Poetry by Ivan Ridge Arbizo | October 16, 2023
Miyungyong
sa akong buhok
ang matag lusok
sa tubig,
midagayday
paingon sa panit:
matag kuskos og sabon,
mamugna sab
ang mga bula
nga unya matangtang
uban sa mga hugawng
namilit sa lawas.
Kaniadto, gitudlo-an
ko sa akong amahan
nga mag-ampo
una maligo
ug dihadiha,
ang katugnaw
miangkon kanako,
ako ug ang tubig,
nahimong usa.
Ivan Ridge Arbizo is pursuing an English Language Studies (ELS) degree at Holy Cross of Davao College.
Poetry by Daryll Faye Gayatin | August 7, 2023
My uterus is raging, ready to burst
in red. The pain runs through
my hips, my thighs, my legs
leaving me in fetal position
alone to clutch the smallness
of my stomach that clenches in ache.
It is angry, it demands, it throbs like
a beating heart—alive and enduring.
I persist like a banged-up drum
and dare to brave the torment that tries
to beat me down.
I will not succumb
nor will I surrender. I am persevering and
resisting like the uterus in anger.
Daryll Faye Gayatin is from Isulan, Sultan Kudarat. She is a BA English (Creative Writing) student at the University of the Philippines Mindanao.
Poetry by Fatima Herizza Edding | July 31, 2023
The machine brought to life by a soft ping,
You stare as your clothes begin to tumble
Into an array of vibrant hues spinning,
Water bubbling white you start to mumble
Nothing. No thing came to mind.
The soap was dwindling and you had no thoughts.
That frightened you, sitting down resigned
With nothing on your mind, just idle of sorts.
And yet as the machine spiraled into
Impossible speed, you laid back reclined.
The bubbles start to disappear and you
Stayed hypnotized by accelerated
Spinning garments. You’re okay with nothing.
And the machine sings back its final song.
Fatima Herizza D. Edding studies BA English (Creative Writing) at the University of the Philippines Mindanao in Davao City. She prefers to be called Lady, her nickname since birth. She is from Zamboanga City, Zamboanga del Sur.
Poetry by Reggie Faye Canarias | July 31, 2023
Mama and Papa now sleep in different
beds. “Your father snores,” Mama said.
Papa has been drinking a lot of sour juice
lately, his breath stinks when he tries to talk
to me. “If Mama and Papa have to live in
different houses, who would you live with?”
Papa asked before he fell asleep on the couch,
waiting for Mama to come home. As soon as
Mama got home, she told me to go to my room
and play with Chippy, the stuffed toy that they got me
for my seventh birthday. Mama interrupted
my little tea party when she knocked
on my door. “Papa snores louder now,
anak,” she said. Then she went outside the house
and went inside the green car that looked
a lot like my Ninong’s—he was Papa’s kumpare,
the one that he used to drink sour juice with.
I have never heard of Mama since then.
Reggie is taking up a Bachelor of Arts in English (Creative Writing) at the University of the Philippines Mindanao. She is a completer of the Special Program in Journalism and a graduate of the Humanities and Social Sciences of the Davao City National High School.
Poetry by Caryl Trishia Yapac | July 24, 2023
In my hometown,
alarm clocks were church bells
shouting—
louder than my mother
at six in the morning,
ladies in long skirts
rushed to the choir’s call,
went home
with a bag of pandesal.
In my hometown,
clouds worshipped
a giant named
Malindang,
guarding,
overlooking,
the calm waters
of the green and abundant
Panguil Bay.
In my hometown,
an old castle rusted.
A queen
dressed in pink,
crowned with stars,
had angels
patrolling the lighthouse.
For a visit, red candles
were offered.
In my hometown,
Bukagan-
was a cursed hill.
Only towers existed,
only the religious
would climb
seeking for a treasure,
adults knew as penitence
during Good Friday.
In my hometown,
when the moon watched,
stories echoed as lullabies.
Bells cried in fright.
Malindang haunted the streets,
the Queen appeared on doors,
Hungry Bukagan walked and knocked,
I slept and slept,
I wouldn’t be eaten一 awake.
Caryl Trishia Escal Yapac graduated with the degree Bachelor of Secondary Education Major in English at Xavier University Ateneo de Cagayan. She was born and raised in Ozamiz City, Misamis Occidental. She was a fellow for poetry at the Saint Francis Xavier Writing Workshop (2022), Cagayan De Oro Young Writers’ Studio (2021), and Veritas Writing Workshop (2020).
