Poetry by Ma. Celeste Fusilero | September 23, 2007
Black bugs sprinkled by the devil’s breath
Are black beans, actually, making me hungry.
Their odor rises, darkening the evening, and stoops
Down to strangle my neck.
More of them are wheedling other
Vendors around to pack up and
Go home. But my basket is still
Half-full of balut, I have bills to
Pay and sons to send
Tuition fees to.
These black bugs—be gone soon,
I pray!
Poetry by Rory Ian Bualan | September 23, 2007
Ikog mikitoy-kitoy pagtukar sa karaoke;
ming kitiw-kitiw pagkita sa Rusty (baho).
Nagsinaw-sinaw ang ilong, nalingin-itom
pagsinimhot-simhot sa balhiboon ug
gipangkapoy nga mga bitiis: sikad gibalik;
hikap sa paghigugma nga way pinalabing iring.
Lawas miikyad-ikyad, luyo sa hapak sa tsinelas –
Spartan (hastang gahia, makabuak ug tay-ang lata);
apan sige gihapon, kay mao may naandan: si Kuya
muuli sa hapon ug dapat sugat-sugaton; simhuton.
Hala, gawas ug lili sa gamay’ng kang-a;
duna nay nag-alirong sa lamesa;
kawhat basig mahutdan;
kay ang damgo raba dili dyud kabayran—
sa gabii kon makatulog nga wa makakaplag ug nahot,
matabunan unya ang kalag sa sartin nga way sulod!
Poetry by Dominique Gerald Cimafranca | September 23, 2007
Beware this ancient agent of wisdom
At the prime of his faculties
Before he was brought low by his drink
Beware the searching lantern eyes
Ever on the lookout
For the honest men of Greece
Beware the sharp silver tongue
That cuts with the confounding power of truth
Implacable corruptor of Athens’ fair-haired youth!
To him, all ground is fertile
Nowhere sacred, nowhere safe
Be it market, forum, palace, or temple
Beware those wiry hands
That reach out and grab
For victims of his method
Then with the force of a knife
He wrenches an answer to the essential question:
“Your money or your life?”
Poetry by Hazel Jean Genosas | September 16, 2007
I hate the speedy HH.
I hate the bumpy road to school.
I hate the scent of Manong Driver.
Complaints! Complaints! Complaints!
Don’t hate the speedy HH.
Let the air slap your face.
Smile. Close your eyes.
Listen to the rush of air.
You will hear the laughter of the earth.
Don’t hate the bumpy road to school.
Let the rocks in the road jolt you to the real.
Hold tight. Close your eyes.
Feel the stony path.
You will find there life’s ups and downs.
Don’t hate the scent of Manong Driver.
If he smells awful, let him be.
Breathe freely. Close your eyes.
In his scent you will sense
Man’s proud spirit towards life’s journeys.
Stop complaining. Just ride on.
Poetry by Shelifa Alojamiento | September 16, 2007
Paano kaya kita kakausapin
Nang walang sinasabi
Walang hinihingi
Walang minumungkahi
At walang dinaramdam
Nais kong maging maingat
Sa aking pagdaan
Manabi-tabi, ituring kang
Isang ilang na lugar
Tahimik na susubayin
At buong galang na iiwanan
Hahayo nang walang galit
Walang gustong nakawin
At walang ni anong dadalhin.
Poetry by Anna Moira Lanzona | September 16, 2007
The pen is mightier than the sword
But the PC is mightier than the pen
But the cell is mightier than the PC
But the radio is mightier than the cell
But the cable TV is mightier than the radio
But the power company is mightier than the cable company
But the bank is mightier than the power company
Perhaps I shall work for the bank
Poetry by Paolo Ray Bataller | September 9, 2007
One day, I saw a driver
He was getting off his jeep
He ran to the roadside, stood against a wall
And became a priest
He stood with his legs apart
Looked up to the sky above
Bowed down his head in prayer
And clasped his hands in front of his hips
In silent supplication
In fervent adoration
Then he started to perform his rite
And suddenly out gushed
A spray of amber water
The driver has blessed the concrete wall
And washed away its sins
Poetry by Pam Bitang | September 9, 2007
I like the sound of water
crooning like nature’s song
from a mountain’s secret streams
I like its voice, like a lover’s
echoing whispers
within a pool in a cavern
sometimes subtle, like dew
on a yawning leaf,
it can whoosh as if in a rush
and slap against daring rocks and ridges—
at times oddly thoughtful,
it putters and plops
and trickles on a window sill;
or merry, it blends
with the shrieks and splashes
of running naked limbs—
forbidding, it roars
with the force of an angry ocean;
hurt, it whimpers—the sound
muffled by a confining bottle
or glass—
quiet, it lies gagged and imprisoned,
locked by a trembling eyelid.