I’m in a box-like world:
the classroom door,
the white board,
the desks
are all rectangular.
Maybe my heart is also rectangular,
hurting somebody with its four edges.
My notebook,
my ID,
my classmates’ bags
are all rectangular.
Poetry by Kang Kyunhee | October 12, 2008
I’m in a box-like world:
the classroom door,
the white board,
the desks
are all rectangular.
Maybe my heart is also rectangular,
hurting somebody with its four edges.
My notebook,
my ID,
my classmates’ bags
are all rectangular.
Poetry by Macario Tiu | October 12, 2008
Ang dyipni drayber nagdaginot og pasahero
Yawat na lang makabawi kay mahal ang krudo
Ug iyang gipik-ap ang babayeng nagkargag bata
Sa gidiling sona diin naglurat ang dakong karatula
No Parking, No Loading, No Unloading
“Paspas kay dakpon ta,” matod sa drayber
Sa pasaherong nagtinikling sa guot nga sakyanan.
Apan kadakong demalas kay mas naglurat ang mata
Sa polis trapiko ug nasakpan ang drayber sa akto.
“Nganong namik-ap man kag pasahero
Nasayod man kang gidili dinhi kay makalangan sa trapiko?”
Poetry by Arian Rey Tejano, Josie Jane Balabag | October 5, 2008
Talinis ang kilat.
Ang ulan murag bildo nga nangatagak
sa karsada, saba.
Gipugos nako akong mata nga mupiyong,
pero dili gyud madala.
Ang akong hunahuna
dili gyud magpamando
kay gusto gyud niya nga maminaw
sa mga tingog sa dalugdog.
Nagsige kog ligid-ligid
sa akong higdaanan,
dili tungod kay sakit
ang kawayan nga walay banig,
dili tungod kay wala koy habol ug unlan.
Taod-taod,
moabot na pud siya nga magbarag-barag.
Makabalo gyud baya siya
nga nagpaatik-atik ra ko’g tulog
kay akong mata nagpituk-pitok.
Nikusog ang dalugdog
sama sa kakusog sa latos sa akong dughan.
Nikusog pud ang tagaktak sa ulan,
murag bildong manusok sa akong tiyan
dili tungod sa kagutom
kundili tungod sa pakang
sa iyang bakus.
Continue reading Usa ka gabiing dili makatulog si Matet / A Night when Matet Could Not Sleep
Poetry by Henrietta Diana de Guzman | September 28, 2008
Wa pa gani miusbaw ang adlaw
Si Tiya, nagsugod nag latagaw
Sa gawas sa balay ginasugdan
chismis na murag way kahumanan.
“Dre’, kabaw baka sa nahitabo?”
“Day, kabaw ko unsa iyang tuyo.”
“Ay da! Baho daw kag ilok..”
“Siya? Tamad daw ug palahubog.”
“Unsa? Iya nang gi- ‘storya Piling?”
“Kabaga baya sa iyang aping!”
“Nya, puti ba di ay iyang ilok?”
“Bagag nawng! Mura bayag mulihok!”
Continue reading Ang Tsismosang si Tiya Piling
Poetry by Mark Darryl Caniban | September 28, 2008
Gabi’t ang kulisap lamang ang tanging
Umiikot sa lamparang nagngingingas sa tabi ng baul.
Hinipan ko ang alab nito’t
Napawi ang ilaw sa apat ng sulok nitong kwarto.
Tanging ang ilaw ng buwan ang sumisilip
Mula sa mga butas ng kawayang dingding.
Gabi’t ang at ingay ng hilik mo ang tanging
Pumupuno sa dampang tahanan ng ating pag-ibig.
Continue reading Asawa ni Jose
Poetry by Floraine Asirit | September 21, 2008
As I sit here beside you
I realize how our lives are enmeshed
intertwined like our hands now
That when you’ll let go
My hand can still scratch, hold, touch
do what hands normally do
but it will always grope for yours
Seek your sweaty palms
Miss it’s warmth
Feel empty with the spaces
in between my fingers which
your long tapered fingers
with dirty uneven nails usually fill
—-
Floraine is an industrial engineer, MBA student and aspiring entrepreneur. You may visit her blog at floraine.blogspot.com.
Poetry by Floraine Asirit | September 21, 2008
For the losses I made in favor of Larios
For the nausea I got from seeing your face almost everywhere
For the earache I got from hearing your songs
For actually finding myself humming Para Sa’yo (Last F*cking Song Syndrome)
For being popular and filthy rich
For that Jose Rizal ‘do
In the spirit of crab mentality
For lack of anything better to say:
I hate you!
—-
Floraine is an industrial engineer, MBA student, and aspiring entrepreneur. You may visit her blog at floraine.blogspot.com
Poetry by Gabriel Millado | September 21, 2008
(in memory of Dr. Norberto Navarette Jr.)
“—the uh,”
spoke the math professor
lying on
his deathbed, his cancer
spreading on
his head.
“Uh,” he said, now losing
memory, “the value of—
uh—is
not fixed: trans-
mutes…” His colleague
listens on, and in
sympathy he understands
that words
are just our means
of holding
down indefinite values.
Come to say
goodbye, a last problem
to solve,
he finally finds the value
of x (the elusive
variable) in the lapses
between
the dying man’s words.
Gabriel Millado is a BA in English student of UP Mindanao.