I, the writer

Poetry, Uncategorized by | January 27, 2025

A Solitary Walk

At night, I find my peace alone,

In quiet streets, I make my way,

The world’s loud clamor fades to a tone,

And worries float away like clouds of gray.

 

Each step I take, I feel the release,

The moonlight guides me, calm and bright.

In solitude, I find my unadulterated ease,

Tomorrow calls me back to night—

to breathe again.

 

I, the Writer

I am a writer.

Yesterday, I wrote about yesterday;

Today, I am writing about today;

Tomorrow, I will write about tomorrow,

Only to realize that writing

has healed,

heals,

and

will heal

me in every way.

 

 

 

Jhon Steven C. Espenido is a fresh graduate of Bachelor of Arts in English Language from Surigao del Norte State University with a latin honor of cum laude. He hails from Surigao City and writes poems as well as opinion essays. Some of his works have been published in national newspapers and community newspapers in Mindanao.

 

Kaka

Poetry by | January 27, 2025

Subayon ko kining palawa nga akong nakit-an.

Dili ko na ipiyong kining akong mga mata.

Dili sama ka gabii, nga wala ta magkita kay napagngan

kos akong sulo. Naupos ang binugkos kong namo

nga duha ka dupa. Karon nga nia na kas akong atubangan,

dili ko na palabyon ang higayon nga maangkon ka.

Nagtuo ko nga napulaw ka gabii og hinulat sa imong bisita.

Wa koy labot kon wala kay tulog og pinaabot sa imong

gilaang, aron masudlan ang imong gadaguok nga tiyan,

aron mapuslan ang imong gambalay.

Nasayod ko nga usa ka ka mangingilad. Dakong mangingilad.

Saksi ang bulan sa imong paghupo-hupo sa mga lumalabay;

sa imong pagtukob sa mga insektong way ngalan;

sa imong pagbugalbugal kanila. Gani, wala gyod kay kaluoy.

Kadtong langaw nga langyaw, wa mo pasayloa. Kadtong

alibangbang nga mao pay paglupad nga napadpad

sa imong panimalay, imong gibiaybiay hangtod

nga mituskig nga nagbitay nga wa nay kinabuhi.

Tan-awa, wa pa gani ka kahipos sa ibos nga imong giputos.

Naingon og Paraon sa Ehipto kanang imong gilumloman

nga gipuyos sa imong palawa. Maayo kay nagkita

ta karong buntaga. Nagputos-putos pod kas imong

kaugalingon aron ingnon. Ayaw na. Klaro na kaayo.

Kanang imong pagpakaaron-ingnon nga biktima.

Kanang imong pagtulog-tulog, duka-duka, sambol

na kaayo sa akong panan-aw. Di na ko kahuwat.

Karon, tan-awon tag di ba ka masaag. Tan-awon tag

makatultol ba kag subay-subay sa dalan-dalan

ning akong palad pauli sa imong pinuy-anan.

 

Bionote: Si Jovanie Garay, usa ka magtutudlo sa Davao Oriental State University—San Isidro Extension Campus This piece was a runner-up winner in the 2023 Tagik: Tigi sa Pagtagik og Balak, Bohol.

Sinigang

Nonfiction by | January 20, 2025

Sinigang [Nonfiction]

The tangy, sour smell of tamarind soup filled the air as I stepped into the kitchen.

My mouth watered automatically, memories of my mother’s cooking flooding my senses. She was always so good at making Sinigang, the sourness perfectly balanced by the sweetness of the meat and vegetables. It was one of my favorite dishes, and she always seemed to know just how much sourness to add to make it perfect. As I waited for the soup to simmer, I remembered how she used to take me to school every morning. She would wake up early, even earlier than me, so she could fix breakfast and get me ready for the day. She would brush my hair, tie my shoes, and even help me with my homework sometimes.

 

It was the simple things like that which made me realize how much she truly loved me.

 

I also recalled the times when we would sit together on the porch, watching the sunset, and she would tell me stories about her childhood in their province. She would talk about the food they used to eat, like Sinigang for example. “Mao ra man ni among mapalit dapit sa kanto, nak. Mahal man gud kaayo ang pritong manok.” She shared. “Tunga pa mi ani nila nanay nimo ug tita.”. Her stories made me realize that this soup really played a part in my mother’s life and her fondness of it was later passed down to me. Aside from this, she would also share with me the games they played back then and the people they knew from their barangay. It was as if I was there with her, living those moments through her words. I wished I could go back to those days, when everything seemed so much simpler and carefree.

