2/2/25

Stylistic Analysis of the Poem “The Guerilla is Like a Poet” by Jose Maria Sison

2/02/2025


1. INTRODUCTION

Stylistics, along with Literary Criticism, has consistently been, and likely will continue to be, my most favored subject. In moments when the frustration of being a writer weighed heavily on me, the prospect of becoming a critic or linguist rescued me from despair. If I couldn't be a writer, perhaps I could pursue a career as a critic or linguist. After all, these professions—or, preferably, 'crafts'—are not widely recognized here in the country. However, after I graduated from college, life—real life—took over. Writing for pleasure gradually faded, as did my small dream of becoming a critic. There were minor attempts to rediscover my path, but it proved difficult to rekindle the passion that once burned in my heart. 


Despite the challenges of silencing the internal doubts, I persisted. I reminded myself that to write—and to analyze—I had to embrace the awkwardness, imperfections, and, at times, the forced nature of my writing. To write, I simply had to write—anything and everything that came to mind. Last year, I believe I succeeded in pushing myself to think critically and to write consistently. I completed several film reviews, some of which I have uploaded to my blog and available for your perusal.


Now, after years of feeling lost, I have finally found my way back. It was all thanks to a poem I stumbled upon on Google, which inspired me to undertake my first Stylistic Analysis as a non-student.


Unlike the conventional approach often used in Stylistic Analysis, I aim to infuse a personal touch into my analysis. While there is still an attempt to maintain an academic style, my goal is to make this analysis more accessible and engaging for readers who may not have a background in Stylistics. I hope to pique their interest and invite them into this fascinating world. Text analysis, much like writing and reading, can be enjoyable. It allows us to perceive a literary piece beyond its surface meaning and encourages a deeper mindfulness of every word, its style, and how it is crafted using various literary elements.


What I appreciate most about doing analysis is that it allows me to step back and view the work from my own perspective. Strangeness within a text is not something to be dismissed as odd, but rather as a source of discovery. For me, it represents an active interaction with the author, in which we interpret the work from a unique angle and uncover new insights, supported by graphological, lexical, and other stylistic elements. This process often reveals multiple layers of meaning, perhaps beyond what the author originally intended, making the text come alive and open to diverse interpretations.


For instance, in my first analysis of Macario Pineda's short story “Dawn Breaking”, I was fortunate to come across a perfect piece for Stylistic Analysis. The story possesses a distinct strangeness in its writing, style, and parallel narratives. One particularly intriguing aspect is Pineda's consistent treatment of the word Moon as a proper noun, capitalizing it deliberately. There is a reason behind this stylistic choice, which invites deeper exploration. Similarly, several paragraphs are enclosed in parentheses, which, upon analysis, are revealed to represent the psychological and mental state of the persona, while the non-parenthetical sections are narrated by a third-person narrator describing the character's physical circumstances.


This is the type of 'strangeness' I am referring to—something that prompts deeper investigation. Such peculiarities are not random; they can be intentional and carry meaning for readers to uncover. Through Stylistic Analysis, I seek to explore the same with my current material, “The Guerilla is Like a Poet”, a literary piece written by a Filipino activist and writer Jose Maria Sison.


"The Guerrilla is Like a Poet" is a poem that establishes a parallel between the guerrilla and the poet, exploring their shared resistance and revolutionary spirit against oppressive circumstances. Upon initial reading, the title's recurring presence in the first line of the first four stanzas is readily apparent, highlighting the poem's use of repetition. It is also noteworthy that the final stanza deviates from the rest of the poem; it consists of only three lines and is structured differently. In this concluding stanza, there is no comparison between the two personas, and punctuation marks such as commas and colons are notably present. While these observations might seem incidental during a cursory reading, they can serve as a crucial starting point for a Stylistic analysis. Why might the author have chosen to omit the repetition found in the preceding stanzas in the final stanza? Is this deviation intentional, and if so, what purpose might it serve? If not intentional, what insights can we, as readers or critics, derive from this apparent "strangeness"? That is indeed the beauty of Stylistic analysis: whether or not certain elements are intentionally placed by the author, they remain open to interpretation by external readers. This dynamic ensures that a poem can continue to resonate and evolve, allowing it to metaphorically live multiple lifetimes. It encourages readers to look beyond the surface and delve into the nuances of the text. By examining each detail closely after an initial reading, readers can unearth meanings shaped by their own backgrounds, experiences, and perspectives. This process not only reveals something personal about each reader but also fosters a deeper engagement with the text. Stylistic analysis thus transforms what might initially seem like a mere source of knowledge into a platform for active knowledge sharing and community engagement. 


