Poetry by Paul Randy Gumanao | July 18, 2010
What’s in our aircon classrooms
that convinces you that
the blood in your veins is blue?
The coldness makes you half-frozen
thin layer of flaking skin
wrapping your meandering tenderness.
Move. Why don’t you move?
Wipe the mists from the window pane;
mists like tears held back.
Wipe the mists, wipe the tears.
Beyond the windows
is the dying race of the living.
—-
Paul Randy Gumanao is a BS Chemisty student of Ateneo de Davao University.
Poetry by Karlo Antonio David | July 18, 2010
Pakopyahin mo na nga ako
– Matuto ka nang makisama –
Sige na, huling beses na ‘to
Lahat na nga ay nasa iyo
‘di mo pa kayang magparaya
– pakopyahin mo na nga ako!
Syet kasi ‘tong teacher nating ‘to
Wala namang silbi ‘tong quiz niya-
(Sige lang, huling beses na ‘to…)
Sige ka, at kasalanan mo
Kung hindi ako makapasa!
Pakopyahin mo na nga ako!
Believe me, ‘tol, kahit ayoko
Requirement na pati kumopya
(-kaya nga huling beses na ‘to…
(…Amin pa kaya ‘tong buhay na ‘to?
Basta, tapos na ‘to mamaya…)
– Pakopyahin mo na nga ako
talagang huling beses na ‘to.
—-
Karlo Antonio David is a 3rd Year AB English student of Ateneo de Davao University.
Poetry by Gratian Paul Tidor | July 18, 2010
kung patabukon nimo ning balaka
sa pikas sidewalk,
dunay mga pulong nga muagi
sa pedestrian, o musaka sa overpass.
dunay mag-jaywalking,
dunay mudagan
aron di matapsingan
sa nanglabayng dyip.
dunay magpanaganag tabok,
dunay magpaagak sa batang buotan.
apan duna puy maligsan
tungod kay nagdinangag.
mabalian, mapulpog, mapidyat.
kung palayaton nimo ning balaka
patabok sa pikas pangpang,
siguro dunay makatarog tugpa,
dunay makatabok apan mapandol
o madalin-as ba kaha pagtupa.
dunay mapiangan, mapangos.
dunay igo ra makakapyot
sa sagbot nga nanurok
sa tumoy sa pangpang.
apan dunay di kaantigo mulayat.
maong kung pugson
nimo sila og tabok
matagak sila
diretso sa ilang lubnganan.
—
Gratian Paul R. Tidor is an AB English student of MSU-IIT. He was a fellow of the 17th Iligan National Writers Workshop.
Nonfiction by Arvin Antonio Ortiz | July 11, 2010
Almost two decades ago, writer Doreen Fernandez, a noted critic herself, pleaded that this country should have more critics. They do an important work in telling the readers which stories are good and which are not, which plays are worth watching and which are not, which books are worth buying and which are not.
Yet to us Filipinos whose sensibilities are not like the Americans’ it is hard to have critics around. We cannot withstand criticism nor have our work—the mere completion of which took us a long time to achieve—subjected to it. We take criticism, however constructive it may be, personally. We mistake criticism as an assault on our very being.
Poetry by Reymond Pepito | July 11, 2010
(the girl of Snow Falling on Cedar)
I could hear the coal burning
in the potbellied stove,
While you’re reaching
for my hardness
and found it beneath
the fabrics of my shorts.
The country-and-western
music grew louder,
As we moved closer,
Putting your chin against
my head, holding my ears
between your fingers.
Poetry by Vangie Dimla-Algabre | July 11, 2010
Ilang araw na akong nagkukumahog
Sa aking rebyu, urong-sulong ng gulong
Ang pag-usad, habang ang lumang orasan
Nakaismid, walang humpay sa pagbulong
“Maghapon kang walang puknat sa kaka-chat!”
Kanina, kaulayaw ko aking Musa
Ngumiti’t bantulot na ako’y yakapin
Nang ako’y napabalikwas, nagtataka
May gapos ang mga kamay nang magising!
—-
Vangie Dimla-Algabre teaches in a Davao City school.
Fiction by Jeff Javier | July 4, 2010
The day Doy left with his motorbike, our little white cat Fishy began mewling on the front yard. She had lost half of her weight and her eyes were always watery and flaky. She would not eat or drink and her breathing was getting heavier day after day. I didn’t know what happened to her. Had she eaten something? Did our tomcat Porky rape her? I didn’t know. All I knew was she was dying.
Doy found her five months ago together with Pating the day he showed up with his motorbike. They were in a box just out of the gate and he carried them up to my apartment. Doy had said before that he had a surprise for me. I thought it was the kittens, but it turned out to be the bike. He told me how he tricked his old man into buying him that shiny black bike. He promised me that he would take me anywhere with his bike, helmets off, from the beaches of Mati to the mountains of Cotabato. But I liked the cats better.
Fiction by Jayson Parba | June 27, 2010
Growing up as I did in our little barrio of Kauswagan, I only knew of Uncle Gaspar through the balikbayan box of chocolates, cigarettes, wine, and small appliances he sent every Christmas. Uncle Gaspar worked as a truck driver in Saudi, you see, together with his brother, my Uncle Diosdado. In the five years he was away, he sent money to Lola Estella to build a house and to buy a farm lot.
I always suspected that Uncle Gaspar was a mama’s boy. Mama said that even if he was naughty, Lola had always given him special attention. With Uncle Gaspar far away, Lola Estella would sometimes take out the photo album she kept in the aparador of their house. She showed us pictures of Uncle Gaspar together with Arabs in long, white gowns and equally long headscarves. Sometimes, the pictures were of Uncle Gaspar playing cards with other Filipino workers.