Inside the Raincloud

Poetry by | 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.

Bird Bath (Part 1)

Fiction by | August 7, 2011

bird bathSo 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.

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Dimension of Motion

Poetry by | August 7, 2011

The zero is a point
Barely seen, and easily overlooked
The point that no longer turns
For it is no longer a circle

The first is a line
The crack between the floorboards
The lined page of a notebook
Moving forward, moving backward
Back and forth like a creaking rocking chair
Or train tracks that run into the distance

The second is a meeting of two
The corner of a carpet
The edge of a paper
The lazy bending branches of a willow tree
Two forces together
Creating a curve

The third is a spiral
The water that spins down the drain
The wind that spins round and round
Pulling up dirt and houses
And dumping them where they don’t belong.

The fourth is simply time
Time that has always been
Time that always will be
Tick ticking around me
Both chasing me and being chased
By me.

—
Tala Alexander is 14 years old and a 9th grader at Manila Waldorf School-Quezon City, She is the daughter of Cynthia & Boyd Alexander.

Spice Poems

Poetry by | August 7, 2011

1. Onion

Is it the onion
that makes you cry—
how you need to mince it
very finely to deceive his taste?
Or is it how he excuses himself
from your conjugal room
showing no hint of hunger, only
fatigue as he removes his socks
while your thoughts
drip down your cheeks
with your tears?
Sadness in the kitchen
comes also in layers—
peeled and chopped
into salty salsa.

2. Tomato

Grandpa’s secret
in making fish soup
is to squeeze ripe tomatoes
directly into boiling water
instead of cutting them
with a sharp knife.
The seeds and flesh
sticking to his fingers
he flicks into the mixture
then wipes the sticky juice
on his own bare skin.
I wonder how something
crude could taste so good.

—
Orlando P. Sayman is a graduate of Ateneo de Davao University.

Traveling

Fiction by | July 24, 2011

Jonel felt his heart drop when he saw the aircraft. It loomed before him, like an enormous bullet at rest, its engines humming loudly. Other passengers had queued up on the wheeled, steel staircase, oblivious to his face which bore an expression of panic. It was his first time to fly.

His friend Christian came up to him and said: “Jonel is scared now,” tapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We all had the same feeling the first time we boarded a plane. But of course that was a very long time ago.”

He could only smile at what he thought was both an insult and consolation. At least he was not as ignorant as those who had stopped midflight of the staircase to have their photos taken. As though reading his mind, Christian nudged him to look at a twentysomething guy smiling at a camera held by an elderly man.

“Probably his father,” Mike, Christian’s partner, commented. “Look at the pride on his mother’s face.” The mother, bespectacled and clad in floral-printed blouse, wore a big grin. Jonel could imagine her eyes brimming with tears behind her glasses. Then, as if they hadn’t held up the queue long enough, the trio asked another passenger to take a picture of all three of them.

“Why don’t they pose near those big fans so they can get sucked right in and end their misery,” Christian said.

“They’re called propellers,” Mike volunteered the information.

Christian looked at him, and said: “Smartass.”

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Celebrating 30 years of TALA's Road Map Series

Events by | July 19, 2011

For 30 years now a Davao-based voice-in-the-wilderness publication has been the launching pad for and inspiration of many a young and aspiring artist. Join us on July 21, 2011, 6:00 P.M. – 83 issues later! – at Matina Town Square’s KANTO BAR as we celebrate the 30th Anniversary of the groundbreaking ROAD MAP SERIES (RMS).

Raise toasts and break bread with RMS Editor Tita Lacambra-Ayala. Meet your arts family-community and pitch in with impromptu readings and kuwentuhan. Catch up with the surreal Alaska-to-Arizona words of Lilia Lopez-Chua, RMS’ 1st featured artist (Vol. 1, No. 1), supported by Josie Tionko and Fe Del Rosario, RMS’ First Sponsors from whom came the seed money for RMS.

Early Bird Raffle! Each of the first 52 guests will have a chance to win one of 15 indescribable prizes.
To cap the evening, Mum Tita’s gem of-a-daughter Cynthia Alexander will do a 1-hour set at 9:00 p.m.! Transplanted Poet/Crush ng Bayan/Davao Writers Guild President Jhoanna Lynn Cruz (RMS Vol. 5 No. 2) emcees.
Please RSVP through Bopeep, cell # 0922-895-5851, email red_driver2002@yahoo.com so we know what the program might turn out to be.

Hope to see you again, exciting possibilities are at hand!

Tita Lacambra-Ayala
Editor

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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