Category: Poetry

Swaki

Poetry by | November 28, 2022

Excited na ako maging abo.
Pag huyupan ako ni God
Maka abot ako sa langit
Pag mag aksyon ulan
Suyupin ako ng ulap
Ibuhos ako sa dagat
Malunod ako sa balas
Kainin ng swaki
Ang swaki harbisin ng Badjao
Ibenta sa foreigner
Masarapan siya mag supsup
Masarapan siya mag higop
mag bili pa siya ng madami
Ubusin niya lahat ng Swaki
Mag bring home pa siya
Ipansak sa icebox niya
pauwi sa Iceland
sa pinsan niya si Bjork
Sa wakas! ma hug ko na si Bjork.

Gi panganak si Gerald Castillo Galindez aka G!K noong nabungkag ang Berlin Wall at nabuo ang Eraserheads. Ang Klaro na Masyado: Poems in Kabacan and Tacurong Tagalog, 2020, Kasingkasing Press ang pinaka una niyang koleksyon ng mga tula at ang From Kabacan-Buluan-Tacurong, With Love, 2021, Bigkas Pilipinas Entertainment ang una niyang Spoken Word EP. Kasama ang tulang  “Swaki” sa bago niyang zine na may pamagat na Trench Lights and Other Poems.

 

Unmoored

Poetry by | November 28, 2022

Unmoored,
our old friend’s boat
floated away from port
with us fondly bidding goodbye,
many with a teary eye.
Then I was surprised
to notice
that our friends
on the wharf
waving their goodbyes
seemed to be floating away.
And I realized
my own little boat
was unmoored too.
The goodbyes
were for me also.
And so were the tears.

Eric SB Libre is a freelance consultant and writer based in Digos City. Some of his poems and stories can be read in Bisaya Magazine and Minda News.

Burying myself

Poetry by | November 21, 2022

There are certain things that evince what cannot be hidden
from me by consciousness. After death, will my home be a casket
or an urn or the earth itself decaying me in an unknown
arid land? Nearby, will there also be an agoho tree? Will there be signs
of cloudiness in the morning in between heat and rain? Or
will they come together – moisture collecting dust from the ground
of me, that is me, or forgets to be me, or not anymore me –
and clothe tree bristles, thickening the shadow surfacing what
is me? Or will it survive time – me – and simply breed soil that breed
roots that breed life that breed breath? In the dream,
I am the soil that is carved out by rusty backhoes in an island
off a sleepless American city, and in cycles, I blanket plastic bags of
wrapped bodies. There were two Henries, an Anita, another
Jane. Next year, they will be the same, and another year after, they
will still be the same. They wait until everyone aboveground
continues to live, and they forget their names. They unbecome them,
and I unmake me. I am the soil that is them that is me –
Consciousness, when will I dream about anything but this?

This poem first appeared in Quarterly Literary Review Singapore (QLRS) Vol. 20 No. 3 Jul 2021.  Ian Salvaña writes from Cateel, his hometown in Mindanao, and works for an international human rights organization based in Bangkok. He has an MA in Political Science at Central European University, Budapest, and Vienna, and sometimes teaches at Ateneo de Davao University. 

More words about heart disease and disappearing

Poetry by | November 21, 2022

We are wading  into the sea again, only me
                                             and my father, his eyes
                                             fixed to the water,
                                             always belonged somewhere else,
                                                                         somewhere far
                                                                               and deep     and secret
                                like the long-ago mornings of looking at him looking
                                              at himself moving
                                in a memory,    in a  feigned future
                                caught in his coffee cup, in the tinkle,
                                                                                                       in the stir.
                He sinks again. I wade       slowly, into the sea-stir
                                               the teaspoon tinkle tricking
                                                  me into the forming whirl-
pool of the Alpine milk he used to buy for me from the Doughboy bakeshop at San Pedro Street
                                                                        on my carsick Sundays
                                                                                     the late-to-church stomachaches.
                                                I drink the memory in
                                                                 and find the milk warm
                                                                 the milk has always been warm enough,

                                                                                                and I’ve been forgetting.

This poem is  part of the poetry collection, “Wild Fire” published by the Road Map Series in 2019. Melona was a fellow for poetry in the 2012 Davao Writers Workshop. She’s currently a lecturer in the Creative Writing Program of the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

When the World offers to paint you naked

Poetry by | November 21, 2022

Open your body. Do not fold anything.
Maybe your legs—just a little bit—
you still deserve to keep secrets
even if you felt like your skin
was never private. Make your legs longer
in an attempt to jump.
The world says they’ll paint you
but you know no man has ever stared at you
without wanting a pursed smile or stiff nod in return.
Bend your knee—you’ll jump farther, walk faster
From them who would say hey, you should learn
how to take a compliment—but never bend
it to anyone. Stretch your torso, show how a stomach
does not have to be flat for somebody to rest
their head on it. Arch your back,
draw your shoulders behind as if they were wings.
You are a pigeon awaiting flight. Puff your chest out.
Let the mounds of your breasts absorb light
from the sky until it shines enough
for stares to bounce off it. Elongate your neck,
make your neck muscles bulge—
your neck is not a cage, free your voice.
And as the world paints you, curve your lips into a smile
that pierces through the canvas.
Make them wonder what your smile means
and what your mouth says. Let it haunt them
until they sleep, until the last drop
of paint dries from their bristles.
They have painted you bare, yet
you are not naked. You cannot be contained
in someone else’s piece.

This poem is originally published under the collection “Sum of Her Parts” published by the Road map Series.

