Confessionally

Poetry by | March 24, 2013

comfort
comes not in the form of sweat
nor in movement
but in the creases
of pillows and sheets
white as lies
where we carve
our secret reverie;
no dosage of metaphor
when it comes to you
and the heat
of your lips
pressing
against mine
and the brace
of your body
warm as your skin
and your breath
and the touch
of your fingers
on the course
of my spine
and the need
to confess
and plead guilty
in between
our legs
entwined.

—
Gino is a graduate of Xavier University Ateneo de Cagayan. He was fellow of the 2010 Davao Writers Workshop.

My Mami

Nonfiction by | March 17, 2013

Valentina Peña is my maternal grandmother, but within our family, we always call her Mami. In all the years I’ve known her, no one has satisfactorily explained to me the genesis of that appellation. It may be a reference to the delicious chicken noodle soup she makes, or more probably, it is an affectionate, but misspelled alternative to the word “Mommy.” No one really knows. No one really minds. Certainly, Mami doesn’t mind.

Like most grandmothers, Mami is kind and caring. She is a petite lady, standing just a little above 5 feet tall. She has that beautiful Filipina morena coloring with a head of lustrously dark, brown hair, and skin bronzed by the sun. Her almond shaped eyes give others the impression that she has Chinese blood. Her smile is often wide with her teeth slightly discolored. She loves to cook and is very good at it too.

My earliest memories of Mami was from the age of 4. I knew I spent a lot of time in her house watching television, or playing with clothespins on the living room carpet. Every 3 in the afternoon without fail, Mami always served me a small plate of warm cheese sandwich, sliced into triangles. After I ate that, I would ask for seconds… and thirds… and fourths and more. I had a voracious appetite even then but Mami did not mind one bit. She would whip up batches of sandwiches upon request until I was full — or until her supply of bread and cheese spread ran out, whichever came first. She always gave me her wide smile whenever she saw me stuffing myself with her cheese-filled snacks.

Upon reflection, I may also have kept asking for her sandwiches for the sake of seeing that smile.

Continue reading My Mami

Name

Poetry by | March 17, 2013

You are untouched inside my thoughts;
intangible — only a feeling, but a feeling
better than touch: a picture
definite and concrete
in a room where your name
is a color painted on walls.
Staying in, a fool morphs
into pages of poetry
from all that he sees.

—
Darylle Rubino is a graduate of B.A. English and majored in Creative Writing at the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

This is Not a Love Poem

Poetry by | March 17, 2013

This is not a love poem.
This is a poem
for the paracetamols you gave me
in Misamis when I was sick,
for the smiles you’ve shown me
at the Jacinto office when I was weak,
for the efforts of cheering me up
while I was making my impossible thesis,
and for that long warm embrace
that I will miss.

This is a poem
for the days of story telling
about yourself and the people you cherish,
for the sleepless nights
where we shared bitter secrets,
and for the demanding weeks
where we studied and wrote articles.

This is a poem
for the short simple kind words
you’ve sent me over the phone,
for the exchange of irritating
yet funny online tweets
every midnight,
and for the old-fashioned pet names
we call each other.

This is a poem
for the awkward moments,
for last night’s silence in the car
as we passed Matina Crossing,
for the dry seasons spent
at the McDonald’s.

This is a poem
for the memories
which have taught me
to keep myself safe,
away from the troubles
of friendship’s weakness.

Seriously,
this is not a love poem.

—
Reymond Pepito is a Social Media Strategist at Hijo Resources Corp. He was a fellow of the 2010 Davao Writers Workshop.

