4/28/25

Nanay's Third Death Anniversary

4/28/2025

Today is my Nanay’s third death anniversary.

It’s been three years, and it still feels strange—strange that she’s no longer here. It feels like only yesterday... but I guess it's a distant kind of yesterday, when she was still in the other room, lying on her wooden bed, its headboard wallpapered with cute teddy prints. She was breathing—heavier than a couple of years before. Her face had thinned with age, eyes unfocused, as if she was seeing more ghosts than people. Even just a sip of water took big, labored gulps through a plastic straw.

I still remember that afternoon. I thought it was just another COVID-filled day. It was the same date as today. Who would have thought that three years later, I’d still be fighting tears over her loss?

It was just another day of tapping and clicking at work. I remember the last long glance I had at her before that night. I had gone downstairs to get myself a glass of ice water. It was summer, and I felt drenched. Nanay was sleeping peacefully. Looking back now, I feel so sad. She had grown thinner than I remembered. She used to be so full of fire for a grandmother: long face, lips always tight, eyes flaring with emotion. She was an Amazona—truly. Born in 1931, a product of traumatic wars, she survived life’s cruelties and had no choice but to be angry at the world. Maybe that was the only way she knew how to live. She had a glorious past behind her, and now the only way to feel her breathe again is to remember the good old days while trying to silence the lingering guilt I still carry from the night I tried to revive her.

Nayyyy!

I let out a long, whimpering whisper of pain through her name. I thought that mumbling it into the dead air of April 28th might somehow fill her lungs again, as if her name alone could breathe life back into her while I kept pumping her chest.

I didn’t understand why they were just standing there beside me, looking down at her frail, unresponsive body—only weeping, only wiping their faces. Why weren’t they helping me call her back to life?

I wouldn’t stop. I kept pressing on her chest, even as the painful knowing crept in that... all the air inside her had already left.

Nayyyy...

One more pump.

Two more. This time, a little faster.

Three, I guess.

They were already holding my wrist to stop me. I looked at them—full of anger, frustration, and a thousand whys. Why weren’t you helping me?

Again.

I don’t remember how many pumps I did, or how numb my wrists had become. The last thing I remember was heaving, hopeless, detached from my own body. I had no energy left, not even to cry. Then... slowly... the cold began to spread through her body. The warmth of her long days had drained away. The fingers I was holding onto—lanky and lifeless—sent a shiver down my spine. In just a split second, she depleted. Her cheeks vanished from her face. Her mouth hung open, softly, as if her spirit had slipped out from there and joined the evening breeze. Her whole frame looked like those skeleton models I used to see in science class back in grade school.

That night, it was hard for me to cry and because of that, I felt like I was a bad granddaughter. We were too busy accommodating visitors to properly mourn her. It was 2022, and we were still under lockdown. And it wasn’t the kind of funeral Nanay deserved.

We offered forced smiles, instant coffee, biscuits, and small, polite words. We were only allowed three days for the wake. And for those three days, we were tired but moving—sad and busy—running papers, counting paper money. Three days felt too short to mourn her, yet weirdly long, like the funeral had gone on forever.

And during those three days, I didn’t cry. I didn’t even peek into her coffin. I didn’t want to let her go. The face I wanted to remember was the one from when she was still alive—the one always frowning, scowling, irritated by life, by the noise of the neighborhood, even by the sound of people breathing. But those faces were also full of endurance, forgiveness, and love. They were the faces that, even after three years, I still wish and pray to see... if only in a nightmare.

If ghosts were real, how I wish she would haunt me. She was a scary Asian granny but she was exactly what I need.

On the last night of her funeral, I cried finally. My body shook from such intense weeping I thought I could die. It was the first time I saw her face since she left. She was pretty (still pretty scary hehe). No amount of cosmetics could hide the loveliness dressed in anger. She looked at peace, as if simply taking one of her routine afternoon naps under the blazing summer sun.

