Happy New Year

Nonfiction by | May 11, 2026

I looked at the cracked skin under my nails. A lifetime of nail-biting had caused a constant prickle on my fingertips. I’d grown used to it, like most pains.

I inhaled the cigarette I had just lit. I hated the smell of tar. It burned my nose the same way gasoline did whenever the family car was refueled. Synthetic, acrid. Addictive. At gas stations, I would lean my head out the car window to inhale the fumes in secret before Mom slapped me back inside for wasting the air-conditioning. I hadn’t seen her in five years.

The sun was barely rising as I reflected on the past few days. An anthropologist friend and I had traveled to the uplands to film a documentary on the Obu Manuvu and their New Year practices. It was a beautiful community gathering. Their cultural attire danced in waves of color. The embers glowed so hot I could taste the roasted native chicken in the air. The Datu chanted prayers of thanksgiving in the rites of Panubaran. Great care was taken to preserve and pass down these ancestral practices to future generations. As I watched the children play while their parents prayed along in thanksgiving, the Datu’s words echoed in my mind.

“Let us not throw away our family’s own culture. It will fight for us.”

Even before I ran away, New Year’s with my family was never as vibrant as the feast I had witnessed. But our simple celebration carried hearty meals, shared laughter with my siblings, and Mom’s prayers for each of us. We were not a family big on tradition, but every year after media noche, we would gather in the living room to watch movies. It was warm and delightful. It was home.

Since leaving, I spent New Year’s Eve alone. Once, I attended a party hosted by a friend on New Year’s for those he called “friends without families.” But I had a family. One that, like many things I’d gotten used to, occupied less mental space as the years passed. I knew my heart missed them. I had settled into a life alone by running away from past hurts, but I also ran from those I valued — a family I would fight for.

The sunrise had kissed my skin when I stomped out the cigarette. My last, I told myself. I had made a mental checklist of movies I wanted to watch with my family when my friend asked if I was ready to go home.

I was.

Edwin “Ed” David J. Priete is a filmmaker, educator, and media producer from Davao City whose stories focus on social impact, mental health awareness, and cultural identity. A BA Communication and Media Arts graduate of UP Mindanao, he explores themes of trauma and recovery in his works, which have been featured and screened locally and internationally.

Ing’d a Pimbatan

Poetry by | May 11, 2026

Sa ing’d nami a pimbatan,
Nambabamatan s’nang a bulawan,
Mga huni ng ibon sa kakahuyan,
Agos ng tubig, simoy ng hanging may kapayapaan.

Sa ing’d nami a pimbatan,
Gagalaw kami a mga kangudan,
Sa puso nami’y buhay ang kagalakan,
Sa kabila ng karimlang taglay ng kasaysayan.

Sa ing’d nami a pimbatan,
Madakel a natala karasayan,
Mga nalagas na buhay sa digmaan,
Bata, matanda, babae’t may kapansanan.

Sa ing’d nami a pimbatan,
Dili gaawa su inam,
Pag-asa’y unti-untiing nasisilayan,
Babangon para sa kinabukasan.

Sa ing’d nami a pimbatan,
Bangsamoro, seka na imaman,
Tayo ay nakalaan,
Sa bayang may kasaganaan.

Sa ing’d nami a pimbatan,
Pagpupugay sa mga nakipaglaban,
Timind’g sa kamarasayan,
Sila’y patuloy pahalagahan.

Sa aming mahal na bayan,
Su ngala nengka na bagingatan,
Itatama ang mga kamalian,
A nakapamula sa kanilan a pagitungan.

Sa aming ing’d a pimbatan,
Kultura’y ‘mbibidaya man,
P’dtaliman kahit sino ka man,
Pagkakaiba na bamagayunan.

English Translation Continue reading Ing’d a Pimbatan

Putol nga Tudlo

Poetry by | May 11, 2026

Gitawag siya sa aghat sa tingusbawan
Gitawag siya sa usa ka masuso nga walay inahan
Gitawag siya.. nanghupaw siya sa iyang nadungog
Ang iyang kasingkasing nahimong tipik sa dagat
Hulhog sa pagyukbo sa sanag
Nga bandila sa iyang ugma.
Dili kini ang gubat sa Pharsalus.
Wala si Lucan sa imong kiliran
Sa tiilan sa inosenteng
Mga mata nangaliyupo siya nga
Ihan-ay sa palad sa iyang bansagon
Ang kahapsay sa bawod
Nga maoy nagmatuto kaniya nga alaot.
Lunod-patay ang iyang mithi
Nunot sa kaisog ang iyang
Talandugon nga kasingkasing
Sa iyang mga mata masil-ipan ang pahiyom
Sa usa ka bata. Sa nataran sa iyang
Ginikanan gisablay ang gusbat niya nga
Tsinelas nga walay pares.
Mga galon sa tuba sa miaging panag-ambitay
Sa kalaay ug kalipay. Mga sulagmang
Gugma human sa kaadlawon sa unang
Pagsubang sa kabatan-on.
Taliwala sa pormal nga edukasyon
Sa kasingkasing ug sa kinabuhing yano
Dihay nangaangol nga mga panumdoman
Nga minunot nas samad sa mortalidad
Nagsulsol kaniya nga iambit ang tipik
Sa iyang kalibotan, bisan tuod sa iyang
Sukwahi o bisan tungod sa kahaw-ang
Sa iyang kabangkaagan
Sugal ang kinabuhi, Undo, sumala sa
Bangkero nga iyang higala.
Ang kalibotan nagtuyok apan halapad
Ang panan-aw sa mga kuwanggol nga
Nagtimon sa binalay-balay nga gambalay
Sa balaanong kalibotan nga gilangkuban
Og kasubo, kasilag, kahanggaw, kapaaw
Sa sulondong pagtimon sa gilaumang damlag
Nahinumdoman niya si Pushkin
Nga mibiya sa dagat niyang gihigugma
Mikaway siya sa iyang pagbiya
Diha sa baybayon napatik ang mapa sa kasubo
Ang hinaot nga mohapsay ang bawod
Gituya-tuya sa kabalaka ug kahaw-ang
Mga bawod nakigduhawit sa kasingkasing
Nag-awit ang dagat og awit sa kaisog
Maisugon siyang gitutokan ang mata sa bata
Nangayo siyag katahoran sa labing giyukboan
Niyang mata nga tugob sa kainosente.
Unsa man diay ang presyo nga atong bayaran
Aron lamang maangkon ang katahom
Sa matuod nga pahiyom niining maong bata?
Dulce et decorum est ?
Pro patria mori?
Apan sa iyang pagdunggo pagbalik
Balik sa baybayon sa iyang dagat
Diha sa iyang pagkab-ot sa iyang mga kamot
Ug paghalad og init nga gakos
Gipangutana siya sa bata
Nga dugay rang nanganti sa iyang pagbalik,

“Kinsay nagputol sa imong tudlo?”

A poem for Seaman First Class Jeffrey Facundo of the Philippine Navy, who lost his right thumb during a sea clash with China on June 17, 2024 .

Si Leonel Quillo usa ka Mindanawon apan gipadako sa Sugbo. Siya ang kasamtangang Literary Editor sa BISAYA. Siya usab usa ka magbabalak, filmmaker ug kasamtang gapuyo sa Intramuros Manila.

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.