Category: Poetry

My Vagina is Magical

Poetry by | September 14, 2014

My vagina is magical, but not in the way
drugs, or weight loss programs, or hair removal products swear they are, no—
my vagina is magical in a macabre and ancient way. It stretches
back to the time of Eve in the Holy Garden, who
after taking a bite out of the Forbidden Fruit,
discovered her own holy garden; it stretches
back to the priestesses who read prophecies
in stars and bones and shells. Pleasure
is not just her purpose, it is one of her powers, please do not
get that twisted. My vagina
is magical, and every month I pay for that magic
with the currency of pain and anxiety, but I do not care
if I have to endure again and again, I would gladly trade
white pants for unspeakable power, because these lips
between my legs, they can speak in cycles
of blood that wanes and waxes like the moon, the same moon
that wild wolves howl to. My vagina is the cup
that can hold the miracle of Life, a song
written in cells and tissues and nine months. We are
unstoppable, my vagina and I, because we have proven
that bleeding for days and nights does not kill a woman. We have proven
that we can endure razors and hot wax against our trembling flesh, just so
we can be acknowledged by a judging public as
“clean” and “feminine”. We have braved ridicule
and shame after we so sincerely admitted
that we would rather feel the pressing of soft
downstairs lips to the pounding and prodding of a male shaft.
My vagina is a titan enclosed
in warm, velveteen layers of flesh. My vagina
is a portal made of love and strength
to welcome new chapters of life into this world. My vagina
is a masterpiece that nobody will ever have the power nor privilege
to taint, or mock, or hurt, or ridicule, because my vagina
is magical. She is made of the most beautiful witchcraft
and she is not anyone’s to take.

—
Nina Maria Matalam-Alvarez is a Creative Writing student at UP Mindanao. She loves reading stories as much as she loves writing them. Good poems make her cry. Good music makes her cry. Her dog makes her cry. This piece was performed at litVrgy, the fifth installment of the LitOrgy series, at Saless Bar Tekanplor last August 30.

Ang Pakigstorya Kang Inday

Poetry by | August 31, 2014

Karon, kitang duha adunay higayon na magkaistorya
Pero dako akong kaguol kung unsa akoang isulti sa imoha.
Nahadlok ko mogamit ko og mga jamming nimo
Kay basin dili ka ganahan og mamali ang akoang tiyempo.
Karon naa sa akong atubagan na tika
Wa na ko’y laing mabuhat kundi makipagstorya jud sa imoha
Apan, unsaon ko man lagi ni?
Kung naa ka, hilomon man ning tawhana ni.
Pero matod pa ni Buber,
Na ang pakigstorya kinahanglan lang akong kaugalingon
Kay wala na’y mas lain pang nindot na ika ingon
Kundi ang akong kasing-kasing na matinud-anon.
Mao nang wala na koy jamming na iingon pa
Kay ang tanan nakong isulti angay jud sa imoha.
Di nako kinahanglan mo sulti og pampabukhad atay
Kay kini mismo akong tula para lang kanimo Inday.

—
Si Karlo usa ka estudyante AB Pilosopiya sa Ateneo de Davao University.

A Certain Girl

Poetry by | August 31, 2014

She walks in beauty, like the night; elegance unmatched
Her bright eyes and a smile that dazzles akin to the stars
I am enchanted by her gaze; left truly powerless
To win her love is a verdant garden
Alluring and willful, truly a queen of love and beauty.

Here Comes

Poetry by | August 31, 2014

Here comes the dripping rain,
Of clouds pour out,
Drip-drop, drip-drop,
Canopies covering,
Fellows rushing.
Here comes the resounding laughter,
Of children ought to bare,
Astounding belches,
Skreaking blunder,
Thunder, thunder.
Here comes the clamping mornings,
Wrestle the blankets,
Dewy grasslands,
Children run,
Till the rain comes again.

—
Art is a Computer Science student from Xavier University – Ateneo de Cagayan.