Poetry by Angela Sucaldito, Christian Sabado, Nixie Serna | May 15, 2023
Seven Christian Sabado When there is pain, here is the immediate thought: end it. No matter the degree of hurt, my body, in its frailty and sensitivity, always yearns for a stop. An end to an unease. A sudden but momentary jolt of pain is much preferred than a pain that is less in its affliction but endures longer. Do not prolong the agony. A scrape on the knee, a toothache, a broken heart. Betadine, Ibuprofen, sleep. The mind always seeks for a cure. No matter how brief the relief it gives. When one is in pain, one must look at its causes. I often do not. The duration of looking and seeing only makes the hurt more felt. The act of looking away is a kindness to the self. But writing demands seeing. I look for the wounds within; wounds which I had hidden; wounds I did not know even existed. I seek them out. Wring out the blood. Piece them together. Make something out of it. Some ink. Some words. Sentences. Stories. * Three Angela Sucaldito I was brought to the hospital once during home quarantine as I was feeling faint. The doctor asked how I felt, as the nurses checked my blood pressure. I really don’t know what to say; how to describe what I was feeling. Was I in pain? Not really, but I couldn’t breathe. But no, my lungs didn’t hurt. There was a dull pain in my chest but it was not painful. It was tolerable. I was dizzy, but no, my head didn’t hurt either. What if he thinks I am bluffing? Was I wasting the doctor’s precious time? “On the scale of ten, I think it was three.” Other people have much more pain compared to mine. Much, much more than mine that I wondered if I had the right to talk about pain. To write about? It was tolerable, the pain. I may have cried about it for weeks but I was still able to sleep—more or less. “You’re okay, you’re just over-fatigued,” the doctor said. So how can I pour myself out on these pages when I am an empty vessel? * Zero Nixie Serna The house is a powder keg. Any sound or any movement is a source of heat – a spark. If I make myself as quiet as possible, there is one less chance for an explosion. If I make myself as small as possible, I will get through unscathed until tomorrow. Reduce myself. Take up less space. Nullify the need to want because there is only so much that we can afford with a paper bill in my parents’ pocket. I am a well-behaved girl. I neither drag my feet nor point a finger when we pass by the candies on the cashier’s counter. Rip pages from my journal. Delete photos and messages. Forgetting means there is nothing to relive. And when there is nothing to relive, there is nothing to feel. Numbness is not an absence of pain but a side effect of unfeeling. _____________________ Christian Sabado, Angela Sucaldito, and Nixie Serna are 4th year BA English (Creative Writing) students of UP Mindanao. These lyric fragments are responses to the essay “The Pain Scale” by Eula Biss.
Poetry by Tara Yakob Montiflor | March 27, 2023
July noon, the city laid bare below an endless sheet of blue,
Davao’s downtown sprawl naked, its dusty urban flesh
crisscrossed with the implicit loom of wires,
Corrugated walls rust-colored like lipstick stains, or bruises.
Summer light, smoke scent, the siren call of engines—
These all add to the texture of cacophony,
The all-encompassing weight of a city onto the senses.
In this purgatory light of noon the world itself is unclothed,
Burnt by cloudless horizon, its sounds and stains uncovered
Without shame, without secrets,
Even when its embrace makes it difficult to breathe.
***
Tara Yakob Montiflor is a graduate of BA English (cum laude) from the University of the Philippines Mindanao, a Best Thesis Finalist for their poetry collection “The Streets will Not Embrace You.”
Poetry by Gerwin Vic Evarretta Bhuyo | February 19, 2023
petsa kinse na
sa dominggo
nga gikahinaman
aron mauli na gyod
ang hinulamang kagoran
ay hinigugma
hagbay rang
gikabay-an
durong kagod
sa gipabuak mong lubi
wa mo igsapayan
iyang pagkumot
ug ang pagkasapal
sa imong dungog
hangtod nisamot
kaispiso ang tunô
sarang ikaligo
dugang sa luha
Si Gerwin Vic Evarretta Bhuyo usa ka magtutudlo nga OFW sa Bangkok, Thailand. Kinaham niya ang pagkuha og mga hulagway, pagsulat og balak ug sugilanon. Kon walay kakulian, magyampungad ni siya sa mga ipahigayong book sale event.