Poetry by Paul Randy Gumanao | May 31, 2009
Pinili mong sumayaw
sa ritmo
ng kanyang mga tula;
Pinili mong kumanta
sa himig
ng kanyang mga salita.
Pinili mong
siya ang isilid
sa said na espasyong
namamagitan
sa iyong puso’t isipan.
Pinili mo ang isang makata.
Fiction by Karla Stefan Singson | May 24, 2009
Kahapon, ito ay isang tulang pag-ibig. Isinulat ko ito para sa’yo. Hinintay kita ng matagal, pero hindi ka dumating. Ayan tuloy, nainip ito at naging isang hamak na litanya. Makinig ka ha? Mabilis lang ‘to.
Kahapon, ito ay isang tulang pag-ibig. Binanggit ko ang lahat ng mga bagay na bumuo ng araw ko. Binanggit ko ang mga makukupad mong ngiti, gaano ka kabuti sa pamilya mo, at ang katangi-tanging paraan ng paghawak mo ng bolpen. Binanggit ko rin gaano ka kagaling gumuhit; pinuri kita hanggang nagtampo ang mga kaibigan ko at hindi na rin nila hinintay na dumating ka. (Nakakapagod raw kasi makinig sa mga himig kong puro ikaw, ikaw, ikaw.)
Nonfiction by Andie Albino | May 24, 2009
It is not everyday that one gets the chance to grieve the loss of a great man. Great men come in too little a supply, and often, they leave without so much as a warning to lessen, if not completely halt, any pain that naturally comes from goodbyes. Yes, it is a pain to part, and even more painful to part with great men. Hence the natural order of things where great men are few, and to part with them an even rarer circumstance. My family, however, grieves the loss of a great man once or twice a year. And once again, the time has come for us to swallow the bitter pill that is goodbye.
A great man is one who loses himself in the service of others, including those he loves the most. A great man takes time to make up for lost time, despite knowing the futility of such an act. A great man braves the seven seas and the cruelty of the world, sometimes even literally, for someone other than himself. A great man is my dad.
Poetry by Genevieve Mae Aquino | May 24, 2009
It’s a contradiction, this curious round thing
changing from hard green to ripe yellow
with the bright blush of its hidden heart.
O pomelo, you filled my childhood in abundance
and you rolled down Davao streets like rain!
Familiar to my mouth as the mother tongue,
you defy my attempts at definition.
You’re too individual to be an orange,
and too charming to be called a lemon,
yet you mock the grapefruit’s pallid flesh.
How I struggle for words to contain
the thick bitter softness of your rind,
the juicy honeyed tang of your pulp!
But to hold you is to comprehend you
and to fathom you is to eat you.
In the artificial cold of supermarket stalls,
So small a gift from the Land of Promise,
I yearn to claim your ripening roundness
and partake your sweetness before it decays.
But they’ve put a price on you beyond my reach.
O pomelo, I long for you as I do my homeland
where we both were once free as eagles in flight.
I know inside you is full to bursting
with tales of home, much like my hidden heart
where my blood flows a bright pomelo pink.
Poetry by Vangie Dimla-Algabre | May 24, 2009
Mananaig ba ang mga balumbon ng ulap
Makikita ko ba ang mga ginintuang hibla
O di kaya ay sadyang uulan at aaraw
Upang makaniig ko ang mga kerubin
Nakangiti kahit gusgusin?
Poetry by Vangie Dimla-Algabre | May 24, 2009
ano ang hugis ng pag-ibig
ito ba’y parisukat
nakakulong
sa iyong bawat naisin
ito ba’y tatsulok
karibal ang haplos ng kahapon ang bukas
ngayon
ito ba’y bilog
paurong-sulong
walang katiyakan
ito kaya’y walang hugis
pumipintig
hindi mayapos
dumadaloy
pumipitlag
dahil sa iyo
Nonfiction by Rowena Rose Lee | May 17, 2009
Everyone assumes that writing is such a romantic occupation. I most certainly did—I wished with all fervent hope that I would eventually walk the path that Edgar Allan Poe, Joseph Conrad and Mary Shelley took when they made it through the annals of literary history.
In my youth, I had imagined writers cloistered away in their lavish Victorian-inspired home, dark with velvety crimson curtains and thick tapestries. Quill in hand, parchment under their elbows, these writers would look out into the vast open countryside seeing not the green landscape, but characters—fictional characters, characters of their own creation—speaking, weeping, and eventually floating back to the paper, becoming wisps of breath fashioned into the writers’ great languid scripts where both characters and writers would eventually be immortalized in written text.
Continue reading My So-Called Glamorous Life As A Freelance Writer
Fiction by Ma. Luisa Andrea Galinato | May 17, 2009
Patches of sunlight dance at her feet, and on the pavement she stands on as the branches above her sway with the summer breeze. She looks up and sees a brown butterfly hovering closely above her, its paper-like wings glinting with the jagged rays emanating from the tiny spaces between the camachile leaves above them. She holds her hand up
and watches it perch momentarily on her rosy little fingers before it flutters off towards the black sedan across the street, towards the man standing by the door of the passenger seat. Slowly, the man turns around and he looks back at her with eyes like her own.