Musings on a Bus Ride

Poetry by | September 21, 2008

As I sit here beside you
I realize how our lives are enmeshed
intertwined like our hands now
That when you’ll let go
My hand can still scratch, hold, touch
do what hands normally do
but it will always grope for yours
Seek your sweaty palms
Miss it’s warmth
Feel empty with the spaces
in between my fingers which
your long tapered fingers
with dirty uneven nails usually fill

—-
Floraine is an industrial engineer, MBA student and aspiring entrepreneur. You may visit her blog at floraine.blogspot.com.

Ode to a Boxer

Poetry by | September 21, 2008

For the losses I made in favor of Larios
For the nausea I got from seeing your face almost everywhere
For the earache I got from hearing your songs
For actually finding myself humming Para Sa’yo (Last F*cking Song Syndrome)
For being popular and filthy rich
For that Jose Rizal ‘do
In the spirit of crab mentality
For lack of anything better to say:
I hate you!

—-
Floraine is an industrial engineer, MBA student, and aspiring entrepreneur. You may visit her blog at floraine.blogspot.com

Variable Equations

Poetry by | September 21, 2008

(in memory of Dr. Norberto Navarette Jr.)

“—the uh,”
spoke the math professor
lying on
his deathbed, his cancer
spreading on
his head.

“Uh,” he said, now losing
memory, “the value of—
uh—is
not fixed: trans-
mutes…” His colleague
listens on, and in
sympathy he understands

that words
are just our means
of holding
down indefinite values.

Come to say
goodbye, a last problem
to solve,
he finally finds the value
of x (the elusive
variable) in the lapses
between
the dying man’s words.

Gabriel Millado is a BA in English student of UP Mindanao.

Sapay Koma

Nonfiction by | September 14, 2008

This won 3rd prize, Essay in English, Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature 2008

“I looked at Maria and she was lovely. She was tall…and in the darkened hall the fragrance of her was like a morning when papayas are in bloom.”
–Manuel Arguilla

On our first Valentine as a couple, he gave me a bowl of white nondescript flowers. They had a distinctly sweet but faint scent. I had never been a fan of Valentine’s Day nor of love like a red, red rose; but that day, I became a believer. He told me they were papaya blossoms from his mother’s garden. At that moment, I knew I would one day marry him. We had started dating only three months ago, but I knew I would be Maria to his Leon. Why, he even had a younger brother the same age as Baldo! And even though they didn’t live in Nagrebcan nor owned a carabao, the town of Itogon, Benguet was remote enough for me. I have always enjoyed teaching the Arguilla story for its subversive take on the role that one’s family plays in a marriage; but having been born and raised in Pasay City, I had no idea what papaya blossoms smelled like. I imagined that my new boyfriend had read the story in his Philippine literature class and meant for me to recognize his gift as an allusion. In fact, I imagined we would defy societal norms and prove that love conquers all. Instead of a “theme song,” our relationship had a story to live up to. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

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An English painter in Davao, 1934

Nonfiction by | September 14, 2008

Head of a Philippine Child (Davou)
Head of a Philippine Child (Davou)

When Ian Fairweather stepped ashore at Santa Ana Wharf at Davao in August 1934 he was a 43-year-old Englishman at the beginning of his career as an artist. He had been a prisoner of war during World War 1, an art student at London’s Slade School of Art, travelled across China, spent nine months painting in Bali, visited Australia and had come to Davao on the proceeds of a painting that was sold to the Tate Gallery in London.

On the afternoon of his arrival he walked south along the coast to Piapi where he found a house and that evening he wrote, “It stands on stilts amongst the coconut trees on the edge of the beach, it looks something like a bird cage – on the ground beneath it – chickens and pigs – babies and land crabs and boats – it’s the sort of place I’ve dreamed of.”

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Ulan / Rain

Poetry by | September 14, 2008

A poem in Magindanaw and English

Di ka dan muna saguna ulan, di dan muna saguna
Su mga ulyang nengka na pakasamok sa kabagigitung ko.
Katawang ko na mapasang su kabedtago sa mawag a kanggiginawa
Way na anun mambu su kabeb-pangagi ko?

Kapakay ka kemisek sa matanog way na sakali bu
Angu edtanggit ka sa kawagan sa mga mawag a taw a madsumbak nengka.
Way na bangenin ko bo sa reka, di ka dan muna saguna
Ka bagimasaden ko pen i galebek ko
Endo so maystra ko na di yakunin pasangan.

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Haiku from a Garden

Poetry by | September 14, 2008

afternoon sunlight
trysts with unexpected rain
blue bed bursts colors

dragonfly now rare
reminds me of the green fire
lurking in those eyes

crimson and golden
petals carpet my garden
sweep not struggle not

winding jutting through
window pane opening vine
curls to me its song

dirt waste filth the earth
takes all into her bosom
gives back fragrant blooms

Davao: A View

Nonfiction by | September 7, 2008

I have been here in Davao for five years, so I am no longer a stranger in this city. But I still find many things amusing and interesting.

The principal means of transportation in Davao is the jeepney. It really makes me crazy. I like the jeep but I am afraid of it. I like it because it is very colorful, and has varied forms, and has a nice sound system.

My fear comes from the jeepney driver. He is the boss of the road. He moves when he wants to move, and he stops when he wants to stop. The only rule for him is no rule. New drivers are really afraid to drive in the streets, although some say it is the best practice to learn to drive.

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