Poetry by Yas Ocampo | December 2, 2007
I was the only one left
in the sala that night
you told me the noises
on the roof were
Minang’s hooves –
on nights like this one
she was searching
for children whose stomachs
she could, through
her tongue
suck whole.
Poetry by Peping Domingo | December 2, 2007
Yanda ngatan ya,
Dagidi ub-bing nga nabati
Ditoy?
Sadinno ngata nga lubungen,
Ti naipalpal – ladawan dan
Wenno tinay tayaban dan?
Gapu ngamin apo, ti di
Mailadawan nga rig-rigat,
Rugit ken buyok
Ditoy rabaw ken
Uneg ti daga
Nonfiction by Jezereel Louise Camangeg-Billano | November 25, 2007
Tacurong City and I have seen good days. The atmosphere where I grew up in has continuously changed having something to do with my expanding horizons and growing consciousness of the various events.
When I was a child, all I thought was that Tacurong was my haven. I grew up with all the love and joy offered not only by the people around me, but also by the enchanted trees and the birds, I ran freely with the wind, I slept soundly with the crickets singing their songs.
I had a deep appreciation of the sunset that I always saw from afar – across the rice fields which were just meters away from our house, and across the mountains, the proud Daguma Range. My little eyes found pleasure watching the sun paint the sky with colors as it set. The mountain ranges looked as if they were palms embracing a crystal ball that predicted my future. I would always find myself leaning on our gate’s post, staring dreamily at the sun until it vanished and gave way to the stars.
Poetry by Peping Domingo | November 25, 2007
Ang tibay mo pare ko.
Hindi mo man lang ininda
ang lupit ng mga daluyong
at ang bagsik ng mga bagyo.
Pilit mong inaaruga
at balak gisingin pa
ang isang kasaysayang
matagal nang sumanib
at humalo sa lupa.
Nonfiction by Rowena Rose Lee | November 18, 2007
One sunny day when green snakes basked by the dormitory gates, and the warty toads came out of the toilets, and trolls from the adjacent rooms were creating such a ruckus that my headache had a headache too, I decided to go to the mall for some peace and normalcy. The dormitory of the University of the Philippines in Mindanao was situated literally in the boondocks, and it was a 2 kilometer ride down unfinished roads to the highway. The only available transport was the habal-habal: a motorbike turned rough-road-taxi, whose driver ferried up to 4 to 6 passengers at a time.
To the people of Davao, this was a way of life. To me, it was a learning experience. On my first semester at the university, I was literally stuck at the dorm. I did not know how to ride a habal-habal. I was terrified of it, being the size of two normal Davaoeño. When an errant jeep or bus chanced by, I hailed it with so much zest that people thought my armpits were on fire. On one particular day, when I was desperate to get off the mountain, I begged for a ride on a meat delivery truck, and hung on a hook in its cargo bay like one of its produce. I knew, despite my circumstances, that I was blessed, since the truck’s cargo was long delivered and the bay was freshly cleaned.
Poetry by Melissa Peñaflor | November 18, 2007
On this afternoon
the sky glows a soft amber
and everything under it obliges
and takes on a gentler, kinder hue
–even the dry path that stretches before me
–the gray sandbar that has led me home all these years
sheds some of its harshness
and I tread it with the warm, easy feeling that
I belong,
On this afternoon
I belong
Nonfiction by JA Sando | November 18, 2007
If I lie down Saturday afternoons in front of the TV, flipping cable channels – I’m alright. Or, if I close my eyes until the feeling goes away, and wake up at the exact moment my wife is serving dinner – I’m safe.
But the moment I venture out of the house, whether on an errand or after a phone call from a friend – I’m in trouble. The first shots offered are always refused. They are merely bait, dangled by istambays and kanto boys so that I will have the privilege of paying for whatever they’re drinking.
No, the first shot is best savored with a friend (usually the one who called.) The battleground is his sala or front porch with corned beef and lunch leftovers for pulutan, amidst loud laughter or whispering if the misis is around.
Poetry by Saquina Karla Guiam | October 28, 2007
Little girls, little girls
Dancing by the breakwater
Their faces bloated like balloons
With electric plugs tucked behind their ears
Their eyeballs starting to fall from their sockets
Smiles turn to sneers
Maggots crawl all over their skin
Skin and bones visible through the naked eye
Blood on their clothes never lie
And whenever people pass the breakwater by midnight
Little girls with decayed teeth, torn-out clothes, electric plugs by their side and holes in their chests
Will come out to play with you
And make you wish they were locked in their baggage.