tap the “play arrow” (if on mobile device, click “Listen in browser”) on the soundcloud pod below) for a la juventud
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A La Juventud Filipina
by Jose Rizal, at age 18
(“To the Filipino Youth”)
(photo from textbooks)
A La Juventud Filipina
Alza su tersa frente, Rise up, hold your head high Juventud Filipina, en este dia! Filipino youth, this moment on this day Luce resplandeciente Tu rica gallardia, Rich and resplendent like the sky Bella esperanza de la Patria Mia! Heavenly hope of the Motherland today (translation mine with profound apologies, sorry po)
(Here is the popularly accepted translation which you might like better) by Nick Joaquin
Unfold, oh timid flower !
Lift up your radiant brow, This day, Youth of my native strand ! Your abounding talents show Resplendently and grand, Fair hope of my Motherland !
♥ ♥ ♥
A La Juventud Filipina
Alza su tersa frente, Juventud Filipina, en este dia! Luce resplandeciente Tu rica gallardia, Bella esperanza de la Patria Mia!
Vuela, genio grandioso, Fly, great genius Y les infunde noble pensamiento, And infuses noble thought Que lance vigoroso, What a powerful bid Mas rapido que el viento, Faster than the wind Su mente virgen al glorioso asiento. His virgin mind to the glorious seat.
Baja con la luz grata De las artes y ciencias a la arena, Juventud, y desata La pesada cadena Que tu genio poetico encadena.
Ve que en la ardiente zona Do moraron las sombras, el hispano Esplendente corona, Con pia sabia mano, Ofrece al hijo de este suelo indiano.
Tu, que buscando subes, En alas de tu rica fantasia, Del Olimpo en las nubes Tiernisima poesia Mas sabrosa que nectar y ambrosia.
Tu, de celeste acento, Melodioso rival Filomena, Que en variado concento En la noche serena Disipas del mortal la amarga pena.
Tu que la pena dura Animas al impulso de tu mente , Y la memoria pura Del genio refulgente Eternizas con genio prepotente.
Y tu, que el vario encanto De Febo, amado del divino Apeles, Y de natura el manto Con magicos pinceles Trasladar al sencillo lienzo sueles.
Corred! que sacra llama Del genio el lauro coronar espera, Esparciendo la Fama Con trompa pregonera El nombre del mortal por la ancha espera.
Dia, dia felice, Filipinas gentil, para tu suelo! Al Potente bendice Que con amante anhelo La ventura te envia y el consuelo.
To The Philippine Youth English version
Unfold, oh timid flower !
Lift up your radiant brow, This day, Youth of my native strand ! Your abounding talents show Resplendently and grand, Fair hope of my Motherland !
Soar high, oh genius great, And with noble thoughts fill their mind; The honor’s glorious seat, May their virgin mind fly and find More rapidly than the wind.
Descend with the pleasing light Of the arts and sciences to the plain, Oh Youth, and break forthright The links of the heavy chain That your poetic genius enchain.
See that in the ardent zone, The Spaniard, where shadows stand, Doth offer a shining crown, With wise and merciful hand To the son of this Indian land.
You, who heavenward rise On wings of your rich fantasy, Seek in the Olympian skies The tenderest poesy, More sweet than divine honey;
You of heavenly harmony, On a calm unperturbed night, Philomel’s match in melody, That in varied symphony Dissipate man’s sorrow’s blight;
You at th’ impulse of your mind The hard rock animate And your mind with great pow’r consigned Transformed into immortal state The pure mem’ry of genius great;
And you, who with magic brush On canvas plain capture The varied charm of Phoebus, Loved by the divine Apelles, And the mantle of Nature;
Run ! For genius’ sacred flame Awaits the artist’s crowning Spreading far and wide the fame Throughout the sphere proclaiming With trumpet the mortal’s name
Oh, joyful, joyful day, The Almighty blessed be Who, with loving eagerness Sends you luck and happiness
for the 43 members of Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees Local 100, working at the Windows on the World restaurant, who lost their lives in the attack on the World Trade Center
Alabanza. Praise the cook with a shaven head
and a tattoo on his shoulder that said Oye,
a blue-eyed Puerto Rican with people from Fajardo,
the harbor of pirates centuries ago.
Praise the lighthouse in Fajardo, candle
glimmering white to worship the dark saint of the sea.
Alabanza. Praise the cook’s yellow Pirates cap
worn in the name of Roberto Clemente, his plane
that flamed into the ocean loaded with cans for Nicaragua,
for all the mouths chewing the ash of earthquakes.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen radio, dial clicked
even before the dial on the oven, so that music and Spanish
rose before bread. Praise the bread. Alabanza.
Praise Manhattan from a hundred and seven flights up,
like Atlantis glimpsed through the windows of an ancient aquarium.
Praise the great windows where immigrants from the kitchen
could squint and almost see their world, hear the chant of nations:
Ecuador, México, Republica Dominicana,
Haiti, Yemen, Ghana, Bangladesh.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen in the morning,
where the gas burned blue on every stove
and exhaust fans fired their diminutive propellers,
hands cracked eggs with quick thumbs
or sliced open cartons to build an altar of cans.
Alabanza. Praise the busboy’s music, the chime-chime
of his dishes and silverware in the tub.
Alabanza. Praise the dish-dog, the dishwasher
who worked that morning because another dishwasher
could not stop coughing, or because he needed overtime
to pile the sacks of rice and beans for a family
floating away on some Caribbean island plagued by frogs.
Alabanza. Praise the waitress who heard the radio in the kitchen
and sang to herself about a man gone. Alabanza.
After the thunder wilder than thunder,
after the shudder deep in the glass of the great windows,
after the radio stopped singing like a tree full of terrified frogs,
after night burst the dam of day and flooded the kitchen,
for a time the stoves glowed in darkness like the lighthouse in Fajardo,
like a cook’s soul. Soul I say, even if the dead cannot tell us
about the bristles of God’s beard because God has no face,
soul I say, to name the smoke-beings flung in constellations
across the night sky of this city and cities to come.
Alabanza I say, even if God has no face.
Alabanza. When the war began, from Manhattan and Kabul
two constellations of smoke rose and drifted to each other,
mingling in icy air, and one said with an Afghan tongue:
Teach me to dance. We have no music here.
And the other said with a Spanish tongue:
I will teach you. Music is all we have.
(poem by Martín Espada, copy-pasted from poetryfoundation.org used here non-commercially for academic purposes and in memoriam of the 2,997 fatalities of 9/11; photo by Ezra Stoller rightclicked from nymag.com “The Windows on the World dining room, on the 107th floor of the North Tower” of the World Trade Center, used here non-commercially for academic purposes, in memoriam, song by Beyoncé used here non-commercially for academic purposes, in memoriam)