It has been three years, and everything is still so clear to me. So clear that it feels like the Thea who tried to revive her that night never really left that moment...stuck there until today. I can still see her—lost, gawking at that deserted bed, questioning the world and blaming the heavens over and over. She’s still there, with no lights on, alone. Maybe afraid. Maybe already used to the dark. Sometimes she still struggles to take even the smallest step, to open the door and come out.

It has already been three years, and it’s still heavy. Still strange.

Sometimes it feels like she’s just away—maybe on vacation. Maybe she went back to Cebu, her hometown. Or maybe she walked to Baclaran Church to pray. Maybe she’s just strolling around the neighborhood, scolding street kids for being too loud.

Three years have passed, and I’m still here. Still carrying guilt for all the things I did wrong to her.

Nay, I still haven’t had a good cry.

I wonder... when will I be able to?

I miss you… so much that sometimes I wish I were just there with you already.

Why does life make us crumble?

Why does it have to be this hard?

Why does it feel like the only way to live is to survive?

Do I even deserve to be happy—or not, because I was a bad person? Why is it so easy to believe the worst about yourself?

It’s so hard sometimes, Nay.

4/27/25

House of Hummingbird

4/27/2025

There’s really something about watching and finishing a movie on a Sunday afternoon. House of Hummingbird had been sitting in my Letterboxd watchlist for quite some time. Like many other films—and like the usual excuse I give whenever I can’t find time to watch something—life happened. Sure, it did. But life happens every day, so deep down, I knew I was just making excuses. I recently shared that I’ve been trying to live with more slowness, softness, and stillness. And yet, there I was again, spiraling into another round of doom scrolling. It usually takes me days to convince myself that it’s okay to slip up now and then—but really, I was just tolerating my own indolence. So, a few days ago, I made a conscious effort to get back on track: starting the day with a 10-minute stretching routine before shifting into work mode, eating meals on time, and taking my vitamins to jumpstart the day. When work gets too intense, I make sure to take small breaks: breathing deeply, stepping away from my desk, playing with Pino. Since summer’s been especially harsh and unforgiving in the afternoons, I’ve made it a habit to shower during my lunch break and again before bed. It helps cool down the lingering heat clinging to my skin. After clocking out (and if I’m in a decent mood) I’ll clean the floor downstairs and wash whatever dishes are left in the sink. I have a rule: no lying down until I actually intend to nap. So maybe I come off like a clean freak, but really, I’m not. I just like having a rhythm. I spend the rest of the afternoon on things I enjoy: picking up The Goldfinch from where I last left off, checking a film off my watchlist, and making sure to squeeze in a bit of Duolingo time learning Japanese.


I usually take a nap for an hour or so, then get myself ready to take Pino out for a late-afternoon walk. After we return home, everything flows naturally into our evening routine. Before ending the day, I always do another round of stretching, followed by a journal entry.

Sounds hectic?

Of course, I know life is unpredictable, and it’s important to leave space for spontaneity. Still, ever since I started practicing slow living, I’ve felt more grounded and focused. I no longer spend so much time on activities that don’t add value to my day. This shift has brought clarity and I’ve realized I’m not actually busy; I’ve just been managing my time poorly. In the span of a week or so, I managed to finish two movies—Everything Everywhere All at Once and The Life List. And today, just earlier, House of Hummingbird. House of Hummingbird is the kind of film I’d place beside Perfect Days and Paterson. It portrays the quiet, imperfect life of a family—one that feels real. They cry awkwardly at the dinner table, bicker and fight, and secretly wish they had the freedom to live apart. It captures the messiness of living under the same roof, where love and tension quietly coexist.