Aside from the repetition, or what is known as "anaphora," the poem exhibits other elements of "strangeness" worth examining. By categorizing this analysis into Graphological, Lexical, Schemes, and Tropes levels, we aim to explore and elucidate the parallels between the two personas—the guerrilla and the poet. This approach will allow us to investigate their physical struggles and artistic expressions, as well as their respective acts of resistance and creation.  Through this analysis, we can gain a deeper understanding of how these elements intertwine and contribute to the overarching themes of the poem.


2. STYLISTICS ANALYSIS OF THE POEM “THE GUERILLA IS LIKE A POET”


2.1    Graphological Level


2.1.1    Free Verse Poem

Even at a glance, it is immediately apparent that this poem is written in free verse. The absence of a strict structure and the irregular line lengths are noticeable throughout the stanzas, with an increase in syllables per line, except in the final stanza.


Stanza

Number of Syllable

First Stanza

38

Second Stanza

47

Third Stanza

48

Fourth Stanza

49

Fifth Stanza

23


Furthermore, a closer examination reveals the lack of a fixed meter and traditional rhyme scheme, both of which are characteristic of conventional poetry.


The poet's deliberate choice of free verse can be aligned with the thematic essence of the literary piece. “The Guerilla is Like a Poet” stands as a bold statement against oppression and serves as a call for freedom. By utilizing free verse, the poem escapes the constraints of formal structure, allowing for greater expressive flexibility. This breaking away from traditional poetic rules mirrors the poem’s thematic rejection of oppression.


2.1.2 Pronoun Use


The poem is narrated from a third-person perspective. Although the persona is identified as a guerrilla, who is compared to a poet, the figure remains generalized, unnamed, and devoid of characteristics that would mark them as a specific individual. This anonymity suggests a sense of objectivity and universality, inviting the reader to perceive the guerrilla (or poet) not as a singular figure but as a collective representation of all guerrillas (or poets). This approach emphasizes the shared experience of struggle and resistance, rather than focusing on a single individual.


2.1.3 Comma and Colon


Punctuation is notably absent throughout the poem, appearing only in the final stanza, as seen in the following excerpt:


An endless movement of strength

Behold the protracted theme:

The people’s epic, the people’s war.


The colon used to connect the second and third lines serves to clarify and expand upon "the protracted theme" that the reader is urged to "behold." This is followed by the use of a comma, which emphasizes the relationship between the abstract concept to its concrete manifestations—the people's epic and the people's war.


Here, the colon serves to contrast yet unite the two parallel ideas. While "the people’s epic" belongs to the poet and "the people’s war" belongs to the guerrilla, both lines carry the same underlying message: the call to action, the necessity of struggle. Although the poet and the guerrilla are distinct figures, they are bound by a shared purpose, symbolizing resistance and the fight for freedom.


2.2 Lexical Level


2.2.1 Vocabulary & Nouns


Vision

And the ashes of departure

green brown multitude

In bush burning with red flowers


Auditory

Keen to the rustle of leaves

The break of twigs

The ripples of the river

Enrhymed with nature

The subtle rhythm of the greenery


Olfaction

The smell of fire


Tactile

The steel tensile in-grace


Classification of Nouns

Occurrences

Common Nouns

Abstract (16)

Departure, Ambiguous , Precise, Law of Motion, Rhythm, Silence, Innocence, In-Grace, Strength, Movement, Theme, Epic, War

Concrete (15)

Guerilla, Poet, Leaves, Twigs, Ripples, River, Fire, Trees, Bushes, Rocks, Greenery, Enemy, Flowers, Terrain, Flood, Master of myriad mages


Like other literary works that explore the theme of war, this poem employs provocative language to capture its intensity and elicit an emotional response from the reader. Many of the concrete nouns used emphasize the forest setting, with terms such as leaves, river, trees, bushes, greenery, flowers, and terrain vividly conjuring the scene. These tangible elements, commonly associated with a forest, create a setting often favored by guerilla forces as a covert base from which to monitor and strategically attack their enemies.


