Hilot

Poetry by | February 10, 2013

Back in my hometown where coconuts,
tall or dwarf
are massage oil
to correct the fetal position
before giving birth
with a bottle
of marinated root herbs.
Manang Iya’s rough hands moistened
with oil and scents, whispered
in my stomach her myth
and fragmented prayers
and broken syntax
of the Catholic church
two blocks
away,
halfway,
faraway
from my grandmother’s old house
where Chico trees guard the night,
its evergreen leaves
and white subtle bell-like flowers
bearing earthy brown-skinned ballyhooed fruits
that every morning, I pick up,
one by one, some half-eaten
by night birds, some ripe, unripe
while sweeping
the terrace with silhig ting-ting,
leaves scattered
on the ground, coloring
the yard: a world from my hospital window
the same evergreen colored ground
I watched for the longest now
and the longest even now
of days in this bed with a bandaged stomach
now emptied
with scars and stretch marks
in an off-color hue.
—
Jermafe Kae Angelo-Prias is a housewife and a graduating student of the University of the Philippines in Mindanao. She is a fellow in the 2012 Iligan National Writers workshop.

Soldier

Fiction by | January 27, 2013

Bryan Corpuz walks along the road barely aware of the passing vehicles. Two things bother him. The first is his lack of money. The second is the death of Brigadier General Delos Reyes.

The young man is on his way to a drugstore, in the public market of Tacurong, where he is supposed to buy a week’s worth of medicine for his diabetic father. The money in his pocket, however, is not even half of the amount he needs. When he comes back home later, he might have to explain why. He might have to tell his parents that he is not just on a month-end break; he has gone AWOL from service. He is a soldier no more.

The other thing bothering Bryan is the same news that has shocked the nation. General Delos Reyes, the highest-ranking finance officer in the army, was found dead in a hotel in Makati this morning. The official had been involved in a massive corruption scandal, and he was scheduled to appear in the Senate hearing today. With his death, he took with him the dark secrets of the armed forces, and Bryan’s last hope of being called back for duty.

Bryan is so preoccupied that he doesn’t notice a white van pull up right in front of him. He’s surprised when the door opens and two armed men step out of the vehicle.

“Get in,” one of the men tells him.

The strangers need not use threatening words. They need not brandish or point their guns at him. Having been a soldier, Bryan knows what weapons can do. As though the men are just his pals giving him a ride, he steps inside the vehicle without a word.

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Sudden Death

Nonfiction by | January 20, 2013

When you spend enough time with babies at the hospital, you would soon learn that contrary to popular belief, not all babies are cute and cuddly. As we were having our rounds at the Sick Neonates Ward that November morning, a particular set of 10-day old twins has proven to me that some of them can be pretty ugly.

It’s not that they were not at all cute or cuddly. It’s just that they looked so exaggeratedly unhealthy: their skin and lips bluish, their bodies small, their heads disproportionately large. When I saw them, I secretly thanked my luck that I was my group’s head nurse for that day. I didn’t have to directly handle those twins. I just have to supervise the staff nurse who did.

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The Spider and the Poet

Poetry by | January 20, 2013

He locates his heart along the span
From arm of chair to my leg
Propped on this ottoman

It must be aerodynamics
And instinct for the best
Hunting ground that makes him

Oblivious moving from the axis
Then round to buttress
His precarious choice

And when he is done with
The framework of his master plan
It is to the details then

The radial tracking of each thread
Spaced equal and filaments tight
Measured as the perfect lure

If only he considered
Human traffic like this poet
Cross at being roused

Leg lassoed to a first line
The poet’s signal-snare
Prey prompt poem

—
Nino Soria de Veyra currently serves as Chair of the Department of Humanities in UP Mindanao. His nonfiction and poetry have appeared in the Silliman Journal, The Dumaguete We Know, Caracoa, the Philippines Free Press, National Midweek Magazine, Solidarity, A Habit of Shores, and The Other Voices International Poetry Project.

