Morning Blues

Poetry by | 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

Home

Poetry by | 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.

Please Don't Leave Me

Fiction by | 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.

Continue reading Please Don't Leave Me

Claveria

Poetry by | 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.

I declare a poem

Poetry by | March 2, 2014

Like naming a newborn
I declare a poem has been made
Like growing a tree
I declare a poem has been made
Like losing virginity
I declare a poem has been made
Like wedding a couple
I declare a poem has been made
Like losing religion
I declare a poem has been made
Like taking up arms
I declare a poem has been made
Like closing a casket
I declare a poem
has been made.

—
Angely Chi works as a freelance writer and researcher.

Of Nightmares and Daydreams

Fiction by | February 23, 2014

I am staring out the window as our driver is taking us to the regional courthouse. My dad sits in the passenger seat and my mom is next to me.

“How are you feeling?”

I look at my mom and her warm expression. My dad steals a look at me from the rearview mirror.

“I just want to get this over with.” I mutter, looking down. My mom reaches out to pat my knee then sits back.

Three years ago, one innocent night in July, I went to the movies with my best friend. I was twelve then, completely unaware of the girl code that dictated we should never go anywhere without each other. The theater was completely full; it was the weekend of Kris Aquino’s second horror movie, after “Feng Shui.” Although it was rated PG-13, Jen and I were able to get in easily. For a thirteen-year-old, my best friend looked way older, and we used this to our advantage all the time.

“Let’s meet at the CR after, okay?” she whispered as she watched me take a seat near the left set of stairs, next to a man in a plain white T-shirt and jeans.

“I’ll text you,” I whispered back absentmindedly, my eyes already on the screen before me.

Before long, with everyone around me screaming because of ghosts, I realized in that dim theatre that it really was the living that we should be afraid of. The man next to me was now standing in front of me, pants down.

Continue reading Of Nightmares and Daydreams

Hyphenated

Poetry by | February 23, 2014

This little line

is as thrilling
as the feel of your hand

holding mine.

A sign of my changing
civil state,

this bridge connects

us across the invisible
chasm between your family

name and mine.

It proclaims
with wedding

bells ringing:

I am not alone
in this life.

We have each other

like the matched pair
of salt and pepper

shakers for the dining table

where your face
has replaced the view

from an open window.

This punctuation
is our union

on paper:

two hands welded
into a single segment

for all the world to see.

—
Genevieve Mae Aquino was born in Manila but calls Davao her home. She has a clutch of diplomas in molecular biology and genetics. She was fellow for Poetry in English at the INWW, ANWW, and IYAS Creative Writing Workshops.

Things to Do

Poetry by | February 23, 2014

treadmill for thirty minutes
after a five-round brisk
walking at the plaza

prune the duranta
its leaves cover
the window’s horizon

do the laundry
whites first,
coloreds next

pay the electric bill
arrears only
to avoid disconnection

cut cauliflower, broccoli,
carrots and cabbage
for four seasons

iron uniforms
take a rest
dream a dream

these tasks
will disappear
tomorrow

—
Raul Moldez has been a fellow to various writers workshop and has won several awards for his fiction and poetry. He writes from Cagayan de Oro.