I am a bullet.
Small. Insignificant.
A speck in the air:
hardened mote of
tears from the rock,
molten from fire,
and drowned in water.
Bullet
Poetry by Dominique Gerald Cimafranca | October 17, 2010
Category: Poetry
And the books…
Poetry by Hannah Louise Enanoria | October 3, 2010
And the books will still be there on the shelves, detached souls,
That emerged once, drenched
As shining mangos under a tree after the rain,
And consumed, tasted , delicious fame
Despite defying seasons, crawling ants,
children stoning, the earth in motion.
“Even if” they said, “our pages are worn to shreds,
Shabby and brown, or a fly has been preserved
Between sheets, so much durable
than we are. Whose delicate heat
chills the heart and memory, scatters, expires.”
I imagine when I will be faced out
Replaced by audio, video books – nothing ensues,
no bereavements, no harm, it’ll still be television shows,
Make-ups, money, women, a moment with music.
still, the books will be there on the shelves, able-bodied,
ripe because of people, and also sunlight, crowning.
—-
Hannah Louise Enanoria is a 4th year AB Sociology student of Ateneo de Davao University.
A Möbius Trip
Poetry by Genevieve Mae Aquino | October 3, 2010
The shortest distance between us
is the line that begins on my palm,
travels past a row of cubicles,
exits the revolving doors
and goes around the corner
of the Open University buildings;
meanders along the highways
onto the southern tollway
then with the crisscrossing wires
of the Manila Metro Transit rails;
Why We Write
Poetry by Fritz Gerald M. Melodi | October 3, 2010
We write to reclaim a part of ourselves about to be lost in time. To put in cryostasis, a part, a moment of our lives so heavy, so important, so significant we cannot trust our memory to keep it. So we write. To capture a fleeting nest of emotions that wrapped an experience, to nurture an imagination of what could have been. It is to craft into things that can be understood what your being has expressed not in human terms understandable. It may be a flight of the spirit into worlds known only to your universe. Or a profoundest experience so mundane as a clock or a sunbeam. We write to allow the public a glimpse of the private with the risk of being understood or maligned or both. It is to bare oneself, but still with clothes on, words, words as clothes.
—-
Fritz Gerald M. Melodi finished BA Psychology with minors in Philosophy from Ateneo de Davao University.
For Dina
Poetry by Elmer Sayre | September 26, 2010
Early morning when you left without saying goodbye
Frantic about meeting a schedule or so
You should have wakened me up
To cook omelet for you and pack your lunch
For the long trip to meet your schedules
Wiping the early morning sweat from your brow
As you go.
But the schedule has to come first
Early as early can be
You may have prodded the pedal to the floor
Squeezing the last gasoline drop
One hundred twenty measures to the hour.
Later at night I could no longer expect
Your light kiss as you arrive
From meeting your schedule or so
Your cold body arriving
In a hearse of the funeral parlor
In Bacolod we hired to pry
The crumpled car open.
—-
Elmer Sayre is a Dipolognon now living in Initao, Misamis Oriental, as a gentleman farmer and a free-lance social development consultant.
Hyposmia
Poetry by Paul Randy Gumanao | September 19, 2010
Maybe it was not the sea-breeze
you smelled but your tears
after your long try to understand
fragrance.
I tell you, a bouquet of roses
is not enough for you to smell
love.
My comrade loves you. Ask him
to crush the fallen petals
of lilies and orchids in the wild.
Let him perspire.
The scent of sweat is sweet
when offered for love.
Then forget about the flowers.
Go with him in the jungles.
He will tell you which river
is safer to cross.
Rivers, unlike seas, keep
more danger. He knows it.
Because of the water’s smell?
Perhaps. With the enemies
around, a river stinks.
You may not be able to smell
the danger of that river.
But his breaths and whispers
will tell you the fragrance
of the word trust.
You are not alone, with him
and with the masses.
No cure for your hyposmia?
Ah, I regret, my friend.
Your crush’s cologne may smell good.
But did he know you cared?
Smell is not a feeling.
What feels better is to have
someone with you who would savor
the sweetness of a mango.
Or maybe someone who would leave
another set of footprints
beside yours, along the shore.
—-
Paul Randy Gumanao is a BS Chem Student at AdDU who recently attended the IYAS Creative Writing Workshop 2010.
Summer's Tears
Poetry by Krizia Banosan Garcia | September 19, 2010
limitless, yet limited.
i’m back to my one-two beat.
lips sweetly bruised,
i’m at the best location
at the almost perfect hour
the moments of which
i don’t really remember.
your heat
and the firsts of many things
and nothing new
are what make this summer sizzle
and what put summer’s tears
to utter shame.
—-
Krizia Banosan Garcia makes the most of life being a tambay.
This Stolen Moment
Poetry by Gino Dolorzo | September 12, 2010
It feels right to lie
down on these sheets
damped with our own sweat.
It must be like falling
in love with them,
as I for you,
where we hide
ourselves, naked
like truth, secured enough
to let go of our fears
tonight that I’m the one
whom you fix your eyes on.
Not him. Not even
his eyes, dazzling of love-
promises, like the diamond
you let him wear
‘round your finger.
Like the pearls
he surprised you
after your first, I wish
your last, anniversary kiss.
Unlike our love alone
that can’t afford
to objectify itself
through those shiny stones.
Tonight I can care
less. Or not at all. Since there’s
no absence of heat
when it comes to your touch
like you do to me
on these sheets we have
rented for a short time.
Like each chance
your lips warm the chill-
worn cracks of mine
that makes me realize
how cold the night
like the accusation
of the world outside
that says we’re wrong.
—-
Gino studies at Xavier University – Ateneo de Cagayan, Cagayan de Oro City.