 

My mother always wore her favorite daster when she was at home. It was a dark blue, patterned with pink Gumamelas, and it seemed to bring out the color of her light skin. She would wear it almost every day, even when she was just cleaning or doing laundry. I never understood why she loved it so much, but it became a symbol of her to me, a part of her identity. Now that she’s gone, I find myself missing that daster almost as much as I miss her.

 

The Sinigang was finally ready, and I ladled some into a bowl. As I sat down at the table, the aroma filled the air once more. It was then that the weight of my loss finally hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness and grief, knowing that I would never be able to share another meal with my mother again. I took a bite of the Sinigang, savoring the familiar taste that reminded me so much of her. And in that moment, I felt her presence, as if she were right there beside me, telling me everything would be alright. I thought about all the things I had wanted to say to her, all the things I never got the chance to tell her. But most of all, I wished I could just have one more day with her, to hug her and tell her how much I loved her.

 

The memory of her warm, familiar embrace brought a tear to my eye, and I felt a lump form in my throat. It was then that I realized that the longing and sadness would always be a part of me, but it was also a testament to the love that we shared.

 

As I continued to eat my Sinigang, I found myself thinking about the future. I knew that I would never be able to replace my mother, but I also knew that I had to find a way to move forward. I had to find a way to honor her memory and keep her spirit alive. So, I decided that from now on, whenever I cook Sinigang, I would always dedicate it to her. It would be my way of keeping her close, of remembering the woman who had given me life and so much more.

 

And as I finished the last spoonful of soup, I knew that even though she was gone, her love and her legacy would live on, forever etched into my heart and my memories. I wiped away the tears that had begun to fall, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes, letting the warmth of her memory envelop me like a blanket. Because even though she was no longer here physically, I knew that in some way, she would always be with me.

 

I found myself thinking about my mother more and more. I would remember the sound of her laughter, the smell of her perfume, the way she would pinch my cheeks when she was happy. I began to cook Sinigang for myself more often, dedicating each pot to her memory. As I stirred the pot, I could almost feel her presence in the kitchen, teaching me her favorite recipes and sharing stories about our family. It was as if she was there with me, passing down a piece of herself in the form of this simple yet beloved dish. Slowly, over time, the pain began to subside, replaced by nostalgia and a deep sense of gratitude. I was grateful for the time we had spent together, grateful for the love she had given me, and grateful for the memories that would sustain me for the rest of my life.

 

In the end, it wasn’t the Sinigang itself that mattered so much as the love and the memories that it represented. As I cleared the table and began to wash the dishes, I felt a sense of contentment wash over me. It was as if my mother was there with me, nodding her approval, proud of the life I had built and the memories I had created.

 

And in that quiet moment, I knew that her spirit would always be a part of me, guiding me forward, one spoonful of Sinigang at a time.

 

Victory Valenciano is a 17-year-old HUMSS Learner from Ateneo de Davao Senior High School. She spends countless hours lost in the world of music, arts, and literature

Illustration by Noy Narciso

Kanimo Gihapon Ako

Poetry by | January 20, 2025

Kanimo Gihapon Ako

Ing paghandom ko kanmo daw dagat sang Oriental

Malawom, daw kamangon ako sang balas

Igo da sa ing kanak mapanaw bag-o ako kan-on ng kanak kamingaw

Ing tubig sang sapa, muuli gihapon sang dagat

 

Laong ko sang kanak pagpanaw na di da ako muuli,

Yadaman, yalisang, yag-tyahu

Ing paa ko di makahuwat makatamak ng lupa na di kanmo,

 

Gusto malimtan ing mga yanghitabo

Yalain kaw ba kanak? Di mo da ba ako gusto paulion?

Iyan ako sang grasya mo, yangayo ng pasaylo

Yasayod ako na yadaman kaw,

Gugma mo ako, pero itraydor takaw sang kanak pagpanaw

 

Mahinumdom mo gaw ing kanak siki sang tubig

Yatog ako sang ilawom ng kanmo grasya,

Pinanga mo ako sang awon,

 

Yakita ko da ing kanmo kagwapa doon

Hapit da ako, ay da ako tabuya

Malapit da ako, yagahandom sang kanmo hangkop

Mupanaw man ako, ngansaan gihapon ako mamatay

Mupanaw man ako, ikaw gihapon ing yanag-iya kanak

 

I Am Still Yours (Translated Version)

I remember you like the seas in Davao Oriental

Deep, as if the sand will swallow me up.

I can only walk so much before I am consumed by my longing.

Like how the waters in lakes return to the sea.

 

I declared in my leaving that I would not return,

Angry, delirious, wailing.

My feet longed to step on grounds that were not yours,

Wanting to forget what had taken place.

 

Do you resent me? Do you not want me to return?

