2026 Davao Writers Workshop Fellows Announced

Events | May 6, 2026

The Davao Writers Guild is proud to announce the fellows of the 2026 Davao Writers Workshop!

We received 61 applications. These 12 writers stood out:

POETRY
Aleah S. Bantas (Datu Paglas, Maguindanao del Sur)
Reina Allysa Chelsey E. Cloma (General Santos City)
Catherine R. Discorson (Alabel, Sarangani)
Jamil E. Mabandis (Cotabato City)
Paloma M. Vaflor (Banga, South Cotabato)

FICTION
Peter T. Grumo Jr. (Sta. Maria, Davao Occidental)
Divine Ashley L. Irog-irog (Island Garden City of Samal)
Nissi Odessa O. Mandanao (Lupon, Davao Oriental)
John Vincent L. Pon (Sta. Cruz, Davao del Sur)

NONFICTION
Angelo E. Pacheco III (General Santos City)
Francis N. Reginio (Davao City)

PLAY
Jeff Raiven C. Iway (Cateel, Davao Oriental)

The screening committee, composed of members of the Davao Writers Guild, selected these fellows on the basis of literary merit and potential for growth. The committee also gave consideration to geographical and gender representation. Lastly, the chosen manuscripts represent the linguistic diversity of Mindanao, spanning Binisaya, Maguindanaon, Mandaya, Filipino, and English.

The 2026 Davao Writers Workshop runs May 27–31, 2026, at Always, Aundanao, Island Garden City of Samal. It is co-presented by the Davao Writers Guild and the Initiatives for International Dialogue, with funding support from the National Commission for Culture and the Arts.

When the Langkit Loosens

Poetry by | May 4, 2026

My grandmother’s hands
once knew every thread from memory.
Not by counting,
but by feeling.

She would say,
“Every Langkit has a story.”
And I believed her,
because the Landap she wore
held more history
than the books we never had.

The Langkit used to sit proudly,
tight, bright, intact,
like the way our elders spoke
our words without shame.

Now I see it changing.
Not suddenly, but quietly,
like a thread that slips
when no one is watching.

A strand goes missing here,
another fades there,
until the pattern still looks whole
from afar,
but when you come closer,
you notice the gaps.

I tried to ask my niece
if she knew the meaning
of the designs we wear.
She smiled, soft, unsure,
said it was “just a design,”
just something nice for pictures.

And something in me
ached a little.
Because the Langkit
was never just decoration.
It was how we remembered
who we are,
without needing to say it aloud.

I still keep one Landap,
old, a little worn,
threads loosening at the edge.
I don’t fix it right away.
I let it be.

Because maybe
this is how we are now,
holding on,
but not as tight as before.
Still beautiful,
still ours,
but changing
in ways we don’t always choose.

And I wonder,
if one day
the Langkit disappears completely,
will we still call it ours?
Or will we only remember
that once,
we were woven
together.

Abdul Hakim A. Abdullah is a graduate student of the Master of Arts in English Language Teaching at Mindanao State University – Marawi. His works often explore themes of identity, resilience, and social inclusion, drawing inspiration from lived experiences within his community.

Sa Toboso 19

Poetry by | May 4, 2026

Magkakaiba ng paninindigan
pero iisa ang hinahanap,
kapayapaan.

Paano ba talaga ito makakamtan
kung ang bala ang nauuna
at nahuhuli ang usapan?

Sa isang iglap, may mga pangarap
na hindi na aabot ng umaga.
May mga pangalan
na mananahan na sa alaala

Kasalanan ba ng sundalo
kung ang utos ay sinusunod niya?

Kasalanan ba ng aktibismo
kung matagal na siyang ‘di pinakikinggan?

O baka mali ang tanong,
baka hindi sila ang dapat sisihin.

Itanong sa mga nasa itaas,
sa mga hindi kailanman sumuong sa putok
sa mga may kapangyarihang mag-utos
pero hindi nadadaplis ng pagsubok

Baka doon
may sagot.

O baka doon
nagsimula ang tanong.

Si Gine Mae L. Lagnason ay full-time faculty member mula sa Central Mindanao University. Nakapagtapos ng Master of Arts in Philippine Studies–Language, Culture, Media sa Pamantasang De La Salle-Maynila noong 2019. Pinarangalan siya ng 2022 Gawad Rolando S. Tinio sa Tagasalin (Kategoryang Nobela), o ang Translator’s Prize ng NCCA.

Where the Bulad Dries

Nonfiction by | May 4, 2026

Kaluy-i kami.
Panalipdi kami.
Tabangi kami.

