Category: Poetry

Abu Bakr Talks to His Boss's Imported Car from Germany

Poetry by | January 18, 2015

Hello to yu der da new Germany car of my boss, my pileng is so bery comportable inside wen I draybing.
My boss Ahmad maybe lab yu because he rily buy you in bery big money from da bery cold Germany.
So dats why I take care of yu because I lab you too also layk my boss, because yu relax me bery much.
I think da taym when we go to da city of Cotabato to visit da first lab of my boss Ahmad, Madam Sawda,
What a so bery relaxing pileng while I draybing yu. In da taym of six hours of travel, I jas pil okey.
But when we arrive to da place, I see dat Madam Sawda is bery hot in da fever.
We sleep in der house in da city of Cotabato only one week and den go agen to his oder lab,
And when we action to go away por da next wife, madam is still coughing so bery hard.
And my boss Ahmad say he will sleep one day agen wid her to take care to her.
But Madam Sawda don’t say yes to boss Ahmad, she rily No No. She say dat my boss Ahmad must go.
She say dat my boss Ahmad hab responsibility to da oder wife. So my boss jas follow what madam say.
So we go away in da city of Cotabato after one week. I think in dat taym dat Madam Sawda will jealous.
Because maybe she will jealous to da oder lab of boss Ahmad now she is hot in da fever.
But you know Germany car, Madam Sawda is so bery understanding woman.
Maybe ebrything’s jas okey to her.

So I hab anoder agen a travel with my boss Ahmad today, but I think sad a little bit about it.
Today in da brayt day, we will going to da Tawi-tawi so dat my boss will be in his third lab, Hafsa.
I question in myself about Hafsa, da wife of my dead frend Khunais: why she marry my boss Ahmad?
I’m problemizing to my dead frend Khunais because if he is not dead, what he will say about this?
He don’t want dis to happen! Dat his first lab is now the sweetheart honeybunch of my boss Ahmad ?
Who is a so bery faithful to Islam ? complete all da salah and do da fasting in da Ramadhan;
Who is a so bery rich man ? give zakah always in da week and give his families bery bery big houses;
Who is a bery smart person ? da teacher of da big madrasah and writer also in da books.
Oh! But you know Germany car, Khunais is so bery understanding man.
Maybe ebrything’s jas okey to him.

But maybe opkors not my oder dead frend Ubaydah, when he will know dat Zaynab marry also to boss.
My dead frend is not hab many money; he only hab small nipa house in da Indangan.
Oh I’m is so rily sad about dat man. I praying before dat I can help in da financial to him, but no.
And now, I can’t think inside my mind Zaynab and der children and der lives when he is nothing already.
Dey will not hab food every day, no clothes por da little kids, even der small nipa hut
Wid jas many empty sacks of rice por the roof is a little bit surrendering last time I go der.
My boss Ahmad is so bery good person; he take out Zaynab and da kids from der small nipa-hut.
My boss Ahmad is so bery good person; he give new house and many foods, and clothes por dem.
Yes, my boss is so bery good man; he marry to Zaynab and he adopting her children.
Oh! But you know Germany car, Ubaydah is so bery understanding man.
Maybe ebrything’s jas okey to him.

I never never ever want to say about Aisha because I don’t want to cry, no anymore.
Da bery first time I will know dat she will marry to my boss Ahmad, it break my heart like a glass.
But I don’t angry to my boss Ahmad por sure and also not to Aisha;
Because it is da ama of Aisha dat say to her dat she marry to my boss Ahmad than me.
I am nothing, Germany car. I am nothing but just a driver and servant; I don’t hab many money
Dats why I am only da man who don?t marry to da rich lady like Aisha.
I am so bery hurting when my boss Ahmad say to me inside da SUV about his wedding to Aisha.
He don’t know we are bery sweet boyfriend and girlfriend to each oder when we are still young kids.
I am so bery bery hurt dat time. I am angry. So bery angry dat I think something bad.
I think to drayb porward and hit da SUV of boss Ahmad straight to da Davao Light post in da highways.
Or if not, I think dat time to resign as driver, and end da six years of service to my boss Ahmad.
But I think agen. If I do dat all, what it will happen? I think maybe I jas hab to be happy to dem.
Yesterday, I see her. She say to me salaam, and I say salaam to her too and we smile in each oder.
You know Germany car, I think I’m an understanding man. Ebrything’s jas okey to me.
I so rily lab my boss Ahmad, because he is so bery good to his many families.
Although he hab many labidabs, he hab a sweet heart to me and others, dats why I like him.
If I will be rich someday, if da God is bery bery kind to me, I want to be like my boss Ahmad.
Not jas because he hab many wives, but because I want to help other people.

