Category: Poetry

gulay, prutas mo diha!

Poetry by | July 7, 2013

gulay, prutas mo diha!
by Salud Mora Carriedo

uy, sinaw ang kamatis!
unsaon wala na man hinaw-nawi
human ug tuslob sa tubig nga may syampu.

nagputi-puti ang talong
dili tungod gisulom kay tam-is!
lama ra kana sa gi-spri nga daytin.

kanindot sa kutis sa ampalaya, way tatsa!
gialagaan gud, gitiyagaan ug tuslo sa kontiner
nga may sulod nga makapalurong sa mga ulod
ug mananap samtang nagkumbitay sa trelis.

ang sigay nga mangga dili kyut!
nasawut ra kana bisan gihatagan
ug medisina nga pangpadagko.

ang saging pod human na ug kaligo!
maayong pagkatugsaw sa plangganang
naay madyik likwid aron dali rang mahinog.

—
Si Salud Mora Carriedo natawo ug nagdako sa Davao. Ang iyang mga pagtuon, panaw, ug kasinatian sa ubang nasud ug natad maoy naghagit nga palabungon ug balik ang iyang Bisaya nga gamit.

An Ode to a Facebook Stalker

Poetry by | June 30, 2013

(a response to the poem “Ode to a Facebook Photo” by Allen Samsuya, which appeared in December 2, 2012)

In this portrait, there are only my eyes
that speak of yearning to see
The stream of your stars
scattered in my galaxies.

I swim my eyes through the nebula
outside this four-cornered universe.
Nevermind the griffins and bountiful trees.
Let me see your abyss.

–
Karen Kae is a BSED-English student in the Ateneo de Davao University.

Water Lily

Poetry by | June 30, 2013

Dugay na nakong gipanind-an
imong paglunang sa linaw,
Buot ka na nakong ibton
Kay sa kaanindut sa tubig
Gasinagbot ka lang.
Miaksyon nakog duol
Aron tapuson na ang imong
Pagpalaksot ning linaw
Apan sa dihang ikaw akong pagabunluton…
Tinuod mong kaanyag imong gipanalipod
Og imong napugngan akong kamangtas,
Gitun an mo pa gyod ako
Sa bililhong pagtulun an.

Macky is a graduate of AB in Literature from University of Southeastern Philippines. He is the president (soon to be former) of Union of Literature Students.

Fortune-Telling (1): Love

Poetry by | May 27, 2013

1
Love, I dreamed of you last night.
We were swimming among crumpled sheets,
drunk with the moonlight.
Drown me deeper, I said in between gasps
but suddenly you were quiet. Ebbing away,
you rested your head between my breasts to sleep.
I woke up to find that your head was just
sunlight on my bare chest, breaking in
from the window. I was borrowing warmth
to fill in for the things I lost to you.
Even the mirror from across the bed,
repeats the fact of my loss,
the fact of my wondering:
why do you leave with the night?

Continue reading Fortune-Telling (1): Love

Friday Night At Famous

Poetry by | May 13, 2013

The elderly waitress placed before me
a bowl of steaming Gou Maki.
She must’ve thought I would order it
after all those years eating with my Angkong
at Davao Famous Restaurant.

Tonight I took the table facing the entrance.
It has been years since I last ate here but
the noodle soup still tasted the same.
Perfect for tonight’s cold October weather.
Does their cook never die?

Angkong used to bring me here on Fridays
or whenever he had time.
We used to own a small junk shop in Matina.
All day, he would stay there to watch over
or negotiate with clients selling scraps.

Conscious of his hairstyle,
he wouldn’t go out without fixing his hair—
he’d comb his hair forward
and flip it up backwards, creating a pouf
like James Dean’s.

He was a jolly man. Once,
he showed me how to slurp a noodle soup.
I watched him hold his bowl of Maki
with both hands, ready to slurp.
His face fitted nicely in the bowl.

Then he started coughing and coughing hard
his false teeth came off his mouth
and fell into his bowl.
I laughed. But I was quick to pinch my legs.
Lola used to do that to me when I misbehaved.

Hurriedly I brought him a glass of water
to make him feel better.
The same way he woke me up
that night I dreamt of him inside a casket
slowly lowered down the pit.

With my fingers, I combed my hair
styled like James Dean’s in memory of Angkong.
Old enough to pay for it now
I lift this bowl of Maki to my mouth.
Hot soup steam rising, fogging up my glasses.
I slurped it the Angkong way!

_______

Chris David F. Lao recently graduated Magna cum Laude from the BA English Creative Writing program of UP Mindanao.

Mga Bidlisiw Sa Awit

Poetry by | April 14, 2013

Kanunay, ang adlaw ug ang sayaw*
dungang motungha sa kabuntagon.
Dili nimo bation ang katugnaw.
Pananglit wa nimo namatikdi ang sayaw,
ang adlaw daw dakong langgam
sa pugaran nga mga bungtod,
gapamukaw pinaagi sa awit.
Pananglit wa nimo lingia ang adlaw,
ang sayaw daw gamayng adlaw
sa sangahong panganod, gapanaghoy
og gagmayng bidlisiw sa kainit.
Nakamatikod ko kay kaniadto,
sayo kong mobangon, magpaabot
sa imong mensahe nga maoy
motagbaw sa akong kamingaw.
Kagahapon, pagmata ko, mitungha
ang adlaw sa wa pa ang sayaw.
Ug karon, mitaghoy ang sayaw
bisag wa pa ang adlaw.

 

*Sayaw (o balinsasayaw) – usa ka gamayng langgam

__

Paul Randy P. Gumanao is a licensed chemist, political activist, 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.

Estrella

Poetry by | April 7, 2013

(Alang kang Millefeuille Erin Casing)

Kining gihalad kanimo
labaw pa sa mga titik
nga mapatik sa panid.
Karon, igo ra nako
ang paglantaw diha
sa kalangitan. Asa
ang gilak nga angay
itandi kanimo? Wala
ikabutyag. Sa kahiladman
duna’y usa ka lawak.
Gakang-a ang pultahan.
Sa lamisa duol sa bintana,
imo unyang mapalgan
ang wanang sa papel,
gidan-agan sa kandila hangtod
masamin ang imong
kaugalingon sa bintana
taliwala sa kabituonan.

—
Mark Daposala was a fellow at the 1st Xavier University Writer’s Workshop, the 18th Iligan National Writers Workshop, and the 27th Faigao Writer’s Workshop. He’s currently working in Cebu and claims he’s a copy-editor by day, and Batman by night.

Samurai

Poetry by | March 31, 2013

The professor wanted to wield a katana
many years ago. But even then, he understood
that the world has long since moved on
and that a sword is a thing of the past.
He adores olden blades that are kept undrawn
inside their scabbards. In his sleep, he dreams
of himself in battle, unsheathing a blade
that is as bare and as inconsolable as rain.
He crosses swords with a hundred warriors
in the heart of his moonless slumber. Later,
when he awakes, the professor can only
jump out of bed. Outside, the sun is vengeful
and daylight shoots through the window
like ancient arrowheads.

—
Allen hails from the Creative Writing program of UP Mindanao. He is a fellow of numerous regional and national workshops, and is a regular contributor to this section.