These concrete nouns are also accompanied by the vocabularies-descriptors and actions that tap our senses in sight, hearing, smell, and touch. The use of these help us to visualize more the poem as we read it, making it easier for us to picture the guerilla in our mind as he moves as one in the setting.


Each word sets the sensory tone—auditory, visual, tactile, or rhythmic—and connects the reader to the vivid imagery of the natural environment. They function as bridges to the natural elements, providing dynamic qualities or relationships.

Abstract nouns, on the other hand, appear in the poem almost as frequently as concrete nouns. While the latter depict the imagery of the forest—emphasizing a natural, ever-changing battleground—the former primarily describe the guerrilla himself, particularly his movements in harmony with the forest’s camouflage. Additionally, the action words preceding these abstract nouns, such as keen, has merged, enrhymed, and moves, further enhance their significance, allowing readers to visualize the precise nature of the guerrilla’s movements. This idea is ultimately encapsulated in the first line of the final stanza: “an endless movement of strength.”

Both types of common nouns serve to reinforce the poem’s central theme by complementing one another, effectively highlighting the guerrilla’s adaptability and resilience—qualities that also parallel those of the poet. Furthermore, this interplay between nouns enhances the poem’s accessibility and relatability by strengthening the connection between the two personas. While the vocabulary predominantly aligns with the guerrilla’s perspective, the poem’s structure—characterized by the use of figurative language—remains distinctly poetic.

2.2.2 Deviation


In addition to anaphora, which will be discussed later, one of the most striking elements I noticed upon my initial reading is the poem’s final stanza. Who could possibly overlook it?

If we examine the preceding stanzas, we notice that their first lines follow a consistent pattern. However, upon reaching the last stanza, this pattern abruptly changes—an unexpected shift that naturally catches the reader’s attention.

In linguistics, deviation is one of the forms of “strangeness” that can be found in literary works. Such a break in pattern serves various purposes, but in this poem, its primary function is to create emphasis and draw attention.

A closer analysis reveals that the first four stanzas establish the shared characteristics between the guerrilla and the poem—particularly in terms of movement and adaptation. However, in the final stanza, the voice undergoes a noticeable shift. It no longer describes the guerrilla or the poem; instead, it transforms into a direct address, as if the poet is calling out to the reader.

This deliberate deviation in structure reinforces the urgency of the poet’s message, ensuring that the reader takes notice of this final, emphatic appeal.

2.2.3 Parallel

2.2.3.1 Structural parallelism through repetition of the titular line


The repeated refrain, “The guerilla is like a poet,” is the clearest example of parallelism. This line introduces each stanza, reinforcing the central metaphor and providing rhythmic cohesion. It serves as a thematic anchor, consistently tying the guerilla’s life and craft to that of a poet.


2.3 Schemes and Troops


2.3.1 Anaphora


The line “The Guerilla is Like a Poet” is mentioned in the first line of each stanza except the last one. 


This rhetorical device, when employed in a literary piece, is most often used for the effect of emphasis. In this poem, it is used to underscore the metaphorical connection between the guerilla and the poet– making the theme more memorable and impactful.


2.3.2 Simile


The poem, particularly the recurring titular line, serves as a clear example of this figure of speech. A simile is commonly used to establish a connection between two different entities through the words like or as. In this case, it draws a direct comparison between the guerrilla and the poet, emphasizing their shared qualities and roles.


2.3.3 Metaphor

The poem as a whole operates as an extended metaphor, equating the guerrilla with a poet to underscore his deep connection and perfect harmony with nature. This comparison suggests that nature itself functions as a poetic rhythm or verse—one that the guerrilla instinctively follows, reinforcing his adaptability and seamless integration with his environment.



3. CONCLUSION

In the context of war, two contrasting yet interconnected ideas have always been placed side by side—either to be pitted against each other or to highlight their balance through their differences. A well-known example is José Rizal, who wielded his pen, and Andrés Bonifacio, who took up arms. This concept has been widely used to represent two opposing yet complementary forces fighting against oppression and the threats of war. Despite their differences in approach, both share a common theme: the struggle for freedom. In this poem, José María Sison effectively showcases these differing styles while emphasizing their shared purpose through various stylistic elements.