Prayer

Poetry by | January 20, 2013

What exactly did you see, Pablo, when–ripped 
–the sky opened and revealed to you its bowels
of planets and plantation? What precisely
did you find, Allen, the day it rained of sun
-flowers and Bill spoke to you of tigers burning 
and thundering? What was it like to stop
hearing Love’s voice, Villa, and wrestling 
with God head to head? To question accuracies
of visions, hallucinations, talking to the dead,
do words, their true grave, have the answers?
I went back to the basics of prayer: the bible,
a black book of verses fat with loosened leaves, 
sweet angels of Ramadan, an empty room save 
for a bed and a glass of water. Walter learned 
in the dark the secrets of atoms and of grass,
of love, of boys, and of marching drums. Am I
doing this right? Kneeling before rosary, 
saying my Hail Mary fifty times a day, six days 
in a week, asking her, hey, holy mother of god, 
is this prayer poetry, or every poetry a prayer?

—
Jeffrey Javier received his BA in English (Creative Writing) from UP Mindanao. He was a fellow for poetry at both the Silliman University National Writers Workshop and the Iligan Writers Workshop.

To Her Father

Poetry by | January 13, 2013

English translation of the poem Salaam Bapa, also by the author

Salaam bapa, I have only one niyat in my heart and mind before presenting myself to you.
I come courageously to you, seeking your permission to wed your daughter.
As my parents, Datu Abdul,
Have asked me to do.

Bapa, I would take care of her, feed her, shelter her, and guide her in the straight way to Allah,
For I know that it is the responsibility of any faithful Muslim,
Even if I don’t know her well,
Even if she doesn’t know me well.

Bapa, I know about Az-Zawjan, that we should love each other like the moon and the stars,
Like Prophet Muhammad and Khadidja, or Aisha, or Zaynab did under Allah’s grant,
That we should not allow hunger
Or harm to embrace us.

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Salaam Bapa

Poetry by | January 13, 2013

A Kalagan poem. See To Her Father for the English translation.

salaamSalaam bapa, ‘sambok gayd yang kanakon niyat sang pangatayan sang pagkadi kanmo.
Yakadi ako ng way pagduwa-duwa untak pangayu’n yang kanmo pagtugot sa pagpakawin sang kanmo da’ga.
Sabap yang kanakon ama na si Datu Abdul,
Na idto yang isugo kanak.

Bapa, ako yang magabu’y, magapaka’n, magapa-uya, aw maga-indo kanan sang maturid na da’n,
Sabap ikatigaman ko ng madyaw na idto yang dayt na inangun ng Muslim na magunawa ko.
Agad wa ‘ko pa yan akila’ ng samporna,
Agad wa pa uman yan akila’ kanak ng samporna.

Bapa, ikatigaman ko yang pantag sang Az-Zawjan, magsikawyay kami magunawa ng buwwan aw bitu’n,
Minang ininang ng Nabi Muhammad aw Khadidja, atawaka Aisha, o Zaynab sang kahanda ng Allah,
Na di nami atugotan yang kagutum
Atawaka fitna kumupkup kanami.

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The Feud

Fiction by | December 30, 2012

feudIf you must know, The Feud began because of the mango tree, the mango tree that stood between our house and the Lopezes’ house. Well, not quite in between. You see, if old lady Mameris — from whom we had bought the houses — had only planted the tree right smack along the property line, then there might not have been any trouble to begin with. I think that might have been her plan. As things turned out, the tree took root a few feet inside the Lopezes’ garden.

Now, if it weren’t for the tree, our properties would have been perfect twins. Mrs. Mameris had built the houses for her children, and so they looked exactly alike, only built in reverse, as in a mirror: a spacious garden; a two-car garage; dining room, living room, and hobby room on the ground floor; four bedrooms on the second floor; exterior painted darkwood and teal. Sadly, the Mameris children preferred life in Canada, and so their widowed mother had no choice but to sell, and a good bargain we got for them, too.

Come to think of it, like the houses we lived in, the Lopezes and my family also mirrored each other in uncanny ways. Henry Lopez and I both worked as area managers (I in softdrinks, Henry in detergents); his Sally and my Diane had put their careers on hold to be stay-at-home wives; and their Westley and our Bridget had both just entered the third grade. We bought our houses within weeks of each other. While no one could say that we were close, we maintained friendly relations with each other. Friendly, that is, until the Feud.

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