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.
Fiction | August 14, 2011
“Can you see that little bird over there?” he asks.
“Yes.”
There’s a tiny little bird bathing itself on the bird bath in Mom’s garden. It looks so lovely and innocent.
“A bird bath is made for birds so they can drink and bathe if they have to. It’s like a place of comfort for them. But the existence of a bird bath with all its ability to give comfort to the birds doesn’t mean that birds should stay there for the rest of their lives.”
I look at the bird. It wiggles its tail trying to make itself dry.
“Where you are now is your home, Sam. But since you were a kid, I told myself that someday you’ll grow up and would want to fly away, even farther than I could think of, and I was right.”
My gaze is still fixed on the little bird.
“Everyone deserves to live, Sam; I don’t want you to miss that.”
“Thanks, Dad… But, didn’t it cross your mind that I might choose a wrong way, perhaps.”
“You have no idea how scared I am every time you walk out that door, pulling your trolley bag behind you.”
“But you still let me go.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I trust you. I have to trust you or else you will not learn.”
His words make sense, but I know there’s more than just the sensibility of his thoughts. My Dad loves me.
“But it doesn’t end there Sam…I also had to pray.”
I look at my Dad. His eyes are on his lap. My vision starts to blur, and before tears start to stream on my cheeks, I wipe my eyes with my fingers.
“Thank you, Dad.”
The air is cool and I enjoy the soft touch of heaven’s breeze on my skin.
“Do you still dance?” Dad asks.
“Yes, Dad…We usually have a cultural show twice a month. It’s like a show for a cause. We do the traditional Vietnam Dances. It’s fun and interesting. I like it.
“That’s good.”
Dancing has been my passion since I was six or seven. I did ballet and folk dancing in school. When I was thirteen, Mom and Dad started to bring me to dance night parties during the Paete town fiesta. My Mom would let me wear a dainty floral dress and ribbons on my hair. Daddy would say I look like a princess. When the party starts, Dad would take me to dance with him first before my Mom. We would dance the ballroom swing. How I miss those days.
“We haven’t danced in a while, Dad…Too bad I missed this year’s town fiesta.”
“You should witness the town fiesta next year. I’m proud to say that Paete’s town fiesta just keeps getting better every year.”
“That’s fantastic!”
The last time that I witnessed the town fiesta was when I was twenty-two. That seems like a long time ago. I just can’t wait to see it again.
Two birds land gracefully on the bird bath and start drinking. They look like friends or lovers.
Dad takes another sip of his coffee. ”So how’s that artist you’ve been telling me about before?” His face looks light.
“Jacob?”
“Is that his real name? I thought I heard Jake.”
“His real name is Jacob but I call him Jake.”
“Oh…so how are things going on with the two of you?”
Jake. That big hole inside of me. I hate to use the term “hole.” I find it so mediocre since everybody uses that term every time they get themselves broken hearted, like when someone leaves them or their loved ones never come back. They would say, the people who left them leave them with holes inside that they couldn’t bear. But I guess they’re right. When somebody important to you leaves, there is really that hole inside of you that you don’t know how to fill. Or maybe you know how but you just don’t want to fill it up because just the mere existence of that hole makes you feel closer to whatever feelings
you still want to hold on to.
“We broke up,” I say.
“Your Mom actually told me that. What happened?” My Dad looks and sounds like he doesn’t feel anything. His expression is so dispassionate.
“We failed to agree on certain things.” I say in a strained voice.
“Like?”
“My job which includes my charity projects with the organization.”
“What about it?”
“He wants me to come home and stay here for good.”
“Ok…” He finishes his coffee. “And you didn’t agree?”
“Of course I couldn’t just leave what I was doing, Dad. It’s my
ministry. It’s part of my life and he knows it.”
“Nobody wants to wait forever, Samara.” He looks at me with a
touch of comfort.
“I know.” I give a sigh.
“By the way, could you explain to me why I haven’t met this guy
ever since your relationship started? I mean, I’m not playing the
role of a protective Dad here but I’m just wondering why?” Dad
tries to be playful and his mood is so light. It seems like he’s
enjoying the question and answer thing that’s going on.
“We had a plan that he would come here and meet you, Mom and the two
boys but we broke up a month before we could actually fulfill the
plan.”
“Ok I get it…So who made the decision? I mean about the break
up?”
“Me.”
“Surprising.”
“I’m used to leaving things behind, Dad.”
“But not the very important ones.”
