to the barrio of Wasig in Mindoro.
This locale had a seminal influence on his writing, as the titles of his works
“Hunger in Barok,” “Life and Death in a Mindoro Kaingin,” and Mindoro and
Beyond suggest. From 1927 to 1930, Gonzalez stayed with aunts and uncles
in Romblon, his last year being spent at Mindoro High School.

Gonzalez failed his University of the Philippines entrance examination, but in

1949 he became the first to teach college courses there without holding a
degree. In 1933 Gonzalez visited Manila and met famed Commonwealth
period president Manuel Quezon y Molina but quickly returned to Mindoro.
The next year he went back to Manila, where he joined the Veronicans,
certainly the finest literary organization in the pre-World War II Philippines,
noteworthy for such luminaries as Manuel A. Viray among its members. In that
same year, Gonzalez entered an essay commemorating Theodore
Roosevelt’s visit to Calapan in a students’ literary contest (Gonzalez did two
years of college studies at National University and Manila Law College). Noted
poet and literary critic A. E. Litiatco awarded Gonzalez the five-peso first prize.
This was the first of numerous awards, prizes, and other honors Gonzalez
garnered. Among the most prestigious were an honorable mention in the First
Commonwealth Literary Contest (1940) for The Winds of April; Rockefeller
grants in 1949-1950, 1952, and 1964; a Republic Award of Merit (1954), and a
Republic Cultural Heritage Award (1960) for The Bamboo Dancers; a National
Artist Award for Literature (1997); and a Philippines Centennial Award for
Literature (1998).
 THE MARTYR
By NICK JOAQUI N

Being in love means never having to say you’re sorry

After all, at some point in your life
That love was the most important thing to you,
That love might be the one that you hoped would last forever,
That love made you believe that destiny does exist,
And that love made you question,
Why you were afraid to fall in love in the first place.

At that time in your life,

Everything just seemed so perfect,
Everything seemed so beautiful,
Everything seemed to glow for you,
And you were my everything.

I wouldn't even think twice about sacrificing my own happiness for yours,
I was even willing to bare up this walled but crumpled heart of mine,
Just so I could be with you.
All I ever did was care for you.
All I ever did was to make you happy.
And all I ever did was love you.

Being in love means never having to say you’re sorry

But I needed to ask forgiveness from the one who was hurt the most…
Myself.
 MY ISLANDS
N.V.M. Gonzales

Even as the bough breaks

from the sheer weight of song
so does my heart break with love,
soo will my rivers flow
to kiss the sea's warm eternal breast,
so will my islands poise their hills
against the sun.

My heart is proud
of this dream and prouder yet my rivers
of the fate that keeps the pace
of tides and moons, and prouder
still my islands of their hills.
 I AM A FILIPINO
Carlos P. Romulo

I am a Filipino–inheritor of a glorious past, hostage to the uncertain future. As such I must prove equal to a two-fold task–the task
of meeting my responsibility to the past, and the task of performing my obligation to the future.

I sprung from a hardy race, child many generations removed of ancient Malayan pioneers. Across the centuries the memory
comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned men putting out to sea in ships that were as frail as their hearts were stout. Over the
sea I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave and the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty swell of hope–hope in the
free abundance of new land that was to be their home and their children’s forever.

This is the land they sought and found. Every inch of shore that their eyes first set upon, every hill and mountain that beckoned to
them with a green-and-purple invitation, every mile of rolling plain that their view encompassed, every river and lake that promised
a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of commerce, is a hallowed spot to me.

By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every right of law, human and divine, this land and all the appurtenances thereof–the
black and fertile soil, the seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild life and
timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen with minerals–the whole of this rich and happy land has been, for centuries without
number, the land of my fathers. This land I received in trust from them and in trust will pass it to my children, and so on until the
world is no more.
I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal seed of heroes–seed that flowered down the centuries in deeds of courage and
defiance. In my veins yet pulses the same hot blood that sent Lapulapu to battle against the first invader of this land, that nerved
Lakandula in the combat against the alien foe, that drove Diego Silang and Dagohoy into rebellion against the foreign oppressor.

That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed that flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that morning in Bagumbayan when a volley
of shots put an end to all that was mortal of him and made his spirit deathless forever, the same that flowered in the hearts of
Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gergorio del Pilar at Tirad Pass, of Antonio Luna at Calumpit; that bloomed in flowers of frustration in
the sad heart of Emilio Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst fourth royally again in the proud heart of Manuel L. Quezon when he
stood at last on the threshold of ancient Malacañan Palace, in the symbolic act of possession and racial vindication.

The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed. It is the mark of my manhood, the symbol of dignity as a human being. Like the
seeds that were once buried in the tomb of Tutankhamen many thousand years ago, it shall grow and flower and bear fruit again.
It is the insignia of my race, and my generation is but a stage in the unending search of my people for freedom and happiness.

