Indulging in a Cup of Black Coffee

Poetry by | June 17, 2012

For JMS

I have had to come up with
various techniques to stop
myself thinking about how
to savor this hot and bitter
black coffee without
thinking about jaded thoughts;
the never-ending persuasion
of warm faces, of me moving
to their department ,
-wanting me to stop thinking
because there’s none to doubt about.
or the steam faint vapor waking like
loin girding shouts of unfamiliar souls
whom I only spoke with during a phone call,
or the barren poems and jumbled
metaphors, thirsting, waiting
for me to pen their existence down
on a piece of cold
and crisp white paper; to let them live
in a majestic universe
they deserve to own.
or the clear vision of you
and that girl walking in the rain,
sharing one umbrella,
trudging a journey, leaving footprints of bliss
stirring me to sudden melancholy,
or the lurid idea that stimulates me
to think , to go on
to taste the reality of fortune, of a ‘yes’
though my heart always
sip and drink down a caffeinated ‘no’
because in a pure, honest and
absent minded stupidity, I want
to stay because
I love you.
And this is the only catharsis
the sole epiphany
I have kept and own.
To continue
loving you,
To stay,
to stop thinking
and start finishing
a cup of
hot and bitter
black coffee.

—
Henrietta Diana de Guzman is a graduate of Creative Writing at UP Mindanao. She was a fellow for poetry at the 2009 Davao Writers Workshop and at the 2nd Sulat DULA: Playwriting Workshop at Xavier University (Ateneo de Cagayan University). Some of her works have appeared in SunStar Davao and the Best of Dagmay anthology.

Paths

Nonfiction by | June 17, 2012

Paths have a wonderful allure to me; inherent to all things mysterious and unexplored. I always wonder what lies beyond the bend, or where a path would lead.

As a child, I often went with my friends on bike rides that took us to the next barrio, choosing the meandering paths that went past rice fields and coconut groves. I still have the tiny scars on my feet and knees reminding me of the time my brakes failed and I improvised by placing my feet against the front wheel. It took a good while before I got around to fixing the brakes and it did not happen until I had to do it with my ass against the rear tires (unintentionally). I got new brakes after that; and the exploring continued.

I miss the paths of my childhood. The dirt roads, now paved, once took us to the mango trees from where we once thieved. Our slippers rested on the footpaths along the irrigation dikes where we floated the toy boats we had built from scraps. These are long gone now.

Why such memory? I do not grieve for my past; I miss parts of them. Any passage requires the leaving behind of something. And while I do have a few regrets, I must move on.

I think of life as a journey; a path whose length I do not know. I look back and remember sections that had been shady and cool, some were rocky and miserable, some best left forgotten. I see parts of the path that still resound with the joyful echoes of family and friends and some that were achingly silent. I remain convinced life would mostly an uphill climb and that going downhill is both a long way off and a rarity. I look forward and all I see is a bend — I cannot see what lies ahead.

Still, I walk on in wonderment, without trepidation and always with the knowledge both joyful and sobering that this path must somehow end. And when it ends, I must come home. Wherever this road will take me, I am content, for I know that the paths exist because Someone had already trodden ahead of me.

—
Jesse Jay L. Baula was born in Davao City on November 18, 1975 and earned his MD from Xavier University, Cagayan de Oro City. He is a resident physician in Digos City.

Heller's Confession

Poetry by | June 10, 2012

Blame it on the god
for making creatures
conscious only for
an instant. The past
being a memory;
the future, a goal;
the desire’s requests,
imagination.
Because if I were
to be aware of
my existence in
all of dimensions,
I would sure subsist
in this world before
you have become
an institution of–
an incarnation
of classic authors,
a puppet of my
basic aesthesis.
One generation,
our mothers would breathe
us out; couples of
creativity;
couples born of words
as we memorize
a language; as we
fiddle with stories
lines, schizophrenic.
There would be no gap
between years in school.
I’d be eager to
relish walks in the
universities,
your hand clumsy on
mine. And in our youth
just a cognition
an innocent view
of how couples make
love. Slow move affair
like commercial films
you critic quickly.
I do not intend
to reveal secret
thoughts in between us.
The years together
defined love– for some,
pity, for me, lust.
For you, as teacher,
as educator,
there are millions of
tales in between moans.
I am grinning at
a memory, clear
but surreal, no fear.
You might grasp death which
arrives before mine.
While I write my name
on publications,
you finally take
Sabbatical leave,
in time for content
to preclude more dreams,
in time for me
to make more ambitions.
I am afraid. I
am afraid. I need
to confess. The truth
is fidelity
has been testing me.
With these dreams of you
It, a kinder state.

—
Glorypearl Dy is a fellow of the 2011 Davao Writer’s Workshop. She works as a consultant writer for an outsourcing company.

Ihangyo sa Bulalakaw

Fiction by | June 10, 2012

“Nay, tinuod ba ang gisulti Lola Marta nga sa tiilan nianang bangaw dunay nagtapun-og nga mga bulawan?” pangutana sa unom ka tuig nga si Toto samtang ginahapuhap ang balhiboong iring nga nagpauraray sa iyang paa. Ang misay pod nagparayeg, sige kinig tilap sa kamot sa iyang agalon.

Mihunong kadiyot si Patricia sa iyang pagpanilhig ug gilingi ang anak nga naglingkod sa bangkito simpig sa talamboanan. “Di na tinuod, Dong. Usa ra na ka tumotumo sa mga karaang tawo,” tubag niya.