One of the most relatable and remarkable scenes for me is when Dae-Hoon, the second child and only son, breaks down near the end of the film. It happens on the same day the Seongsu Bridge collapses. Soo-Hee, the eldest, had taken the route where the bus involved in the accident passed through. To the family’s immense relief, she survived...only because she was running late that day. At dinner, their father casually brings up the incident, trying to downplay the tension and lighten the mood, even as everyone remains visibly shaken. I didn’t expect Dae-Hoon to be the one to break. He reveals how deeply affected he was by the accident, despite how emotionally distant the family had seemed from one another. It reminded me of a similar moment with their father. When he took Eun-Hee, the youngest, to the hospital and learned she needed surgery for a lump behind her right ear. Both were stunned, but it was the father who appeared more shaken. Like Dae-Hoon, it was unexpected to see him cry. These rare cracks in their stoic family dynamic made the emotional undercurrent of the film feel all the more powerful.


I would say that their family is very much like ours. I grew up in a home where it felt more natural not to talk things out—where we let things pass until they faded from memory. We were awkward when faced with moments that called for visible vulnerability. We often fled from opportunities to show our real and raw emotions. When someone cried, it made everyone uncomfortable, simply because we never learned how to handle those moments. I still remember the night I broke down in tears. It was during pandemic and my work started at 7 a.m., and by the time it reached 9 p.m. (which is well past my eight working hours) I was still pushing through, trying to meet my quota. I was exhausted, hopeless, desperate for rest, but couldn’t stop. In the middle of my frustration, I accidentally broke my eyeglasses. The lenses popped out of the frame, and I couldn’t see anymore. I hated my life in that moment. Instead of forcing myself to keep working, I decided to take a shower and clear my mind. But even that didn’t go right. The towel I needed was hanging from the ceiling, and I couldn’t find the hook I use to grab it. Frustrated all over again, I gave up, slumped to the floor, and cried hard. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. And as expected, they just watched me. No one handed me a towel. No one offered comfort. No one even asked what was wrong. They just whispered among themselves in the background, then quietly went downstairs to eat dinner. I didn’t get mad. Of course not. Why would I? We simply weren’t raised to cry in front of each other. It was never part of our home.


So, I found that scene deeply relatable. I guess, at that moment, Dae-Hoon just couldn’t hold it in any longer. It had become too heavy, too much to suppress even if he didn’t want to let it show.



The next scene takes place the day after their parents had a fight. That night, they argued over their eldest daughter, and in a burst of anger, their mother accidentally hit their father. The night lamp shattered, and shards of glass cut into his forearm. Later, in their shared room, Eun-Hee asked her sister why their family was so messed up. Soo-Hee didn’t answer the question directly, but simply said that maybe they should all live separately. The next morning, Eun-Hee walked out of her room to find her parents laughing together in front of the TV, as if nothing had happened the night before. And just like Eun-Hee, I’ve felt that same strange comfort whenever I saw my own parents make amends after a fight. It warmed my heart, bringing a sense of relief. But at the same time, it left me wondering—is that what being married is like? Do couples argue so intensely that they seem like they want to kill each other, only to laugh together again once the anger has died down? It reminded me of a scene from Marriage Story, starring Scarlett Johansson and Adam Driver. There’s a moment where their fight escalates into shouting, cursing, and bitter accusations. Then, in the heat of the moment, Adam’s character breaks down and screams that he wishes she were dead. The words catch even him by surprise. Scarlett’s character is stunned too but there’s something tender in her expression, as if she understood the pain behind his words, and knew he didn’t truly mean it. As Adam collapses into tears, she quietly approaches and embraces him. It was heartbreaking.


Even though it happened a long time ago, I can still hear the sounds of my parents' fights. The crashing of plates hitting the floor. The sharp, painful edge in my mother’s voice. The silence of my father, who would just sit on the bed, eyes fixed on a basketball game on TV, trying to ignore her outburst. My siblings and I, as if by routine, would quietly head downstairs to our cousins’ room, trying to distance ourselves though we could still hear everything. I used to brush it off, but the truth is, those arguments stayed with me. They shaped how I viewed married life, even as a child. And while the impact still lingers, I’ve come to think: maybe it’s better to hear them argue than to watch them ignore each other completely? Just like in the movie scene, I’d see them the next day—talking, laughing, acting as if nothing had happened. I guess... that’s just how some married couples are?


