Category: Poetry

Darkness

Poetry by | June 24, 2012

I mourn for those lost souls
for those souls are like mine;
Lost and with no one to follow
Vanished along with time.
I seek those wounded hearts
for those are like mine;
Drenched in the shroud of darkness
A melody without rhyme.
I thirst for love, but where is it?
Is it hidden? Is it gone?
How would I find it,
When all my deeds are undone.
There is more silence than silence,
More of me than me.
I should be in a beacon of light
But where could it be?

—
John Ferdinand Torralba is a 3rd year Bachelor of Science in Information Technology student at Holy Cross of Davao College. Born on June 6, 1994 in Davao City.

One afternoon, in a third world lab

Poetry by | June 17, 2012

I catch you bite your lip while you inspect
the test tube if it has cracks
and scratches. But I would like to believe
that you just check how well it resembles
your finger,and you remember how pleasurable
is your finger as it lingers on a thing
that doesn’t touch back, or sometimes,
on a thing that grips by surprise.
Behind you, I watch and enjoy the scene
as I pretend to boil the liquid inside
this round-bottom flask. Then you turn
to look at me, and I quickly pick
the thermometer to check the rise
in temperature of the boiling liquid
until it distills and purifies. I, too,
wish to purify my feelings into impulse.
I can see in the edges of my eyes that you
are glancing. And when it’s my turn to glance,
you get back washing your test tube,
by plunging the brush, in and out,and in, ahh
and out, ahh, and wet bubbles flow. In my seat,
I am intoxicated by the familiar smell of vapor
and the smell of something that, I know, comes
from you, comes from you, comes, come, com…
…until the rusty iron clamp breaks,
the erlenmeyer flask falls and spills some
unknown broths on the floor. The room echoes
the sounds of broken glass and a lady’s moan.
Until all I can utter is, ”sorry, this is just
a third world lab”. And you take me by surprise
with your response, ”It’s getting dark.
Would you like to finish this somewhere else?”

—
Paul Randy P. Gumanao studied BS Chemistry at AdDU.

Co-Creator

Poetry by | June 17, 2012

Today, I decide to become
a co-creator of God.
I decide when mornings come,
and the colors they will fashion.
I decide how the skies will be
in the dawn, noon, dusk and
during the last part of the day.
I decide where the winds blow,
what songs they will sing and
which blades of grass to bend.
I decide how water comes forth,
from the sky as rain, hail, or snow;
from deep within the earth or from
the vast depths of the teal ocean.
Yes, I decide on the color of things.
I decide how the flowers and trees
greet the daylight and moonlight;
what colors they wear, what hue
or tint of this and that; I decide that.
I decide how loud or soft the birds’
singing, the animals’ calling and
the thunder’s clapping, I decide.
I decide which nation leads and
which ones bow to its glory!
I decide who and what will come
to pass: life, time, or money.
I decide on peoples’ dreams,
their will, what future they’ll keep.
I decide on fate; I decide.
And oh, I decide on love.
I decide on who gives it,
receives it, needs it, wants it!
Even the glitters on a butterfly’s wing,
the order of the afternoon rainbow’s skin,
the number of drops of the scheduled rain,
I decide on that!
I decide on creation.
I decide what ends, what begins,
what moves, what sits still!
I decide this, yes, I decide.
Today, I decide to become –
a creator of
g  o  d.

—
Thirtysumthing, physics preacher, poem writer, instagram avid user (which disqualifies me as a photographer/DSLR expert) and lover.

Indulging in a Cup of Black Coffee

Poetry by | June 17, 2012

For JMS

I have had to come up with
various techniques to stop
myself thinking about how
to savor this hot and bitter
black coffee without
thinking about jaded thoughts;
the never-ending persuasion
of warm faces, of me moving
to their department ,
-wanting me to stop thinking
because there’s none to doubt about.
or the steam faint vapor waking like
loin girding shouts of unfamiliar souls
whom I only spoke with during a phone call,
or the barren poems and jumbled
metaphors, thirsting, waiting
for me to pen their existence down
on a piece of cold
and crisp white paper; to let them live
in a majestic universe
they deserve to own.
or the clear vision of you
and that girl walking in the rain,
sharing one umbrella,
trudging a journey, leaving footprints of bliss
stirring me to sudden melancholy,
or the lurid idea that stimulates me
to think , to go on
to taste the reality of fortune, of a ‘yes’
though my heart always
sip and drink down a caffeinated ‘no’
because in a pure, honest and
absent minded stupidity, I want
to stay because
I love you.
And this is the only catharsis
the sole epiphany
I have kept and own.
To continue
loving you,
To stay,
to stop thinking
and start finishing
a cup of
hot and bitter
black coffee.

