Ang Ilongga nga Nagsakay sa Habal-habal

Poetry by | April 24, 2011

(Upod sa Drayber sa Balak ni Adonis Durado)

motorcycle
Dong, pamati-i bala
ang akon mga i-hutik nga binalaybay
kay sa imo nga habal-habal ako masakay.
Pasensiyahi lang ang mga dagubdob sang akon dughan
kay daw kalulbaan sang aton gina-agyan nga mga dalan.
Kung kita gani mabulasot, sige lang, pasugot
nga magkupo ako sa imo sang hugot-hugot
pareho sang lastiko sa akon buhok nga nakahigot.
Dong, indi gid pagbuy-i ang manobela
biskan makalam ang akon malabaab nga mga ginhawa
biskan ginadilapan sang hilamon ang imo mga paa
ang aton dalagan, dong, padasiga
padasiga,dong, padasiga
asta magpiyong ang aton nga mga mata
asta aton masugat-an ang mga bulak, dahon,
talithi kag ulan didto sa kalangitan.

—
Karla Quimsing is a Cebu-based writer who was in TABOAN 2011.

Daddy's Shoes

Fiction by | April 17, 2011

shoesDaddy had to be buried without his shoes. I’ve always wondered how he would have felt about it if he knew. He was tall. About five feet eleven, maybe. I’ve always thought he was big too.

He wore his black cotton socks, they said, but his shoes just couldn’t fit in anymore. In fact they said that if we wanted they could put his shoes in but it would have to be laid on top of his legs. I took them home instead, those shoes.

They were relatively new. Soft black leather with smooth soles, you could tell they were not used very often. Daddy referred to them as his “dress shoes.”

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Facebook Account

Poetry by | April 17, 2011

Profile Pic:     Ipapaskil
     Mukhang nagkukubli ng (p)angil

Status:     Iniuulat
     Kahungkagan ng diwa’t ulirat

Wall:     Ipinapaalam
     Bawat hakbang ng pagmamanman

Albums:     Inilalahad
     Katauhang nanghahagilap ng galak

Friends:     Isinasalansan
     Mga ngalang walang namagitan

Links:     Iniuugnay
     Sariling buhay sa mga patay

Message:     Umiinog ang buhay sa integrasyon
     Hindi sa mekanisasyon.

—
Edgar Bacong is author of “Habagat at Niyebe”, published by Mindanews and Tuluyang Pinoy Zurich in 2004.

Dreamland

Fiction by | April 10, 2011

You get into bed. You try to relax, but your legs keep shaking. This is you trying to keep your mind off that joyride you had with Pa’s car—the one that ended with a busted taillight and a visit from the cops. Or your breakup with Jackie—the one that broke a few plates and a window and kept the neighbors up. Those seem miles and miles away as you try to close your eyes. You wish for a nice dream to come take you away.

A boy lies in the dust of a village in a far-flung land. A gust of wind kicks up the dust around him. The dust scrapes his back, some large bits leaving bloody scratches on his skin; it was as if the dust was eating him alive, much like his hunger is scraping the insides of his stomach. He looks around and sees that his family could not take the scrapes anymore. He closes his eyes and wishes for some bread. The bread is soft, crumbling at the boy’s touch as he tears off a piece to eat. It is sweet, causing the boy’s tongue to drip saliva at first contact. The bread goes down the boy’s throat without so much as a sound. The scrapes have stopped. The boy wakes up. The bread was but a dream. All he has to eat is the hard bits of dust blown into his mouth by the wind, tearing at his teeth and gums as he flexes his jaws and drying what little spit is left in his mouth. The scrapes continue.

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March 2011

Poetry by | April 10, 2011

the color of blood
is black
the heart is an open book

who did you love
before we were forever entwined
   irrevocably
the color of blood is black
the heart is an open book

I cover my head with a hat
to keep my thoughts from
   spilling over

the color of blood is black
the heart is an open book

—
Tita Lacambra Ayala’s Collected Poems was recently published by UST Press.

Spiralling

Poetry by | April 10, 2011

                      Only once
               I felt compelled
       to pray and repel
the holiday effect
       upon my learners.
               In Jesus name. Amen.
                      Still nobody cared
             about tedious dusts
       I marked on green walls.

Then came
       a reckless command,
               my offhand instruction:
                               form a big circle
                     and throw aimless
             questions to any
       of your schoolfellows
in dignified uniform.

       So the learned girl
             graced first, a query
                     for Ken. She asked
                                 about the face
                            wrapped in satin veil.
                           Sainted. Orphic.
             Like Mariam. Does he
    adore her mystery?

The room, unprepared
       for his nod, uproared
                to dare his guts,
                        to face the veiled face
                                  while he choked
                        on every syllable
                  but managed his phrases
       well. Do you, he faltered
share what I feel,
         he paused and uttered
                   her delicate name:
                                                 Sitti?

An absence of sound
         as if all were in prayer.
                   We waited and heard
                                     her faint reply
                         of a restraint smile
                   arched on her lips.

          I faced the next days
with an offhand lesson
          of seeing two seated eyes
                  glancing end to end
                        amidst spiraling chairs.
          Twisted. Back in shape.

—-
Seneca Nuneza Pellano teaches Creative Writing at Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan.

Ang Magbabalak nga Bisdak

Poetry by | April 10, 2011

sirok,
kusog magsiniaw,
magkiningkoy.
yagayagaon.
pero romantic, sweet.
usahay palautog,
pero di manyak.
simple rag pamarog.
way daghang arte.
anad nag kinawboy.
murag tambay.

Pero ayg kumpyansa,
ayg patakag bahakhak,
ayg patuyag katawa

kay malumos unya ka
sa gilawmon sa iyang pasiaw,
maanod unya ka
sa kakusog sa sulog
sa iyang pulong.

—-
Gratian Paul R. Tidor is a 4th year AB English student at the MSU-IIT.

How Not to Exercise in the Morning

Nonfiction by | April 3, 2011

How Not to Exercise in the MorningWorking at home and basically having my back side literally glued to the computer chair for more than eighteen hours a day is not only detrimental to my sanity, but it also makes those little figures on the scale increase rapidly. Of course, the word “little” here is relative—and so is “sanity.” It has come to a point where I have to cheerily greet, praise loudly, and then apologize to the weighing scale before I get on it, hoping that the machine would reciprocate my effusive demeanor by shaving off one, two, or preferably 150 pounds. After weeks and weeks of doing this and getting nothing but an escalating series of results, I have come to one conclusion: the darn thing was broken.

Then my clothes started getting tight again. Certain pieces of undergarments began to pop at the seams. I was glad enough to blame the shrinkage on the new laundry soap I was using.

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