Letters from Bengt, My Swedish Love

Nonfiction by | March 28, 2010

Fifty-two years after our last correspondence, at the age of 80, I discovered while delving into an old bureau a box of sepia-colored love letters—42 in all, with addresses from different parts of the world over a space of four years, 1955 to 1958, from Bengt Birgander, a very blond Swedish seaman whose fervent love for me was undeniable.

We had tried so desperately to get married after a shipboard romance on the freighter MS Mangalore where I was the only female on board carrying my Fordomatic car from New York through the Panama Canal to LA and across the Pacific to Manila—or a total of one month and a week.

In my soon to be published autobiography, I have a chapter on “My Super-blond Swedish Love” where I recount how I finally opened my cabin door to him but refused to give up my virginity. One of Bengt’s letters gives his views on that.

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The Kiram Building

Nonfiction by , | March 21, 2010

(Remembering The Lost Sultan’s Mansion)

The Mansion in Kidapawan designed and built by Sultan Omar Kiram II, locally known as the Kiram Building, was a testimony to the life and artistic merit of a great man of history. With its distinct Roman-Torogan design, it was arguably Kidapawan’s greatest link to its Mindanawon roots. Yet its destruction, and the Kidapaweño’s indifference to it, painfully reveals how unconcerned the people are for their heritage.

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Rehistro

Poetry by | March 21, 2010

Gidahum, gihulat
Lugway pang mga adlaw
Aron masugdan
Unang mga lakang –
Lakang alang sa kaugmaon
Sa kabag-uhan
Apan wa gyud gitagana
Ang pangamuyo niining yano
Kay nganong nagpaabot sa deadline?
Sa way paglangan
Mihuyat, mibarog
Ug nakigbuno
Sa init sa adlawng tutok
Sa taas na nga pila sa kabatan-onan
Inubanan sa dinutdanay
Mipatulo sa singot
Ginagmayng sakripisyo
Wa panumbalinga
Alang sa kahingpitan sa pagtuman
Ning dalan sa tul-id
Nga lungsuranon
Matag istroki sa bolpen
Wa damha ang daw katagbawang
Mitugkad sa kalag
Sa pagsangko
Sa katilingbanong responsibilidad
Subay sa gitakdang katungod
Matag tintang milutak
Nagmalaumon, nagmadasigon
Aron masugdan
Ang unang mga lakang –
Lakang alang sa kaugmaon
Sa kabag-uhan
Andam na
Sa pagpili ug pagbotar!

—-
James Roy Pascual studies accountancy at ADDU.

Home from Binugao, Toril, After a Week, Missing the Enrollment Period

Poetry by | March 21, 2010

Carelessly
you toss your head into the air.
I quickly steal my arm around your neck,
preventing you from falling back.
My knuckles whiten
as my grasp tightens on the rail.
City lights sparkle far into the night,
and this truck revs up, speeds away from this twilight.
The wind washes our faces,
stinging the burns on our cheeks.
Your hair still smells of the sea,
mixed with the sweet scent of beer on my skin.
Back on the beach, how you spilled it on my shirt.
You snatched the bottle from my hand
and brought it up to your lips.
How easily your ears glowed red,
your mouth flowering into a smile.
How giddy the light danced in your eyes as
you ran to the shore, removing your clothes off.
Now, the city lights are closing in
and I toss my head into the air,
wishing summer were not dying too soon.
Forward, it’s time to face those we left behind.
You slip your arm around my waist
to whisper, “We’re gonna be okay.”
Looking back down the disappearing road,
I see the sun’s last wave of heat scattering into tiny lights.
This ride takes only a short while,
and those city lights won’t quiet us down.

—-
Panganud is the pseudonym of an out-of-school youth.

They're All Over!

Nonfiction by | March 14, 2010

When I was a child growing up on Mt. Apo Street, there was a dark, turbaned man in brightly-colored trubenized togs, who came to call on our neighborhood every now and then. He peddled all sorts of goods, from woven mats to Matadujong – a strong-smelling eau de cologne.

At first, I thought he was a Muslim, but my mother corrected the misnomer. “He is an Indian.” The man spoke a curious blend of Filipino and English with a funny accent. I always wondered why he wore long sleeves. Later, I learned that he wore on his arms all the wristwatches he was selling.

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Zeta's Quest

Fiction by | March 14, 2010

Because she was the last girl on earth, Zeta’s only friends were Sally the Seabird and Terry the Turtle.

Every day, the friends would meet on the island where Zeta lived. Terry and Zeta would swim in the water. Sally would swoop from the sky to catch fish they could eat.

One morning, while at play, Sally dove in for a catch. However, unlike before, she did not emerge from the water. “Something is wrong,” said Zeta.

“I see something,” said Terry. He swam out to sea. When he returned, he bore Sally on his back. Her neck and wings were trapped in a yellow thing.

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Walking the Night

Poetry by | March 7, 2010

(for Dorothy)

A wounded soul in a black dress
walks the night alone.
The smell of vodka and nicotine in her mouth
and her face a picture of a broken heart.
The city is like a portrait of her
and her past love – a broken promise
hanging on the wall of her memory,
a treasure she guards with tears.

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