My head is bowed down, I’m playing with my fingers and at the same time I’m thinking if Daddy is right. But I don’t want to think anymore. The past months were months of torture for me.
“Have you tried dating other guys after him?” he asks.
“No.”
“Why not?” He takes off his glasses and wipes the moisture with the hem of his shirt.
“Because I don’t want to, Dad.” My voice sounds a little frustrated.
“Why?”
“I think it’s going to be difficult.”
“Can you explain further than that?”
“If I would date a guy, I know I will just try and find Jake in him. I would ask myself: Does he think like Jake? Can he draw like Jake? Or is he like Jake? I don’t think that would be fair, Dad.”
“My question is, why would you look for Jake in other guys?”
I keep silent.
“Someone has to fill the hole, Sam.”
“I don’t want anybody else, Dad.”
I was studying in the university when I first met Jacob. He was practicing his profession as a graphic artist back then. He was five years older than me but we were friends. We used to hang out together, go shopping together, and do the usual things that normal friends do. He started courting me during my last year in school. I turned him down twice (but he said it I did it thrice) since I wasn’t ready for any commitments, and I was thinking that we were friends and it was better for us stay that way. But he was persistent. It took him a year and a half before he could make me say “Yes.”
Aside from my parents, Jacob is one person in the world who knows me well. He can tell what I feel. He knows how I think, what I would say about certain things or on certain situations. He knows my fears, my frustrations, and my dreams. He knows what I’m capable of and what I cannot do. I could tell him even the tiniest details of my thoughts
and my secrets. He was my best friend.
“So my little girl still has hopes, huh?” Dad teases me.
“Dad…you know you cannot just turn off feelings in a snap.” I’m starting to sound desperate.
“Of course…”
“And…we’re still friends…we talk sometimes, over the phone.”
“You call him or he calls you?” Dad is smiling again.
“Both.” I think I’m blushing.
“Well…not bad.”
We are both looking at the garden. We can see the sun slowly setting on the purple horizon.
“Dad, why is love so difficult?”
I look at him and he smiles.
“It’s difficult because the love that you are talking about is something that you don’t give to anybody else. It is something special. It’s difficult because it is a choice. And when you choose that means you are responsible for any consequence of the choice that you make. When something is special to you, you give more of what you already have. At one point you sacrifice, you persevere.”
“Is there any way to make it easier?”
“The last time I tried, well…I just believed in it…Perhaps it can work out with you too.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the sunset. Believe? I do believe…but it doesn’t help a lot. Believing that something good will happen is excruciating. It takes a lot to do it. I hate it. But I still do it anyway.
“Just be patient Sam… Pray for it and wait for the answers.” Dad slowly stands and says,” Come, I’ll show you something.”
We are walking towards Dad’s haven. It’s his sanctuary, his paradise. It is an open wilderness hut.
“Oh, Dad…I miss this place.”
The place is filled with Dad’s wooden sculptures and his other woodcarvings. The floor is a little bit covered with wood debris. The smell of wood fills the whole place. It reminds me of my childhood years when I used to play with my brothers in this haven. Daddy would make us wooden toys: wooden soldiers for my brothers and wooden dolls
for me. On my eighteenth birthday, Dad made me a huge wooden bed with rose
carvings. He knows how much I love roses.
“Your Mom needs a new stand for her new set of porcelain.”
Dad leads me to a smooth light brown stand which is about six feet tall. The style is simple, very minimalist with some tiny butterfly carvings on its edges.
“It looks elegant, Dad.”
“Thanks…Your Mom’s porcelains are full of floral paintings so I have to make a simpler stand so that the porcelain’s designs will
shine.”
“That’s very nice, Dad.”
No wonder I loved Jake. He is so much like my Dad—intelligent, thoughtful, and creative.
“So what about Jake? You told me once he’s also an artist. What exactly does he do?” Dad is putting together his gouges, chisels and wooden mallets of different sizes and places them in his wonder box.
“He’s a graphic artist.”
“Is he familiar with woodcarving?”
“No…he’s more into sketching and painting.”
“Interesting.”
I pull a stool from a table just near where I am standing and sit facing my Dad.
“How are you and Mom?” I ask.
My Dad and my Mom have been together for twenty seven years. Dad was my Mom’s first love. In their relationship, Dad is the quasi-serious and the quasi-funny one but creative at the same time, while Mom is the sweet, loving wife any man would wish for. I adored them even when I was little. They were like the perfect couple for me. That’s when I started to tell my self to look for a guy who is exactly like my father. Then I met Jake.