—
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.

Heller's Confession

Poetry by | June 10, 2012

Blame it on the god
for making creatures
conscious only for
an instant. The past
being a memory;
the future, a goal;
the desire’s requests,
imagination.
Because if I were
to be aware of
my existence in
all of dimensions,
I would sure subsist
in this world before
you have become
an institution of–
an incarnation
of classic authors,
a puppet of my
basic aesthesis.
One generation,
our mothers would breathe
us out; couples of
creativity;
couples born of words
as we memorize
a language; as we
fiddle with stories
lines, schizophrenic.
There would be no gap
between years in school.
I’d be eager to
relish walks in the
universities,
your hand clumsy on
mine. And in our youth
just a cognition
an innocent view
of how couples make
love. Slow move affair
like commercial films
you critic quickly.
I do not intend
to reveal secret
thoughts in between us.
The years together
defined love– for some,
pity, for me, lust.
For you, as teacher,
as educator,
there are millions of
tales in between moans.
I am grinning at
a memory, clear
but surreal, no fear.
You might grasp death which
arrives before mine.
While I write my name
on publications,
you finally take
Sabbatical leave,
in time for content
to preclude more dreams,
in time for me
to make more ambitions.
I am afraid. I
am afraid. I need
to confess. The truth
is fidelity
has been testing me.
With these dreams of you
It, a kinder state.

—
Glorypearl Dy is a fellow of the 2011 Davao Writer’s Workshop. She works as a consultant writer for an outsourcing company.

Water Wounds

Poetry by | June 3, 2012

The pure present is an ungraspable advance
of the past devouring the future. In truth,
all sensation is already memory.
— Henri Bergson, Matter and Memory

To know, you must remember, you said,
standing before water, as you hurled
pebbles into the air, watching
with utter pleasure, the trajectories
of their graceful fall. And the rippling
you dismissed as a minor ache
of distortion, fleeting disturbance
of a mirrored sky. See,
no scars when the water heals.

Numerous nights, I dreamed
of all those pebbles you threw,
gleaming, white under moonlight.
Now the pond is gone. Nothing
remains to gather, lovingly,
with cupped hands—only stones
different from each to each. But
what matters most? Only this:
the potent myth of an eternal moment,
this heart-quickening sensation
of how the voice of still water,
receiving a white pebble into its body,
mimics the perfect way you say “ah!”

—
Maiq Bonghanoy, an editor, received his degree in creative writing from the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

It's Not Always Sunshine in the East

Poetry by | May 27, 2012

She died crouching in the vertical box;
with grains of rice occupying every available space
there is to occupy.

Somewhere, outside the door,
hermit crabs are running away from the dark,
trailing tattered strands of
torn yellow ribbons.

Torn yellow ribbons tied
through holes, on clotheslines
and on the dented barks of coconut trees
standing in lines outside the house,
guarding the house
as military troops storm the streets with
their bayonets; screaming, thirsting for soft flesh–young flesh.

And little girls flee,
near the sea, through the city, into the woods,
not wanting to be seen.

Like hermit crabs
they flee
and they hide

only to die crouching in the rice dispenser
with grains of rice occupying every available space
there is to occupy.

—
Bam Baraguir majored in Asian Studies at Ateneo de Davao University. The poem was written while the author spent some months in Myanmar for a volunteer work with an NGO. She was born, and lives in Cotabato City.

High School, Years After

Poetry by | May 27, 2012

(for my MSU-IIT IDS batchmates)

You sit where you are: at the heart
of the city, its mechanical throb
booming in your chest, or perhaps
under the shade of acacia trees
by the sea wall. The horizon hides
a life long over. You are there
also, in the old high school building,
yellowing in the pages
of a forgotten yearbook,
rusting in the trophy room
weathered by the glance of children
in polo shirts and pink skirts,
children who were once you,
you understand, even as you outgrew
yourself, those kalachuchi trees
in perpetual autumn. You have all
fallen like flowers. Into your
respective plots of soil. All else you leave
to the wind, to the passing
kick of black shoes
amid the crunch of gravel.
Or else you wait to be picked up and sniffed.
You sit where you are.

—
Raised in Iligan City, Arkay Timonera was a fellow at his hometown’s National Writers Workshop in 2010. He studies in Silliman University.