Feng Shui

Poetry by | May 22, 2016

2

I

Face the heavy wooden door from the old house
to the direction of the rising sun and move on
from what is done and cannot be undone. Mirrors

must reflect the morning light and outdoor plants
—not the stubs of candles from last year’s feasts,
the cardboard boxes filled with broken electronics

or the moss-worn garden statues, grey and ruined
by the incessant rains, these sad errors of saints,
the fear of what is new and terrifyingly unfamiliar.

There is no testing the future with one naked toe
into the cold measures of foreseeing. It all flows
and follows the path of the waxing crescent moon

the uncertain rise of curling smoke of an incense
burning as a bird calls on starless night.

Continue reading Feng Shui

Childhood Memories

Poetry by | May 15, 2016

Cut scenes
of smiles and tears,
sunshine and rain,
but nothing to connect
what was in between.
Sunlight touching skin,
and tiny legs,
heavy like lead
from running around,
playing;
heart light as a feather.
Raindrops masking tears,
and frail shoulders,
slumped like half-filled sacks
of reality’s dirt and dust,
trembling,
world closing in
in between—
nothing.


Krizza Jan D. Ceniza is a BS Architecture Student from the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

Winter

Poetry by | May 15, 2016

(for Bartek)

Go,
Because I need to erase you.
Don’t haunt me with your pictures
in Rudnik and Sanem.
Don’t make me remember
that I had dreamed of walking in the desolate streets
of your hometown
with you holding my hand.

Go,
Because while it is perpetually summer in Davao,
I don’t need to touch snow
to feel winter, the chill I felt
as I look into your dead eyes,
“Do widzenia” as our last words
shattering me like frosted glass
and you not planning to even carry
a shard of me.

Go,
Because I don’t want to remember
all of your warm smiles,
all dreams of our fingertips touching together,
all the postcards you sent me,
or the printed plane ticket to Davao.
They have all have been hidden
in the deepest layer of my cabinet
locked away into oblivion.

Yes, go,
Forget me,
Because the flowers in Davao
do not need winter, nor spring
to grow and
to have a new life.


Glyd Jun Arañes works as a linguist at Appen. He was a fellow at the 2010 ADDU Writers Workshop and the 2011 Davao Writers Workshop.

Guavung (drought)

Poetry by | May 8, 2016

The ‘pipip’ is chirping a rhythmic pattern,
which it is named from among the branches
of blossoming Lanahon and Katii trees.

The signs are all pointing to one end:
guavung is coming; a rainless period
and intense heat for 7 months to one year.

The loamy clay soil of barangay Manobo
cracks and Kabacan River is covered
with crawling vines taking the part

of the river where the water flows.
People cannot till their lands–
there is little to no water at all.


Therese Tinio is a fourth year BA Anthropology student at the University of the Philippines Mindanao. The poem was written after her field school in Magpet, North Cotabato, for her academic paper on the types of violence that affect their agriculture and livelihood.

Mujahideen

Poetry by | May 3, 2016

Sa aking mapayapang silid, di ako pinatulog ng mga bangkay,
Hinila nila ako pabalik sa silya’t inutusang bigyan ng buhay
Ang mga titik, tumirik mga mata, nakatirik puting kandila,
Sinulat ko kanilang kwento, gamit kong tinta’y kanilang dugo.
Biglang buhos ang agos ng imahinasyon at gunita,
Di kayang makalimot sa karahasan ng kahapon. Nagmistulang musika
Ang kalansing ng mga basyo ng bala sa tuwing humahalik sa lupa.
Dambuhalang sigaw ng mga bomba, duweto ng mga baril at granada,
Mura ng mga sundalo sa moske, pintig ng mga takot na puso
Iyak ng kapatid na nawalan, hikbi ng naulilang anak,
Na pilit ginigising ang inang duguan sa inaakalang pagtulog.

Sa bawat higpit ng kapit sa baril at kalabit ng gatilyo, bitbit nila’y hibik at hindi galit,
Animo’y nagmamakaawa. Naisin mang ipakita’t iparinig ang totoong daing ng puso,
Ngunit nagsiliparan na ang mga bala sa gitna ng kagubatan,
Nasugatan na ang mga balat na kinalyo sa hirap ng buhay,
Bumuhos na ang dugo, umagos na ang mga luha,
Kaya ang pusong binalot ng tapang, lahing nagmula sa magigiting at mapangahas,
Alas! Bakit pa nga ba aatras? Dahas laban sa dahas.
Kung noo’y tinataas ang kamay na nakabukas ang mga palad,
Nakadaop sa batok habang ang lupa’y hinihila ang mga tuhod,
Di kalauna’y natuto na ring isara ang mga kamao at lumaban sa mga ahas.