“Tumutumo ra diay na, Nay? Kanang bulalakaw, Nay, nga mahulog unya mag-wish dayon ko, di pod diay na tinuod?” laing sukit sa anak nga nagtan-aw sa bangaw nga nag-arko sa halapad nga luna sa Sitio San Roque.

“Aw, oo, uy! Kay kon tinuod pa na, Dong, hagbay ra tang nakahilwas sa atong kapit-os ron,” ni Pepay samtang nanglimpiyo sa ilang kosina.

Milingi si Toto kaniya nga mora bag napalaw sa iyang gibutyag. Gialsa niini ang misay ug gibutang sa kilid unya miakbo sa bentana.

“Nganong nangutana ka niana, To?” ni Pepay.

“Kay daghan man unta koy gustong i-wish, Nay…nga unta madato na ta, kanang parehas kasapian ni Japhet og Nato aron mapalitan pod ko nimog mga bag-ong sinina, sapatos ug daghang mga dulaan.”

Continue reading Ihangyo sa Bulalakaw

Water Wounds

Poetry by | June 3, 2012

The pure present is an ungraspable advance
of the past devouring the future. In truth,
all sensation is already memory.
— Henri Bergson, Matter and Memory

To know, you must remember, you said,
standing before water, as you hurled
pebbles into the air, watching
with utter pleasure, the trajectories
of their graceful fall. And the rippling
you dismissed as a minor ache
of distortion, fleeting disturbance
of a mirrored sky. See,
no scars when the water heals.

Numerous nights, I dreamed
of all those pebbles you threw,
gleaming, white under moonlight.
Now the pond is gone. Nothing
remains to gather, lovingly,
with cupped hands—only stones
different from each to each. But
what matters most? Only this:
the potent myth of an eternal moment,
this heart-quickening sensation
of how the voice of still water,
receiving a white pebble into its body,
mimics the perfect way you say “ah!”

—
Maiq Bonghanoy, an editor, received his degree in creative writing from the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

Okey Ra, Basta Gwapa: A Monologue

Play by , , | June 3, 2012

Character: Miranda, a 27 year-old saleslady. Wears a white long-sleeved blouse, a navy blue knee-high skirt, and black high-heeled shoes. Her long black hair is neatly ponytailed.

Setting: At a department store. Men’s wear section, outside a fitting room.

A male customer exits from the fitting room. He hands over two t-shirts to Miranda, pretends to be on the phone, and quickly walks away. Miranda folds one t-shirt neatly and hangs the other back on display.

She smiles.

Miranda: Uy! Ikaw man diay na. Kumusta naman? Ako? Okey ra. Mao lang gihapon, trabahante diri sa G-mall. Sa una sa pangkids ko na assign. Pero karon nabalhin ko sa men’swear. Dali ra tong pambata. Dali ra kaestorya ang mga mama. Dali ra atimanon.

Kapoy kaayo manarbaho uy. Mag make-up pa ka. Kailangan puti imong nawong, unya pula og lips, human pink og blush-on para dili murag luspad ba, para presentable gyod. Sige na lang kay malingaw man pod ko mangarte sa akong kaugalingon. Bahalag tag-isa ko ka oras sa samin basta motrabaho ko nga gwapa. Siyempre no! Human naa pa gyod ning mag-heels-heels ba. Dili ra baya gyod ko anad mag-heels-heels kay naga tsinelas ra man tawon ko kon molakaw. Natakilpo bitaw ko ton kas-a. Da! Danghag man. May gani sulbad ra og tutho-tutho ug haplas-haplas og dahons bayabas. Pero unsaon ta man wa man koy mabuhat. Mao man ang rules. Maong mutuman na lang pod ko kay mawad-an man sad kog trabaho kon di ko mosunod.

Naa pa ning palda-palda na hastang mubua. Tong kas-a lagi sa jeep. Wa ko kabantay. Hapit lagi milugwa akong bilat. Nipis pa ra ba tawon akong panting gigamit kay wa pa ko kapalit og bag-o. Hasta lagi. May na lang gani gi-alerto ko ni manang mamaligyaay og kinason sa akong atbang. Ulaw kaayo to ba.

O! lagi sa men’s wear ko na assign. Sus kining mga lalaki mas pili-an pa man intawon sila kaysa sa mga bayi. Pili diri, pili didto. Ukay diri, ukay na pod didto. Mosukod ani nga mga design human lahi nga size kuhaon. Dayon, mu-ingon rag…

Continue reading Okey Ra, Basta Gwapa: A Monologue

It's Not Always Sunshine in the East

Poetry by | May 27, 2012

She died crouching in the vertical box;
with grains of rice occupying every available space
there is to occupy.

Somewhere, outside the door,
hermit crabs are running away from the dark,
trailing tattered strands of
torn yellow ribbons.

Torn yellow ribbons tied
through holes, on clotheslines
and on the dented barks of coconut trees
standing in lines outside the house,
guarding the house
as military troops storm the streets with
their bayonets; screaming, thirsting for soft flesh–young flesh.

And little girls flee,
near the sea, through the city, into the woods,
not wanting to be seen.

Like hermit crabs
they flee
and they hide

only to die crouching in the rice dispenser
with grains of rice occupying every available space
there is to occupy.

—
Bam Baraguir majored in Asian Studies at Ateneo de Davao University. The poem was written while the author spent some months in Myanmar for a volunteer work with an NGO. She was born, and lives in Cotabato City.