Nang Mauso ang Cellphone at Kompyuter

Nonfiction by | July 17, 2011

Mapagkandili sa akin ang Daang Boulevard, ang lunan ng aking kamusmusan, kahit na sabihing pugad ito ng mga lumpen at maralitang tagalunsod. Kaya sa taunang pag-uwi ko ng Dabaw upang bisitahin ang mga mahal ko sa buhay, ay di ko ito nakakaligtaang dalawin tulad ng pagdalaw ko sa matatalik kong mga kaibigan. Sa muli kong pangungumusta sa kanyang mga iskinita ay nakakatawag-pansin ang mga pisikal na pagbabagong nagaganap dito. Wala na ang munting kapilya ng Inang Laging Saklolo sa dati nitong kinatatayuan, na naging saksi sa kalikutan ko at sampu ng aking mga kababata tuwing Flores de Mayo at kapistahan nito. Ang mga simpleng bahay na gawa sa kahoy kundi man iginupo nang kabulukan ay hinalinhan na ng mga konkretong gusali. Naglaho na rin ang mga hahapay-hapay na tulay na umuugnay sa mga kabahayan sa looban. Maging ang kaisa-isang malapad at lubak-lubak na kalsada na nagsilbing palaruan ng mga batang tagaroon ay pinakinis na ng aspalto at pinakitid ng pagbabago. Pakiwari ko tuloy lahat ng palatandaan ng aking kabataan ay sabay na naparam nang ako’y mangibangbayan. Inaamin kong ikinakikirot ito ng aking puso. Lalo na nang mapansin kong wala na ni isa mang laro namin noon gaya ng taguan, tumbang-preso, syatong, piko, sungka at marami pang iba ang nanatili sa hanay ng mga bagong sibol.

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Cobi

Fiction by | July 17, 2011

Nakilala ko si Cobi noong ako’y anim na taong gulang pa lamang. Kaklase ko siya sa kindergarten at siya ang pinakamalapit sa akin. Bata pa lang ako noon, pero may nararamdaman na akong pagtingin sa kanya. Iyon bang pag di siya nakatingin sa akin ay sa kanya ko pinapako ang mga mata ko. Pag nahuli niya ako ay dinidilaan ko siya kasabay bubulungang “pangeeettt!”. Tapos tatawa lang siya. Ganoon datya’t nami-miss ko iyon kapag walang pasok kaya naman parang parusa sa akin ang bawat araw ng Sabado at Linggo. Noon lang iyon.

Keychain na sapatos. Isang keychain na sapatos ang iniabot ko sa kanya sa araw ng paglisan niya. Ibabalot ko sana iyon ng papel pero baka di ko na siya maabutan sa paaralan. Matulin ang takbo ko para lang mahabol ko ang regalong ito na bigay pa sa akin ng nanay ko noong umiyak ako sa palengke mabili lamang ang keychain na iyon.

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Ang Kumot Ko

Poetry by | July 17, 2011

Siya’y sa tabi ko,
Sa pagtulog ng katawang ito.
Bumabalot
Sa kaluluwang nilalaman ng panahon.

Handang pahiran,
Ang malunkot kong luha.
Pati laway’t sipon,
Handang pagsaluhan.

Siya’y kasangga ko,
Laban sa lamok.
Nagging saplot ko,
Sa katawang walang suot.

Siya’y sumalo,
Sa pangungulila ko.
Kunwari’y yumayakap,
Sa katawan na parang linta.

Siya ang kumot ko,
Na nasa tabi ko.
Handang balutan ako,
Sa aking pagtulog.

–-
Frank David Bayanon is a student of the University of Southeastern Philippines-Mintal taking up Public Administration.

Pieta

Poetry by | July 10, 2011

Tell me how much you loved your firstborn,
about how you could have kissed every inch
of his tender skin. I know, as you told me,
you only allowed him to eat blended veggies
that you carefully prepared. Are you sure
he did not sleep unless you run while cradling him?
That was funny! I could not imagine how you delighted
when he learned to close-open his hands while
you sang him that simple rhyme.
I am interested on what you shared about how fast
he learned to talk, how fast he learned to walk.
Was he really just seven months old then?
Ahh, so he is nineteen now.
Why do you worry when he leaves? It was you
who taught him how to walk. No, please,
please don’t cry when he talks. He is just
thanking you because he now learns not to
unclench his fist. No more close-open rhymes.
He has to be steadfast because many
do not eat even blended veggies.
And he told me, when he does not come back
and when you hear of him no more, follow his trail.
Pick him, bone after bone and kiss him.
He will not sleep unless you run while cradling him.
I know you will. You told me you love your firstborn.

–-
Paul Randy Gumanao is a BS Chemistry student and editor-in-chief of Atenews at Ateneo de Davao University. He was fellow to the Davao Writers Workshop and to IYAS Workshop in Bacolod.

The IYAS Experience

Nonfiction by | July 10, 2011

It was an April Fools’ Day when I found out that I was accepted as a fellow to the 11th IYAS Creative Writing Workshop, and therefore, though I was jubilant, I felt a pang of doubt. It could just be a nasty prank! Thankfully, the organizers would later dispel this suspicion when they called me to ask for my confirmation.

I first heard of IYAS from my kababayan Paul Gumanao, who had already been a fellow the year before. Iyas, which is Hiligaynon for “seed,” is one of the National Writers Workshops in the Philippines. It is held annually for five days in the Balay Kalinungan of the Saint La Salle University in Bacolod. Though it is funded by the NCCA, the workshop has always enjoyed the support of several La Salle schools and the continued patronage of the Palanca Hall of Fame awardee Dr. Elsa M. Coscolluela.

The 11th workshop was to run from the 25th to the 29th of April, with a welcoming dinner on the 24th and a tour around the city on the 30th.

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Two Haiku

Poetry by | July 10, 2011

Two chickens in a
jeepney, with their legs tied, in
silence they travel.

Two cats playing
in the middle of the road
their tails are cut.

–-
Angela Geun Hee Lee, originally from Korea, is a BS Education student at Ateneo de Davao University.

Putli and Gaitom

Fiction by | July 3, 2011

Putli the Carabao trots in the forest, proud of his big horns, his big body, and his pale skin. Along with him is Gaitom the Cow, timid as he was, with his tiny horns, his tiny body, and his dark skin.

Everyone in the forest wonders how two creatures so different get along with each other so well.

At noons they go to the lake in the middle of the forest, take off their skins, and freshen themselves up. Sometimes they walk the downhill path to the edge of the forest, where there is a farming village. Putli and Gaitom like to watch men till their big fields all by themselves. Putli often laughs at the men. Gaitom shushes him.

“It’s not right to laugh at men like that. They need help,” Gaitom says.

One day they reach the edge of the forest, farther than they had gone before. It is noon, and time for their dip in the lake.

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Shapeshifter

Poetry by | July 3, 2011

drink from a cup of bones
eat a pie of decay
bathe in dirt
breathe not fresh air
but poison

here
gods die
to become men

—
Margaux Denise Garcia is taking up BS Education at the Ateneo de Davao University.