Sigbin

Poetry by | May 1, 2011

Inig takdol sa bulan,
Andama ang tanang hiramintas:
Ang kalabasa, uling
Ug ang dumalagang manok
Sa tugkaran, isip mga paon.
Unya ayaw kukatulog,
Likayi ang pagduka
O katapol ba intawn
Dayon kuhaa ang muta
Sa iring ug inusnos sa imong mga mata,
Paabota, paniid sa kasikas o palak-palak
Kay sa iyang pagtungha,
Kalit niya kining tukbon,
Aw, kon di ka abtik,
Ang tanan kaanugon.

Ug inig abot, ayawg padas katalaw
O kakulba ba hinuon,
Atubanga siya unya tuwad dayon.
Ayaw kahibulong kon walay imong makit-an,
Kay naay gahom kining mopalibog kanimo.
Ug kon kunohay, imo siyang masakpan,
Ablihi ang lana ug isablig kaniya!
Unya sampongi ang dunggan
Kay basig mabungol ka!
Kay kini magkisi-kisi,
Mosiyagit sa hilabihang kasakit.

Nan karon, simbako manimalos kini
Ug hasmagon ka!
Kapti gyod taman ang iyang dagkong dalunggan,
Hinumdomi nga mangtas kini kon masuko,
Manlimbarot, mangalisngag ang mga balahibo,
Mosiga ang pulang mga mata,
Mag-ikwad-ikwad, maglukso-lukso –
Aron ilampurnas ka!
Paakon sa iyang mga tango,
Kawrason sa iyang mga kuko.

Apan, kon imong mapuypoy ang iyang kasuko,
Kalit kining modanguyngoy sa kapildihan,
Unya moyukbo sa imong tiilan,
Magpasabot nga ginuo ka
Putla dayon ang iyang ikog, ug tagoi
Aron sa matag karon ug unya
Kon imo siyang tawgon-
Hangyo bisan unsa,
Kay dili ka niya pakyason.

—
Si Dr. Jondy M. Arpilleda uska magtutudlo sa Holy Cross of Davao College.

Sulod sa Bag

Poetry by | May 1, 2011

Gisulod ko sa bag
Ang tanan kong panibugho
Ug kasuko sa pakig-uban kanimo.
Gidam-ok kog taman sa sulod
Ang mga panyong gipahid sa mga luha
Ang mga bildo sa buak nga mga saad
Ang mga hikot sa mabudhiong pasalig
Ug ang baraw sa pagluib
Nga mitaop sa kasingkasing.
Nagtipun-og ang mga butang
Sulod sa bag sama sa akong
Nagsagol-sagol nga pag-antos,
Hangtod mibusikad ang zipper
Dungan sa pagbuhagay
Sa akong tiyabaw.
Nga nagpuot sa akong dughan
Ug kalag.

—
Si Hanna Lira Sanchez bag-ong gradweyt sa BSEd English sa Ateneo de Davao University.

Marred Air

Fiction by | April 24, 2011

The couple living across the street in the suburban village of Royal Hills seemed perfectly at home in the idyllic middle-class environment of American log cabin-themed homes on manicured lawns. Except for one thing. Well, two things actually. But the first thing that stands out is that at 8 AM, it is the wife who takes the car and goes to the office while the husband dressed only in plain brown house shorts waves goodbye to her while carrying and shushing their tearful one-year old daughter.  I only know the wife’s first name, Sally. In my head, I go, “Sally, that girl,” from the song with sexually explicit lyrics popularized by 2 Live Crew many years back.  I have not talked to the husband nor do I intend to.  He is a scrawny slant-eyed man who is fond of wearing nothing but short pants perfect for displaying his unappetizing bony body as he putters around in their unfenced yard.  He reminds me of the stereotypical characters in classic Chinese movies, like the distraught cook or the manager of the bar where the fights usually take place, so I named him Wang-fu.  The other thing that stands out about Sally and Wang-fu is how odd they look together.  In the mornings, Sally, with full breasts, slight belly fat, and generous hips and buttocks straining against her form-fitting office clothes, would kiss a practically skeletal and half-naked Wang-fu goodbye at their doorstep.  From Monday to Friday, variations of this same scene would play out before Sally gets into her silver 1.3 Toyota Vios that is decent enough for a bank employee except for its cheap dull magwheels. When Sally steps out in her three-and-a-half-inch patent leather heels and still wet rebonded hair reaching the middle of her back, I see a woman with a parochial air that cannot be shaken off even as she takes the wheel of her car. Her corporate attire screams department store and belies the sophistication she wants to project.  The epitome of a grim and determined worker who rose from the ranks, Sally hardly smiles, if at all.

Continue reading Marred Air

Pugay Kamay!

Nonfiction by | April 24, 2011

Minsan naitatanong ko sa sarili ko at sa Diyos: May dapat ba akong ipagpasalamat sa buhay?

Teka, meron nga ba?

Kung sa bawat sikat ng araw sa umaga, ang dapat mong isipin ay kung paano ka kikita at mabubuhay. Na kahit anong paghihirap mo ay parang pinaglalaruan ka lang ng tadhana ng buhay. Na sa lahat ng hirap na iyong dinanas mula pa pagkabata ay wala man lamang ginhawang natamo. Nagtagumpay ka nga, pero sobrang pagtitiis naman!

Continue reading Pugay Kamay!

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.”

Continue reading Daddy's Shoes

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.

Continue reading Dreamland