Before the family found out about Eun-Hee’s lump behind her right ear, we saw her quietly going to the doctor on her own. At just fifteen, she took the bus by herself and faced the possibility of bad news...alone. I don’t think I could’ve done that at her age. Commuting by myself, seeing a doctor despite all the worst-case scenarios running through my head? I would’ve needed my mom with me.


What struck me even more was that Eun-Hee didn’t get angry at her parents for not being there. She stayed calm, composed, and brave. Earlier in the film, there was a scene where she approached her mom, who was resting in the living room, and mentioned the discomfort she was feeling in her ear. Her mother acknowledged it, but she didn’t seem too concerned. There was no sense of urgency, instead she quickly shifted the conversation and even asked Eun-Hee to put pain relief patches on her shoulder blades. That moment felt painfully familiar. There were many times when I told my mom I wasn’t feeling well, only for her to brush it off or redirect the conversation. She would often say something like, “I feel that way too. I just drink this or that and I’m fine.” Even now, it still happens. So over time, I stopped telling her when something felt wrong with my body. I learned to keep it to myself.


Watching House of Hummingbird feels like watching your own family reflected in a mirror. It captures the quiet, sometimes suffocating rhythms of a household with an average life status. One where everyone knows each other too well, down to the point of getting irritated by something as small as the way someone breathes. Growing up, I used to wish I had a room of my own. Somewhere I could feel my emotions freely and release them as they came. But we didn’t have rooms. The only privacy we had, if you could even call it that, was the small spot we each occupied on a shared bed. The only safe spaces to be vulnerable were either in the bathroom or somewhere outside the house. There were moments when we hated each other. And many more moments when I wished I came from a different kind of family—one that would let me speak my thoughts without being dismissed. A family that would really listen. One that celebrated small wins, showed care openly, and offered emotional support without hesitation. At home, we were on our own. We fought our own battles in silence, too busy surviving to look after each other emotionally. This movie quietly, yet powerfully, reflects that life. My life. My family. It’s a poem told through visual metaphors, gentle cinematography, and a masterful use of silence. It teaches you how to understand life without the noise.

It’s beautiful, in short.


It carries the color of something vintage and like the faded hue of an old newspaper at times. Its sound is like the rustling of leaves at night, when the streetlights glow in a soft, warm orange, breathing gently into the stillness of the dark, star-dotted sky. Its scent reminds me of coffee, rich and lingering, its steam hanging in midair, suspended in moments of stillness, even amidst the low hum of conversations in a crowded space. Like Eun-Hee, when she sat down to write a letter to her favorite teacher, Young-Ji, she asked—not just her, but perhaps the universe, or maybe simply herself—a question that echoed my own quiet wonderings: “Will my life start to shine someday?”



The same teacher, during a night stroll with Eun-Hee, once shared something about hands. She said: "Whenever you feel sad and tired, just look at your fingers. When you can’t feel anything, move your fingers." That scene hit me deeply. When we’re feeling down, it often feels like there’s no point in continuing. Everything becomes bland, hopeless, and colorless. We can feel stagnant—unable to move, incapable of doing anything. But when she said, “Just move your fingers,” I found myself doing exactly that. Sometimes, when we feel like we can’t do anything, even the simple act of moving a finger can remind us that we can do something. It doesn’t matter if it's something grand or just the tiniest movement. We don’t need to perform something extraordinary to prove our capability. Sometimes, even the smallest action, like moving a finger, takes effort. It requires courage. And that’s enough. Life doesn’t have to be extraordinary. Sometimes, life is found in the simplest, often overlooked moments. Life is life, no matter what.

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