I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and the West. The East, with its languor and mysticism, its passivity and
endurance, was my mother, and my sire was the West that came thundering across the seas with the Cross and Sword and the
Machine. I am of the East, an eager participant in its spirit, and in its struggles for liberation from the imperialist yoke. But I also
know that the East must awake from its centuried sleep, shake off the lethargy that has bound his limbs, and start moving where
destiny awaits.

For I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous peoples of the West have destroyed forever the peace and quiet that once were ours.
I can no longer live, a being apart from those whose world now trembles to the roar of bomb and cannon-shot. I cannot say of a
matter of universal life-and-death, of freedom and slavery for all mankind, that it concerns me not. For no man and no nation is an
island, but a part of the main, there is no longer any East and West–only individuals and nations making those momentous
choices which are the hinges upon which history resolves.
At the vanguard of progress in this part of the world I stand–a forlorn figure in the eyes of some, but not one defeated and lost.
For, through the thick, interlacing branches of habit and custom above me, I have seen the light of the sun, and I know that it is
good. I have seen the light of justice and equality and freedom, my heart has been lifted by the vision of democracy, and I shall not
rest until my land and my people shall have been blessed by these, beyond the power of any man or nation to subvert or destroy.
I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of my inheritance? I shall give the
pledge that has come ringing down the corridors of the centuries, and it shall be compounded of the joyous cries of my Malayan
forebears when first they saw the contours of this land loom before their eyes, of the battle cries that have resounded in every field
of combat from Mactan to Tirad Pass, of the voices of my people when they sing:

Land of the morning,

Child of the sun returning–
Ne’er shall invaders
Trample thy sacred shore.

Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles, out of the heartstrings of sixteen million people all vibrating to one song, I
shall weave the mighty fabric of my pledge. Out of the songs of the farmers at sunrise when they go to labor in the fields, out of the
sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in Mal-lig and Koronadal, out of the silent endurance of stevedores at the piers and the ominous
grumbling of peasants in Pampanga, out of the first cries of babies newly born and the lullabies that mothers sing, out of the
crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in the factories, out of the crunch of plough-shares upturning the earth, out of the
limitless patience of teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the clinics, out of the tramp of soldiers marching, I shall make the
pattern of my pledge:

“I am a Filipino born to freedom, and I shall not rest until freedom shall have been added unto my inheritance—for myself and my
children and my children’s children—forever.”
 “THE MATS”
BY FRANCISCO ARCELLANA
(Summary)

I have read already the short story a few days ago but could not write my reflection about it soon. The
short story moved me and made me a bit depressed. It reminded me of my beloved Father who
passed away a year ago from a lung cancer.

The story entitled “The Mats” was written by Francisco Arcellana, one of the meritorious literary
Filipino artists. The story depicts a typical Filipino family culture. It portrays close family relationship,
respect for the elders, and remembering our loved ones who passed away.

The story opened up to the homecoming of Mr. Angeles from Mariveles. He wrote a letter to his family
about how picturesque Mariveles was. Furthermore, he jubilantly added that he met a marvelous mat
weaver. Evidently, he would bring home his family some mats from this mat weaver.

We refer sleeping mats to “banig” here in the Philippines which can be made of buri (palm), pandan or
seagrass leaves. It undergoes from drying up to cutting into strips and finally be woven into mats. My
siblings and I have slept on mats since we were kids. It smells never fails in inviting us to enter the
dream world. In addition to that, those mats always reminded me of my parents. They were the one
who always spread it when it was already time for us to sleep. When we were kids, we really hate
sleeping. All that we wanted to do was to play. However, the mats seem to possess a wonderful
power bringing about an aroma when spread that will make our eyelids droop.

Upon knowing that the rest of the family members will have their own personalized sleeping mats,
they could not help but be excited. It was not just ordinary mats that they would be receiving from Mr.
Angeles. In fact, these were personalized with their names and a color depending on their birthstone.
As I was imagining their faces with full of excitement waiting, I could feel that they were exuberant and
loud. The house was buzzed with excitement about the sleeping mats. It was fun and exciting
receiving gifts. Indeed, giving gifts is a demonstration of the love of Mr. Angeles to his kids and to his
wife, Nana Emilia.

A mat plays an important role in the family of Nana Emilia and Mr. Angeles. Nana Emilia received a
mat by her mother when she got married to Mr. Angeles. It shows in this story that Filipinos are
naturally sentimental people. Most Filipinos tend to hold things with special care especially those
given to us by our loved ones. The mat that was given to Nana Emilia on her wedding was only used
rarely. I do understand the reason behind it. My mom just allows us to use the dishes and glasses she
received on her wedding day when there is a special occasion. Those gifts are not meant to be used
every day so that it will always look new.