I am in your mercy, asking for forgiveness.

I know about your rage,

But I know of your love for me, I betrayed you in my leaving.

 

I hope you remember my feet in the water,

I slept under the shade of your grace,

You have loved me before,

I only see your beauty now.

 

 

I am near, do not turn me away,

I am near, hoping for the warmth of your embrace

Although I may leave, you will be my final resting place.

Although I may leave, I will still be yours.

 

 

  • a letter to my homeland.

 

 

 

 

Mary Frances Gambong  graduated from UP Mindanao with a Bachelor’s Degree in Anthropology. This poem is from a short collection of Mandaya Poetry I wrote for a class back in my college days. Growing up in Davao Oriental, I have always struggled in dealing with my identity as a Mandaya, and my love for my homeland. With this, I hope to reconcile my aversion to it, and understand that it is a crucial part of who I am.

 

Illustration by Noy Narciso,Editor

 

Kali

Fiction by | January 13, 2025

 

Kali [Flash Fiction]
I’ve known Kali since sixth grade. Although her real name wasn’t Kali, people called her that because it was short for “Kaliwete,” which means lefty in English. She was known for her left-handedness, and it was a defining trait that everyone noticed.
We bonded over our love for badminton. Every afternoon, after our classes at the local elementary school, we’d rush to the barangay court with our rackets. Kali’s left hand was swift and precise, making her a formidable opponent.
Kali’s family had just moved into a big, old house that everyone in the neighborhood said was haunted. A lush canopy of ancient trees enveloped it, their gnarled branches casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to beckon from the twilight. One day, as young and curious kids, we explored the second floor of her family’s newly bought house.
Inside, the house was a labyrinth of dimly lit corridors and spacious rooms. The worn wooden floorboards creaked underfoot, their rich, warm tones contrasting with the cool, shadowy interiors. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and forgotten memories. The room on the second floor was unlike any other. Its high, beamed ceiling soared upwards. Sunlight filtered through the antique window panes, casting intricate patterns of light and shadow on the polished wooden floor.
In the center of the room stood a giant, ornate mirror. Its frame was carved with intricate flourishes of gilded wood, resembling a delicate filigree of vines and leaves. The mirror was antique, its glass slightly warped and uneven, casting distorted reflections. The ornate frame, intricate carvings, and gilded details added to the room’s air of mystery. I pointed to the mirror in front of us. My voice dropped to a whisper as I leaned closer to Kali.
“Huy, ana baya sa mga movies na haunted ng mga ing ana,” She just laughed, a light, carefree sound that echoed eerily in the dim room. She stepped closer to the mirror, her eyes fixed on her reflection.
“Awa akong nawng,” she said, her face contorting into a playful grimace as the old glass warped her features.
I watched her, feeling a strange unease settle over me. “Wait lang,” I replied, my voice sounding distant even to my ears. “Lipong man”. The room seemed to tilt, and my vision blurred.
When I opened my eyes, the world had changed. The room looked the same, but everything was bathed in a strange, silvery hue. The air felt thick and cold, and a faint hum filled my ears. I turned to Kali, her face pale and eyes wide with fear. “We’re trapped.”
I grabbed her hand, the only solid thing in this surreal nightmare. “We have to get out of here,” I said, my voice firm despite the panic rising in my chest. We started pounding on the glass, our fists hitting the cold surface with a dull thud. After what felt like an eternity, a crack appeared, spider webbing across the glass. With one final punch, the mirror shattered, and we tumbled out, gasping for breath. The room around us was back to normal. Kali and I exchanged looks of both shock and fear. Pale as ghosts, our eyes widened while we pinched ourselves to make sure that we really got out of there.
Today was Saturday. “Unsa man, badminton ta?” she suggested.
We walked to the court and talked about the mirror incident yesterday. “Maynalang nakahawa ta didto, noh?” she said. I ignored the slight smile she gave. “Gani, do you remember how cold it was inside the mirror?”
Kali nodded in reply. “Yes, it felt like the air was being sucked out of the room. And the way our reflections moved… it was like they had a mind of their own.”
We then proceeded to play badminton for the next hour or two. The familiar rhythm of the game usually brought me comfort, but today, something felt off. Kali was using her right hand to hit the shuttlecock. I watched her movements, smooth and precise. When did she get so good at using her right hand?
I brushed the thought away and continued playing, trying to focus on the game. But the more I watched her, the more uneasy I felt. Her right-handed swings were powerful and accurate, almost too perfect.
She won!
She always had a competitive streak, but her victory felt different today, almost possessed. I rushed to the monoblocks and sat on it, my breath coming in short gasps. “O, gihangak na pud ka,” Kali said, her voice light and teasing. With her right hand, she handed me a bottle of water. I took it, my hands trembling slightly. Despite the comforting tone, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. The questions that had been swirling in my mind demanded answers.
“Kali, kailan ka pa natuto na gamitin ang right hand mo?” My voice trembled a bit, betraying my inner confusion and fear.
“What do you mean?” She looked at me, and the corners of her lips turned to a smirk. “I’ve always been right-handed.”

