Poetry by Janis Claire Salvacion | September 4, 2011
Translation of Bugiot san Parag-uma by Harold Mercurio
My neck now stiffens
Looking up at the sky
For the rain to fall.
The mounds are now stricken by black ants
Where corn is planted
For it to grow.
The carabao wallows
In its bed of clay
To cool its body burning from heat.
When will the water system
Flow in the rice field
As promised by those in power?
Poetry by Harold Mercurio | September 4, 2011
Nagtig-a na akon liog
Paghinangad sa langit
Kun san-o mahuhulog an uran.
Ginhantik na an mga luho
Nga gintamnan mais
Paghaluna nga tumubo.
Lumukot na la an karabaw
Sa galot niya nga higdaan
Pagpapinit san nasusunog nga lawas.
San-o daw la maawas
Sa danaw an patubig nga
Ginsaad san mga gamhanan?
—
Phil Harold L. Mercurio is a faculty member at the Northwest Samar State University (NwSSU) in Calbayog City and an NCLA Coordinator for Eastern Visayas.
Poetry by Harold Mercurio | September 4, 2011
Fiction by Andrew de Dal | August 28, 2011
“Yes. I do that sometimes, I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t apologize. I like talking to my passengers when they ride in my taxi. The stories I have heard are enough for me to write a book. The most special ones are the passengers that I pick up from the airport. They talk about problems, sadness, joy, relief, and anything that they want to talk about after visiting the airport. But this was my first time to talk to a sleeping passenger.”
A taxi driver writing about his passengers. The idea struck me as cool, but I absolutely didn’t want him to be writing about me or the things I said when I was asleep.
He looked at me through the rear-view mirror and asked, “How do you think is she feeling right now?”
Nonfiction by Tyron Keith Maru Varias Sabal | August 28, 2011
“Spirals and spiraling, lead us to meaning. This is the poetic process.”
What is poetry? Technically, it can be defined as the art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative, or elevated thoughts. To the poet who is engaged in the poetic process and wishes to define his art, not much is said by this definition. To the uninitiated, a mere reader (literally, without the attempt at an analysis) of poetry, this would suffice.
Poetry by Jhunorjim Caumbo Zandueta | August 28, 2011
Hinabi ang mga kulay, at dinampi sa may lona
Upang tingkad ay mabuhay at magkadiwa ang obra.
Ginuhit ang mga hugis, mga detalye at linya
Upang mapukaw ang tamis ng gunita’t ala-ala.
Bawat katha ay hinubog ng matalim na haraya.
Bawat obra ay bantayog ng tagumpay at ligaya.
Nililok ng pagsisikap, pinagtibay ng pag-asa
Ang pagtupad ng pangarap, at paghulma ng korona.
Ngunit makipot ang daang tinatahak ng malikhain
Bago anihin ang bungang itinanim sa dalangin,
Bago sumibol ang tinta at magliyab ang damdamin,
Bago matapos ang obra at mabuksan mga tabing.
Bawat pinta ay sagisag ng inipong karunungan.
Bawat kulay ay liwanag ng nabuong kamalayan.
Bawat dampi, bawat hampas, nahubog ang katauhan,
At ang pinakamimithi ngayo’y pinanghahawakan.
—
Jhunorjim Zandueta is a computer engineering student.
Fiction by Andrew de Dal | August 21, 2011
I didn’t see the plane leaving. And it sucks. I could have felt the farewell more if I saw that airbus leave and a carry off the half of my soul to a far place. It was a sunny Thursday afternoon, and after my last look at her, as soon as I turned my back to the entrance door of the airport, I discovered that what’s ahead is a long walk on a desert-like walkway towards the exit gate. “From pain to pain,” I thought as I slowly crawled out of that seemingly black hole of a place that just took my loved one away. As I walked, I tried not to think about what just happened. I tried to think about things that I would put if I own an airport. A garden-like walkway with hidden airconditioners on every corner of it would be fine. An ice walkway, much more like a gigantic igloo, also crossed my mind. The heat of the sun can sometimes enhance my imagination in a certain way.
Poetry by Mark Daposala | August 21, 2011
Namatay ang makina ining Bao
sa pagsaka sa puntod sa Taguanao.
Halos wala koy madunggang tingog,
puyra ang pangagho sa iyang kasubo.
Samtang nagtulo akong singot
sa pagtunob sa gasolinador,
nitutok lang siya sa ukbang hapon.
Ug nasaksi kong nahiusa siya sa kinaiyahan.
Niagos ang mga yamog sa walog sa iyang dughan
nga gadutdot sa akong hunahuna.
Gigitik akong buot sa iyang agulo
samtang nagdul-it ang init sa akong kahilom.
Nagduka nalang ang salumsom,
gapadayon lang gihapon kog kubi ug susi
taman sa nahawoy nakong paglimbasog
og buhi ining tayaong Bao.
Nagtan-aw nalang ko
sa suba nga naghaganas sa Taguanao.
Ug kalit nauyog ang palibot.
Niplastar iyang kumingking
sa akong paa. Kini nikamang,
nikamang ug nikamang. Nasindol
ang kambyada. Nabuhi ang makina.
—
Mark Daposala was a fellow in the 18th Iligan National Writers Workshop. He is taking up graduate studies in English at Xavier University.