Walang Plumang ‘Di Makata

Poetry by | March 10, 2013

Tumutula ang isang manunulat
sapagkat may mga salitang
‘di kayang ibakat sa papel.
Mga salitang ‘di kayang ibigkas,
mga damdaming nagpupumiglas
ngunit ayaw ipadama,
ayaw ipaunawa.
Tumutula ang isang tao dahil
ibig niyang ipahiwatig
sa salita ng makata
ang ‘di kayang sabihin ng karaniwang wika.
Mga salitang tanging para sa tula lamang,
mga salitang ubod ng tamis.
Tumutula tayo
sa pait ng ligaya,
sa ligaya ng kamatayan,
at sa kamatayan ng ligaya.
Tumutula ako dahil ako ay umiibig,
umiibig sa aking bayan,
sa kapwa kong kabataan,
sa kapayapaan at tunay na kalayaan.
Umiibig ako sa ‘yo.
Oo, ikaw at wala ng iba.
Tumutula ako para sa mga bayani.
Mga bayaning wala sa perang papel
at sa perang tanso,
mga bayaning ‘di kilala,
sa mga bayaning kumonista,
at sa mga bayaning may burgis na pagkilala.
Tumutula ako
dahil gusto kong tumula,
dahil kailangang tumula,
dahil may nagbabasa ng tula,
dahil may umiibig sa tula,
dahil may pag-ibig sa tula.
Hinahayaan ng tulang lumipad ang makata,
magtampisaw sa dilim
at magbahagi ng liwanag.
Nirerespeto ng tula ang salita,
bagama’t dinudumihan nito ang malinis na wika.
Ito’y tulad ng kaning mainit,
at softdrink na malamig,
Siya ay si Biloy na kulot at Eman na buhay.
Yosing red at pulang mandirigma.
Ang tula’y kawangis ng M-16.
Nakamamatay. Nagbibigay-buhay.
Nakakabitin.

—
Si Leonelleson, kilala din bilang Oni, ay nagtratrabaho bilang isang Customer Care Specialist. Siya ay nanggaling sa Kiblawan, Davao del Sur.

Kwentong MRT, Part 2

Fiction by | March 10, 2013

MRTBoni
Sa pagpreno ng tren ay hindi sinasadyang nasagi ni Can’t Deny ang braso ko. Kadalasan ay ayaw kong nadadampian ng balat ng ibang tao. Hindi ko talaga gusto ang ganoong pakiramdam. Pero sa pagkakataon na ito ay hindi ko siya ininda.

Kung kanina ay hindi ko maalis ang pagkakatitig ko sa kanya, ngayon naman ay hindi ko na maiangat ang aking mga mata kay Can’t Deny. Sapat na ang maramdaman ko siya sa aking tabi, at ang panakanakang paglanghap ko sa kanyang pabango.

Huminga ako nang malalim. Biglang pumasok sa aking diwa ang sabi-sabi na: kapag pinigilan mo ang iyong paghinga habang patawid ng tulay ay matutupad ang isa mong kahilingan pagdating mo sa dulo.

Kasabay ng pagtanaw ko sa Ilog Pasig, ang biglaang pagnanasa na makasama ko si Can’t Deny sa ilalim ng sikat ng araw.

Continue reading Kwentong MRT, Part 2

Nang Magka-Amnesia ang Feminista

Poetry by | March 3, 2013

Teka muna.
Hanggang kailan pa ba ang pagkukunwari?
Nagsuot na ako ng mahabang saya’t
tinigilan na ang pagmemeyk-ap sa sarili.
Wala pa rin eh.
Dedma ang da moves ko sa’yo.
Alam mo bang liberated ako?
Unconventional? Feminist?
Sinadya ko lang talagang iumpog ang ulo ko
nang magka-amnesia ako for a while
at magbagong-anyo
upang umakma ako sa
standard mo.
Wa epek. Ayoko na ring maghabol.
Iuuntog ko na lang uli ang sarili ko
doon sa dingding ng aking kwarto.
Bukas, babalik na ang alaala ko.
Ako na mismo ang manliligaw sa’yo.

—
Si Djamyla ay nagtapos ng kolehiyo sa unibersidad ng Ateneo de Davao at nagtratrabaho ngayon sa DILG. Dalawa sa mga paboritong niyang paksang isulat ay tungkol sa peminismo at literatura.

Kwentong MRT, Part 1

Fiction by | March 3, 2013

North Ave,
Humahangos akong lumusot sa papasarang pintuan ng tren ng MRT. Maswerte naman ako at meron pang bakanteng mauupuan sa gitnang bahagi ng seksyon na nakareserba para sa mga babae, mga may edad, at mga may kapansanan. Sinadya kong sa estasyon ng North Ave. sumakay para mas malaki ang posibilidad na makauupo ako. Nakakapagod kasing tumayo sa halos apatnapung minutong biyahe hanggang sa estasyon ng MRT sa Taft, lalo pa’t meron akong backpack na may lamang damit, laptop at digital camera.

Katamtaman ang dami ng laman ng tren sa paglarga nito. Mag-aalas diyes ng umaga na rin kasi. Sumandal ako sa matigas na upuan at ibinaling ang aking atensyon sa mga imaheng lumilipas sa labas.

Mataas na ang sikat ng araw. Mabuti na lamang at malakas ang buga ng hangin ng aircon sa loob ng tren.

Continue reading Kwentong MRT, Part 1