Category: Poetry

Tres Marias

Poetry by | February 24, 2013

Lying down on the trimmed grasses of their garden like we used to do,
Staring at the perfectly aligned Tres Marias that she would call the “I love you” stars,
I didn’t notice my tears running down my face.
I didn’t notice that she shared the moment of crying with me.
Only sniffing and groaning, neither of us talked.
Almost the same silence seven years ago,
But we’d rather both smile while facing each other-
Just as the two mythical creatures who lived in
And arose from the bamboo in an old, old tale-
And then my lips would softly and swiftly collide into hers,
As a diving man would plunge into a welcoming and glimmering sea.
And the sea-gull’s flock would spread out to the unseen heaven.
But it was over.

If she only accepted my life, my origin, me as a Kaagan
Just like the older Kaagans accepted Islam,
When they embraced the Great Book and the Day of Resurrection.
When the shariffs, the knowledgeable ones sailing from Maguindanao and Jolo,
Swung their paddles into the seas of Mindanao
To arrive at the lands of the innocent pagans and preach.
A hailing sailing to the shores of Davao,
Triumph did they receive in capturing the hearts of my ancestors,
As though they had successfully made them fall in love with Islam.
While I was nothing but a failure.

And I envied them –
Because I’ve never been successful in capturing her heart.
I tried hard to save her from the mistaken belief,
But the potion – the poison in a portion
Of her heart was too strong.
My attempts had been hopeless.

The similar panorama when Muslim travelers arrived–
Almost a successful enlightenment but not enough.
Paganism continued, worshipping its concealed god, Tagallang.
Like what she did, Mandaya and Mansaka did not believe in what I believed.
We could’ve been wedded in my place.
I, in a long white abaya with a Muslim cap, and she,
Under a mysterious covering of hijab.
A wedding blanketed with a delusive bliss.
Everything could’ve been perfect.
And as the celebration of the wedding would follow,
Symphonies of combined sounds that the kulintang, gong, and barabad would produce,
Played by old Kaagan ladies,
And an old couple would dance to the rhythms.
Fingers spread, legs bent, faces at their finest projections.
And everyone would be impressed.
Folded money bills would be inserted between their fingers,
Yet the dancing would never be disturbed.

I could’ve shown everything to her,
She could’ve been impressed too, but everything was just a failed dream.
I shut my eyes for seconds and opened subtly.
The Tres Marias shone blurry to my sight, the flowing tears filter,
And I never even cared to wipe them,
Or maybe I was too naïve to even notice them,
The stars were dead and dull dots above, and we were both hopeless.
It was hard to move and end the night. But I should do
What I’d thought was right. I stood, leaving her crying and crying
For it would be the last time for her and me.
And “Goodbye” was the only spoken word in the night when the Tres Marias shone.

—
Nassefh Macla studies at UP Mindanao.

Unremembered Catharsis 

Poetry by | February 10, 2013

And I blame it on
how you look at me and then suddenly,
you took control the universe of my thought
like whirlwind brushing against the afternoon sky
or like waterfalls that splashes and gushes forth
into my boundless sea of desire
or maybe like fire that flares
love and lust with cold coal,
burning yet yearning for more
or like mounds of earth that crushes my roots
of wisdom and reason
because it seems that your eyes speak
a thousand things
of bliss, of passion, of love
that I myself failed to discern
before.
Hate me,
but I would love to blame
those eyes over and over
again
for wanting and desiring
and desiring and wanting
you more.

—
Henrietta Diana de Guzman is a graduate of Creative Writing at UP Mindanao. She was a fellow for poetry at the 2009 Davao Writers Workshop and at the 2nd Sulat DULA: Playwriting Workshop at Xavier University (Ateneo de Cagayan University). Some of her works have appeared in SunStar Davao and the Best of Dagmay anthology.

Hilot

Poetry by | February 10, 2013

Back in my hometown where coconuts,
tall or dwarf
are massage oil
to correct the fetal position
before giving birth
with a bottle
of marinated root herbs.
Manang Iya’s rough hands moistened
with oil and scents, whispered
in my stomach her myth
and fragmented prayers
and broken syntax
of the Catholic church
two blocks
away,
halfway,
faraway
from my grandmother’s old house
where Chico trees guard the night,
its evergreen leaves
and white subtle bell-like flowers
bearing earthy brown-skinned ballyhooed fruits
that every morning, I pick up,
one by one, some half-eaten
by night birds, some ripe, unripe
while sweeping
the terrace with silhig ting-ting,
leaves scattered
on the ground, coloring
the yard: a world from my hospital window
the same evergreen colored ground
I watched for the longest now
and the longest even now
of days in this bed with a bandaged stomach
now emptied
with scars and stretch marks
in an off-color hue.
—
Jermafe Kae Angelo-Prias is a housewife and a graduating student of the University of the Philippines in Mindanao. She is a fellow in the 2012 Iligan National Writers workshop.

