Marathon

Poetry by | February 15, 2015

Runners in the morning
a Diaspora of hopefuls in pink
coming from nowhere
defying traffic and weather
to wherever ten kilometers may take them.
Their message and memories
are fastened to the numbered bibs
that they hang close to their chests,
careful not to lose it
to the slippery road.
What started out as a cause
to raise awareness for breast cancer
had become an uncertain run for their own lives,
as they keep their lungs from failing,
and their legs from falling.
Runners in the dawn
wet of sweat, mud, and dew
had only pride to eat and rivals for company.
And the gray sky and passing cars
are their only spectators.
The random hundreds brave
against time, like salmon in heat
fighting the currents
of the river, to warmer waters
they may never reach.
Like the herald Pheidippides
running from Marathon to Athens,
they hold on to the hopes that once
they finish the race,
they will have spread a message,
proclaiming victory
Over Persia, over cancer
Over the currents of the waterfalls
Over the slippery stretch of the ten-kilometer road.
See how they run, the runners of daybreak
noble and foolish they may be
as they surrender everything they have left on the race line
so they may finally reach the end
recover from the dark
renew their youth
and touch the Sun.

—
Fred graduated from the Creative Writing program at the University of the Philippines Mindanao. He likes to keep himself fit.

Kama: For Sale

Poetry by | February 15, 2015

Sa pipila ka adlaw, ako na lay gahigda
ning atong kama
luag na kini, hapsay sa paminaw
nga ako makaligidligid, makapanikad,
solo ang unlan, ug way singot
nga mudagayday sa kalawasan.
Apan ining akong pag-inusara,
gibati ko pa ang imong presensya.
Akong nakita ang nangaputol nga hilo
sa shorts nga bulak-bulak nga atong pinalit
didto sa usa ka convenience store sa may Roxas,
dala niini ang naputol ko nga pangandoy
sa paghuman sa dream catcher
nga akong giingong ihatag sa imuha
samtang nangaon ta sa Keep Sakes.
Akong gitanggal ang unlan sa akong ulo,
ug gitapad kanako—
ang imong baho;
ang buhok nga ginaliguan
og pink nga Head and Shoulders
ningpilit pa sa punda.
imong Baby Johnsons nga sabon nagpabilin
sa habol ug hapin nga kapila na nakong gibubua’g Downy.
Akong mata, halang. Mura’g gisawsawa’g alcohol.
Di ko mapugngan ang pagdalin-as sa akong kamot,
gakapa sa unlang imong gibilin.
Ginabaghid nako akong tiil,
sa hawan nga bahin ning higdaanan,
gahandom nga imong bagtak,
nga naay nanubong buhok,
akong masinati pa’g usab.
Nipiyong ko ug nitago sa habol,
apan sa pag-abri pa’g usab ning akong mga mata,
hayag sa adlaw akong nakita. Asa ka?
Usahay ako mutuo nga imong kalag,
Gabisita kanako. Nga siya
nakabati sa akong kamingaw.
nga kining higdaanan, mas humok,
Mas dako, ug mas malipayon kung naa ka.
Usahay nagadamgo ko nga ikaw nitapad,
Ug hinay-hinay nga nigakos sa’kong kaluya.
Sa paggawas ning luha,
natilawan nako ang
kaparat sa dagat atong mga panahong
kita nipalayo ug niangkon sa Samal,
Akong kaugalingon, usa ra sa imuha.
Apan kinsa ako para pugngan ka,
Ug magpabilin niining atong kama.
Ang imong kaugalingon
Nibuhi sa gisugdang kalibutan
nga di ko angay’ng hiktan.
Ang dalan para kanato taas pa,
Pero ikaw nibiya na.
Ug kining higdaanan,
magpabiling atong handumanan.
Wala ka man sa akong taparan,
di ko man makab-ot ang imong giadtuan,
Naghinaot ko nga sa imong ginatulgan
Makahinanok ka’g taman-taman.

—
Denise Alexi is a BA English (Creative Writing) student of the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

Hinanap Kita

Poetry by | February 15, 2015

Kinapa ko ikaw sa dilim
Sinalat ang bawat korte
ang bawat linya ng iyong
katawan
Hinanap ko ikaw mula ibaba
paitaas, hanggang mangalay na ang
mga braso’t kamay sa kakakapa
at mapaluha na lamang sa sakit
pinili pa rin ang kapa-in
at hanapin ka
kahit di sigurado kung na andiyan
pa
ngunit
kahit na anong pagsalat
at paghanap
sa korte ng iyong mukha
tangos ng iyong ilong
lambot ng iyong mga labi
at tikas ng iyong katawan
hindi pa rin kita mahanap
Nararamdaman mo ba ako?
Hinahanap mo rin ba ako sa dilim
gaya ng paghanap at pagkapa
ko sa’yo?
O di kaya’y umiiwas ka lang?
na sa tuwing mararamdaman mong
maabot ko na, mahahawakan ko na
ikaw
ay agad-agad kang iiwas
at lalayo ulit?
magtatago?
at mawawala?