I silently rushed toward my grandmother’s casket, still wearing my yellow uniform and khaki pants from Labangal National High School. I asked my sister for a piece of paper, then knelt beside the casket, watching the manghadji recite the novena prayers. Today is the final night of my grandmother’s wake. Among all my cousins, I was the only one who knew how to respond to the prayers, and so I was assigned this role. The others were outside; they were washing plates, serving food the all-nighters, and brewing coffee for those who would stay until dawn.

Mommy Rosalina, my mother’s eldest sister, was visibly upset that I had arrived late. I didn’t get the chance to explain that I had been making arrangements for an event I could no longer attend because of Lola’s untimely death. Someone had to take my place at the Peer Facilitators’ seminar. But I said nothing. I refused to speak.

My mother sat beside me and whispered, “Asa man ka gikan, Loy? Dugay lagi kaayo ka.”

I didn’t answer her. Instead, I responded to the manghadji, “Sr. San Vicente, kaluy-i kami!”

Continue reading Where the Bulad Dries

Gitling

Poetry by | April 27, 2026

Magkaharap lamang ang mga upuan
ngunit ramdam ang pagitan —
hindi kayang bagtasin ng mga titig
na pilit hindi pinapadapo
o ng magkapanabay na pagtingala
at pagyuko

Marahil may mga salitang nabubuo
at nabubuhol sa kinarpinterong espasyo —
ngunit wala sa distansya ang diperensya
kundi nasa mga matang hindi mabasa,
maliban na lang sa pihadong pagpapabatid
na kahit ng isang yakap ay hindi ito matatawid

Si Mike Ariel Plaza ay fellow ng 2015 Davao Writers Workshop. Hinahanap niya ang mga kuwento sa gitna ng espasyo, mga patlang, at katahimikang naninigaw.

Kyaringawan

Poetry by | April 27, 2026

Mawat da yang idatung mo, tin.
Yakadatung da kaw sang mawat na banwa,
Kyasumpayan da yang kammu pangan,
Pero minang awn kammu ikaringawan.

Di da kaw matigam ng kanatun pyaglawngan.
Di da kaw anad magkan ng durian.
Di da kaw ng daral aw bawlu magpakakan.
Minang awn gyud kammu ikaringawan.

Wa da kaw pagpakadungog ng kurintangan.
Wa da kaw sa kamun pagakuwang.
Wa da kaw pakagina sang kayugan.
Klaro na awn day kammu ikaringawan.

Maski wayn pa yang kammu adatungan,
Maski uno pa yang kammu kyatigaman,
Pagtadum, tin, na awn isa na di amauman –
Ka’gan kaw, sa dumduman aw pangatayan.

(Translation) Continue reading Kyaringawan

Kemohung

Nonfiction by | April 27, 2026

I never once questioned why fishes drown. The news of kemohung became so ordinary that it barely stirred a ripple in me. The word itself means “fish kill,” though, if you take it apart, it sounds like it should mean swimming. The logic never quite made sense, but we used it anyway. That’s the way with Philippine English: a word is bent out of shape but everyone understands it, so it somehow becomes right. Meaning, after all, is a shared agreement.

In Lake Sebu, fish deaths had become almost as predictable as the seasons. The Philippine News Agency even described it as a natural, periodic phenomenon. We never owned fish nets, and our home sat far from the lakes our town was known for. Farming was our source of living, so I couldn’t fully grasp the grief of those who depended on the water. If I’m being honest, I even carried a shameful gladness when kemohung came. I didn’t understand the weight of their loss; I only knew that Mamang would be happy, and so I followed her lead. To me, it meant she could cook her favorite uton bolok (rotten fish) again.

Rottenness somehow finds its way to the table as a delicacy. Our neighbor who has fish nets would knock on the door and give us some. The fish, once lifeless and floating, are cleaned and revived in a way. My brother, whom we trusted most in the kitchen, marinated them in vinegar, garlic, onions, and ginger to soften the sharp, lingering smell of death. Misfortune is now turned into something we can taste, something we can share. Our resources are limited, so nothing is wasted, not even loss. What’s better than free food anyway?

Continue reading Kemohung

Lovegrass

Poetry by | April 20, 2026

This year,
I visited my mother’s grave,
bringing a bouquet
of white chrysanthemums.

As I stood near
her headstone,
an amorseko
furiously in bloom—
unfurling a memory
long buried:

how she kept plucking
the bead-like spikes
that clung to my socks
that day, I told her
a boy had caught my heart.

Beside the wild sprout
adorned with thorns,
the flowers I clutched
were gently
laid.
And as I stood to leave,
only then
did I catch a glimpse—

of amorseko
holding on
to the hem
of my jeans.

Lourd Greggory D. Crisol is a native of Iligan City. Some of his works have appeared in anthologies such as Libulan Vol. 2, Bisaya Magazine, and Kinaiya: Antolohiya ng mga Makabagong Tinig mula sa LGBQIA++, among others.