Habang ang tugon ng karamihan
Di na daw baleng maging alipin basta’t pinapakain,
Walang pinagkaiba sa “di na baleng kitilin basta’t ililibing,”
Sa kariktan ng mundo’y nauhaw, nabulag ang mga duwag!
Handang isakripisyo mga prinsipyo kapalit ng kakapiranggot na habag.
Ibahin ang paninidigan nila. Bigkis sa sandata’y may simbuyo’t poot,
Kaya milagro kung maaninag kanila’y buto’t balat na tabas,
Pagkat magtataka kung pa’no napapasan ang mahahabang armas
Sandamakmak na bala, tig-iisang pusong laman ay pamilyang iniwan
Walang pagtiyak kung makakapiling pa nilang muli, makakasalo pa kaya
Sa noo’y pinaghahatiang kamote at tubig sa batis.

At nakabalagwit sa kanilang balikat ang anino ng nakaraan,
Mga kubong kumain ng bala, at dumura ng dugo.
Sa loob ay mga batang pinagkaitan. Dumi sa kanilang kuko,
Alikabok sa kanilang mga paa. Ngayo’y humalo sa dugo
Galing sa pusong sariwa na tumigil na sa pagtibok.

Nakita ang anak na lumipad dahil pinaulanan ng kanyon.
Nilapitan, tiningnan sabog niyang mukha di na maipinta.
Pinulot, kalong-kalong sa mga bisig – ngayon itatanong niyo pa ba
Kung bakit gano’n na lamang ang galit nila?

Mahigit apat na dekada ng pakikipagtunggali,
Di lang apatnapu’t apat na sawi ang dapat ipinagluksa,
Libo-libong mga batang walang kamalay-malay, mga kababaihang
Hangad lamang ang mapayapang pamumuhay,
Kung rebelde mang maituturing, sila’y mga rebeldeng ninakawan.
Ngayon ipagkakait niyo pa ba ang kapayapaang hinahangad nila?

Tayo’y namumuhay sa mundo ng kabalintunaan.
Mga taong sumisigaw, sila ang hindi napapakinggan,
Kailangan ng kaguluhan upang makamit ang kapayapaan
Si Fatima na nakatakip ang mukha, sumunod sa utos ng Panginoon,
sa Pransya siya’y hinuli’t pinagpiyansa,
Habang si Anna’ng nakahubad, nagbibigay-aliw ay binabayaran pa?
Ang mga taong nakabarong, mga kagalang-galang sa paningin,
Pangalan ma’y santo, nais naman ng kaguluhan.
At sino pa yung piligro’y di na bago sa kanila, mahahabang riple
Nakasabit sa dingding, mga mata’y susubok-subok sa dilim
Mga aparato ng bomba’y nakasilid sa pinaglumaang karton,
Kung sino pa ang mga terorista sa paningin ng iba,
Sila pa ngayon ang nagtitimon para sa katahimikan ng madla.

Tunaw na ang kandila. Sa dalawang pahinang naisulat,
Tila kumawala ang sapi na nagtulak sa aking idibuho ang mga gunita
Gamit ang mga palambang titik na nagkapit-kapit upang mabuo ang isang obra.
Dumungaw ako sa bintana’t nasilayan pitong talang makinang,
Sa pagtingala’y tila nga’y malayo pa ang dulo, napaisip ako.
Noo’y abot-tanaw lang.
Ngayo’y malabo na naman.


Nassefh graduated from the University of the Philippines Mindanao with a degree in BA English, major in Creative Writing. He has performed “Mujahideen” in several events, including Young Davao Writers’ LitOrgy and the recent Kumbira 2016 with the Davao Writers Guild.

Emptiness

Poetry by | April 24, 2016

Emptiness
is catfish
in the rain
squiggling
and giggling
and mud-faced
like toddlers
from small schools
off for home
while the rain
pitter-patters
and then fills
dry creek beds.

—
John Oliver Ladaga is currently taking up BA English in UP Mindanao.

The Birds Are Dying

Poetry by | April 24, 2016

One
by one,
the feathers fall
onto mud,
onto Earth,
until nothing remains
but the ghosts
of the wings
they were forced
to abandon.
These flightless birds—
they were regal once,
high-flying,
and exuberant,
chests red
and beaming and proud,
now they’re all so
meek and
gray—sky-before-rain gray—
all left choking on chalk dust.
They can only dream of
the stars
and envy the flight and the flicker
and the flame,
their bodies, bare and pale,
wince from the heat
as if moths
are braver than them.
The wind
is stifled by a
contemporary lullaby,
and now too quiet,
too far gone
to carry
the ones full of empty
promises.
Sometimes
I hear the songs turn
into a requiem.
The birds are dying
and the sky is narrow
without its travelers.

—
Ivan Khenard Acero is an architecture student at UP Mindanao.