Poetry by Rory Ian Bualan | February 7, 2010
He took his time and made up his mind,
now he talks in front with spectacles on:
“This is not a way of life—it’s the way I am.”
So the line goes; and being sarcastic
makes him feel good, like a pat on his
square-model shoulders.
He glanced at the sun, noticed it’s early;
so he lingered and walked like forever.
“It is not fashion, babe, it’s passion!”
So he proclaims! And comments, rants,
insults with pure joy and pride—like
a panelist in one of those ramp realities.
Poetry by Erika Navaja | February 7, 2010
Just got my clothes all washed up,
ready to dry. Perfect day
for clothes-hanging, although
moments ago the sun hid
among cloud blankets.
Wind chilled my wet hands
as I hung a week’s worth
of memories selected, arrayed properly:
the tee I wore going to a hotel function,
the bloodied socks caused
by three-month old abrasions,
the hankie I used for crying out loud
(and for honking sea-green mucus into),
some running stitches
hastily keeping my pants shorter,
frays on skinny jeans
out of clumsy hands playing
with scissors, the get-well-soon shirt
with distinguished signatures, my secret
stains on a panty hem, the yellowed
armpits, the gloomy pinks, the bright blues
fading blacks—still no sun? The chill
passes what seemed to be buntings,
welcoming next week’s festivities to come.
Poetry by Gino Dolorzo | January 31, 2010
They cling to your name; rose.
They mark your tears and fear
of protests, protruding
like their desire to have you
slipped past my grip. Your image,
your scent is unjustly treating
me as martyr who breaks
vows worn ’round his finger. Who falls,
folds his heart and eyes, but not much
to keep resentment. Who longs to take
a dip with you in deeper sea
of blankets moistened by sweat
of your struggled movements
evoking fire and innocence.
Who has lost his limits. Lie on me,
rose, let me pluck those thorns.
Gently, let me.
—-
Gino Dolorzo is a senior education student at Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan.
Poetry by Jeff Javier | January 31, 2010
I once wrote it like how I drop a stone on still water. The first word would splash and the lines thereafter ripple in and out of paper going back to the first words and out again to the margins, through the fibers and on the four corners on this thin crust of a paper, now shivering on the creases, waves rolling, tsunamis mounting, swallowing monuments and mountains, roaring and marching in and out the field, multiplying liquid soldiers, one ripple clashing against the other, creating more splashes and little spheres up on the air.
Poetry by Doreen Mae Alolod | January 24, 2010
My wrists throb
From your grip
Because you want me to listen
To your singing
“What’s with that singing Pa?”
I ask
But you sing
Words that I don’t know
My wrists ache
From your grip
“Why does your voice have to tremble?”
I ask
And you sing
Words that I don’t know
My wrists ache
From your grip,
But I don’t mind.
Poetry by Paul Randy Gumanao | January 24, 2010
As long as they have names
they are not small
I could easily point to Kitty
among the group of cats
or turn to Mr. Paw among the dogs
and stroke its furry back
I know of a lion named Torr
whose only pride is its misfortune
of having a coarse, roaring voice
and a terrifying looks
enough to startle the herons at poise
Poetry by Zola Gonzalez-Macarambon | January 17, 2010
So one day you stop worrying about
whether your thighs look like two separate entities
under a short skirt,
you decide to bite the damned day to a drunken end
and drive off to where everybody else is-some gala or opening
or show, whatever, of things
you cannot take anymore of. You swing into the place,
like a broken gate banging against a wall,
scan the crowd, cluck a tongue against your cheek ‘cause
everyone’s sitting in even numbers or standing around
talking about
that thing you all talked about just last night.
You find yourself in a unisex room
where you fluff out your hair around bare shoulders ‘cause
you forgot to pretend to care about
the growth under your arms. You put on an eyebrow as you listen in
to cubicle doors slamming shut, and the water running-
to drown the secret sounds of ladies rooms.
Outside, your friends sip on free colored drinks and you are tired
just looking at them, and you sit with a stranger, look at a point
on the wall behind his head,
and ask for a cigarette right before
you forget to ask his name.
—-
Zola Gonzalez-Macarambon is a poet and visual artist based in Cagayan de Oro.
Poetry by Zola Gonzalez-Macarambon | January 17, 2010
You stand on the edge of a cliff
and wail a storm about
a lover, imagining those muscles-
they seem to ripple all over that body.
He rode a horse into the evening light
and you follow suit, clutching an insignificant hem,
leaving that sleeve over one heaving breast.