Category: Poetry

A Leap of Faith

Poetry by | March 1, 2015

1 2 3…1 2 3…1 2 3

Footsteps walking towards her
thunder and rain banging on the roof

Hide inside the closet
too dark to see

Knock, knock, knock

Too scared to get out
“Won’t somebody please come and save me?”
Heart beats fast, blood starts to rise
trying to get out of the darkness

1 2 3…. 1 2 3…. 1 2 3….

close your eyes
take a deep breath
trust no one but yourself

1 2 3…. open your eyes
free your mind
no one can save you but yourself
take the risk
get out there

believe that you can

take your leap of faith.

—
Ayessa is a graduate of Hotel and Restaurant Management from the University of Mindanao. She currently works at Offsourcing.

Dear Love (or Ten Letters from a Girl You Fucked Up)

Poetry by | February 21, 2015

Dear Love: fuck you. I used to think you
would mean the world to me. At nine years old, I believed
you were something dreams were made of. I dotted my i’s
with little red hearts, and gently I pressed
little-girl kisses on Sticky Notes I left on my crush’s desk.
And even though I watched him peel each note off of wood
and three-point-shoot them into a bin, I stayed in love with the idea of you.
Early on, I knew you were going to hurt me.
Dear Love: where were you? Puberty was not so kind to me.
At thirteen, I jealously watched you flit
from couple to couple on February the 14th, smelling
of market-bought flowers and candy hearts. I saw you in the knowing smiles
of boys and girls who held hands in jacket pockets, because public displays of affection
meant a one-way ticket to the Principal’s Office.
Love, you sure took your time, I got used to never receiving anything on Valentines.
Dear Love: why couldn’t you stay? At fifteen, you meant the smile thrown over the shoulder
of the girl who sat in the front row in English class. You
were in every “Good Morning” and “Sweet Dreams” she texted me, you
sat in the creases that formed around her eyes whenever she laughed, I felt you
in the way her gentle hands trembled when she touched me. The first time she and I kissed,
she held my face with her fingertips as if I was made of spun glass.
Love, I know I never gave you enough reason to stay, right when I was warming up to you,
but it would have been great if you did, anyway.
Dear Love: I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m sorry. At seventeen,
you came back again on a summer night, sailing on notes played
on an out-of-tune guitar. I did not fall into you this time, I’ll have to admit
the guy you introduced me to wasn’t really my type, but dear God
when he told me he liked me, the butterflies I thought were dead inside me
multiplied and flew around in my stomach. My ribcage
transformed into an aviary for beautiful, hopeful little things. I felt you
in every letter he wrote to me, you were underneath the pillow that he and I shared
in that creaky bunk bed that wasn’t even ours—never mind the fact that he had to leave
at 3 am to go back to his own room. Love, I will never
stop apologizing for pushing you away. When he and I ended up liking
the same books, the same songs, the same shows,
same actors, writers, pictures, the same damnedest little things,
I got scared. What I did still haunts me to this day. It hovers over my head like a ghost
I feel nauseous when I remember how I made him cry.
He and you deserved better.
Dear Love: you started leaving a bitter taste in my mouth,
because at eighteen, I began wearing my heart upon my sleeve,
sewing and un-sewing it again and again on whatever I wore just to see
if anyone would hold it, even just for a couple of months. And somebody did.
I knew it was you coming back for revenge, because you
came with someone you knew my unhappy self could never resist: a pretty girl
who told me I was pretty too. I fell hard—I laughed at all of her jokes,
I walked with her, talked to her, held her in my arms and told her,
“you’ll finish this year!”, I kept all of her gifts
and the promises I made, even when she didn’t,
I was fucking good to her. This time, you left me. She left with you.
Dear Love: how dare you do this to me. If you sprinkled crushed lead
all over my heart, you would see how the dust sticks to the fingerprints
that all of them have left, I am still writing about them, even though by this time
I should have run out of words to explain how you
still really hurt. At nineteen, I know that I do not have all the years I should have
to really complain, but dear Love:
if you had a neck, I would wring it. Dear Love: my heart
is not a test tube, you do not put fragments of people and stories and promises in it
just to see what happens next. This is my final letter.
Dear Love: I know
you are meant to be an open-ended story,
an ellipsis, a dot-dot-dot to be continued, a question
to be met with infinite answers. And I know that I hate you for fucking me over.
But dear Love:
please,
for the love of all things good,
keep coming around.

