Poem of Santiago Baldevino Balleza
Filipino Guerilla
February 1942:
CALL TO ARMS
While the battlefield was drenched with crimson,
bullets zinged their serenade of death.
While canons roared defiance in unison,
my dearest comrades drew their last breath.
Cries of fear rang eerily, chillingly,
from distant mountains, hills and dales.
Mother Liberty bled profusely,
ravaged and raped by devils from the gates of hell.
To arms, to arms, all ye brothers of mine.
To arms, to arms ye vanguards of Freedom;
We must fight and die for a cause divine,
and help save the light for the world and thy sons!
***
From a foxhole in war, Santiago wrote this poem in despair and pain. The enemy had just massacred his parents, brothers and sisters. Grief crushing him, he ran through jungle fighting blindly, bullets barely missed him. He didn’t care if he died. He lived. But his anguish was deep, sorrow scarring him forever. He had no family to return to, no graves to visit.
Who writes a poem when death is all around you? My father, the gallant soldier, the poet does.
A glimpse into this poet’s life… Santiago lived on to marry and have seven children. My father was troubled. His mind haunted and his heart heavy, he lived in quiet torment. He often withdrew from those around him.Though he suffered and struggled from mental illness, he raised us honorably. He placed his children on paths to never live mediocre and timid lives.
Santiago did not know how to talk to his children. In his lonely world, he couldn’t connect. As a child, I hungered for his attention and scrambled for approval. I looked for ways to reach him. Eventually I did. Through poetry. Poetry was the gateway to my father’s soul. When he recited, he was expansive. Open. Flowing. Santiago could not show his feelings but in poetry, he effused. Imbued with vitality, he was joyful to watch and listen to. I adored the gift of him. For a moment, listening to him, he was all mine. I feasted on the timbre of his voice, mesmerized. When reciting, his voice and eyes filled with passion, wonder, love! Reciting poetry was balm to him. No secret life to wrestle with. No engulfing sadness. He loved dramatic poetry with power and heart. Courage. Resilience. Magnificence. Enduring Love. Poetry lightened his heaviness, lifted the somberness, eased the quiet, dark desperation; making him what he didn’t feel in his life, grand. Fearless.
Standing vigil at his deathbed, I watched my father in his last days. The fear in his eyes deepened my soul. This wounded man lived a hard and injured life. Yet he fought to draw breath every possible living moment. Listening to his labored breaths, he taught me, life bestowed is a wonder. For it, you must fight, you must breathe, you must live.
Santiago, the guerilla, my father, was a poet till the end. His memory in remnants, his body failing, it soothed him to recite his poetry. Maybe it help him feel brave, hopeful, relevant. Sitting by his side, I was still entranced. He recited Rudyard Kipling’s poem IF, starting off forceful, and confident. His words rang robust and impassioned, then foundered.
“If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
Umm, ahh…”
“You got it Daddy, keep going. Next line is If you can trust yourself…”
“Yes! I remember! When all men doubt you…”
He couldn’t remember the rest. I gently took his hands in mine and returned gift. Drinking in words he so loved for decades, he listened to me as I held his feeble gaze and stroked his feverish face. Trying not to cry and falter, tenderly I finished the poem he so cherished:
“If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!”
Sleep in peace Daddy, my dearest poet.
