Category: Poetry

Vivo

Poetry by | August 28, 2011

Hinabi ang mga kulay, at dinampi sa may lona
Upang tingkad ay mabuhay at magkadiwa ang obra.
Ginuhit ang mga hugis, mga detalye at linya
Upang mapukaw ang tamis ng gunita’t ala-ala.

Bawat katha ay hinubog ng matalim na haraya.
Bawat obra ay bantayog ng tagumpay at ligaya.
Nililok ng pagsisikap, pinagtibay ng pag-asa
Ang pagtupad ng pangarap, at paghulma ng korona.

Ngunit makipot ang daang tinatahak ng malikhain
Bago anihin ang bungang itinanim sa dalangin,
Bago sumibol ang tinta at magliyab ang damdamin,
Bago matapos ang obra at mabuksan mga tabing.

Bawat pinta ay sagisag ng inipong karunungan.
Bawat kulay ay liwanag ng nabuong kamalayan.
Bawat dampi, bawat hampas, nahubog ang katauhan,
At ang pinakamimithi ngayo’y pinanghahawakan.

—
Jhunorjim Zandueta is a computer engineering student.

Makina

Poetry by | August 21, 2011

Namatay ang makina ining Bao
sa pagsaka sa puntod sa Taguanao.
Halos wala koy madunggang tingog,
puyra ang pangagho sa iyang kasubo.
 
Samtang nagtulo akong singot
sa pagtunob sa gasolinador,
nitutok lang siya sa ukbang hapon.
Ug nasaksi kong nahiusa siya sa kinaiyahan.
 
Niagos ang mga yamog sa walog sa iyang dughan
nga gadutdot sa akong hunahuna.
Gigitik akong buot sa iyang agulo
samtang nagdul-it ang init sa akong kahilom.
 
Nagduka nalang ang salumsom,
gapadayon lang gihapon kog kubi ug susi
taman sa nahawoy nakong paglimbasog
og buhi ining tayaong Bao.
 
Nagtan-aw nalang ko
sa suba nga naghaganas sa Taguanao.
Ug kalit nauyog ang palibot.
Niplastar iyang kumingking
 
sa akong paa. Kini nikamang,
nikamang ug nikamang. Nasindol
ang kambyada. Nabuhi ang makina.

—
Mark Daposala was a fellow in the 18th Iligan National Writers Workshop. He is taking up graduate studies in English at Xavier University.

Storya sa Palahubog

Poetry by | August 14, 2011

Gikan ko namatay
tungod sa tanduay
sige pa, sige pa tagay lang ng tagay
tan awa, sakit na akong atay

Gikan ko sa kalayo
tungod sa marlboro
sige pa sige pa suyop lang ug suyop
tan-awa cge nag ubo

Gikan ko sa basura
sige og suka
sige pa, putak lang ug putak
tan-awa, mura nag wakwak

Hina-hinay kog baklay
padulong sa among balay
sige pa part, barag-barag ni bay
tan-awa mura na kog kalay

Salamat naa nako sa kwarto
splak daun diretso
sige pa, hagok lang ug hagok
tan-awa, gipaak ug lamok

Gi pukaw ko sa akong mama
para siya manga-saba
sige pa saba lang ug saba
baho rabag baba

Yati kaau ning ulo
hangover kaau
sige pa, sakit ug sakit
tan-awa absent na ko, kapait

Lami na kaayo magbag-o
ngano man lisod kaayo?
di na jud ma utro
pero lami man jud kaau

—
Darryl Louie Pueblos Labial is 22 years old, a philosophy graduate of Xavier University in Cagayan de Oro working as a volunteer for Campus Ministry.

Inside the Raincloud

Poetry by | August 14, 2011


You came up to me
inside the raincloud,
a couple of storms back,
and asked me of secrets
that only the sky and I
know of. I remember
telling you a handful

of stories like how lightning
is a few flimsy strings
that broke from the harps
of angels, how gardens grow
between the colors of a rainbow ,
how the moon really is
an island made of haloes.

