Month: September 2016

Sanctify

Poetry by | September 25, 2016

She went to walk to the other end of the stage
Her feet rises one after the other, as if jumping,
When she reaches the other edge, she raises her arms and stands a while

She did this for many times; sometimes running,
sometimes walking. Her eyes sometimes search
she is looking for something;
There is a little girl who came with her mother

First, the wave of prayer. “Santa Maria
Madre de Dios rega por nosotros…”
It is seconded by her feet: pak pak pak pak

“…pecadores ahora y hasta para cuando…”
No one complains, no one thinks wrong of it
even if everyone sits, kneeling, praying
The Holy Virgin sits on the table

Three: A little girl’s laughter
“Amen.”

Floraime is a Basileña who majored in Literature, Linguistics, and Language Teaching at the Iligan Institute of Technology of the Mindanao State University. She is currently teaching subjects on Literary and Language Studies in the same university. The poem “Santifica” is the first Chabacano literary piece ever published in Dagmay. “Sanctify” is the approximation of the meaning in the Chabacano language, and not the translation, as indicated by the author herself.

Gatsby Wears Levi’s (Part 1)

Nonfiction by | September 25, 2016

My dad loves expensive clothing brands. He bought his first pair of Levi’s when he got his first pay.

This, people would assume, stemmed from the lack of luxury he experienced during his childhood. But there is more to it than just that. He would rather own just one pair of Levi’s than a dozen low quality jeans.

Dipolog, 1970

When he was only fourteen years old, my dad became the head of his family. Two successive deaths made him the caretaker of his mother and three younger siblings. His father (Jose), according to my lola, was stabbed multiple times by at least ten men because he wanted to build what could have been the first copra mill in their town. Later on, I’d learn that these men were members of the National People’s Army. Later on, I’d also learn that it was because lolo Jose left a woman heartbroken (having learned that he was already married to my lola), and that woman happened to be the sister of the NPA’s commander.

His eldest brother, Manolito, too young and too brave, joined the military to avenge their father only to be killed a month after. Both their deaths were accounted to the same rebel group.

Dad grew up in a town where relatives treated other members based on their status and the material things they own. Dad and his siblings ranked at the bottom because they wore nothing but relief clothes (relip or ukay) that lola had bought from the market. These clothes never fit them right. These were always too big and their color too pale, opposite to their cousins who were lavished with clothes from Dubai.

Dad’s sisters did the laundry. And the contrast of their clothes was obvious: while their cousins’ shirts hanged outstretched and clipped tightly to the rope, theirs were dumped in clumps and stacked sloppy on top of each bamboo pole.

I thought my dad, as a kid, surely must have complained about things. I was wrong.

Continue reading Gatsby Wears Levi’s (Part 1)

Santifica

Poetry by | September 25, 2016

Ya anda le kamina para na otro punta del entablado
Ta alsa alsa un pies acaba el su otro, como ta brinca brinca,
Llega otro lao, ya alsa le su maga braso y ya para un rato
antes le abaha na jutay escalera del entablado

Ya hace ste ele por cuanto vezes; tiene vez ta kore,
tiene vez, ta camina. Su ohos tiene vez ta mira mira
na areredor, como tiene kosa ta anda busca;
Tiene jutay mujer ya anda sigui con su nana

Una, el avenida del reso. “Santa Maria
Madre de Dios rega por nosotros…”
Ta segunda su maga pies: pak pak pak pak

“…pecadores ahora y hasta para cuando…”
No hay quien ta reklama, hende ta pensa malo
masquin sila todo ta sinta, hinca, y ta resa
El santissima virgen cintao lang alya na mesa

Tres: Risas del jutay bata mujer.
“Amen.”

Floraime is a Basileña who majored in Literature, Linguistics, and Language Teaching at the Iligan Institute of Technology of the Mindanao State University. She is currently teaching subjects on Literary and Language Studies in the same university. The poem “Santifica” is the first Chabacano literary piece ever published in Dagmay. “Sanctify” is the approximation of the meaning in the Chabacano language, and not the translation, as indicated by the author herself. You may find the English translation of this poem here.

The Story of Lake Mainit

Poetry by | September 18, 2016

The virgin forest
The rain forest
The orchids of the forest
The gold and silver of the forest
The unending music of the sky
The waltz of clouds
The rolling hills of clouds
The roaring thunder,
The sparkling lightning
The heaven of silence
The beautiful sleeping lady
White dress embroidered design
A very long hair
A perfect clothing
Adored with silver
The chant of the wind
The cascades of falls
The hiss of the leaves
The whispers of the river
The kiss of the dust
The touch of the branch
The hug of the air
The eyes of the mountain
Continue reading The Story of Lake Mainit

Pa

Fiction by | September 18, 2016

Tahimik kong tinanggap ang mga pangaral ni Lola kahit na gusto nang sumabog ng dibdib ko sa pagpipigil na masagot siya.

“Hindi ko naman napapabayaan ang pag-aaral ko, ‘La,” ngali-ngali kong isagot na ang tanging dahilan lang ng pagtitimpi ko ay ang pananahimik sa tabi ng Tatay ko.

