Category: Poetry

Kauban pa, lola

Poetry by | May 10, 2021

Matag hapon sa bukton mo
ako gapauraray, makatog uban
sa imong taghoy, pikpik, ug mga awit.
Sa puting sandong gatuyok
nga nahimong pamaypay
ako kaamgog pagpahulay,
wa mo damha ang binhud sa braso
ug budlay sa patabyog, basta imong palanggang apo
motubong sakto, himsog, ug puno sa kalipay.

Sa paspas nga dagan sa panahon,
sa mga katuigang milabay,
ni-a na ang bugnawng hangin sa aircon
ug mga nga sonata sa youtube ug spotify.
Apan ang simpleng pagkatog
lisud na kab-uton, ang kahimsog
mahal, ug ang kalipay angay pang pangitaon.
Dili sama kaniadto
nga sa imo lamang lig-ong mga bukton
sa imong mga alawiton, ako
luwas, malipayon, ug busog
sa pagpangga.

Kaniadto nga ikaw
ania pa, kauban pa,
Lola.

 

—

 

Si Reymond Pepito usa ka manunulat nga pinangga sa iyang Lola Mina. Gikan sa Lungsod sa Tagum.

Walking

Poetry by | May 10, 2021

for Sofya

What does it mean for me to stand, feet slightly sloped,
on these rolling hills outside Tashkent? I come
out here, day after day, to count horses. Sometimes, there were
two, and most days when mist blinds the April sun, not
even one shows up. Regardless, they outnumber
trees in the picture. All year long, no trees for creatures
like me to hide, to make home the patches of shadows they
create for me to live, to live with. There are no horses
today, and yet I hear them gallop the un-watered grasslands
from a distance. This life of sun and land is empty.
The un-pictured barn is empty too. The small unhidden
house I refuse to see in the back has never been
this empty. Somewhere inside, the stretch of space of a tin can
I used to catch the sound of the lone wind is empty
as well. All the while, I slip to sleep standing mid-day
and never feel my skin burn, my wool sweater a bit damp
from the cold. I am just here, without an eye for
fullness, without any memory of what wants to be missed.

Ian writes from Cateel, Davao Oriental. He has an MA in Political Science from Central European University in Vienna and Budapest. Some of his works appeared in Dagmay, New Contrast and Voice & Verse.

 

Sad Girl’s Love Song

Poetry by | April 19, 2021

She will not ask
you to stay.
Instead, she will ask you
to listen to her chants—
a hymn
of all the things
she will remember you by
when you decide to leave her.

She will start
with how the crescent moon
reminds her of your thin smile.
Then, of the warm glow
of the streetlamps at dusk
when you walk her home
to Obrero.

She will tell you
how the small scar
right below your nose
reminds her of lightning.

She will smile
fondly to herself
when you kiss her.
Your soft kisses
remind her that you could
love the beauty frightening things.

This way, she will not
grow fearful of the storm
that is her. This will make her march
to the thunder of her heart.

And when you finally decide
to leave her,
she will not remind you
how you made her feel safe
when you held her in your arms
as she clawed at her sheets
for warmth.

Instead, she will whisper
so close to your ear
until you hear a ghost of a cry,
that she built a fortress
on your arms
that she still calls
home.

 

Zakiyyah Sinarimbo is a coffee enthusiast by day, a law student by night. She is a mother to five cats.

 

 

 

Gumamela

Poetry by | April 19, 2021

Ang sa susama kong buyog mao’ng gapalipay
sa matag buntag nga paglupad ug sa iyang pagbukhad,
ug akong makita ang kanindot niini.
Samtang gakamang sa iyang gihay,
mga tag-as nga sagbot nga gapadayon
sa pagpanalipod sa iyang ka putli.
Hantod sa kami mag- inilugay.
Apan ako ang makadali-dali og tusok,
suyop nianang iyang duga
nga susama ang katam-is sa gilanay’ng asukal,
ug maoy mohupaw sa dughan kong gahinamham.
Apan sayod ako nga ang gumamela sa pagbukhad
Dili ta mag dugay. Kay kung mongitngit
ang adlaw, kini musira
ug dili na mag tingganay.

 

John Karl Butaslac is a Grade 12 Arts and Design Student (Literary Arts) from Davao City National High School.

Retard Stud

Poetry by | April 19, 2021

“Thrust of the spark that burns
Unbounds, departs, returns
To pluck out of death’s fist
A god who dared to resist”

—Ruben Cuevas, “Prometheus Unbound

Dayag ang dinanghag sa mga namakpak sa tikasan.
Ulipon sa mga atik ug alagad sa tampalasan.
Tiguwang apil batan-on puros nagpalubot sa tirano.
Errare humanum est apan puyra gaba ang nagpa-uto-uto.
Resbakan ang mosupak! Maoy gibagutbot sa ilang diyos.