—
Nassefh is a Bangsamoro Kaagan native from Panabo City. He is a Creative Writing student in UP Mindanao. He is yet to consider having four wives in the future.

This noon while the sun blows its hotness

Poetry by | January 11, 2015

This noon while the sun blows its hotness
A soft cool wind comes to me
And invited me to fly to you.
My friend, it’s been a while since the fields were left barren:
Where sunrise used to kiss the flowers of rice
Where sunset didn’t say goodbye
Rather, it welcomes the night to enter into a world where two souls was- as if- one.
These were nights that we seized- so that we did not fail to sigh and saw the light.

My Friend, today I remember you.
Perhaps there is a space in the universe where we can store our memories.
And it is, as this time, that instead of flying to you,
I found myself, alone, solemn in the midst of this space.

It seems, as I lived in this space before, awakening and wanting,
that I could live in this space for more.
But will there be beautiful memories that will be added to the existing ones?
Will there be laughter and soft smile?
The glances, without words and from a distance,
yet the meaning was ever true in our hearts.
Will there be more of these glances?
Will there be added moments of dances?
Again, wordless, but the movements: the waving and swaying-
speak soundless words that is native to only the two of us.
As if we had our own norm and we follow our own culture:
We had a world of our own inside a bigger world.
I am in that world right now.
I’m surprised, contrary to what I expected,
That this world remains. Perhaps this will not vanish from this space.
But a space without anything that provides meaning is emptiness.
In this space, Lebanon, the bonsai, did not die.
Ramadhan, also a bonsai, is flourishing.
Rupeke, the bamboo chime, is singing the melody of “I could have said”.
And it is to this space, that today, at this time, I will add this letter.
It is my prayer, that someday, sometime, we visit this space together.

02 oct. 2014

Sunsets

Poetry by | January 11, 2015

Come now, sit beside me
bowing like the awkward sun
I want you to know
that what you are capable of bringing
signals the arrival of darkness.

But even if beauty can be found
in connected stars and shy moon
in silent, clear proofs
I still wish you close to me
enough to see a wilting rose
even if it means feeling familiar wounds
and dancing with scars barefoot
with the hopes of you remembering
the little bright things above us
the wind not swaying this old bench
our own favorite spot in Rizal Boulevard
Because I know better now.

—
Andrea Lim was born in Pasig City, spent childhood years in Marikina and Bulacan, and studied Grade Four to Fourth year high school in General Santos City. She is now taking Bachelor of Mass Communication at Silliman University, Dumaguete City. She is also the present associate editor of the Weekly Sillimanian.

Dust Bunny

Poetry by | January 11, 2015

When you opened the door
And asked if you could stay inside,
I was happy.
Because you see, long before you decided
To twist the doorknob and fumble
For the light switch on the wall,
The idea
Of you staying with me
Had already planted itself deep into my chest and mind,
Nurtured by the sunlight I let in
Whenever I gazed at you through the windows
Wondering when you’d come.

“I can stay on the couch, I won’t be here too long anyway.” you said.
I didn’t even ask why.

I nodded silently.
If you only knew how much I wanted you to stay
In my room, where everything I am
Hung in walls and perched on desks and dusty windowsills
And hid in every crease of the sheets;
Things I wanted you to see.
My room where
Every whisper the world has ever heard
From me
Echoed back into screams extending
Every bit of my soul;
Sounds I wanted you to hear.

I let you stay on the couch anyway.
You even called it “home” once.

When was it that you decided to leave?
Was it when you peeked through the
Cracks of my bedroom door
And saw only soot and dust? You never told me.
And I guess I’ll never know.

It’s been years,
But it’s still the same way after you left.
Only now, cobwebs and dust are starting to claim the space
That you once claimed yours.
It makes me cough every now and then, of blood and dry earth,
But I can manage—I think I can—
To wait a little longer.
Don’t worry, I’ll leave the door open.