“We are still doing well…Thank God,” he says. He pulls another stool from the table and sits beside me.
“Your Mom is a gift from heaven, Sam.” He looks at the dark sky. “I don’t think I could make it without her. I mean she has always been there for me. I’m so blessed to have her.”
The stars shine above the sky like diamonds spread out on a black canvass. How I missed this view. I look at Dad. He is smiling at the sky.
“Mom’s also blessed to have you, Dad.”
He gives a sweet laugh, “I’m glad you’re home, Sam.”
“Well, I guess there’s no place like home.”
“You reckon not.”
“Dinner’s ready!” It is Mom calling. Suddenly, I realize I’m hungry.
“Come, your Mom doesn’t want to wait when it comes to her special Filipino cuisine.”
“I’m starving, Dad, let’s go.”
I am holding Dad’s arm and we are walking towards the back door of the kitchen.
“So, what are you going to do with your artist guy?” he asks in a plain voice.
“I’m not sure, Dad. He knows I’m home and now he’s like playing hard to get. Men…Maybe I’ll just kidnap him and get a priest or a pastor to wed us right away. What do you think?”
He laughs so hard. “That’s my girl.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, baby.”
—
Princess Martin is a graduate of International Studies (major in Asian Studies) at Ateneo de Davao University.
Poetry by Darryl Louie Pueblos Labial | August 14, 2011
Gikan ko namatay
tungod sa tanduay
sige pa, sige pa tagay lang ng tagay
tan awa, sakit na akong atay
Gikan ko sa kalayo
tungod sa marlboro
sige pa sige pa suyop lang ug suyop
tan-awa cge nag ubo
Gikan ko sa basura
sige og suka
sige pa, putak lang ug putak
tan-awa, mura nag wakwak
Hina-hinay kog baklay
padulong sa among balay
sige pa part, barag-barag ni bay
tan-awa mura na kog kalay
Salamat naa nako sa kwarto
splak daun diretso
sige pa, hagok lang ug hagok
tan-awa, gipaak ug lamok
Gi pukaw ko sa akong mama
para siya manga-saba
sige pa saba lang ug saba
baho rabag baba
Yati kaau ning ulo
hangover kaau
sige pa, sakit ug sakit
tan-awa absent na ko, kapait
Lami na kaayo magbag-o
ngano man lisod kaayo?
di na jud ma utro
pero lami man jud kaau
—
Darryl Louie Pueblos Labial is 22 years old, a philosophy graduate of Xavier University in Cagayan de Oro working as a volunteer for Campus Ministry.
Poetry by Allen Samsuya | August 14, 2011
You came up to me
inside the raincloud,
a couple of storms back,
and asked me of secrets
that only the sky and I
know of. I remember
telling you a handful
of stories like how lightning
is a few flimsy strings
that broke from the harps
of angels, how gardens grow
between the colors of a rainbow ,
how the moon really is
an island made of haloes.
It was a good talk. I remember
holding your hand as we walked
slowly towards that corner
where you gave me a kiss
and refused to say goodbye.
I remember watching you
step inside that single raindrop
that brought you back
to your part of the world
where you became part
of the flood once more.
—
Allen Samsuya had been a fellow for poetry during the 2009 Davao Writers Workshop, the 18th Iligan National Writers Workshop, and the 50th Silliman National Writers Workshop this year.
Fiction by Princess Martin | August 7, 2011
So this is how it feels. This is how it feels when you lose someone you love so much. You feel numb, frozen. You can’t see or hear anything but you know it’s there, and after a while everything starts to sink into the deepest part of your being. Then your world starts to shake and you start crying as if you won’t ever stop, and just before you can even wipe the last drop of tear from your eyes, you find yourself crying again and again and again.
My name is Samara. I’m standing by the huge glass window of my room, staring at the peaceful view of my little hometown. I’m thinking about the things that I’ve done in my life, the things that I’ve gained, the things that I’ve lost. It’s been three years of traveling and working and finding answers to my unending questions. Finally, I’m home again.
Why do people always think of home during times of confusion, and loneliness, and failures, and loss? Is there something about home that wipes away all these? Is home enough to give comfort to a broken spirit and relief to a hurting soul? Perhaps yes, because I am feeling them now.
It’s four in the afternoon. I go downstairs to see if my two younger brothers are in the living room. Josh is twenty, James is twenty-two. We grew up together and we’ve been close since we were kids. When I reach downstairs, the living room is empty. I go straight to the kitchen and I smell the sweet aroma of milk and eggs. I know right away what Mom is doing.