The Spider and the Poet

Poetry by | January 20, 2013

He locates his heart along the span
From arm of chair to my leg
Propped on this ottoman

It must be aerodynamics
And instinct for the best
Hunting ground that makes him

Oblivious moving from the axis
Then round to buttress
His precarious choice

And when he is done with
The framework of his master plan
It is to the details then

The radial tracking of each thread
Spaced equal and filaments tight
Measured as the perfect lure

If only he considered
Human traffic like this poet
Cross at being roused

Leg lassoed to a first line
The poet’s signal-snare
Prey prompt poem

—
Nino Soria de Veyra currently serves as Chair of the Department of Humanities in UP Mindanao. His nonfiction and poetry have appeared in the Silliman Journal, The Dumaguete We Know, Caracoa, the Philippines Free Press, National Midweek Magazine, Solidarity, A Habit of Shores, and The Other Voices International Poetry Project.

Prayer

Poetry by | January 20, 2013

What exactly did you see, Pablo, when–ripped 
–the sky opened and revealed to you its bowels
of planets and plantation? What precisely
did you find, Allen, the day it rained of sun
-flowers and Bill spoke to you of tigers burning 
and thundering? What was it like to stop
hearing Love’s voice, Villa, and wrestling 
with God head to head? To question accuracies
of visions, hallucinations, talking to the dead,
do words, their true grave, have the answers?
I went back to the basics of prayer: the bible,
a black book of verses fat with loosened leaves, 
sweet angels of Ramadan, an empty room save 
for a bed and a glass of water. Walter learned 
in the dark the secrets of atoms and of grass,
of love, of boys, and of marching drums. Am I
doing this right? Kneeling before rosary, 
saying my Hail Mary fifty times a day, six days 
in a week, asking her, hey, holy mother of god, 
is this prayer poetry, or every poetry a prayer?

—
Jeffrey Javier received his BA in English (Creative Writing) from UP Mindanao. He was a fellow for poetry at both the Silliman University National Writers Workshop and the Iligan Writers Workshop.

To Her Father

Poetry by | January 13, 2013

English translation of the poem Salaam Bapa, also by the author

Salaam bapa, I have only one niyat in my heart and mind before presenting myself to you.
I come courageously to you, seeking your permission to wed your daughter.
As my parents, Datu Abdul,
Have asked me to do.

Bapa, I would take care of her, feed her, shelter her, and guide her in the straight way to Allah,
For I know that it is the responsibility of any faithful Muslim,
Even if I don’t know her well,
Even if she doesn’t know me well.

Bapa, I know about Az-Zawjan, that we should love each other like the moon and the stars,
Like Prophet Muhammad and Khadidja, or Aisha, or Zaynab did under Allah’s grant,
That we should not allow hunger
Or harm to embrace us.

Continue reading To Her Father

Salaam Bapa

Poetry by | January 13, 2013

A Kalagan poem. See To Her Father for the English translation.

salaamSalaam bapa, ‘sambok gayd yang kanakon niyat sang pangatayan sang pagkadi kanmo.
Yakadi ako ng way pagduwa-duwa untak pangayu’n yang kanmo pagtugot sa pagpakawin sang kanmo da’ga.
Sabap yang kanakon ama na si Datu Abdul,
Na idto yang isugo kanak.

Bapa, ako yang magabu’y, magapaka’n, magapa-uya, aw maga-indo kanan sang maturid na da’n,
Sabap ikatigaman ko ng madyaw na idto yang dayt na inangun ng Muslim na magunawa ko.
Agad wa ‘ko pa yan akila’ ng samporna,
Agad wa pa uman yan akila’ kanak ng samporna.

Bapa, ikatigaman ko yang pantag sang Az-Zawjan, magsikawyay kami magunawa ng buwwan aw bitu’n,
Minang ininang ng Nabi Muhammad aw Khadidja, atawaka Aisha, o Zaynab sang kahanda ng Allah,
Na di nami atugotan yang kagutum
Atawaka fitna kumupkup kanami.

Continue reading Salaam Bapa

Clearing Out Negative Chi

Poetry by | December 30, 2012

Disbelieving the bad luck from this afternoon’s mahjong
my Chinese stepmom clears out negative chi.
Burn them—it’s tradition, she says. Burn
disappointments and bad memories, like
papers long forgotten left to rot in their shelves
that finally deserve their repose. Can’t blame her,
she’s a pack rat born in a Rat year. Should be enough to char
the coal she got from a whole day selling refreshments
outside school. It takes time
clearing those out, she adds, and also letting go.
She throws in pamphlets of some fake healing water
from Lourdes, France,
and Grandpa Cheung’s numerologies
she forgot to burn with his clothes.
Those numbers never came true, she says.
We’re out of paper, so I do some clearing out too:
the failed exams, the abandoned poems,
and such scraps of stories I swore to finish
but didn’t. It helps enough
to produce embers
with enough applied heat
to drive hard noodle into maddened water,
to soften it, to mix the seasoning,
and to feed to three hungry children
(whose father had died)
and a dog about to be put out of his misery.
Sheer luck we still have such dinners.
She thinks it’s easy
asking Grandpa Cheung’s and Father’s
faded photographs for good luck and prosperity.
I’m tempted to offer them some dumplings and incense
to ask them for Chinese noodles with meat toppings,
and the new Eng Bee Ten hopia with tikoy filling. But
I can’t demand too much of dead people.
Maybe I should owe all of them instead
what we have for tonight—instant mami noodles.