Hand-Me-Down

Poetry by | August 31, 2014

It came in early today.
I thought he’d send it later in the afternoon.
Yesterday, he said he was too busy
to look for it.
“It’s somewhere in those boxes of ragged clothes,
old toys, dusty books.
I’ll look for it when I have time.” he said.
I offered a hand in the search, but he shrugged
it off, said he didn’t need it.
He always does that.
I took it out from the tattered box.
It has patches all over it’s dusty carcass.
The laces can’t be tangled together: too short.
But, aside from the little damages, it was okay, till
I turned it upside down; spikes all worn out.
They look more like miniature humps on an
ancient road.
But, again, spikes are spikes. Even if
they would not hold my feet firm
on the ground.
And then it came to me,
was it too big, again, for my size.
“You need not buy a new one.
It’ll suffice. Just use it.” he said, while
carrying Tita’s bag, one Sunday afternoon.
He’s always like that;
passing hand-me-down shoes to me.
I’d accept it though. And use them during play-offs.
I’d run in marathons, play in ball games, wearing
shoes twice the size of my feet.
And as always, I’d fall short.
“Your shoes are too big,” they said, “try these on.
I think we’re of the same size.”
I’d shrug them off. “I don’t need it.” I’d say.
And continue with what I was doing, in
my dad’s shoes.
But this time, I didn’t like the idea
of running around the diamond, with loose pair
of studs. So I decided to try it on. If it didn’t fit,
I’d buy a new one: the pair of my choice.
That simple.
I slid my right foot in,
same goes with the other.
And surprisingly,
they fit perfectly.

—
Sums is a graduating Education student at Xavier University – Ateneo de Cagayan.

Sonnet 1: Ironey

Poetry by | August 24, 2014

Like strands of curly, noodle hair,
we’re lovers inside a barrel.
Like an extended family
dining on a tel’phone table.

I scratched their backs, so they scratch mine,
Yet we do not know, who scratched who.
I regard them as myself, but
I talk to them like they’re shadows.

They are my ghosts, as I am theirs.
So near, yet so far. So real, yet
exists in my hoax fantasy.
So human, yet so material.

So alive, yet awfully De—————-ad!
There are no people in jeepneys.

—
Jet is a teacher at Kong Hua School, Cagayan de Oro City.

iPV3P

Poetry by | August 24, 2014

(i plant vrom three pit)
I woke up one morning seeing our plant…
I want to share with you its fruits. Then,
I wanted to see it grow and mature.
I love our plant very much.
I [Enclosed] it in a box.
I saw a branch fall because of the wind, so,
I put a roof on it.
I felt the heat of the (Sun) drying our plant’s leaves, so,
I smelled the strong odour of the insecticide. Then,
I saw its soil bulge.
I saw our plant soak.
I sprayed a whole bottle of insecticide.
I added twice the amount of the <Recommended> fertilizer.
I decided to double the amount of water.
I wonder when the fruits will ^Emerge^ from the flowers. So,
I don’t want to see the same features every day.
I felt that the days were #Very# long.
I became tired of waiting.
I waited patiently and as calmly as possible, then,
I was anxious .Everyday. as to what fruit will it yield.
I saw it grow and bloom with flowers.
I sprayed its leaves with the strongest insect killer.
I cultivated its soil with the best fertilizer.
I watered it with a dipper of water.
I ‘Raised’ it with love till it became a plant.
I took care of it every day.
I planted our seed in my beautiful garden.
LOVE.

—
Jet is a teacher at Kong Hua School, Cagayan de Oro City.

A View

Poetry by | August 24, 2014

The city plaza is full of children
in the afternoon. The acacia trees
stand proud where I enjoy sketching
the light, fading behind the arid mountains,
the glittering haciendas, as I listen
to the shrieking cicadas every sunset.
The monsoon is still far away.
As you can see, the summer burns
intensely in the clear blue firmament—
yes, I know that everything in this world
is grounded with grief of History.
It seems here and everywhere
life moves like a spiraling leaf,
ending in its picturesque fall.