Adieu

Poetry by | October 1, 2017

‘Adieu’

I write your name
On a piece of paper—
I fold the sheet into halves
and then into another halves,
I pull some edges,
Clip some portions between portions
And there, on my palm lays a paper ship.

Under my blank-heavy blanket,
On the surface of my bed
Still, I carefully place it
Thinking that if I wouldn’t be careful
I might tear or crumple fragments of it.
And still, I wouldn’t like that to happen.
I let out my blues,
Let the torments pull it away—
I blink,
It sails.

I just stare at the paper ship
Until it’s away—
Gone from my sight.
I inhale,
Close my eyes and listen
To the sound of raindrops
Heftily falling,
Then I hear little cracks,
Little sound of breakings—

That is how I let go.

Ellah Ejem is a fourth year Bachelor of Secondary Education major in English student at Capitol University.

Of course

Poetry by | September 24, 2017

Of course,
I already got used to traveling—
watching greens slowly turn to gray,
unconsciously staring at road lines
as they shift from white to orange,
from orange to white,
from straight to broken,
to noticing the cracks and bumps
of the asphalt and cement road.

Of course,
I have become familiar with the hillside
decorating the view on the left window
with trees, roots, rocks, and tall grasses.
I have become familiar with the sea side
waving at the right side,
glistening waters saying goodbye
as the sun welcomes slumber
to my side of the world.

Of course,
I got used to these changes.

But today,
the changes felt new.

And just when the I got used to traveling
these very same roads,
I got lost.

Teniza Lianne Anduiza studies BSE English at Capitol University in Cagayan de Oro City. In her undergraduate Creative Writing class, she has been mentored by her instructor, poet Ton Daposala. Her poem ‘Little Changes’ has previously appeared at the Issue 3: ‘Disasters’ of Bukambibig Poetry Folio of Spoken Word Philippines.

 

Elusion

Poetry by | September 24, 2017

The caffeine in your head
will make you drop dead.
Timelines in the eyes of the
mind mapped by lies and despise.

Graveyard’s shift for your honey
make way for the tiny memory
in your casket
it’s a hole dug for you.

Muses of the foolish that once roamed
they lived and once owned
every shape and shadow
waving goodbyes and hellos.

Music plays on while they snore
louder than the machine
making time stop and start
at the life of the pitiful
monsters flooding melodies,
conquering dreams,
crying throughout
the phantom of disguise.

The bared and concealed lie
across each other
finding peace among
the wars of the genuine
soldiers fly around the clouds
rivers flow by you
(don’t presume)
when you don’t need it.

 

Tessa is a Junior clerk at Davao Medical School Foundation Inc. She graduated BS Biology from Univverisity of the Philippines Mindanao.

 

What I Remember When I Think About Kuya Mai

Nonfiction by | September 24, 2017

I was 9 years old when Kuya Mai passed away. He was my uncle but we call him Kuya Mai. A month before he was sent to the hospital, a fish bone was stuck in his throat. After that incident, I was so careful every time I eat fish that I even separate the bones of anchovies before eating so that I’ll not be sent to the hospital like him.

Kuya Mai had some peculiar things going on on his body. There were giant pimples growing on his legs. He occasionally let us- his nieces and nephews prick his giant pimples and he would say that the thick yellowish fluid that comes out is uric acid. That time, I have no idea what a uric acid is. To my eyes it was disgusting but I still participated as I don’t want to be left out. Kuya Mai loved kids. For a man who never got married, it was quite a wonder. During his trips from local seminars and trainings he would bring us goodies. He called those goodies “secret”. Most of the time it is a Nestlé made chocolate- a Kisses, Hersheys or a Gandour chocolate called Safari. Childishly, I secretly wished him to be always out-of-town so that when he came back he would bring us lots of “secret”. Sometimes he would bribe us with “secret” to massage his head or legs. Continue reading What I Remember When I Think About Kuya Mai

Kindergarten Classroom

Fiction by | September 24, 2017

At the age of four, my father would take me to my kindergarten classroom.
Upon entering the classroom, the door would shut behind me leaving him outside. I cried– afraid of the fact that I am alone and too weak to face the world all by myself – I screamed, and pleaded to everyone to let him stay with me. I slapped the door wishing I could knock it down with my little hands– wishing that I could make my way out and see him.

Struggling to calm me down and shut me out, the teacher just desperately repeated these words, “Stop crying. Your father will be back soon. But, he won’t come back if you keep on crying.”

Continue reading Kindergarten Classroom

Time

Fiction by | September 17, 2017

On the 25th Sunday, the 3rd month of the year, the breaking of the breeze comforted the whole season. The sun was so brilliant engulfed throughout the day, while the chirping of the birds sounded melodiously. They flew here and there, catching each other like lovers missed from hugs and kisses. They were played by the wind blows, swaying their wings against the air, chasing until they found their refuge and rested. Under the monstrous tree they were on, there was a nipa hat, a native, beautifully designed by hands. It was made up of good Nara, a lumber where drawn on it, the lines of the old ways. It was surrounded by the grassy ground but viable to anybody who would like to rest from a journey. But one could ask: was there anybody around that small house? If there was, then who would that someone be?

At 3:00 o clock on that same day, I was on my way home. I walked cautiously as my feet were forceless stepping on the ground. In a far away distance, I saw an old wrinkled woman similarly exhausted as I was, as if losing her breaths. She was panting while her eyes focused to mine. I did not hesitate to come over her to ask where she might be coming from. She dropped down her sungkod without answering my question. The woman collapsed. So, I looked somewhere else but nobody could have been there.
Continue reading Time

Vōciferor

Poetry by | September 17, 2017

Remember when we’re cloaked in darkness and wanderlust
In our own filth, we begged at the pedestal of grandiose stars
In their hollow castles all sparkling over our heads
Trying to steal a piece of light for winning our inner wars
We were the nomads in sync with stale winds of rare moons
Following the trails of the archer, Sirius, Virgo
And in the silence, our shut lips are calling on high
That our lost feet may be lifted where galaxies grow

Monique graduated from UP Mindanao. She is currently studying medicine.