Poetry by Tita Lacambra Ayala | 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.
Poetry by Seneca Nuñeza Pellano | 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.
Poetry by Gratian Paul Tidor | 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.
Nonfiction by Rowena Rose Lee | April 3, 2011
Working 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.
Fiction by Sheena Lou Alagao | April 3, 2011
Nakilala ko si Cobi noong anim na taong gulang pa lang ako. 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. Tapos pag nahuli nya ako ay dinidilaan ko siya sabay sabing “pangeeettt!” Tapos tatawa lang siya. Ganoon kami dati at namimiss ko ang mga pagkakataong iyon kapag walang pasok. Kaya naman parang parusa sa akin noon ang bawat araw ng Sabado at Linggo.
Keychain na sapatos. Oo. 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 maihabol ko ang regalong ito na bigay pa sa akin ng nanay ko noong umiyak ako sa palengke para mabili lang ang nakabiting keychain na iyon. Ngumiti siya. Dahan-dahan. At isa pang sandali ay niyakap niya ako at bumulong na ang pangeeett daw ng bigay ko at halatang luma na at may kagat pa ng daga. Iyon lang at bumitaw na siya sa pagkakayakap sa akin.
Poetry by Gino Dolorzo | April 3, 2011
It is evening. Outside,
the sound of a cricket
is more audible
than silence.
It is true:
the saddest thing
in this world is lying
down on bed, alone, listening
to its song,
floating in resonance
with the whimper of wind,
leaves and twigs,
as if having
a language of its own
to speak. There,
now, the darkest
night becoming the bluest.
As if its tone,
single like its syllable,
has many words to teach
about loneliness
that is just
as silent and miserable
as caressing a pillow,
lightly, enough to hold
the weight of tears.
—-
Gino Dolorzo just finished his bachelor’s degree at Xavier University Ateneo de Cagayan.
Poetry by Hannah Jennica Ello | April 3, 2011
Flowing,crashing endless black tears
Trappped in uncertain sea of thought
Engulfed by desperation that swirls
In the ocean of reality I fought
Monochrome heart is what I see
This heart that beats eternally
Is the heart that mourns in me
And keeps on beating insanely
Unequal share of despair
Burns inside, under my skin
Like a foul smell in the open air
Spreading in my vein worn thin
This body locked up in chains
Will soon love its sweetest pain
Buried deeply within its veins
Bitter compassion all of it to gain.
—
Hannah Jennica Ello is a sophomore ABENG student of MSU-IIT.
Nonfiction by Karlo Antonio David | March 27, 2011
When I first heard that Alfred ” Krip” Yuson would be attending the 3rd Taboan Writers Festival, I knew I just had to meet him. Undeniable as this urge may have been, it was also unexplainable and that made it rather awkward. I needed an excuse for going up to him. And then it came: Mr. Cimafranca, our Creative Writing teacher told us that our midterm examination would be to “attach” ourselves to one of the Delegates in the Festival and write about him or her.
I first encountered the Krip Yuson brand when I read a haiku he wrote that appeared in our Literature book. I was in first year college, and though I had been writing earlier than that, that was my first exposure to the Philippine literary scene. The haiku went:
Is Galman the one?
or are there two, maybe three?
each day, brief to grief.
That haiku fascinated me even though I didn’t understand it. When I dug into its background, I couldn’t help reading about the poet as well.
Continue reading Because Krip Yuson Is Just Too Cool To Approach