Category: Poetry

Hope

Poetry by | April 26, 2014

Hope
it flows in a running stream,
scintillating under the sun
like a vein of liquid treasure.
You can barely cup it with your palms
as it only drips from your fingers,
But the coolness of it
makes you smile.
You take some into plastic bottles,
and share it with the nearby sun-baked children,
sweating as they toil the earth and mud.
They drink Hope,
not a drop escaping their lips,
and they smile.
And you smile too,
because you understand completely
their experience.

—
Glyd Jun Arañes works as a research assistant at the Philippine Women’s College of Davao. This poem is dedicated to the refugees in Ban Mae Surin, Thailand.

Semana Santa

Poetry by | April 26, 2014

Yes, there is stillness in darkness, for there is
beauty in light. Yesterday, the world showed me
its wound in the chest of a homeless child, drenched
with rain, begging for crumbs outside the door
of the ancient cathedral, where we converge
and pray on what can never be, whenever we try
to pull the rusty nails from our palms. And there
is grief, for there is always loss, in life. Every morning,
during holy week around 8 am, after a mug of coffee,
the maya birds stop over my balcony to sing a song
I could never ever decipher. And that is a miracle
by itself. Of knowing there are limits. Sometimes
there is a sentiment of defeat at the peak of triumph.
Sometimes, I seek god, in the twirling smoke
of every cigarette I consume, while I wait
with awe for the sky to be filled with stars.

—
Simon Anton Nino Diego Baena is an undergraduate student of MSU-IIT, Iligan city. Originally from Bais, Negros Oriental, now based in Iligan. Some of his poems have already been published in the Philippines Free Press, Philippines Graphic magazine, and Eastlit online literary journal, the upcoming issue 17 of Kartika review, ODDproyekto, and Kabisdak online.

Instrumental

Poetry by | April 26, 2014

Instrumental
Our room gets smaller,
walls wanting to embrace each other
pouting every detail of that wallpaper as if to kiss
or crumple the silences in between
or fold it, neatly as if origami beds and chairs
dreaming to fly with cranes and paper planes
out your window–
your every breath reminds me how
suffocated words want to escape and be born again
with voices, to speak up the reasons why
this room is getting smaller,
why this room has no more music
only lullabies slowly repeating each goodbyes
so slowly that I can spell it out
with the lyrics of an empty love song.

—
Jermafe Kae Angelo-Prias is a graduate of Creative Writing in University of the Philippines Mindanao. She was a fellow at the 2012 Iligan National Writers workshop and 2005 Davao Writers Workshop. Some of her works have appeared in SunStar Davao and the Best of Dagmay anthology.

Extremes

Poetry by | March 23, 2014

Passion.

I hold
a depth
free of
grip.

Van Gogh’s strokes—
masterpiece.

Yet,
why?

He cut an ear.

—
Katrina is studying BS Secondary Education at Ateneo de Davao University.

A Year Without Rain

Poetry by | March 23, 2014

My window’s open
I searched for you
in burning heat
in cracked soil
in withered leaves
in empty fields
in dusty highways.
The season’s lonely
all wells are dry
no flower blooms
no grasses grow
no heavy clouds
no cold wind blows.
The sun now burns
each rays pierced
my wounded heart
my lonely soul
a year of drought
a year without rain
a year without you.

—
Abi Andoy is a student from AdDU.

What could have been at Macasandig 2011

Poetry by | March 16, 2014

I awoke to a shriek
Conscious but almost blind
Sight was nil, pitch black
All I hear, a gush, now sleep
Light has returned, and I see
It was a mere dream, our dream
Nothing seemed to be weird
Other than my being drenched
I got up, very much doused
Dried off with the most peculiar towel
It was warm, warmth I have not felt in so long
The sensation akin to my mother’s embrace
Now I am dry, the house and all else
I made myself decent and dressed up
The clothes fit snug, strong yet free to move
It feels as if I am carried by my father
I turned on the music player, listen
The song playing felt oddly familiar
The sound very much like my brothers’ singing
Reminiscent of when we all played together
I sang and sang along; I inhaled
The air felt like velvet against my lips
And as I exhaled, it healed my heart
A fondness identical to her, a love unknown
I awoke to a sob; no, lots of sobs
I see my family around my body
I kiss them and bid them adieu
I dove, descend to space not shown

—
Gari Jamero is a BS Biology Student from Xavier University – Ateneo de Cagayan.

Morning Blues

Poetry by | March 9, 2014

The light is heavy like the weight
of an open wound. And I hear
no sound of laughter nor prayer,
only the coughs and puffs of smokers
outside the haunting streets of Bais.
The landscape remains blistered.
Rainless for days. And my throat
wants something more than water—
every morning, the world is in pursuit
of harmony, the balance between
the wave and the ash and the dissonance
of speech, my father used to tell me.
What is visible to the mind is the shoreline
of guilt with no waves nor gulls to kiss
it. And the pebble in front of the acacia tree
remains indifferent, while I am burdened
by these artifacts of guilt. I know exactly
where in my memories my scars are
located. Inside the old chapel,
I feel the presence of the void. God
does not speak to me. Not even
in a language of metaphors.

—
Simon Anton Nino Diego Baena is an undergraduate student of MSU-IIT, Iligan city.
Originally from Bais, Negros Oriental, now based in Iligan. Some of his poems have already been published in Philippines Free Press, Philippines Graphic magazine, and Eastlit online literary journal

Home

Poetry by | March 9, 2014

I gaze at the morning sky,
My eyes following the plane
That carries you
And I know
you look outside the window,
Searching for me
Hidden in the shrinking Davao.
Because, while you disappear into the clouds,
You left your heart unfolded
With your clothes in the closet.
Because, no matter which foreign land
you escape
You belong here,
In our home I built with my arms
Here in my bed
That does not remember your distance,
But only your weight.
And you will come back
I shall be waiting
To welcome you back home.

—
Glyd Jun Arañes works as a research assistant at Philippine Women’s College of Davao. This poem is the English translation of his French language homework.