Victory Valenciano is a 17-year-old HUMSS Learner from Ateneo de Davao Senior High School. She spends countless hours lost in the world of music, arts, and literature.

Illustration by Noy Narciso

Ang Buwak sa Akong baba

Poetry by | January 13, 2025

 

Ang Buwak sa Akong baba

 

Nagpatubo kog mga buwak ilawom sa akong higdaanan

Mokuha kog usa ug isalapid nako kini sa akong dila

Kauban sa pipila ka mga dahon, ang mga gihay mipuno

sa akong baba, sa akong tutunlan. Bukad. Makalisang gayud

nga lisud mokaon, maong ako molaktaw na lag pamahaw.

Ang uban, sama sa putling sampaguita, maanyag ug humot,

Ako… daw layang dahon nga natapok sa lapok.

Bukad! Nabalda sa akong hunahuna, wala ko kaamgo

nga tingpaniudto na. Apan, naa pa sa akong baba

ang buwak mao nga laktawan ko usab kana.

Gilantaw nako akong kaugalingon

sa samin, ug mga buwak

nga akong ginapatubo.

Mura mag nangalaya

uga, sama sa gibiyaag

dugay kaayos lubnganan.

Ang akong mga amiga

nakadayeg sa akong buwak,

apan lahi kini sa akong nakita. Bukad?

Ania na ang panihapon. Naa ra japon

ang mga buwak sa akong baba. Ang mga ugat

nituhop sa akong tutunlan busa hugot nakong

gihuptan ang buwak didto. Dili tungod gusto ko kini

kundili nanurok na sa kailawoman ang ugat sa buwak.

 

 

 

Meah Belle P. Camañan is a student at the University of the Philippines Cebu and proudly hails from Davao. She writes about identity, belonging, and personal struggles, expressed through the beauty of poetry and prose. Most of her writing lives in her notebook or on her phone’s Notes app, making this her first time sharing her work in a literary publication.

Illustration by Noy Narciso

Kining Isla sa Samal

Poetry by | January 6, 2025

nilingkod mi sa balas sa Kaputian,
sama sa hilom nga bato sa baybayon,
hinay-hinay nga misaka ang adlaw,
gisugdan ang tibuok hapon nga sonata.

hayahay ang tingog sa tapya sa balod,
nindot ang panaghoy sa mga langgam,
nipakpak tanang dahon sa punoang talisay,
misabay sa hoyohoy sa tugnaw nga hangin.

Continue reading Kining Isla sa Samal

Ang Atong Ulahing Pakighinabi

Uncategorized by | January 6, 2025

Ang Atong Ulahing Pakighinabi

 

Mahinumduman nako ang ulahing higayon nga kitang duha nagkaistorya

Miingon ka nga limpyo kaayo ang mga bungbong sa among panimalay

Ug misulog-sulog ka nga mapuno na kini og mga buling puhon

Misulti ka nga hapinan og panapton ang mga mahait nga mga kilid sa lamesa ug aparador

Kay paspas managko ang mga bata ug basin mapakong

Mihangyo ka nga dili paraton ang mga sud-an

Ug magluto gyud ko kanunay og law-oy

Pagkahibalo nako sa panghitabo duha ka adlaw bag-o mag-Pasko

Dili na nimo makita unsa na kahugaw ang among mga bungbong

O kon unsa na katangkad ang mga bata

Abanse, among pinalanggang Nora

Akong kunsuylo kay nagalupad ka na kauban ang mga Anghel

 

Our Last Conversation

 

I remember the last time we had the chance to talk

You complimented me on how clean the walls of our house were

And joked that they won’t stay that way for long

You told me to keep the sharp edges of the cabinets and tables covered

Since the kids are already getting taller

You asked me not to put a lot of salt on the viands

And always cook vegetables

When I received the call just two days before Christmas

I knew you would never see how the walls would become dirty

Or how tall the children are going to be

Move forward, our dearest Nora

My only consolation is the fact that you’re already flying with Angels

 

Paolo M. Sandalo is an avid fan of music, comics, and video games. He has Taps, Mochi, and Sushi as his inspirations to wake up each day.

English Translation: paolo Sandalo

Illustration : Noy Narciso