Category: Poetry

Claveria

Poetry by | March 2, 2014

It is not fun, you know,
standing here in Claveria
with the jeepney barkers
mocking my uncertainty —
shouting names of places
where to go.

Where should I go?

It is funny, you know,
when vendors offer sympathy
besides sliced fruits or fried skins
and you nod, force a smile because
you don’t eat street food.
But then you go look around
the streets of Bolton, San Pedro,
even Torres to satisfy a craving
for crabs and eat-all-you-cans.

Perhaps, perhaps.

But them barkers’ voices ring loud:
Sasa! Panacan! SM Lanang! Toril!

Then, red light.
You cross the street,
walk aimlessly.
Hands in pocket,
jacket zipped up,
your steps doubtful.
Then you feel:
it’s time to go.

But where?!

—
Rory is a Physics teacher eating, praying and loving in Indonesia.

I declare a poem

Poetry by | March 2, 2014

Like naming a newborn
I declare a poem has been made
Like growing a tree
I declare a poem has been made
Like losing virginity
I declare a poem has been made
Like wedding a couple
I declare a poem has been made
Like losing religion
I declare a poem has been made
Like taking up arms
I declare a poem has been made
Like closing a casket
I declare a poem
has been made.

—
Angely Chi works as a freelance writer and researcher.

Hyphenated

Poetry by | February 23, 2014

This little line

is as thrilling
as the feel of your hand

holding mine.

A sign of my changing
civil state,

this bridge connects

us across the invisible
chasm between your family

name and mine.

It proclaims
with wedding

bells ringing:

I am not alone
in this life.

We have each other

like the matched pair
of salt and pepper

shakers for the dining table

where your face
has replaced the view

from an open window.

This punctuation
is our union

on paper:

two hands welded
into a single segment

for all the world to see.

—
Genevieve Mae Aquino was born in Manila but calls Davao her home. She has a clutch of diplomas in molecular biology and genetics. She was fellow for Poetry in English at the INWW, ANWW, and IYAS Creative Writing Workshops.

Things to Do

Poetry by | February 23, 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 Moldez has been a fellow to various writers workshop and has won several awards for his fiction and poetry. He writes from Cagayan de Oro.

Kape Mula sa Hapag

Poetry by | February 16, 2014

Mas mahimbing tulog ko sa sala
Sa sahig, upuan o sofa
Ikaw may babangungunit
Ikaw ri’y magigising

Pinipilit binubuka
Ang matatamlay na mata
Pilit ginigising ang isipan
Upang magsaing ng tubig sa umaga

Mga bitwin sa gabi naninigas pa
Mga mansta sa bangin ng bunganga
Mga asin sa labi tuyong –toyo na
Ayaw ong magsalita nangngamoy ang bunganga

Nakatayong tasa
Palubog na kape
Daloy ng tubig
Natutunaw’ng asukal

Dahan-dahang sinasagi
Ang manit na kape sa labi
Dahan-dahang sinasagi
Mainit na kutsara sa labi

Sumasayaw ang usok sa ere
Palaroy-laroy ang kaluluwa ng kape
Nanainaginip ng wala
Nag-iisiip subalit nakatung-nga

naghihintay ng wala
nakatingin sa bawat isa
Walang imik, walang salita
Babangilan ang gutom sa sikmura

May tinapay
wala namang palaman
hindi mapalagay
Ilu-lob- lob nalang ang pan

Sumasayaw ang usok sa ere
Palaroy-laroy ang kaluluwa ng kape
Nanainaginip ng wala
Nag-iisiip subalit nakatung-nga

—
Sunod-sunod ang timpla ng kape ni Noy Narciso sa Catalunan Grande.

Kon Mamolak Pa

Poetry by | February 16, 2014

Kon mamolak ka’g usab
dili unta paliron sa kusog nga hangin,
dili unta mapopo sa uwan.
Tugoti sa maka-usa pa
nga alirongan kas mga higala
mong buyog ug alibangbang
nga maoy magdala’g kalipay sa oras
nga ikaw mobati’g kamingaw.
Tugoti pud ang adlaw
nga mobusikad, sa tinuod
dugay mo kining gihuwat.
Dili na unta ka motago.
Dili na unta ka mairog
sa pagsugat sa hayag.
Naibot man ko layo kanimo,
sa akong pagkahulog, huwata
ang panahon mamolak pa’g usab
ang imong kasing-kasing.

—
Si Reymond usa ka Social Media Specialist ug journalist, fellow sa Davao Writers Workshop niadtong 2010, og nahigugma sa literaturang Bisaya.

A Heart for Madness

Poetry by | February 9, 2014

(after Paulo Coelho’s Veronika Decides to Die)

Visit my dreams, Veronika,
when you finally decide
to die. Wake me from my slumber
with the melody of your sonatas
behind the echoes of your cries.
Make me mad, make me mad,
if only madness would set me freer
than the rest of the humanity.

I’d love to have the freedom
of whom they call crazy:

the youth who love to taste tongues
without fear of nakedness,

the kids who believe that lizards talk
without fear of whips and pinches,

the man who first said that the earth is round
without fear of rolling down the dark abyss,

the young friar who gave his riches
just to live with beggars

to teach them to talk to birds
and to snakes and to flowers

when the sane do not know
how to listen.

I’d love to have their courage
to show their madness,
for the soul of insanity
is freedom.
Only madmen eat
leftover fried chicken
that the sane call waste.
Only madmen rise up
when the sane keep dreaming.
Only madmen scream to curse
poverty, which the sane
call blessedness.
Nobody’s freer than the madmen
who fear of losing nothing
but their chains.

Veronika, when you finally
decide to die, visit my dreams.
When I wake up, I shall be mad.
I will go to the mountains
to sing, to live, to kill,
to love.

And you will understand.

—
Paul Randy P. Gumanao is a licensed chemist, journalist and literature enthusiast. He was fellow at the 2009 Davao Writers Workshop & 2010 Iyas National Creative Writing Workshop in Bacolod. He writes poetry & fiction.

The Love Letter

Poetry by | February 9, 2014

years from now,
if the stars are still
in the bosom of the gods,
and the moon can still smile
on the beauty of the night,
dust we have become,
we already changed
and beyond our horizon, there
these words find themselves
without a home only a house
to announce their presence–
none of that family embrace
that my heart throbs with yours,
just nothingness, bland strokes,
no warmth that give meaning
to the coldness of materiality,
eventually no music,
wings that give them flight,
over mountains of grief and sorrow,
over the green innocence on the plains,
over the omnipresent waters of our love,
these words,
these etches in the blanket of time
will soon settle
in the dry cold desert
of that eternal memory
that remembers the forgetfulness
of being in love.

—
Artchil C. Daug is an Assistant Professor of the Department of History of MSU-Iligan Institute of Technology. He was born in Iligan City and finished both his AB History and Master in History degrees from the same school in 2004 and 2006 respectively.