Ria Valdez teaches in the Department of Humanities in UP Mindanao.

Yawat na lang

Poetry by | November 21, 2022

Ako na lang isulod sa selopen ning bukog
para sa iro, yawat na lang.
O iapil na lang ning mumho,
ayaw, kay malamog.

Puniton kining sinsilyong  gilabog
sa bata sa parkenganan sa Uyanguren.
Pastilan! Yawat na lang  dili mabuo ang piso
kon walay  sentimos o baynte  singko. 

Ayaw sa ilabay ang daang  medyas naghimulbol.
Maayo na lang na ipasuot sa gripo,
aron masala ang  hugaw. 

Pil-a ng selopen ayaw ilabay
ayaw komuta, pil-a yawat na lang
magamit  butangang galay
o magamit kung dunay e tek hom. 

Pil-on kining brawn nga  papel nga supot sa pandesal
Pagpaga ang  pino nga asukal.
Yawat na lang madrowengan sa mga bata,
paghaling , pang-ilo. 

Tilukon ang sinsilyo sa gamayng pitaka.
Isuksok ang nag-halok nga tudlo ug kumagko
aron makuot ang sinsilyong naghuot.
Yawat makapalit posporo, lamas o sigarilyo o hebi o kendi. 

Oy punita nang nagkalat nga  bugas
yawat na ni, usa nani ka kutsara,
ayaw intawon usik-usika.
Dyes por kilo na ang kuha, magabaan unya ta. 

Punita ng butones, yawat na lang,
ipuli sa nasaag nga  butones
sa pantalon , uniporme  o polo.

Bisan sa usa ka tiguwang yawat na lang.
Bisan poste iya paldahan, patulan
daginoton gyud. 

Apila nang sabaw ug lamas nga nabilin,
Higopa, soyupa,
Ayaw ilabay yawat na lang
molasa atong  bahaw. 

Ayaw usika ang panahon,
ayaw ibaligya  ang boto sa eleksyon.
Yawat na lang ning mga pasalig uban sa
noodles, odong ug tinapa,
uban sa bugas nga gibukbok na. 

Pasilong sa udtong dako
sa pilapil , ilawom sa manggang dako.
Yawat na lang ning gamayng kusog
maulian ang kabaskog. 

Magpahulay sa  bugnawng semento.
Isandig ang likod sa rehas nga gitaya.
Yawat na lang  ning makapahulay sa udto
para maayong tratar sa kustomer mismo.

Tanang butang nga napud-pud ayaw ilabog.
Yawat na lang makawalis og abog
Yawat na lang   pan-os nga newspaper,
ilikit himuon og sigop. 

Yawat na lang ning manok na giatay
Putlon ang liog , dugo ipalatay
aron mamatay. 

Yawat na lang ning dayong kon mamatay.
Dunay ipalubong, ipakape, ipakaon.
Yawat na lng ning dunay gihaya
dunay paampo, dunay sugalan,
tong,  ipalit og kape ang salin sa gitaya. 

Suwat , yawat na lang
makasuwat kag handumanan
Dili man kita mga uranay sa katilingban.

Noy Narciso is an educator and multi-disciplinary artist. He teaches arts appreciation in Ateneo de Davao University. He loves to create DIY instruments and upcycle found and defunct objects.

 

Other Times

Poetry by | November 21, 2022

At the dining table we picked at a bowl
of old basil from the crisper—maybe

we could salvage a pesto or a green
curry.  Quickly my pile grew bigger

than his.  He was angry again.
He pinched the stalks without method. 

He wanted to give up
on this basil, this dinner.  I grooved

to the neighbor belting out bossa
Cole Porter on her karaoke machine. 

“After You, Who?”  “Just One of Those
Things,” “What is This Thing Called Love?”  Once,

I trashed a jar of olives, once a box
of cheese, and once a quart of soy milk

molding in different hues of white.
Sometimes we know.  Other times

we pick, we salvage,
we sing someone else’s song.

The poem was first published in Silliman Journal, Volume 54, Number 2, July to December 2013. 

Jhoanna Lynn B. Cruz is Professor of creative writing in the University of the Philippines Mindanao, where she also serves as chair of the Humanities Department. Her memoir about rebuilding her life in Davao City, Abi Nako, Or So I Thought was published by the UP Press in 2020.

Alegorya sa Panimalayng Naputlan og Kuryente

Poetry by | November 14, 2022

Milili ko sa bintana ug wala  nakigharong
ang mga suga sa dakbayan batok sa 

kabituonan. Hinay-hinay sa pagtikang,
nangapkap ko sa mga kandila ug posporo: 

nangita sa kahayag nga akong nawala.
Nangalisbo ang baho sa natunawng 

kandila: gibaid sa kalayo ang pabilo,
giinat ang mga aninong natanggong

sa bungbong ug gimapa ang mga tipak
sa nawong sa mga santo ibabaw sa 

aparador. Pipila na ka mga anino
ang naporma gikan sa akong mga

kamot: iro, alibangbang ug bitin,
namasin sa pagbalik sa mga suga.

Sa gawas, nagtapok akong mga
silingan, gabarog sama sa mga

palito: mihangad sila sa langit ug
nasaksihan sa ilang mga mata ang 

pagsaliyab sa kadulom daw mibanaw
nga krudo. Ug sa dihang mianam na

og siga ang mga suga sa tagsa-tagsang
kabalayan, nabuta ko sa ilang kasilaw. 

Ivan Ridge Arbizo writes from Davao City.