Poetry by Darylle Rubino | 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.
Poetry by Reymond Pepito | 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.
Poetry by Leonelleson Regalado Montejo | 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.
Fiction by Early Sol Gadong | March 10, 2013
Boni
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.
Poetry by Djamyla Millona | 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.
Fiction by Early Sol Gadong | 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.
Fiction by Edmond Julian dela Cerna | February 24, 2013
Mrs Elizaga had been standing for some time in the middle of the living room with one hand touching her throat and a broom in the other, while she stared at the front door, which was firmly shut and bolted; through the gaps between the door and its jambs streamed the harsh light from outside like metal blades. Clods of dirt had been gathered at her feet, and the blue plastic dustpan stood, as if waiting, in one corner. She was used to keeping house and did so with as much fervor even after the children had all gone to families of their own and even years after her husband’s death. But that day she thought that all that had been taught her in housekeeping—or rather, everything that had been her practice—was incorrect and that her entire life dedicated to that task as wife and mother had been a mistake. But perhaps, she thought, it was because what she expected to come home anytime that day was a husband coming home from the grave.
Poetry by Glyd Jun Arañes | February 24, 2013
Oh mon copain, how I miss you!
I search for monay bread at the bakery,
But I only notice the baguettes
smiling at me.
And I hope you are riding the rame de métro
As I ride the jeepney to Matina.
Bonjour, you say,
And I reply good evening,
As we share chicken adobo and un verre de café
over a Skype call.
You said you got lost at le Louvre?
I wonder would you discover a secret trail to Davao,
going to my house?
You said you cried my name at the top
of the Eiffel Tower?
Then tomorrow I shall climb the peak of Mt. Apo
to hear your message.
Bonne nuit, you say,
As you vanish from the screen.
But those two words shall be the lullabies
I hear on the pillow,
until I walk barefoot in France and find you
dans mes rêves.
—
Glyd works as a research assistant at Philippine Women’s College of Davao and a part-time murderer of the French language. He was a fellow of ADDU Writers Workshop 2010 and Davao Writers Workshop 2011.