Tiguwang apil batan-on gitorjak sa berdugong utganon.
Amahan kuno sa nasod, apan bugaw sa mga langyawng pikoton.
Rakrakan ang mosupak! Maoy kuro sa mga tagasunod.
Dayag gyod ang dinanghag ug damak sa mga taga nasod
Samtang sihag ang tingsi sa gino-o nilang tambaloslos.

Lolot is a freelance SEO writer based on Mindanao.

Awtopsiya

Poetry by | March 15, 2021

Hindi umiigkas na bala ang iyong naririnig kundi ang kikislot-kislot niyang laman. Hindi laman ang sinisiyasat ng iyong nanginginig na kamay kundi takot na tinutuklap ang lalim ng kanyang balat. Hindi takot ang pumapalahaw sa loob nitong malamlam na silid kundi dalamhati ng inang naulila, napagkit sa kanyang nakatiwangwang na dibdib. Hindi dalamhati ang iyong nadaratnan kundi kanyang anino, kasama mong nakamasid sa katawan. Hindi anino ang natitistis ng iyong metal na kasangkapan kundi kanyang kaluluwa, nanlilimos ng mga mata. Halughugin mo man ang bodega ng kanyang konsensiya, hindi mo mahahanap ang sagot kung sa paanong paraan siya nanlaban. Mababaklas mo ang lahat ng katotohanan.

Leo Cosmiano Baltar studies BA Journalism at the University of the Philippines in Diliman. Their articles can be found in Tinig ng Plaridel, while their poems have appeared in The New Verse News, Hong Kong Protesting, Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine, and elsewhere. They hail from Sultan Kudarat, Mindanao.

Afternoon Quarantine

Poetry by | March 8, 2021

It was almost dusk.
Filled with lethargy
and sitting on a carapace-themed chair,
I resigned.
I creatively died.

My core muscle aching.
My spirit wasted.
My corporal presence,
a washed, crumpled paperback coupon booklet,
is thrown into a bin.

Dazed and confused,
I look at the octothorpe-themed clock.
(tick, tick, tick, tick)
I then realized that the hours fade away
leaving me motionless and desolate.

As I lifelessly consume chips while on the couch,
An army of ants start their death march from their nest
heading towards my couch in search
for worthless morsels that fall into the ground

My mind feels hollower than an octothorpe on Twitter.
It keeps on numerously bootlegging original yet banal ideas.
I tried to sketch an exact replica of Michelangelo’s ‘Mona Lisa’
But turned out to sketch Kirk Van Houten’s ‘Dignity’.

I further attempted
to reinvigorate my moribund self
by consuming a plate of eggplant omelette
as I believed that through its nutritional benefits,
I will be rejuvenated.

But Alas, it instead turned my mind
into a peristeronic state,
vanilla like a pigeon’s dropping
or eggplant leaves in the summer
that wilt when unnurtured for.

My sense of creative sensibility is watering down
evoking a reverse Cana
turning wine into water
or from Sauvignon Blanc to plain cane vinegar.

I tried to out-muscle my physical limitation.
The atmosphere’s lethargy
however, chewed my motivation,
leaving me mentally immobilized and
also rendering me without a muscle nor a limb
to move or to spare.

***


David Paolo Brigole graduated at the University of Winnepeg with a BA English degree. He grew up and studied in Davao City during his primary years. His passion for poetry stemmed from when he used to play with words as a toddler. He is also passionate about drawing bizarre and beautiful objects and loves to indulge in gastrointestinal delights.

First sign of land

Poetry by | March 1, 2021

It’s not the flight
nor the landing, not
the wind
slightly fried slapping
at a chapped lip. In the upwind,
the hawk hovers
over new ground
for opportunity, the tides
of its lonely heart bared
against the elements. No,

not the humidity, the sudden
bright but the body. The skin
prickles like a tropical fruit
ripe from sun and swelling
of earth. It is, first,
the tongue flexing,
inside its shell, remembering
the brine that bore
its atrophied heart. From memory,
it calls green by names familiar –
lubi, tanglad, alugbati.
The kamunggay sheds gold
confetti in the rising winds,
home, land
at first sight.

Zola Macarambon is a professor at the Language, Humanities, and Philosophy Department, Capitol University in her hometown Cagayan de Oro City. She has fiction and poetry awarded, commended, and published in various national and international publications.