—
Nina, one of LitOrgy’s most anticipated readers, performed this piece at last week’s LitOrgy 6, at Cork and Barrel, Obrero.

On a Sailboat

Poetry by | February 15, 2015

Everything seems smaller from a distance.
Samal island is shrouded in silence.
The calm sea is like her smile at night—
I really miss her warmth in my bed.
But now I am drifting, alone,
in the stillness of these waters.
And the stars above give no comfort.

—
Simon’s poetry has been published in Philippines Free Press, Philippines Graphic magazine, Red River review, Easlit, and Kabisdak online.

Marathon

Poetry by | February 15, 2015

Runners in the morning
a Diaspora of hopefuls in pink
coming from nowhere
defying traffic and weather
to wherever ten kilometers may take them.
Their message and memories
are fastened to the numbered bibs
that they hang close to their chests,
careful not to lose it
to the slippery road.
What started out as a cause
to raise awareness for breast cancer
had become an uncertain run for their own lives,
as they keep their lungs from failing,
and their legs from falling.
Runners in the dawn
wet of sweat, mud, and dew
had only pride to eat and rivals for company.
And the gray sky and passing cars
are their only spectators.
The random hundreds brave
against time, like salmon in heat
fighting the currents
of the river, to warmer waters
they may never reach.
Like the herald Pheidippides
running from Marathon to Athens,
they hold on to the hopes that once
they finish the race,
they will have spread a message,
proclaiming victory
Over Persia, over cancer
Over the currents of the waterfalls
Over the slippery stretch of the ten-kilometer road.
See how they run, the runners of daybreak
noble and foolish they may be
as they surrender everything they have left on the race line
so they may finally reach the end
recover from the dark
renew their youth
and touch the Sun.

—
Fred graduated from the Creative Writing program at the University of the Philippines Mindanao. He likes to keep himself fit.

Kama: For Sale

Poetry by | February 15, 2015

Sa pipila ka adlaw, ako na lay gahigda
ning atong kama
luag na kini, hapsay sa paminaw
nga ako makaligidligid, makapanikad,
solo ang unlan, ug way singot
nga mudagayday sa kalawasan.
Apan ining akong pag-inusara,
gibati ko pa ang imong presensya.
Akong nakita ang nangaputol nga hilo
sa shorts nga bulak-bulak nga atong pinalit
didto sa usa ka convenience store sa may Roxas,
dala niini ang naputol ko nga pangandoy
sa paghuman sa dream catcher
nga akong giingong ihatag sa imuha
samtang nangaon ta sa Keep Sakes.
Akong gitanggal ang unlan sa akong ulo,
ug gitapad kanako—
ang imong baho;
ang buhok nga ginaliguan
og pink nga Head and Shoulders
ningpilit pa sa punda.
imong Baby Johnsons nga sabon nagpabilin
sa habol ug hapin nga kapila na nakong gibubua’g Downy.
Akong mata, halang. Mura’g gisawsawa’g alcohol.
Di ko mapugngan ang pagdalin-as sa akong kamot,
gakapa sa unlang imong gibilin.
Ginabaghid nako akong tiil,
sa hawan nga bahin ning higdaanan,
gahandom nga imong bagtak,
nga naay nanubong buhok,
akong masinati pa’g usab.
Nipiyong ko ug nitago sa habol,
apan sa pag-abri pa’g usab ning akong mga mata,
hayag sa adlaw akong nakita. Asa ka?
Usahay ako mutuo nga imong kalag,
Gabisita kanako. Nga siya
nakabati sa akong kamingaw.
nga kining higdaanan, mas humok,
Mas dako, ug mas malipayon kung naa ka.
Usahay nagadamgo ko nga ikaw nitapad,
Ug hinay-hinay nga nigakos sa’kong kaluya.
Sa paggawas ning luha,
natilawan nako ang
kaparat sa dagat atong mga panahong
kita nipalayo ug niangkon sa Samal,
Akong kaugalingon, usa ra sa imuha.
Apan kinsa ako para pugngan ka,
Ug magpabilin niining atong kama.
Ang imong kaugalingon
Nibuhi sa gisugdang kalibutan
nga di ko angay’ng hiktan.
Ang dalan para kanato taas pa,
Pero ikaw nibiya na.
Ug kining higdaanan,
magpabiling atong handumanan.
Wala ka man sa akong taparan,
di ko man makab-ot ang imong giadtuan,
Naghinaot ko nga sa imong ginatulgan
Makahinanok ka’g taman-taman.