—
Ivan is a student of BS Architecture in UP Mindanao with an alarming addiction to milk bars.

a year after yolanda

Poetry by | January 4, 2015

Let me say Goodbye
Let me say goodbye- properly.
But how do I do it if you don’t see me
Although I see you?
How do I say goodbye without words and
waving hand?
If I kiss your forehead- would you feel it?
It will just be like a touch of soft air on your hair.
How would you know it’s me?
You must know, that now, I can listen to your silent prayers:
Before you go to sleep (whenever you can),
when you are alone anytime of the day or
even when you are in a group
when suddenly you broke into silence and whisper a silent prayer.
I hear all these my love.
Even when you have said goodbye – I can’t count how many times-
In truth, and I’m grateful and amused, you are keeping me.
And you’re not contented keeping me in your heart-
I hear you say, ‘you want to keep and hold me physically’.
Amazingly, and this makes me smile,
Your ardent longing to hold me, keep me and never let go- doesn’t show on your face.
Some friends say, and I also hear them say, you have moved on and accepted
Our fate when Yolanda made us apart.
My love, how can I tell you I never left you?
For even if you don’t see me- I am with you.
How can I tell you that we both have survived the wrath of Yolanda.
That I did not leave you and there’s nothing to let go or move on to.
While you survived and continue to live
I, too, survived and have another life.

~~~

Blessed with two lives
My love, if there is one thing that Yolanda
Made it clear- it is that
we are blessed with two lives.
One that I still live now
And one that, I dearly pray, I will live- with you.
My love, my love… wherever you are
Please know that I hear you
Every minute of the day
Ever since my hand slipped loss with your hand
When the third wave separated us.
For two weeks, and even after that when I no longer counted the days-
For days are the same,
I never thought that our separation would be
between heaven and earth.
Often, just to make us closer,
I started believing
That heaven is here on earth.
So that- if you are in heaven
You are also here with me.
My love, my love..I hope it’s painless to be in heaven.
For I don’t like you to be in pain
When you see me struggling-
Palms above each other pressed to my chest-
Longing, my love…longing, my love…
For it’s really a magic
How absence makes one closer.
Now I must admit
that you are
ever more present
Than when you share
your life- here with me.
Oh, my love..Is it crowded in heaven?
Is there a place for Yolanda victims?
There must have been a sudden surge of migrants
From here to where you are right now.
With the number who, like you, have migrated,
Are you in one Barangay?
Please tell me all these.
If you have an address- please tell me about this-
Please whisper this in my dream tonight.
Or since I still have your number, please text me your address.
Please, please my love, tell me where you are?
For I will surely look for you in heaven.
And I will make it certain I will go to heaven.
Yolanda made me a better person. God surely knows about this.
I also told our kids to be good children
So that when our days are gone here
We will be together again
In a place where no Yolanda can ever separate us.
Please guide us along the way.
And keep us in the right path-
The path that will bring us to you-
For certain, we will follow.