Isa pang dumagdagdag sa pag-iksi ng pisi ko ang kuya kong kararating lang mula Maynila. Panay ang gatong at sulsol kay Lola na nagbanta pang tatawag sa kapatid naming nasa America na at sa ilan pang nasa Maynila.

Tinapunan ko ng tingin ang Tatay ko na hindi kumikibo sa panggigisa ni Lola sa akin at kausap na ngayon ang aking Tiyo. Parang tinarakan ang dibdib ko sa kawalan niya ng atensyon sa ginagawa sa akin. Mabilis kong inalis ang tingin sa kanya at nadaanan naman ng aking mga mata ang dalawa kong pinsan na bakas ang yabang sa mga mukha. Napatiim-bagang ako at inis na ikinuyom ang mga kamay ko.

“At sa inyo pa talaga ako ikinumpara! Eh mas mahirap naman mga lessons naming kaysa sa inyo!” bulyaw ko sa aking isip nang sumilay ang nakakalokong ngisi sa kanilang mga labi. “Pusang gala! Class A ako at nakikipag-kompetensya sa mga ka-lebel ng utak ko! Naging top lang kayo sa class section na Class B at C. Anak ng pusang gala! Matalino na yun?” Pagraragasa ng isip ko at isang irap ang ibinato ko sa kanila nang hindi nila nalalaman.

Continue reading Pa

The Third Waterfall

Poetry by | September 11, 2016

Her brute force rattles you
To the core, even from a distance.
She drops with such heaviness,
Such strength, that she sends spray
Back up the air, higher than her,
Ramming the forested slopes around
With her rumble, causing leaves
To tremble, your heart to flutter.

The most beautiful is the most
Terrifying, you tell yourself, humbled
By your smallness, by the mortality
Of your body. You stand still
Before her, and in mere minutes—
In your ears and eyes, her roar lowers
To a murmur, her fall slows
To a flow. She becomes something
Whose power you can harness,
Whose beauty you can sell.

Beasts stalk their prey, and before
They devour it, they pray.

Lake Sebu, South Cotabato
September 2016

—
Jude Ortega is from Sultan Kudarat Province. He was a fellow for fiction at the 2016 UP National Writers Workshop.

Tungang Gabii sa Divisoria

Poetry by | September 11, 2016

(Alang kang Krishna Mamoko)

Nibiya na ang usa ka kamot sa orasan.
Lagmit nagduka kon kinsa ma’y naniid nato
samtang nagbarog ta sa eskina. Kandado na

ang mga tindahan sama sa atong kahilom.
Ang salin sa kainit sa imong kamot
akong gikuptan samtang gapaabot
sa imong tagad, apan sama sa mga lampara

sa Divisoria, kapundiron imong mga mata.
Unta, mahabwa na ang tanang buot ipadayag
nga nadan-ok pa sa tutonlan.

Ug sama sa kawatan, kalit lang moikyas
hangtod ulahi na ang kahiamgo dungan
sa pagkahanaw unya sa tanan natong
gibahandi. Wala gihapon ta’y imik.

Wala’y tingog gawas sa minghoy nga awit
sa radyo dihang gipasakay tika’g taxi hangtod
nahabilin ko ug ang akong anino nadum-ok

duol sa bata nga gahithit og rugby. Nagpadayon
ang kagabhion. Giwitik ko ang sigarilyo
ug gisakmit ang abo duyog sa panghupaw,
nisakdap sa dalan nga taas

ang kadulom. Bugtong saksi ang buwan
niining tanan sa wala pa hingpit
nga gitukob sa gabusdik nga dag-om.

—
Mark “Ton” Daposala was born and raised in Cagayan de Oro City. His works have been published in Bisaya Magasin and Kabisdak. Ton now works as a faculty at Humanities and English Department of Capitol University. He’s also a member of CDO writers bloc, Bathalad-Mindanao, and NAGMAC.

Tablea Tales, Part 2

Nonfiction by | September 11, 2016

Tablea Tales, Part 1

I was 19 when I first experienced harvesting cacao fruits with my father. I realized it was my father’s first time to pluck cacao fruits off the tree as well. He was surprised how difficult it was to remove the fruits from their twigs. We discovered that the fruits were so attached with the tree that they just dry there hanging on the twig and only fall down when they were entirely black. The tree looked grim with all the hanging black, rotten cacaos. We plucked them off and threw them on the ground. It was as hard to remove as the fresh fruits.

My father rarely talked when we started harvesting and collecting the ripe cacao fruits. The only times he talked was when he would tell me to pick up the fruit that fell on the ground and put it on the huge plastic bag I was holding.  I was used to having imported chocolates in golden foils handed to me by my father when he would come home from work abroad. And after years of struggling overseas, here was my father with me in our backyard, harvesting yellowish cacao to add to the dozen I already had in my bag.

When I was a kid, I never wanted anything else but the chocolates father brought home almost every year. It didn’t matter then whether he was home for Christmas or not. We grew used to it. We grew used to having chocolates as a consolation for his long absence. But now as I was plucking off cacao with him, I realized I wanted him more than all the creamy, bitter-sweet chocolates combined. He had been away for years and I realized, as his calloused hands were struggling to pluck off some ripe cacao fruit, that there was nothing more beautiful than this moment.

Continue reading Tablea Tales, Part 2