Editor's Note by Dominique Gerald Cimafranca | October 12, 2009
The judges have chosen the winners from the field of 21 entries. They are:
1st Prize Winner: Ug Mingiob ang Kalibotan by Raul Moldez
2nd Prize Winner: Kadula by Brian Ang
3rd Prize Winner: Mga Dalan sa Downtown by Javin Jet Tevar
Awarding ceremony will be at Bagobo House Hotel, Gov. Duterte St., on October 17, 5:00 PM.
Poetry by Freidrich Layno | October 11, 2009
Grandparents are just dreams
Fleeting and passing each night;
though they’re mysterious, you won’t care
once you wake up.
Grandparents are only stories
Fleeting and passing every time,
Though wonderful, you won’t care
once you carry on with your routines.
Grandparents are mere bubbles
Fleeting and passing as they float
though they shine against the light
you won’t care, once they pop.
I never met my grandparents,
long dead and fled, like the stories
mother told about them.
I never cared.
But each time she told those stories,
I saw hurt gleaming in her eyes.
That’s why I started to care.
Poetry by Janelle Thea Sorroche | October 11, 2009
your underarms
are bare and wet
as your old ladle
patiently danced
inside the giant kawa
the other strap
slipped
from your shoulders
your skin
cracked
dry like the desert
your armpits
tired and wet
maybe you still smelled
like last Saturday night
when he came home
his body swaying
to his own raging music
burying his face
in your armpits
his breath
like sliced ginger
his hand
a spear
around your face
forgetting you were once
the queen
of his kingdom
your ladle danced again
your armpits wet
your biko
wasted –
a sweet decay
Play by Aaron Jalalon | October 4, 2009
Characters:
Teodor/Teddy – middle-aged guy, meat vendor and butcher
Ardong – meat butcher and delivery man
Lydia – meat vendor and mother of Ji-ji
Ji-ji – daughter of Lydia, twenty-two years old
In a market. Two meat stalls face each other on stage. A space in between serves as the pathway. One yellow light bulb hangs in each stall. Lydia and Jiji’s stall is on the left side. On their table: a weighing machine on the right side, chopping board at center, meat slabs. Jiji stands behind the table slicing meat. On her left side, Lydia spinkles water on the sliced meat slabs. Ardong stands in front of their stall putting meat slabs on the table from his big plastic container. Teddy’s table is on the right side. His table is bare except for the wooden chopping board and the butcher knife.
It is four-thirty in the morning.
Teodor ties the apron around his neck. Afterwards, he ties a towel around his head. He pours water on the surface of his table and wipes it with a clean rug. His voice has a clear accent of Bisaya, always mispronouncing the words.
Poetry by Jermafe Kae Angelo-Prias | October 4, 2009
All my mothers will hum your lullaby
Hold tight as we ride the habal-habal.
And they will all forgive when you first cry.
Quietness falling, not failing the skies
Hold tight as we bump along the rough road.
All my mothers will hum your lullaby.
I will not pass the Abortion Road and die,
Daddy will drive us home before midnight
And they will all forgive when you first cry.
Stars blink and sing, and so do I
Listening to your heartbeat with my heartbeat
All my mothers will hum your lullaby.
I pray and am blessed; these tears will dry
You’ll breathe in all the poems that I will write,
They will all forgive when you first cry.
Grip tighter, for darkness will say goodbye,
Just sleep inside, my sweetest mistake
All my mothers will hum your lullaby,
And they will all forgive when you first cry.
Fiction by Edmond Julian dela Cerna | September 27, 2009
He was acting strange around the house lately, my father. Often I would find him peering through the jalousies. As though in participation (or probably in some unfathomable sympathy) the whole world would fall quiet—the occasional barking of the neighbors’ dogs, the sound of children playing, and the gurgling noise of tricycles, all would suddenly wane.
Bare-chested and potbellied, he would pace around the house, anxious, then later, he would sit in front of the TV, switching channels as swiftly as the tube could accommodate. Mamang would sit beside him at night and complain of getting dizzy from the bright flashes of channels being changed now and then. At daytime, as Mamang left for work, he’d usually settle on a basketball game. Though jobless since the day I learned fathers ought to have a job no matter what, he wasn’t like this. He used to go around the village without a shirt on, meddling on other people’s lives, influencing other husbands to emulate him.
“It’s my job,” he had boasted at dinner when asked by Mamang, “I am the king of Cabantian, and I have to constantly oversee the status of my kingdom,” to which Mamang just rolled her eyes and sighed.
So much for being the invincible king, I thought after noticing his unusual behavior for the past two days.
Poetry by Paul Randy Gumanao | September 27, 2009
You were once grass leaves
along the cliff
spread around the rock
where the two of us leaned
You heard our giggles
when in secret
we mocked the moon’s
rough and bumpy face
You also heard
the popping sound of the breeze
as it pushed our bodies closer
to each other
Poetry by Paul Randy Gumanao | September 27, 2009
The ball soared
the sky like a dove
after the golfer struck
its body with the club
The ball soared
the sky like a dove
But not a dove
of peace
For it landed
on the rusty-roof
of a squalid shanty
in a nearby slum
Creating a loud bang
disturbing the kid
who was sleeping
to his mother’s hum