—
Sums is an English major at Xavier University – Ateneo de Cagayan. She writes every time Life slaps her in the face. A normal student by day, and a majestic unicorn by night.

Why the corns can't make it to harvest

Poetry by | February 15, 2015

Sorry, son
the corns can’t make it to harvest
they have rolled on the field
as you would on the playground
flattening everything out
the bullets pierced the leaves
human blood flooded the soil
causing the roots to rot
but don’t worry
there’ll be another season
they’ll give us seeds
we’ll make them grow
like government’s promises
we’ll have another harvest
once this anxiety is ripened.

—
Orlando is a teacher at Francisco Bangoy National High School.

The Teacher

Nonfiction by | February 8, 2015

When he entered the room with his ironed uniform and his usual aura, everybody stared. When he put his things on the table with a thud, everybody behaved. And when he finally faced the class, everybody fell silent. How amusing! To see how that four-eyed man can control the class without having to say a single word. To see how his silent laughter played around his lips when he knew he’s won. I witnessed those things amidst the sea of little black dots in front me. When I saw him, everything around me turned to a blur.

And right at that moment, I fell in love.

Continue reading The Teacher

Scrabble

Fiction by | February 8, 2015

“Playing Scrabble is really fun when I have a tough opponent like you.”

“It’s a pleasure to play with you, too.”

“I didn’t expect you were saving letters for ‘melancholy’!”

“My favorite word, actually.”

“The word sounds sad, don’t you think?”

“The word is poetic, I think. It resounds and feels like being alone, without umbrella or any shade whatsoever, under a heavy rain; feeling the rain—crawling upon and into your skin, reaching your very soul, drenching it with gray clouds, thunder, lightning, and raindrops—as if you were naked; wondering where the raindrops come from, what they are made of, but having knowledge about the water cycle still fails you; and asking, ‘Will this rain ever end?’”

“Wow. So, it is not just sad. It is beautifully sad.”

“Well, you can say that.”

Continue reading Scrabble

Windows

Poetry by | February 8, 2015

He told me he did not want to grow old alone.
His future was something he had written
like this: wife, kids, maybe a dog, and a job
that pays him with contentment. He told me this
with his hands giving away the excitement
he tried to hide with his deep voice.
His left thumb kept the other four fingers
close to his palm. These were the same fingers
that brought cigarettes between his lips,
and I wished countless times to be
a white stick worth some coins
in exchange for a kiss.
I wanted to be a part of his plans so badly.
But that night, over dinner, as he went on
and I watched his thumb slowly release
the other fingers beneath it, I was afraid
I was not cut out for someone who has plans
of contentment and certainty when my feet
don’t agree with each other most of the time;
who is so sure about the years ahead
when I’m just trying to make it to tomorrow;
who knows exactly where the doors he opens
lead to, when I love squeezing myself into
windows and losing sleep trying to figure out
why I could not get in.
He stopped talking and asked me what
I thought my future was going to be.
And I could have racked my brains
for something he would like, something
that fit well with his: husband, kids, maybe
a dog, and a life of no regrets. But I knew
he and his plans were windows I could never
fit into.

—
Hannah is a third year Creative Writing student at UP Mindanao. Bill Gates did not pay her to title her poem this way.

To Uncle Boy who brought me to Liverpool

Poetry by | February 8, 2015

It’s been a year like this
The two of us together in a room
with separate beds and separate states
You hooked up in tubes
and I kept watch.
In a year there were four hospital stays for a week or longer
in February, June and October 
and this last one sixteen days in January.
The scent of wipes and stains
and the blood flowing within and without
wrapped us like a sad song,
as each visit did not get better
as each day breaks, your mind aches
your voice call for your mother.
You kept asking where am I, why I’m here
but the answers disappear in you
as you play back the questions over and over like a loop.

This is how your withered bean robbed you
you misunderstand all you see
your memory and your present clouded in misery
and the irony that your favorite song is ‘Yesterday’
that you could still sing in your bed.
You and I have these memories
of you sharing records when I was six
of songs from four Liverpool lads
the music that let me in your secrets.

Last Sunday night perhaps you knew that secret already
that there is no fixing this hole
on Monday you leave with eyes closed. 
The memories may lose their meaning
but the songs from the walrus, revolver and rubber soul tell us
that love is all you need. 

“Golden slumbers fill your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise,
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
and I will sing a lullaby.
…
And in the end, 
the love you take 
is equal to the love you make.” – Golden Slumbers/ The End

—
Tyrone A. Velez was an English major at Ateneo de Davao University. He is a freelance writer, a journalist, and a Beatles fan like his uncle.