Poetry by Joie Mar Prias | August 10, 2008
Ang kabugnaw sa hangin
Mao mutunaw sa kamatyanong kainit
Ang ga-asong kape, ang akong habol
Ug ang paghandum kanimo
Mao ray nagpainit
niining gabhiona,
Ug sama sa mga patak sa ulan
Na daaw dagom nga nitusok-lalom
Sa kaugatan, imong gitusok
ang dughan ko sa imong
hait ug init na gugma.
Poetry by Vanessa Almeria | August 10, 2008
I sit at the center,
the red metal stool
bearing my weight.
the girl in blue stares
at me with tiger eyes.
I face the other way, dragging
the stool as
it screeches—
my thoughts exactly.
The man in eyeglasses
shouts, “what’s the central image?”
the girl in blue nods,
not once
but twice
as the man hammers
my poems
on the table.
I face them,
carrying
my own weight as
he hurls the sheets
up in the air.
Our eyes witness
my syllables
fall
like the loosened
leaves
of a tree.
Poetry by Maria Virginia Yap Morales | August 10, 2008
Peering through a picture window
I saw pastel-hued balloons dance in the air,
anchored to chairs built so low
uprooted children are ill-fitted there.
I gaze at you and me standing –
opposite ends of a rainbow:
I am writing history.
You are certain
in this country
there is a treasure of stories to know.
You finally understood why you had to go.
Seeping sambong in a screened porch
embraced by life-filling green
Alone I stare upon your raiment of dark pink torch
more lovely than I can ever imagine.
Nonfiction by Divina Amor Germina | August 10, 2008
Eating durian is an experience like no other. In Mintal, durian trees abound; so, in durian season, which starts around July, Mintal welcomes you with the distinctive scent: pungent as the jackfruit; addictive as rugby; and, strong as coffee. My favorite variety, Arancillo, is like a balled porcupine, with shades ranging from olive green to khaki depending on the ripeness, and is usually no bigger than a basketball. Continue reading The Yin-Yang of Durian
Poetry by Karla Stefan Singson | August 3, 2008
Sitting beside handsome
Is an intricate art:
A bouquet of anxiety
Grows on your skin
So abruptly,
Yet so daintily,
As if it has happened before.
A familiar feeling, yes,
Like opening your first gift from Santa
Or taking the first strides
Of your pre-school graduation march.
Nonfiction by Kelly Conlon | August 3, 2008
My father believed that life could flourish even when surrounded by cold concrete sidewalks, black asphalt roads and rows upon rows of silent houses sitting on stiff, detached cobbled stone shoulders. Such was Manduriao, Iloilo, my first home. The noiseless streets never drove me away. It only meant that there was more space for laughter and interesting chatter. It meant more space for my dreams, dreams that were expanding and multiplying. It meant more time seeing what else I could when everything seemed so familiar.
After two years, my family moved to La Paz and there I encountered what true greenery was like. Friends shot up all around us like wild grass but they were true and sincere people. I made many friends, enjoyed many annual festivals, and basked in the warm and pleasurably enduring sun. I was a healthy young girl who loved the spacious local park and frequented houses that were never without the wonderful aroma of boiling sinigang and arroz caldo. The night sky was always clear and bright with an assembly of stars to watch every night.
It was indeed my little paradise.
Fiction by Paolo Ray Bataller | July 27, 2008
The unpaved, dusty dirt road seemed to stretch on forever. We were on our way to Pangutusan to visit the farm because Uncle Jeffrey was eager enough to test his brand-new CRV on rough terrain. So there we were, on a farm road bordered by jungles of trees and corn stalks, heading to nowhere. I listened while Lola, Aunt Len, and Uncle Jeffrey chatted the ride away.
Even back in the poblacion, I was already reluctant to go but Uncle Jeffrey persuaded me to. He told me that I should visit Lola’s farm more often because we, her grandchildren, would be inheriting it later on. Inheriting the farm interested me so I went along.
“It has been such a long time,” grinned Lola, gazing out the window. She had not visited the farm for about a year.
“Have you heard anything about Nong Felipe, Ma? The harvest season was supposed to be last month,” asked Uncle Jeffrey.
“Hay, naku. Nong Felipe stole our share again. I bet he already sold all the durian by now. And the bananas too!” my Aunt Len replied. Continue reading Collateral
Nonfiction by Cecille LaVerne dela Cruz | July 20, 2008
“’But I don’t want to go among mad people,’ Alice remarked.
‘Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the Cat. ‘We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.’
‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice.
‘You must be,” said the Cat, ‘or you wouldn’t have come here.’”
— Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
My earliest recollection of being near a madwoman was when I was nine. Her skirt was black with large, white flower prints cascading down its length to her toes. Her blouse was white and faded you could see her tits cleaving to it. If I was afraid of her, it was because she was an Other, as God was an Other. After all, a small town could grow legends, tall tales— she was in one of those, and I believed it. If anyone would have asked me then how she got into the farthest end of the house without waking the dogs, I would have answered she had a power over animals.
That day, Mom was repotting lirios in her garden when the lunatic grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. Mom turned around and simply said, “Why! You’re here again.” Continue reading Tilting at Windmills