How I learned to draw

Nonfiction by | 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.

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Buddy

Poetry by | 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.

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Clothesline

Poetry by | 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.

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Thorns

Poetry by | January 31, 2010

For Henrietta Diana de Guzman

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.

Poem

Poetry by | 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.

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Revelation in Humor: A Review of “Red Wine for Teddy”

Nonfiction by | January 31, 2010

Aaron Jalalon’s play “Red Wine for Teddy” is an excellent work of literature because of its demonstration of refreshing humour, its ability to ironically reveal Philippine realities and its nature as a work that is uniquely Filipino. It is both entertaining and profound, a helpful tool in bringing the masses back into the path of intellectualism they have for a long time strayed from.

The play, which consists of just one scene, is about four meat vendors: the eponymous Teodor, Lydia, her daughter Ji-ji and Ardong. It is revealed in the four’s dialogue that Gary, an American who was a patron of Teodor, had been found murdered in a dump site. The four express the possibility that theft was the motive for the murder, and, in a light hearted sequence of dialogue, they fondly lament his death.

The play’s strongest aspect is its humour. It seems superficial, but on closer reading, it reveals the attitudes of its characters.

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Tricked by the Trade

Nonfiction by | January 24, 2010

Unlike others who preferred creating nonsensical doodles, I fancied writing my thoughts on paper using my left hand, but due to my awesome talent to do continuous cartwheels, I broke it when I was six.

I was excited to show off; my arms were extended as if reaching for a tree branch, and my feet were giddy to come off the ground. My friends were aghast as I did one cartwheel after another. When I was about to finish my third, a female with huge hips and bouncy ass passed by and unconsciously bumped me, so I fell. I never felt anything until my friend who had been awed at first was horror-stricken, and he shouted, “Hala Sergei! Ang kamay mo!”

I looked at it, and saw that my left arm had formed an “L” shape.

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Papa's Singing

Poetry by | January 24, 2010

My wrists throb
From your grip
Because you want me to listen
To your singing
“What’s with that singing Pa?”
I ask
But you sing
Words that I don’t know
My wrists ache
From your grip
“Why does your voice have to tremble?”
I ask
And you sing
Words that I don’t know
My wrists ache
From your grip,

But I don’t mind.

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