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.

Moon's Grief

Poetry by | February 8, 2015

She knew.
From above the skies
close to burning stars,
traveling planets,
she heard him.
His silver coat gnashing
against forest thorns.
Paws thundering
over earth’s carpets.
From distance high,
she longed
as he had longed
to reach her
in lunatic embrace.
Against all lights
scattered in the night,
she watched him chase.
Yet she could only
barely touch the howl
from the stare of
the wolf.

—
Monique Carillo is a student at UP Mindanao.

Ironically

Poetry by | February 8, 2015

You have a hundred year old’s soul
and a five year old’s lumiere,
A legend’s wisdom
and a newborn’s curiosity
When you fell, you laughed
because you spilled stars
and it painted constellations
on the cold, hard floor
When you flew, you cried
because your wings are wax
and the sun is its enemy
too close and never close enough
They shy away in your presence
because they see a shadow.
A big, black hole
ready to suck them empty
Truth is, you have universes
inside of you
there is too much that
flesh and bones could not contain
You shine so brightly
they’re blinded and think it was darkness
You exist so strongly
they couldn’t resist the force
So fill the blank spaces,
supernova in the void
Breathe in dust and clouds
blink for me, a star reborn

—
Krisna Liz Tantano is a BS Architecture student from UP Mindanao.

An Anatomy of Your Smile

Poetry by | February 8, 2015

I. Lips

Scarlet arches,
like bow and string
releasing arrows
from Eros’s grip
to my wildest dreams

II. Teeth

Slices of pearls
cradled by the soft
of your lips,
in hiding,
like a symphony of secrets

III. Eyes

Soulful windows opened and hidden
by the flutters
of your eyelids, much like
the blackbird’s wings
to the wonders of the night

—
Ivan is a student of BS Architecture from UP Mindanao with an alarming addiction to milk bars.

An Accident in Moscow

Fiction by | February 1, 2015

After she had some time to think about it, Alyona convinced herself that, in the end, there was really nothing she could have done about it. Sure, she had had a couple of shots of vodka, but not enough to get her tipsy. Larisa, on the other hand, was totally wasted, and that was why Alyona had to drive Larisa’s Samara, a car whose idiosyncracies she wasn’t familiar with. There was the rain, too, and that was why she had pulled Larisa away from the party. The rain made the cobbled roads slippery. The streetlamps flickered on and off and she couldn’t see very well. Not to mention that Larisa, on the passenger seat, must have been dreaming she was still with Dmitri and kept groping her leg. Yes, she had a drink, it was dark, she was distracted, but still…

That man appeared out of nowhere. She wasn’t driving that fast. He had stepped in front of the car. Was he even looking in the right direction? No, he had been looking the other way. He must have been inostranets — a foreigner. She had stepped on the breaks, but the slick road took out some traction from the Samara’s tires.

Continue reading An Accident in Moscow

No. 7

Fiction by | February 1, 2015

Eating kwek-kwek and blending in with the crowd to be as inconspicuous as possible, Marco had been waiting for almost an hour. His target, this time, was Isagani Sarmiento—a paralegal at a small law office in San Pedro. It was almost 5 o’clock but the sweltering heat did not give way to the usual pre-dusk chill. He gave small talks to the tindera but he always made sure not to make himself too memorable. He had on a faux leather jacket with a plain shirt underneath, a Yankees cap, and his usual ragged jeans.

He first met with his client at some low-key bar at Torres.

It was a perfect place for such meet-ups—it was full of unscrupulous businessmen and sleazy police officers, but there was never any crowd large enough to fill even one-third of the room. The music was kept to a perfect volume and only ranged from classic to jazz.

Continue reading No. 7

For a good reason

Poetry by | February 1, 2015

Do not make me keep my promises
Easily because
Mornings bring age
You will kiss my tired eyelids
With thinned lips
Sounds pass them
Cracked but still soothing
To my hardly-hearing ears
Reassuring, lovingly cooing
Bringing to mind
The Mayas that we were
Flitting from branch to branch
As if there was no tomorrow
Tomorrow just came to visit
Tutting
Waiting for his overdue call
I found myself wearing my skin
Like my Sunday dresses you used to
Throw on the floor
Now kept neatly folded
Inside the ancient doors
That smell of mothballs and decay
Your hands were Bangkas
Sailing over my smooth seas
Now they are traversing
through rough waves and storms
I fear it may sink
The wires on my head that used
To be the night
Are now ashes
From a well-stroked fire
Which you try to resuscitate
To no avail
Do not make me keep my promises
I used to swear ‘i will never leave you’
But then
One night
I grasped you hand tightly
Then, like my breath, let it slip away

—
Adeva is from Cagayan de Oro City, currently an English teacher in Xavier University High School.