The title itself immediately captures the reader’s attention, signaling the presence of two personas: the guerrilla and the poet. These two figures, though distinct in method, share a unified goal. One could even argue that the poet behind this work is a prime example of how a guerrilla is like a poet, and vice versa. José María Sison, a Filipino activist and poet, demonstrates that regardless of how one chooses to fight—whether through literature or armed resistance—the underlying cause remains the same.

Written in 1968, this poem continues to resonate more than five decades later, proving that literary works like this transcend time and speak to successive generations of Filipinos. This timeless relevance also extends to literary analysis. Just as historical struggles can be revisited from different perspectives, literary works can be examined through various critical lenses, such as stylistics. This highlights the layered nature of literature, where meaning is not exhausted upon a single reading but instead unfolds through deeper analysis.

As Norman Fairclough aptly states, “Through stylistic analysis, we learn that literature is a multi-dimensional space where language has the power to shape thought, mold identity, and reflect cultural movements.”


4. APPENDIX A

THE GUERILLA IS LIKE A POET 

Jose Maria Sison


The guerilla is like a poet

Keen to the rustle of leaves

The break of twigs

The ripples of the river

The smell of fire

And the ashes of departure.


The guerilla is like a poet.

He has merged with the trees

The bushes and the rocks

Ambiguous but precise

Well-versed on the law of motion

And master of myriad images. 


The guerilla is like a poet.

Enrhymed with nature

The subtle rhythm of the greenery

The inner silence, the outer innocence

The steel tensile in-grace

That ensnares the enemy.


The guerilla is like a poet.

He moves with the green brown multitude

In bush burning with red flowers

That crown and hearten all

Swarming the terrain as a flood

Marching at last against the stronghold.


An endless movement of strength

Behold the protracted theme:

The people’s epic, the people’s war.



5. BIBLIOGRAPHY


https://www.bulatlat.com/news/2-44/2-44-sison.html

https://www.wjrr.org/download_data/WJRR0305032.pdf



1/4/25

Imagination: From Play Money to Story Pages

1/04/2025



I can’t quite recall which dream came first, but I know I wanted to be both a cashier and a halo-halo vendor even before I fully understood the concept of a "dream." Like many young girls, I dreamed of having my own toy cash register at home. I remember begging my mom to persuade my godmother—who lived just a short walk away—to buy me one. Back then, it was just a simple play-money cash drawer, nothing like the sophisticated electronic cash registers you see online today with built-in calculators, checkout scanners, weight scales, and even microphones. That little toy was priced at about one hundred and fifty pesos, which felt like a small fortune given our financial situation. That’s why I had to plead with my mom to shamelessly ask my godmother to give it to me as a Christmas gift. To my delight, after two Christmases had passed, my godmother finally handed me the much-coveted cash drawer. She even joked that it would be her last gift, as I’d no longer be a child by the next Christmas.

As for wanting to become a halo-halo vendor, it wasn’t exactly a steady dream. It only came to mind every summer when a lady in our neighborhood became the talk of the town for her delicious halo-halo. She had a way of skillfully layering the ingredients in such an inviting, mouthwatering way, topping it all with a spoonful of ube halaya, a rectangular slice of leche flan, and a generous drizzle of evaporated milk. Watching her work her magic, I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. I imagined myself standing in her spot, wearing an oversized, earth-toned shirt fluttering in the humid summer breeze, with my hands expertly crafting desserts for a crowd of eager kids.

But those dreams were eventually replaced by another when a few of my grade school classmates complimented me on how neatly I had drawn a stick house on my pad paper. That little push was all it took for me to tell my mom I wanted to become an architect. I didn’t realize how naive I was to think that simply drawing a straight stick house qualified me to be an architect. Still, it was quite the leap from my earlier dreams, wasn’t it?

