Poetry by Maureen Ronquillo | July 12, 2009
a crystal dolphin
attached to a string
of chimes hanging
over the little pond
when the water ceases
to flow to the rhythm
of springs,
when the bells toll
and let go of their hold,
when the notes slip
on smooth pebbles,
when the music
hangs limp
on the string
and nothing, no
nothing stays
but the whistling
of the wind.
Nonfiction by Marjorie Evasco | July 5, 2009
(In memory of my father, Florentino Evasco)
Invoking the Presences
I would like to begin with a poem which I wrote many years ago for my father, Florentino Evasco. On March 14, he would have been 85 years old. This poem is published in my first book Dreamweavers and part of a cycle entitled “Blood Remembering.” It is called “The Mound of Bones”:
Behind the house,
A mound of earth
Kept my father
Busy digging.
From here the house
Was to extend
A listening ear
To the bamboo grove
And the frogpond.
But father struck
A pile of bones
And was soon lost
In contemplation.
Mother died
When he was fifty.
He told me then the secret
Of the mound of bones:
How the enchanted trees
Dug deep roots and curled
Around the skulls;
How one day, another man
Will uproot other trees and
Unearth our own,
And be lost in
His own reflection.
Fiction by Jeff Javier | June 28, 2009
Everybody has a boyfriend named Jonathan. Johnny, Jonas, Junjun, Nathan, Anthony, Tony, Wanwan, Tantan.
Skin glistening with sweat, Jonathans always talk rough, walk big, and hang out with their guys after a basketball game. They have clean haircuts, pressed shirts, big backpacks, and white rubber shoes. When they are with a girl, they hold doors, shake their shoulders and puff their chests like young roosters.
These Jonathans will have roses and chocolates, candlelit dinners for two, and quick kisses in dark movie houses. You practice your lips every Friday night for a date on Saturdays with Anthony.
Nonfiction by Janelle Thea Sorroche | June 28, 2009
The story of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “The Birthmark” expresses how women are defined as “the other” and men as the powerful sex.
Attics do not house humans. They are wasted space. Women are considered half monsters — and they are wasted. A woman inhabits the attic; literally and metaphorically, she becomes a madwoman, both as a writer and a character.
The fact is, Nathaniel Hawthorne is male; and men don’t glorify women.
Nathaniel Hawthorne did not directly say that Georgina is a monster. Only by the way she is presented in the story will it then become clear that literature had always been confined to male writers and male characters. Georgina’s birthmark embodies the unforgivable flaws of the female body and her position as a woman. She is not any different from Dr. Frankenstein’s monster; and the only way to kill the female monster is to destroy male literature.
Nonfiction by Cecille LaVerne dela Cruz | June 21, 2009
I walk through the long schoolroom questioning: should I wear my hood in class on the fifth of January or should I wear my hood in class on the fifth of January? It’s a tricky question, given that we live in a democratic society. By democracy, I mean being surrounded by people who are as free as you are they’d sing Itaktak Mo over and over until you’d feel odd enough you’d be moved to remove your hood. Scandal has two sides after all: baring your head below, and covering your head above.
I do not wish to move the world. Not that I won’t dare, but how could I disturb the universe given the size of my breasts and my booty? A few years back, a fiction teacher said I was a promising writer. By that I think he meant I have the great talent for putting off one article after another for the next day. My reason is a humble one: I write because I want to play god; so then I could pare my fingernails.
Nonfiction by Rebecca Franco | June 21, 2009
Kahirapan ay di hadlang sa ating buhay dahil lahat ng panahon ay nasa ilalim tayo. May pagkakataon namang nasa ibabaw.
Sa Cebu, naaalala ko pa nang ako’y nasa haiskul. Nang dahil sa mahirap lang kami, hindi ako nakapag-aral ng tuloy-tuloy. Kusa akong huminto dahil naawa ako sa aking mga magulang. Pito kaming magkakapatid at isang manggagawa lamang ang aking ama. Naghanap ako ng trabaho. Nag-aplay at napasok sa isang Printing Press bilang cutter ng
mga cellophane. Ipinagpatuloy ko ang aking pag-aaral sa gabi. Maghapong tumayo ako sa limang taon sa pagtatrabaho para lang matustusan ang aking pag-aaral. Sa awa ng Diyos, nakatapos ako ng haiskul sa University of the Visayas noong 1979.
Ibig kong ipatuloy ang aking pag-aaral sa kolehiyo ngunit parang madilim at mailap pa rin sa akin ang pagkakataon. Ngunit para sa akin hindi natutulog ang Diyos.
Poetry by Edgar Bacong | June 21, 2009
Tulad nang ipinataw ng taglamig
Sa mga pontanya ng syudad,
Itinigil niya ang pag-agos ng galak
Sa katawan kong sabik sa init-araw.
At kung may gunita mang pangahas
Na dadaloy sa isipa’t
Liligwak sa mga labi’y
Sasalukin niya maging
Ang madalang na mga patak
Upang pagkatapos ay papagyeluhin,
Patutulising tila mga estalaktita
At iuumang sa pandamdam.
Poetry by Edgar Bacong | June 21, 2009
Inilagak ako sa isang sulok
Na walang bumibisita maliban
Sa mga kakilalang alikabok.
Sa pag-iisa, isa-isang inuusisa
Ang mga katangiang humuhugis
Sa kabuuan ng aking pagkalubid:
Bawat makintab na hibla’y
May isang libo’t-isang saysay;
Ang mala-daliring diyametro’y
Pansilo sa mga payak na damgo.
Kaya di ko ikinamangha minsang
Sa aki’y may paslit na dumampot.
Bulong ko ngayon sa palibot:
May silbi na ang aking eksistensya.
Ngunit nang sa leeg ako’y ipinansabit
Wala akong ibang dalit na nasambit—
Sana ako na lang ang n
a
p
a
t
i
d
.