~~~

Children are angels
My love, I hope I can tell you this,
For it is amazing and surprising.
And I will do my best to whisper this into your dreams.
Please tell this as well to our friends,
Especially those who lost their sons and daughters.
Please tell them this:
Truly, children are angels
On earth as it is in heaven.
Truly, children are angels
On earth as it is in heaven.
Believe me my love, children don’t need to have wings
To be angels.
They also do not need to wear white robes or a halo above their heads
They are, as they are, angels.
Through them flows real light of love
They speak with love.
They walk with love.
They eat with love.
They play with love.
They dance and sing with love.
They cry with love.
They pray with love.
They sleep with love.
And they have no need in defining love.
To them, life is love.
Please tell our friends,
Grieve enough but not too much
For there is no need to worry
There sons and daughters are ever happier now.
Tell them, the mass graves buried the flesh but not love.
Please tell them that it is not possible to bury love.
And its love that brings another life.
Their children live as angels on earth as it is in heaven.
To you my love,
I hope I can share a piece of heaven
While living with our angels.

~~~

Rest (assured) in peace
My love, today I remember you
More than I remember Yolanda.
Your turf is the kitchen
And I see you cooking.
Your dance, though awful,
Makes us burst to laughter.
Your ‘privilege speech’ (as you call it)
Here, while doing breakfast remains-
Of which you never miss
To speak about ‘good manners and right conduct’
Or at times a phrase
From the ‘Ten Commandments’.
And I’m keeping what you said:
“It’s not enough to love your neighbour.
It is also important to receive love
and give thanks to the one giving it.”
This to you is the eleventh commandment.
And now- I know you’re right.
Thank you for giving me love.
It keeps me going.
And keeps you alive.
Thank you for this love.
It is now a never ending spring.
It gives me hope and lightens my load.
My love, I hope I have given you love.
I hope it is now a never ending spring
That keeps you in peace.
Let me hug you, my love, like I drink water.
Let me hug you, my love, the way I breathe air.
Let me hug you, my love, like I keep you in my heart.
Let my hug, my love, rest you in peace.

October 2014

Yul works for peace and the right to education of children.

Moving Away

Poetry by | December 28, 2014

I am moving away from home.
Away from clanging pots and pans
of morning rush, from all the sizzles of
preserves deep fried in ancient cooking oil. From
the sudden clings and clangs of plates being
washed nearby to the ticks and tacks of
the old-fashion clock in our living room.
Away from the meaningless yapping of my
mother and how she babbles about my soiled
clothes scattered on the floor that she ends
up washing, the long winding hours of looking
after the store and even away from the morning
routine of my grandmother waking
me up for school or from a bad dream.
Away from the smell of sinigang cooked
for dinner, the sour smell of boiled sampalok
and singkamas and from the familiar
face waiting patiently behind the battered green
door every night.
I am moving away from home and into
the strangeness of age. With no sinigang to
eat for dinner. With no one to
wake me up from a bad dream.
I am moving.
Away.
Hoping to find a familiar face waiting
behind the polished wooden door when
I get home late.

—
Sums is a graduating English major by day and a majestic, black unicorn by night.

Why I Never Sit At The Back Of The Jeepney Anymore

Poetry by | December 28, 2014

Whenever I ride the jeepney these days,
I always sit in the front.
It pisses me off when I get to sit with the other passengers
Where I get to forward the fare and the change back.
Once, you handed me your fare.
That was when I met you.
I hate sitting at the back
where I can’t help but hear the same, tired talks.
The same stories we shared whenever we’re in the same jeep heading home.
Except that you told them so well and repeated them as if they were new
And we could ride through kilometers in seconds
only to end them with “Here is my stop. See you.”
I hate sitting at the back of the jeep
when it is bent on breezing to the ends of the fast lane,
While I sit next to the lady with the long damp hair whipping my face.
If it was your hair, I would let it whip my face
until the scent of your shampoo sticks on my collar
so I would wear it like cologne.
I wished to see you not only in the jeep.
I wished we could have sat somewhere more comfortable.
on the grass perhaps, with your friends perhaps
So we could burn through a thousand topics.
So we could tease, laugh, and touch. And maybe,
while we head home, we could let our emotions take a different route.
I settled instead with sitting at the back of the jeep
Waiting for something to happen.
The second-to-the last time we rode together, We ran out of stories.
And the last time that we did, we no longer knew each other.
That is the thing about riding jeepneys. Nothing really happens
Except for waiting until you reach your stop. Or miss it.
Whenever I ride jeepney these days,
I always sit in the front, safe and comfortable.
Not because I do not want to remember you
but to reject the possibility of sitting next
to someone who looks like you or
of touching another’s fingers when she hands me her fare
and forgetting what yours felt like.

—
Fred Layno is a graduate of Creative Writing from UP Mindanao and an emotional commuter.

Things to Do

Poetry by | December 21, 2014

treadmill for thirty minutes
after a five-round brisk
walking at the plaza
prune the duranta
its leaves cover
the window’s horizon
do the laundry
whites first,
coloreds next
pay the electric bill
arrears only
to avoid disconnection
cut cauliflower, broccoli,
carrots and cabbage
for four seasons
iron uniforms
take a rest
dream a dream
these tasks
will disappear
tomorrow

Raul as been a fellow to various writers workshop and won several awards for his fiction and poetry. Writes from Cagayan de Oro.