Date a Farmer

Nonfiction by | July 7, 2013

I remember how the mud stuck in between my toes and nails. I never knew my soles’ dead skin was also absorbent. Glad to have bought cheap soap from the nearby sari-sari store. Wala problema panglugod.

I should have worn boots but that could have made him uncomfortable. I don’t want him to be uncomfortable. I want him to like me so that he can open up. Gusto ko lang guid sya mapamatian mag istorya.

I though the chance of talking to him would slip when he said, “Makadto ako sa bukid. Hindi pwede ipabwas kay may tubig na.”

I hurriedly caught up on him and said: “Wala problema. Maupod ako didto.”

He chuckled. I though it meant, sure ka?

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Thanks, Mayor

Poetry by | July 7, 2013

Nagpa-fireworks si Mayor.
Nagpakaon, nangimbita
Nagdala ug artista.

Bag-ong elect si Mayor.
Nagpalabas, nagpasikat
Ang army giimbita.

Nang-invite si Mayor.
Alfred Gatchalian, etc.
Kapamilya diay siya.

Nag-”thank you” si Mayor.
Sa namoto, sa kalaban
Nagpalapad ug papel.

Nag-speech si Mayor.
Plano sa kalambuan
Nangayo ug pagsabot.

Nag-end ang speech.
Si Mayor nilingkod.
Milabas ang mga dancers.
Nisayaw si Mayor.
Palakpak mga tawo.
Salamat! Salamat!
Mitugtog ang band.
80’s disco ang peg;
Nanayaw mga tao.
Lima, unom, pito ka kanta.
Pagaw na ang vocalist

Last song for the night:
”Boys do fall in love -”
Mayor is out of sight
Slipped through the VIP pass…
So the party ended –

And there goes my vote:
One night of band music,
school girls dance mix,
local showbiz celebrities
and transvestite hosts.

Next election na pud.

—
Rory is a physics teacher who likes to write poems.

gulay, prutas mo diha!

Poetry by | July 7, 2013

gulay, prutas mo diha!
by Salud Mora Carriedo

uy, sinaw ang kamatis!
unsaon wala na man hinaw-nawi
human ug tuslob sa tubig nga may syampu.

nagputi-puti ang talong
dili tungod gisulom kay tam-is!
lama ra kana sa gi-spri nga daytin.

kanindot sa kutis sa ampalaya, way tatsa!
gialagaan gud, gitiyagaan ug tuslo sa kontiner
nga may sulod nga makapalurong sa mga ulod
ug mananap samtang nagkumbitay sa trelis.

ang sigay nga mangga dili kyut!
nasawut ra kana bisan gihatagan
ug medisina nga pangpadagko.

ang saging pod human na ug kaligo!
maayong pagkatugsaw sa plangganang
naay madyik likwid aron dali rang mahinog.

—
Si Salud Mora Carriedo natawo ug nagdako sa Davao. Ang iyang mga pagtuon, panaw, ug kasinatian sa ubang nasud ug natad maoy naghagit nga palabungon ug balik ang iyang Bisaya nga gamit.

Call for Applications: 2013 Davao Writers Workshop

Events by | July 4, 2013

The Davao Writers Guild (DWG), in cooperation with the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA) and University of the Philippines Mindanao, will hold a writers workshop on October 28 to November 1, 2013. Deadline for application is September 21, 2013.

Who May Apply: Fifteen writing fellows will be selected for the workshop. Applicants must be residents of Davao and Mindanao. Only two slots, however, are allotted to fellows within Mindanao but residing outside Davao & will receive transportation allowance of up to P1,000. Fellows will receive free board and lodging for the duration of the workshop. Past fellows of the Davao Writers Workshop, as well as of national writers workshops, are not eligible to apply.

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Bulalakaw

Nonfiction by | June 30, 2013

Sa gamay pa ko, kanunay ko makakitag bulalakaw nga kalit lang mosutoy gikan sa kawanangan padulong ambot asa sa kalibotan. Diha pa mi nagpuyo sa Quezon Boulevard, sa may Salmonan banda. Katunggan pa ang maong lugar kaniadto, daghang bakhaw ug waterlili, gurami ug puyo, hasta tangkig. Sa gabii kalingawan namong mga bata nga magdulag biros, tigso, ug tubig-tubig. Tingali tungod kay kanunay ko naa sa gawas sa balay sa gabii mao nga kanunay sab ko makakitag bulalakaw. Apan naa koy mahinumdoman nga usa ka dako ug siga kaayo nga bulalakaw nga mihiwa sa kangitngit ibabaw sa Isla sa Samal. Nakahinumdom ko niini kay morag duol kaayo ang bulalakaw ug dugay napalong ang iyang pagdilaab. Nakahinumdom ko nga mihunong sa pagdula ug gitutokan ang paglupad niini hangtod nga nahanaw.

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An Ode to a Facebook Stalker

Poetry by | June 30, 2013

(a response to the poem “Ode to a Facebook Photo” by Allen Samsuya, which appeared in December 2, 2012)

In this portrait, there are only my eyes
that speak of yearning to see
The stream of your stars
scattered in my galaxies.

I swim my eyes through the nebula
outside this four-cornered universe.
Nevermind the griffins and bountiful trees.
Let me see your abyss.

–
Karen Kae is a BSED-English student in the Ateneo de Davao University.

Water Lily

Poetry by | June 30, 2013

Dugay na nakong gipanind-an
imong paglunang sa linaw,
Buot ka na nakong ibton
Kay sa kaanindut sa tubig
Gasinagbot ka lang.
Miaksyon nakog duol
Aron tapuson na ang imong
Pagpalaksot ning linaw
Apan sa dihang ikaw akong pagabunluton…
Tinuod mong kaanyag imong gipanalipod
Og imong napugngan akong kamangtas,
Gitun an mo pa gyod ako
Sa bililhong pagtulun an.

Macky is a graduate of AB in Literature from University of Southeastern Philippines. He is the president (soon to be former) of Union of Literature Students.

Imagination and the Making of a Nation, Part 2

Nonfiction by | June 23, 2013

Keynote speech delivered on the occasion of the Ateneo de Davao Writers Workshop 2013 held last May 27

My Facebook shows a photo of the well-known critic, Isagani Cruz, home from an European sally. He writes, “Geneva might be the cleanest city in the world…Soon I will return to the Gates of Hell, but dirty or corrupt though it may be, Metro Manila is home sweet home.” It’s almost the same way I feel about every place where I have set up a bed and a kitchen, home in its plainest sense–it may not be much of anything in comparison with the magazine-sleek, full-colour portrayals of the homes of the rich and famous. Home to me is three-dimensional, solid and sensual, populous and visceral. It is the house where I live, the cluttered room, the dirty kitchen, the straggling garden, the people I love, those who might dislike my smell or the sound of my speech, the heat, the cold, the mud. If you transport me to another, better place, this sense of home will follow me like the smell of frying buladin the morning, like the muscular memory of the language I grew up with, like the tireless eyes of my mother watching us all from her grave in Ormoc’s hillside graveyard. No matter where I would be in the world I know I belong here even if by chance I will never return here for the rest of my life.

Continue reading Imagination and the Making of a Nation, Part 2