T'nalak

Fiction by | August 24, 2008

Excerpt from a novella

He wished she were wearing the white gown he had brought. How lucky he was, in fact, that Lumela’s family did not ask for a dowry for her. Lumela had asked them not to demand a set of gongs or horses as bridal gifts from Andrew. It was enough for her parents that Andrew agreed that the wedding be done in the traditional T’boli way before their church wedding.

The women were waiting outside the house of Lumela. She was in the house’s central space, covered with a red hand-woven blanket. There were no voices from the women, except the beating of agong.

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Kay gimingaw ang bungol

Poetry by | August 24, 2008

kay ang gimingaw bungol
sa mga panghasi sa kawatan
inig abot sa kagab-ihon
para lungkabon ang kaldero
nga dukot ray nahibilin.
 
ang kawatan ibusdak-bagting-bu-ak
ang kaldero (nangliki ang salog).

pero ang gimingaw dili makamata
 
kay siya bungol–
nabungol sa iyang kaugalingong paghagok
hagok hagok hagok hagok
hagok
                   hagok hagok

hagok           hagok         hagok
hagok sa damgo,                                    hagok
 
 

ngadto sa pikas kalibutan.

Orasyon ng Pinabayaan

Poetry by | August 24, 2008

tanging ang kulisap lamang
ang nasisiyahan sa liwanag
na nagmumula sa lampara.
Habang ang bawat galaw
ng guhit ng relo
ay malakas na naririnig,
ang dilim naman ay nagbabanta
ng matinding kalungkutan.

Saglit kinuha ang isang kahon,
nangangapa man sa dilim
ay huling-huli pa rin.
Buti rin, tahimik na ang lampara,
wala na rin ang kanina’y
naglalarong insekto.
Binudbod ang puting bagay
mula sa supot
at sinimulan ang nakagawiang orasyon.

Lalong tumahimik ang silid,
iginala ang mga tirik na mata
tumigil na ang galaw ng orasan
namatay na rin ang liwanag
lumutang ang katawan
pataas nang pataas…

Saglit pa’y may napansing
mukhang nakaguhit sa may dingding,
nakahihilakbot ang hitsurang tumambad
na minsan sa panaginip ay hindi mawari,
ang bawat patak ng dugong umaagos mula
sa sugat ng kanyang mukha
ay nakatatakot.

Natagpuan ko ang aking
sariling umiiyak sa awa, sa takot, sa galit
Ikaw nga, Hesus!
ang simula, ang hangganan, ang katapusan
ilan pang tulad ko ang magiging ganito?
”Diyos ko, bakit mo ako pinabayaan?”

His Ear

Fiction by | August 17, 2008

Because his left ear was shaped like that of an enormous punch bowl, my brother could always hear what I said. For instance, he would hit me on the head if I let out a giggle when a good-looking guy passed me by after taking Communion. Only then would I glance down at my cupped palms like a proper girl while my brother gave the cute guy a dirty look.

Contrary to how his classmates had teased him in third grade, he was not delivered breech nor did my father, who was a policeman, pinch his ear frequently. My brother had a big left ear, that’s all. And this ear, would cup every sound like radar. It had no static, it never had a dead air. It was like a portable spy microphone and it always heard what I said.

And only what I said.

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Father's Boots

Fiction by | August 17, 2008

The shoes at the bottom of the stairs are my father’s magical boots. They are black and huge and made of leather. They have shoelaces that go all the way up to a few inches below his knee. Father’s boots belong at the bottom of the stairs and no one was allowed to touch them, move them or place anything beside them. He didn’t mind, though, when Mother placed her pink slippers beside them. Sometimes they sparkled, other times they looked gray. But we were never to touch father’s boots.

Father’s boots were special. Once, I heard Father from the room telling Mother: “Wife, I need my boots so we’ll have money to feed the children and send them to school.” Mother went out the room and told Father that the boots were under the stairs. When he came home we had bread and chicken for dinner, and pencils and notebooks for school. The boots had brought him money indeed!

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On the Shoreline

Poetry by | August 17, 2008

You may
not
see
the raft,
buoying
in the ocean,
but you
can feel
the waters,
rippling
on the edges
of your feet.

If your hands
suffer from
the coldness
of the breeze,
just cup
these waters
and it will
carry you
to a white distance,
where I am
lost,
sailing
against the wind
of my departure.

She used to live in a shanty

Poetry by | August 17, 2008

She used to live in a shanty
with nipa roof
and bamboo walls,
and soil for a floor.
She used to look so shabby
in hand-sewn clothes
and an old pair of shoes,
which, all, her mother once wore.
She used to be poorer than the rats
she would run after
and smash with a broom.
But everything has changed
since she met Mr. Jones.
Now life for her (and the neighborhood)
suddenly became easy
as Mr. Jones—it seems—
is a man so generous and wealthy.
No trace of a poor lady can be seen
as she walks around the town
with a tall, white man.
The smile on her face beams with pride
as her head she holds high.
But never had she heard of the stories
passed on from mouth to mouth,
of what she might have done
to bring home a gold mine.

His Phantom Pains

Fiction by | August 10, 2008

It was already dusk when he arrived at the gate.

His eyes were immediately riveted to some children playing under the huge Christmas tree. A mango tree that was decorated with Christmas lights stood close to it.

He took out an old cellular phone inside his pocket. No messages. He squared his shoulders and heaved a great sigh. He looked at his own hands, which were already weary from pushing his own wheelchair. He tightened his grip on the wheels even more and turned them slowly forward. No one noticed his arrival when he painstakingly tried to squeeze himself through the main door.

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