Poetry by Rory Ian Bualan | March 15, 2009
Who says my purple umbrella’s cheap?
Well, it may be the Captain,
or that guy who’s got rigid legs,
or the lady who thinks otherwise
as everyone did.
It may be the Operator,
or that little kid who knows math,
or the old man who takes his wife
for an alley cat.
Poetry by Miguel Antonio Lizada | March 15, 2009
You are a bag
of scented
and bleached
habits,
shuttled down
the corridors
of the city
to a different floor
in this condominium
of your choices.
Empty your pockets then
for a currency of new faces
and a handkerchief
to ball up words
ought not to be said.
Events by Dominique Gerald Cimafranca | March 9, 2009
National Commission on Culture and the Arts, Davao Writers Guild, UP Mindanao Dance Ensemble, and the Ateneo de Davao University Humanities Division present: Bukambibig: Salita’t Sayaw, a performance of poetry and dance. Bukambibig features the works of Ricky de Ungria, Tita Lacambra Ayala, Macario Tiu, Aida Rivera Ford, Jhoanna Cruz, and Dom Cimafranca, as performed by the UP Mindanao Dance Ensemble.
The performance takes place on March 13 (Friday), 5:00PM to 7:00PM at the 5th Floor, Finster Hall of Ateneo de Davao University. If you wish to attend the event, please post your name as a comment by Thursday, or visit our Facebook event page.
Poetry by Dennis Sto. Domingo | March 9, 2009
Anak,
Hindi tayo laging may pagkakataong ganito
Kaya kailangang pagbutihin natin
Ang pagpiling ito.
Di tayo dapat kukuha ng matakaw
Sapagkat baka sa kanyang kahayukan
Pagkain natin mismo’y kanyang lantakan.
Sa kawag ng buntot, di dapat padala
Pagkat baka sa husay nyang makisama
Magnanakaw, sa ‘ting bahay makitira.
Hindi rin tamang pilii’y puro porma
Pagkat baka pati mismong suot nati’y
Kuning pampakintab ng balahibo nya.
Di rin uubra ang napakatalino
Pagkat dahil sa di magkaintindihan
Pamumuhay nati’y lalong magkagulo.
Anak,
Mahirap talaga ang gawaing ito
Kaya kailangang pagsanibin natin
Karanasan ko’t silakbo mo.
(after TALA)
Coming back
out from abyss, I am closer
than I have ever been
to be suspended in the air for so long
falling
at the same time not
Shattering is a dream
to break into many pieces
and disperse like steam
off something very, very cold
on a sticky sunny day.
The cold agony
is past comfort
a mother’s embrace that is far away
How could I have known that happiness came in a cage?
Events, Fiction by Henrietta Diana de Guzman | March 4, 2009
Beyond the frames of the glass windows of Davao Medical Center was the cold hard rain. I glanced at the wall clock: 3:05. Time for endorsement call; but I could not free myself from lingering thoughts and the sound of a familiar name. The ceiling fan was not working again. Sweat trickled down my forehead down to my nose and lips; some droplets on my neck glided towards my nape. I felt sweat from my chin trickle down to my throat onto the sides of my breasts and, after finding the main freeway, explore my navel: I had already bathed.
The sharp blend of odors in the Nurses’ station was shaking my consciousness: the scent of oranges, a nearby diabetic’s necrotic foot, an open bottle of rubbing alcohol, the smell of fresh blood expelled from a womb contracting from the neighboring Delivery Room, and spilled urine on the floor from a patient’s urobag. It was exhausting.
Or, perhaps, it was creating a different kind of delusion.
The name?
What’s the name again? The diagnosis?
“Divinagracia, Maria Ana.”
Poetry by Nej Gerasta | March 4, 2009
My dream is the sky.
sober and Defy
My hope is an island.
still, glistening sand
My fear is the ocean.
succumb. Overcome
My light is the sun.
resolute. Stanch
My love is the wind.
seize. Sustain
Or else, fall.
Nonfiction by Jonathan Jimena Siason | February 22, 2009
There is a place in Zamboanga that is almost obscured by the onslaught of the fast paced life in the city. It is there, behind the revered structure of the La Nuestra Senora de la Virgen del Pilar, past the lighted candles held by the pious as their prayers rise, past the stalls that sell cotton candies and cheap rosaries, past the old acacia tree where placentas placed in shopping bags hang from its branches.
It is a place where a mere game of basketball is almost a religion, where women with baskets of fish on their head walk on rickety slabs of wood strung together by ropes. They walk cautiously, lest they plummet to the water below, which is almost solid after years and years of human waste of every kind have amassed. But they walk with fluidity and grace, like dancers listening to the ancient music produced by the tides of the sea. The men, whose flesh are wrinkled and dark, walk with a gait that belied their years.