It was a good talk. I remember
holding your hand as we walked
slowly towards that corner
where you gave me a kiss
and refused to say goodbye.
I remember watching you
step inside that single raindrop
that brought you back
to your part of the world
where you became part
of the flood once more.­­

—
Allen Samsuya had been a fellow for poetry during the 2009 Davao Writers Workshop, the 18th Iligan National Writers Workshop, and the 50th Silliman National Writers Workshop this year.

Dimension of Motion

Poetry by | August 7, 2011

The zero is a point
Barely seen, and easily overlooked
The point that no longer turns
For it is no longer a circle

The first is a line
The crack between the floorboards
The lined page of a notebook
Moving forward, moving backward
Back and forth like a creaking rocking chair
Or train tracks that run into the distance

The second is a meeting of two
The corner of a carpet
The edge of a paper
The lazy bending branches of a willow tree
Two forces together
Creating a curve

The third is a spiral
The water that spins down the drain
The wind that spins round and round
Pulling up dirt and houses
And dumping them where they don’t belong.

The fourth is simply time
Time that has always been
Time that always will be
Tick ticking around me
Both chasing me and being chased
By me.

—
Tala Alexander is 14 years old and a 9th grader at Manila Waldorf School-Quezon City, She is the daughter of Cynthia & Boyd Alexander.

Spice Poems

Poetry by | August 7, 2011

1. Onion

Is it the onion
that makes you cry—
how you need to mince it
very finely to deceive his taste?
Or is it how he excuses himself
from your conjugal room
showing no hint of hunger, only
fatigue as he removes his socks
while your thoughts
drip down your cheeks
with your tears?
Sadness in the kitchen
comes also in layers—
peeled and chopped
into salty salsa.

2. Tomato

Grandpa’s secret
in making fish soup
is to squeeze ripe tomatoes
directly into boiling water
instead of cutting them
with a sharp knife.
The seeds and flesh
sticking to his fingers
he flicks into the mixture
then wipes the sticky juice
on his own bare skin.
I wonder how something
crude could taste so good.

—
Orlando P. Sayman is a graduate of Ateneo de Davao University.

Ang Kumot Ko

Poetry by | July 17, 2011

Siya’y sa tabi ko,
Sa pagtulog ng katawang ito.
Bumabalot
Sa kaluluwang nilalaman ng panahon.

Handang pahiran,
Ang malunkot kong luha.
Pati laway’t sipon,
Handang pagsaluhan.

Siya’y kasangga ko,
Laban sa lamok.
Nagging saplot ko,
Sa katawang walang suot.

Siya’y sumalo,
Sa pangungulila ko.
Kunwari’y yumayakap,
Sa katawan na parang linta.

Siya ang kumot ko,
Na nasa tabi ko.
Handang balutan ako,
Sa aking pagtulog.

–-
Frank David Bayanon is a student of the University of Southeastern Philippines-Mintal taking up Public Administration.

Pieta

Poetry by | July 10, 2011

Tell me how much you loved your firstborn,
about how you could have kissed every inch
of his tender skin. I know, as you told me,
you only allowed him to eat blended veggies
that you carefully prepared. Are you sure
he did not sleep unless you run while cradling him?
That was funny! I could not imagine how you delighted
when he learned to close-open his hands while
you sang him that simple rhyme.
I am interested on what you shared about how fast
he learned to talk, how fast he learned to walk.
Was he really just seven months old then?
Ahh, so he is nineteen now.
Why do you worry when he leaves? It was you
who taught him how to walk. No, please,
please don’t cry when he talks. He is just
thanking you because he now learns not to
unclench his fist. No more close-open rhymes.
He has to be steadfast because many
do not eat even blended veggies.
And he told me, when he does not come back
and when you hear of him no more, follow his trail.
Pick him, bone after bone and kiss him.
He will not sleep unless you run while cradling him.
I know you will. You told me you love your firstborn.

–-
Paul Randy Gumanao is a BS Chemistry student and editor-in-chief of Atenews at Ateneo de Davao University. He was fellow to the Davao Writers Workshop and to IYAS Workshop in Bacolod.