Then came second grade. I remember the same teacher who confidently—but perhaps mistakenly—taught us to pronounce "animals" as aniMOLS. Ironically, she was also the one who convinced me to change my dream to becoming a teacher. No, it wasn’t her pronunciation that inspired me, but a specific moment that stuck with me. One day, she was clearly unwell, coughing between sentences and looking utterly exhausted. Yet, there she was, tapping the blackboard with her stick and dictating words for us to write down. It was the third time in my young life that I found myself admiring someone’s sheer determination. Despite her obvious discomfort, she showed up to teach us. That moment struck a chord deep within me—a calling, perhaps. I wanted to be like her. I wanted to inspire another child, just as I was inspired, by showing how the drive to educate could push through even the physical discomfort of illness. From then on, I held a newfound respect for teachers and their craft. It became a driving force behind my dedication to my studies. I wanted to honor the knowledge and lessons they gave me by not letting them go to waste. For a time, I thought that would be my final dream: to become a teacher.

But then, the summer before fourth grade arrived. One day, I went downstairs to invite my friends—who were renting the room below our house—to play outside. To my surprise, when I peeked into their room, they were completely engrossed in their notebooks, writing furiously. They were so focused they didn’t even look up when I called to them. It wasn’t until I called a second time that one of them finally acknowledged me, only to say they couldn’t come out because they had to keep writing. I felt a little hurt at first, but since they were my only playmates that day, I decided to step into their room out of curiosity. I silently watched them write, their hands moving so fast across the pages that it seemed like the words were pouring out of nowhere. Unable to hold back my amazement, I thought out loud, “Where are those words even coming from?” One of them, without missing a beat, responded nonchalantly, “Imagination.”

Imagination?

It was the very first time I had heard that word. I let each syllable roll on my tongue, trying to link it to something familiar in my memory—anything that could help me define it without having to ask. But I couldn’t find anything. Finally, I asked them directly: what was imagination, and what did it have to do with what they were writing? Patiently, they explained. Imagination, they said, was the ideas they created in their minds—made-up scenarios and worlds—that they poured into words when writing stories. 

At that moment, something clicked inside me. It was the exact same awe I had felt when I watched my teacher coughing at the blackboard, her chalk-dusted fingers unwavering in their duty. But this time, it was as if I was transported to another realm. When I mouthed the word imagination out loud for the first time, I felt as though I had stepped into a universe dotted with countless stars. I saw a unicorn with smooth, milky-pink skin and a single spiraling horn glinting in the light. I saw magic, superpowers, and endless possibilities. That moment was monumental—a catalyst for what would become my lifelong dream. I didn’t start writing immediately, but I became utterly fascinated by words. Literally, every word, everywhere. I began scanning textbooks—whether English or Math—and studied how words formed sentences, and how sentences turned into paragraphs. Even technical instructions in Math books caught my attention. I questioned everything: why were the words in literature so different from those in Math? How were they chosen to suit their purpose?

It was a transformative period for me. By fourth grade, I had written my first story—a Wattpad-like love story about high schoolers navigating friendships, heartbreaks, and the fear of stepping into college. I shared it with my classmates, and their praise was overwhelming. They encouraged me to write more, sparking a confidence I had never felt before. By the time I started high school, I already knew what I wanted to become:

I wanted to become a writer. 

That was always my response whenever someone asked me about my dream. This question was a common one for high schoolers, who, in just four years, would have to choose a course aligned with their aspirations. Unlike my earlier dreams—which came and went quickly—this one stayed with me from the moment I discovered it, lasting well into high school. I was confident it wouldn’t change. It felt final, certain, like the one thing I was truly meant to pursue. So, I kept writing. After school, I spent hours imagining and crafting stories, doing little else. Looking back, I might have seemed like an addict—obsessed with writing and nothing else. I vividly remember gathering the blank pages from my old notebooks, sewing them together to create one thick book to house my stories. I even had a friend once ask how I managed to fill up those thick notebooks with words. Honestly, I had no clear answer. It just felt natural, like a stream that never stopped flowing. There were no dead ends, just an endless surge of ideas waiting to be written. 

Time flew by unnoticed, and before I knew it, I was in my senior year of high school. One of the best memories I have from that time—perhaps the best—happened just before graduation. I ran into my English teacher as she was heading downstairs. She stopped me in my tracks, smiled, and asked about the latest essay I’d written. Then she told me it was great. I don’t quite remember how I reacted at that moment, but I’m sure I thanked her. As we parted ways, I struggled to contain my giddiness. Her words stayed with me, lighting a spark of pride and motivation within me. Not long after that, I had another encounter with her. This time, I approached her with a question that had been weighing on my mind: what course would be best for someone like me, dreaming of becoming a writer? Without hesitation, she suggested Journalism. 

