My window’s open
I searched for you
in burning heat
in cracked soil
in withered leaves
in empty fields
in dusty highways.
The season’s lonely
all wells are dry
no flower blooms
no grasses grow
no heavy clouds
no cold wind blows.
The sun now burns
each rays pierced
my wounded heart
my lonely soul
a year of drought
a year without rain
a year without you.
—
Abi Andoy is a student from AdDU.
Nonfiction by Sergei Reyes | March 16, 2014
It was the sight of a pitcher held up that woke my senses. The plummet shattered all of the plastic, and when silence broke lose, panic spoke, “Ano’ng problema? Pag-usapan natin.”
The question was thrown back to me as if it were a mistake to wake up. I answered, “Wala,” until he referred to you and I. It was a question I wanted to ask myself, too. Did we have a problem? He questioned my silence; our silence when he would come home. He said he knew everything.
“Wala kaming problema,” you said.
“Are you sure you want to talk about it? I know you’re drunk and I don’t want you to regret anything you want to say right now.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he boldly said.
“Okay. If you want to talk to me, I would expect you to wear something.” He was in his underwear, drunk and late when he got home from work.
Poetry by Gari Jamero | March 16, 2014
I awoke to a shriek
Conscious but almost blind
Sight was nil, pitch black
All I hear, a gush, now sleep
Light has returned, and I see
It was a mere dream, our dream
Nothing seemed to be weird
Other than my being drenched
I got up, very much doused
Dried off with the most peculiar towel
It was warm, warmth I have not felt in so long
The sensation akin to my mother’s embrace
Now I am dry, the house and all else
I made myself decent and dressed up
The clothes fit snug, strong yet free to move
It feels as if I am carried by my father
I turned on the music player, listen
The song playing felt oddly familiar
The sound very much like my brothers’ singing
Reminiscent of when we all played together
I sang and sang along; I inhaled
The air felt like velvet against my lips
And as I exhaled, it healed my heart
A fondness identical to her, a love unknown
I awoke to a sob; no, lots of sobs
I see my family around my body
I kiss them and bid them adieu
I dove, descend to space not shown
—
Gari Jamero is a BS Biology Student from Xavier University – Ateneo de Cagayan.
Nonfiction by Favor Bonjoc | March 9, 2014
A family. Memories of sanguine childhood. Mama’s home-cooked meals. Hallways filled with history of accidentally spilt milk, and walls occupied by pictures hung of birthdays and reunions seldom dusted… These are the things that make a home, or so they say. None of which I now cherish, for I am the only one left and they are those who chose to live on.
But I have fragmented memories, at least, and I look back at them from time to time. Like those moments I tried on papa’s huge loafers and dreamt my feet would fit them someday. Like when mama woke me up that particular morning to let me ride my new bicycle they just bought me while she sat on the front porch and sipped on a cup of coffee. Come evenings when mama comes home from work with a pasalubong of my favorite Jollibee meal and that time when I locked myself in their room because I did something stupid and only opened the door after a few hours begging not to be punished. Yes, I remember them dearly. I always was so spoiled.
Oh, how I felt so proud seeing papa on TV. He was broadcasting the news back then and I always waited for him to greet me before letting out his famous punch line: “Hoy! Gising!” Oh, how I must have felt so proud.
Poetry by Simon Anton Nino Diego Baena | March 9, 2014
The light is heavy like the weight
of an open wound. And I hear
no sound of laughter nor prayer,
only the coughs and puffs of smokers
outside the haunting streets of Bais.
The landscape remains blistered.
Rainless for days. And my throat
wants something more than water—
every morning, the world is in pursuit
of harmony, the balance between
the wave and the ash and the dissonance
of speech, my father used to tell me.
What is visible to the mind is the shoreline
of guilt with no waves nor gulls to kiss
it. And the pebble in front of the acacia tree
remains indifferent, while I am burdened
by these artifacts of guilt. I know exactly
where in my memories my scars are
located. Inside the old chapel,
I feel the presence of the void. God
does not speak to me. Not even
in a language of metaphors.
—
Simon Anton Nino Diego Baena is an undergraduate student of MSU-IIT, Iligan city.
Originally from Bais, Negros Oriental, now based in Iligan. Some of his poems have already been published in Philippines Free Press, Philippines Graphic magazine, and Eastlit online literary journal
Poetry by Glyd Jun Arañes | March 9, 2014
I gaze at the morning sky,
My eyes following the plane
That carries you
And I know
you look outside the window,
Searching for me
Hidden in the shrinking Davao.
Because, while you disappear into the clouds,
You left your heart unfolded
With your clothes in the closet.
Because, no matter which foreign land
you escape
You belong here,
In our home I built with my arms
Here in my bed
That does not remember your distance,
But only your weight.
And you will come back
I shall be waiting
To welcome you back home.
—
Glyd Jun Arañes works as a research assistant at Philippine Women’s College of Davao. This poem is the English translation of his French language homework.
Fiction by Nilea Louise Morales | March 2, 2014
It was a nice place to rest. The walls were painted pink. The window was covered with pink curtains. The books were arranged neatly on the pink bookshelf. The bed on the opposite side was neatly overlaid with a pink blanket, a pink pillow by the head. The pink lampshade on the pink table by the bedside illuminated the whole room.
Yes, it was a nice place to rest. It was a place to stay in and relax. It was a place that radiated positivity. It was supposed to be.
But Lois, in her oversized plain white shirt and black skinny jeans, only stared into space. Her eyes were unblinking. Her lips were pursed together, not daring to move a word.
Poetry by Rory Ian Bualan | March 2, 2014
It is not fun, you know,
standing here in Claveria
with the jeepney barkers
mocking my uncertainty —
shouting names of places
where to go.
Where should I go?
It is funny, you know,
when vendors offer sympathy
besides sliced fruits or fried skins
and you nod, force a smile because
you don’t eat street food.
But then you go look around
the streets of Bolton, San Pedro,
even Torres to satisfy a craving
for crabs and eat-all-you-cans.
Perhaps, perhaps.
But them barkers’ voices ring loud:
Sasa! Panacan! SM Lanang! Toril!
Then, red light.
You cross the street,
walk aimlessly.
Hands in pocket,
jacket zipped up,
your steps doubtful.
Then you feel:
it’s time to go.
But where?!
—
Rory is a Physics teacher eating, praying and loving in Indonesia.