Mr. Angeles arrived home just in time for the dinner that made everyone animated in the house. The
long wait was finally over. Fruits of different varieties and endless stories filled the night. On the other
hand, what seemed to be a joyous night suddenly got its own twist when Mr. Angeles already
distributed the personalized mats to everyone. Nana Emilia noticed that there were three remaining
rolled mats. Mr. Angeles emotion suddenly became very serious . He told his wife to whom the
remaining mats were. He unfolded the sleeping mats. Unlike the other mats, the remaining three have
austere designs, no symbols or any devices. Those mats were for their three kids who passed away.

Mr. Angeles seemed to lose his sanity while remembering his dead children. Losing the one we loved
forever was something very painful to experience. It was just too difficult to bear. They left holes in our
heart which we know will never be filled anymore.

The story showed to us that we should not forget our loved ones no matter how many years had
passed since they left us. They became a part of our life. It is just a way to honor their life and
memories. The sleeping mats became the outlet for his intention. It was used to pay tribute to his
three kids who were not with them anymore.

How do you honor the memories of your loved ones who already passed away?
 FOUR POEMS
BY JOSÉ GARCIA VILLA

151
The, caprice, of, canteloupes, is, to, be,
Sweet, or, not, sweet,—
To, create, suspense. A return,
To, Greek, drama.
Their, dramaturgy, is, not, in, the, sweet,
Soil, but, in, the, eye,
Of, birds, the, pure, eye, that, decides,
To, bestow, or,
To, withold. Shall, I, be, sweet, or,
Not, sweet?—looking,
Up, at, your, face. Till, sudden:
I, will, be, sweet!

136
The, hands, on, the, piano, are, armless.
No, one, is, at, the, piano.
The, hands, begin, and, end, there.
There, no-one’s, hands, are, there:
Crystal, and, clear, upon, the, keys.
Playing, what, they, play.
Playing, what, they, are.
Playing, the, sound, of, Identity.
Yet, how, absurd, how, absurd, how, absurd!

14
In my desire to be Nude
I clothed myself in fire:—
Burned down my walls, my roof,
Burned all these down.
Emerged myself supremely lean
Unsheathed like a holy knife.
With only His Hand to find
To hold me beyond annul.
And found Him found Him found Him
Found the Hand to hold me up!
He held me like a burning poem
And waved me all over the world.

77
Now I will tell you the Future
Of God. The futue of God is
Man. God aspired before and
Failed. Jesus was too much
God. Since God is moving
Towards Man, and Man is moving
Towards God—they must meet
Sometime. O but God is always
A Failure! That Time is the
End of the world. When God
And Man do meet—they will
Be so bitter they will not speak.
 ISANG DIPANG LANGIT
Ni: AMADO HERNANDEZ

Ako’y ipiniit ng linsil na puno

hangad palibhasang diwa ko’y piitin,
katawang marupok, aniya’y pagsuko,
damdami’y supil na’t mithiin ay supil.
Ikinulong ako sa kutang malupit:
bato, bakal, punlo, balasik ng bantay;
lubos na tiwalag sa buong daigdig
at inaring kahit buhay man ay patay.

Sa munting dungawan, tanging abot-malas

ay sandipang langit na puno ng luha,
maramot na birang ng pusong may sugat,
watawat ng aking pagkapariwara.

Sintalim ng kidlat ang mata ng tanod,

sa pintong may susi’t walang makalapit;
sigaw ng bilanggo sa katabing moog,
anaki’y atungal ng hayop sa yungib.

Ang maghapo’y tila isang tanikala

na kala-kaladkad ng paang madugo
ang buong magdamag ay kulambong luksa
ng kabaong waring lungga ng bilanggo.

Kung minsa’y magdaan ang payak na yabag,

kawil ng kadena ang kumakalanding;
sa maputlang araw saglit ibibilad,
sanlibong aninong iniluwa ng dilim.

Kung minsan, ang gabi’y biglang magulantang

sa hudyat – may takas! – at asod ng punlo;
kung minsa’y tumangis ang lumang batingaw,
sa bitayang moog, may naghihingalo.

At ito ang tanging daigdig ko ngayon –

bilangguang mandi’y libingan ng buhay;
sampu, dalawampu, at lahat ng taon
ng buong buhay ko’y dito mapipigtal.

Nguni’t yaring diwa’y walang takot-hirap

at batis pa rin itong aking puso:
piita’y bahagi ng pakikilamas,
mapiit ay tanda ng di pagsuko.

Ang tao’t Bathala ay di natutulog

at di habang araw ang api ay api,
tanang paniniil ay may pagtutuos,
habang may Bastilya’y may bayang gaganti.

At bukas, diyan din, aking matatanaw

sa sandipang langit na wala nang luha,
sisikat ang gintong araw ng tagumpay…
layang sasalubong ako sa paglaya!
 NCCA AWARDEES
FOR LITERATURE
AND THEIR WORKS

In partial Fulfillment of the

requirements in CPAR

Submitted by:
ANGEL MANGANIP

Submitted to:
DARYL GUINID