But my entrance exam score wasn’t high enough for me to pursue Journalism in college, so I ended up with my second choice: majoring in English. At the time, it felt like a mistake. It seemed like everyone in this course was in the same boat—people who hadn’t passed their first-choice programs. I resented it at first. It felt like a constant reminder of why I couldn’t study Journalism, and to make matters worse, I had no clue what this course was really about. At one point, I was so frustrated that I seriously considered dropping out and transferring to a more "practical" course. But then, something convinced me to stay. 

And do you know what it was? Writing.

If I’m not mistaken, our first play was based on Greek mythology, though we drew inspiration from the movie Gods of Egypt. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote in the script, but I clearly remember how much I enjoyed the entire process—brainstorming, conceptualizing, writing, and distributing the final output to the production team. It’s always the act of writing that makes me feel seen. I felt that way every time we were preparing a play for our productions. It might sound cringy, but this was when I truly felt like I was living with a purpose. There’s something about having a purpose that makes you feel like a good person—and writing gives me that sense. It helps me find beauty in every little moment and honor it through words. Honestly, if it weren’t for the plays we wrote, I don’t think I would have enjoyed my college life as much. 

Writing saved me.

I thought it would always be that way—saving me every time I fell. But after graduation, life happened. Life gutted me and flung me into a bottomless abyss. At that time, I almost accepted that I would be trapped there—in a dark, lonely pit of life where nothing could save me. Going to work as a first-time employee felt like dragging myself through each day. The moment I stepped outside our house, I felt like I was close to dying. It was as though a heavy cloud hovered above me, pouring rain and thunder, keeping me on the edge of tears, even while simply working at my computer. I always had that lump in my throat that kept my lips sealed because if I opened them, I might burst into tears—and I didn’t want to scare anyone at work. This went on for months—months of just surviving and merely existing. Then, one day in November, our operational manager hushed the office and asked for everyone's attention. She announced that for our year-end party, there would be another friendly competition for all the teams, just like in previous years. This time, however, it would be a short film contest. That meant we had to prepare a script—had to write.

In that very moment, amidst all the excitement, I found myself rising from an unknown yet familiar depth. I realized, in that brief instant, that I had been in a much darker place, and the tension I felt was more intense as I struggled to reach the surface. I was lost in thought, yet I could hear my coworkers encouraging me to lead our team and write the script because they knew I used to write. I felt the rush of air filling my lungs as I nodded absent-mindedly to them. I could hear my heavy breathing echoing in my chest, syncing with the beat of my heart.

I let out a relieved sigh. 

Finally, the relief of breathing freely again. Then, the depth of loneliness was replaced by the gentle pull of gravity, and everything from that point on began to feel brighter and clearer. The heavy cloud above my head dispersed, and was replaced by a spark of hope.

Regrettably, we didn’t win Best Picture, but I did win Best Director. Still, I was beyond blissful. The confidence I had lost after graduation finally found its way back to me. I broke down the walls I had built between myself and my coworkers and started joking around with them. It led me back to my old self—the one who could be good at something once she put her mind to it. From being ranked the lowest, I managed to work my way up. That short film contest helped me trust myself again, and it enabled me to perform at my best at work, eventually earning multiple star awards. Looking back, it produced fruitful outcomes when I was reminded of what gave my life meaning—the same dream that could save me.

Writing has saved me once again. And it always will.

I’m now writing whenever I can, even though I have to force myself sometimes. I still haven’t been able to pursue writing as a full-time profession because I have other priorities right now that can support me financially and help me achieve my other goals. Looking back, I regret putting writing aside while I was focused on my practical work, thinking I could pick it up later. But writing, like any skill, needs to be continuously cultivated. It may not be one of my top priorities at the moment, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let it stagnate, thinking it will magically return to the same state when I pick it up again. For me, writing is about simply writing—nothing fancy, no beating around the bush. I just need to write and keep doing it.

I’ve realized I shouldn’t loathe my current job just because I’m not able to pursue my dream right now. Instead, I can use it as a stepping stone to help me get closer to my goal.

It may not be my time yet. But if that time never comes, I’ll always have my own space to retreat to, open my laptop, and remember that writing will always welcome me back... just like right now, as I’m writing.