—
Denise Alexi is a BA English (Creative Writing) student of the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

Hinanap Kita

Poetry by | February 15, 2015

Kinapa ko ikaw sa dilim
Sinalat ang bawat korte
ang bawat linya ng iyong
katawan
Hinanap ko ikaw mula ibaba
paitaas, hanggang mangalay na ang
mga braso’t kamay sa kakakapa
at mapaluha na lamang sa sakit
pinili pa rin ang kapa-in
at hanapin ka
kahit di sigurado kung na andiyan
pa
ngunit
kahit na anong pagsalat
at paghanap
sa korte ng iyong mukha
tangos ng iyong ilong
lambot ng iyong mga labi
at tikas ng iyong katawan
hindi pa rin kita mahanap
Nararamdaman mo ba ako?
Hinahanap mo rin ba ako sa dilim
gaya ng paghanap at pagkapa
ko sa’yo?
O di kaya’y umiiwas ka lang?
na sa tuwing mararamdaman mong
maabot ko na, mahahawakan ko na
ikaw
ay agad-agad kang iiwas
at lalayo ulit?
magtatago?
at mawawala?

—
Sums is an English major at Xavier University – Ateneo de Cagayan. She writes every time Life slaps her in the face. A normal student by day, and a majestic unicorn by night.

Why the corns can't make it to harvest

Poetry by | February 15, 2015

Sorry, son
the corns can’t make it to harvest
they have rolled on the field
as you would on the playground
flattening everything out
the bullets pierced the leaves
human blood flooded the soil
causing the roots to rot
but don’t worry
there’ll be another season
they’ll give us seeds
we’ll make them grow
like government’s promises
we’ll have another harvest
once this anxiety is ripened.

—
Orlando is a teacher at Francisco Bangoy National High School.

Windows

Poetry by | February 8, 2015

He told me he did not want to grow old alone.
His future was something he had written
like this: wife, kids, maybe a dog, and a job
that pays him with contentment. He told me this
with his hands giving away the excitement
he tried to hide with his deep voice.
His left thumb kept the other four fingers
close to his palm. These were the same fingers
that brought cigarettes between his lips,
and I wished countless times to be
a white stick worth some coins
in exchange for a kiss.
I wanted to be a part of his plans so badly.
But that night, over dinner, as he went on
and I watched his thumb slowly release
the other fingers beneath it, I was afraid
I was not cut out for someone who has plans
of contentment and certainty when my feet
don’t agree with each other most of the time;
who is so sure about the years ahead
when I’m just trying to make it to tomorrow;
who knows exactly where the doors he opens
lead to, when I love squeezing myself into
windows and losing sleep trying to figure out
why I could not get in.
He stopped talking and asked me what
I thought my future was going to be.
And I could have racked my brains
for something he would like, something
that fit well with his: husband, kids, maybe
a dog, and a life of no regrets. But I knew
he and his plans were windows I could never
fit into.

—
Hannah is a third year Creative Writing student at UP Mindanao. Bill Gates did not pay her to title her poem this way.