Poetry by Henriette Gelacio | February 14, 2010
A kiss
Is sacred, so divine
A symbol of love
Pure and sublime.
Yet a kiss
Can be of friendship,
Peers do that
To say hello and goodbye.
And a kiss
Filled with lust
Is fierce, savagely
desired, filled with delight.
Though the kiss
I yearn for
Is a little bit
Of everything—
A kiss full of love
A kiss full of amity
And yes, a kiss full of
Unstoppable desire.
Ah a kiss—just this kiss.
—-
Henriette Gelacio is a nurse by profession currently reviewing for the IELTS.
Poetry by Allen Samsuya | February 14, 2010
She doesn’t know, but I know
how she still has the hots for me—
How she keeps her hair kempt
and smelling of warm gin
and citrus so she’s sure
she intoxicates me
despite the distance she claims
to have between us. And how
she wants me to take her hard
against something, a wall perhaps,
or a closet, or a king-sized bed.
This, I can tell by the way she walks
away— the weight of a love
nurtured in secrecy constantly
shifting on the curve of her waist
but she walks away, anyway.
—-
Allen Samsuya is a writing student at UPMin.
Poetry by Riza Racho | February 14, 2010
Ang nahigugma
Sa kamingaw mangita man
Mga paagi aron makit-an ka
Apan ikaw nanghugas na
Gipapha sa makapila
Ang kagahapon ta
Gi-pas-an ko ang imong anino
Nagsalig ko na sa anino man lang
Dili ug dili gayud ikaw hikalimtan
Apan ikaw
Daling nakalimot
nilakaw ka
nipalayo
Maayo pa ang mananap
mahibalo pang mulingi
Mutilap
Mubakho
Apan ikaw
Hingpit ang pagkalimot
Nonfiction by Katrina Angela Castro | February 7, 2010
I had it with me since then. It was what kept me sane from all those cynic thoughts I couldn’t prevent. It was my intense fondness for drawing. I was too obsessed with it. I couldn’t stand not doing it even for just a short while. It seemed as if my childhood days revolved around my sketch book. Drawing was my passion, my shock absorber.
I used to be very languid back then, more than what I am now. I was so sensitive that I had to pin my ears back on what others might be saying and doing behind me. I became very conscious of my words and actions because I did not want people to criticize me. I was a silent detective, collecting even the little signs of spitefulness. I admit that I had those irrational suspicions. I just couldn’t avoid them.
Poetry by Rory Ian Bualan | February 7, 2010
He took his time and made up his mind,
now he talks in front with spectacles on:
“This is not a way of life—it’s the way I am.”
So the line goes; and being sarcastic
makes him feel good, like a pat on his
square-model shoulders.
He glanced at the sun, noticed it’s early;
so he lingered and walked like forever.
“It is not fashion, babe, it’s passion!”
So he proclaims! And comments, rants,
insults with pure joy and pride—like
a panelist in one of those ramp realities.
Poetry by Erika Navaja | February 7, 2010
Just got my clothes all washed up,
ready to dry. Perfect day
for clothes-hanging, although
moments ago the sun hid
among cloud blankets.
Wind chilled my wet hands
as I hung a week’s worth
of memories selected, arrayed properly:
the tee I wore going to a hotel function,
the bloodied socks caused
by three-month old abrasions,
the hankie I used for crying out loud
(and for honking sea-green mucus into),
some running stitches
hastily keeping my pants shorter,
frays on skinny jeans
out of clumsy hands playing
with scissors, the get-well-soon shirt
with distinguished signatures, my secret
stains on a panty hem, the yellowed
armpits, the gloomy pinks, the bright blues
fading blacks—still no sun? The chill
passes what seemed to be buntings,
welcoming next week’s festivities to come.
Poetry by Gino Dolorzo | January 31, 2010
They cling to your name; rose.
They mark your tears and fear
of protests, protruding
like their desire to have you
slipped past my grip. Your image,
your scent is unjustly treating
me as martyr who breaks
vows worn ’round his finger. Who falls,
folds his heart and eyes, but not much
to keep resentment. Who longs to take
a dip with you in deeper sea
of blankets moistened by sweat
of your struggled movements
evoking fire and innocence.
Who has lost his limits. Lie on me,
rose, let me pluck those thorns.
Gently, let me.
—-
Gino Dolorzo is a senior education student at Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan.
Poetry by Jeff Javier | January 31, 2010
I once wrote it like how I drop a stone on still water. The first word would splash and the lines thereafter ripple in and out of paper going back to the first words and out again to the margins, through the fibers and on the four corners on this thin crust of a paper, now shivering on the creases, waves rolling, tsunamis mounting, swallowing monuments and mountains, roaring and marching in and out the field, multiplying liquid soldiers, one ripple clashing against the other, creating more splashes and little spheres up on the air.