Passion

Poetry by | August 7, 2016

You often ask me what I believe in.
Both the Bible and Pablo Neruda talk
About biting into an apple:
And I choose to believe in Neruda.
So forgive me if sometimes I bite your apple-like lips.
Because, to quote the poet, I want to fill my mouth with your name.

So here we are in the throes of Passion.
As our fingers intertwine, I hear the clank of nails.
My love, you twist together a crown of thorns and set
It on my head while, cloth by cloth, I undress myself.
Using the veil of Veronica, you trace the stars
And the scars on my face, and your hug covers
My body with the Shroud of Turin.

Like hammer against nail, your lips touch
My lips. Your tongue is a rattlesnake
Whose tail shakes and dances inside my mouth,
And all the time I dance with it, following
Its steps, movement, and rhythm, setting
Aside that it carries with it some poison.

Is it just me, or you can turn your saliva into wine?
Or better yet, your kiss tastes like a whole vineyard.
Even your breasts smell of freshly-baked bread,
And it is where my tongue always end up to.
I remember carrying the cross to Calvary
As I crawl and find my way around
And across your neck, towards those hills,
On top of which you nail and crucify me.

Forgive me if sometimes you think
I do not know what I do. But perhaps I do.
Truly, I say to you, today you will
Be with me in Paradise.
But even then, there, I shall thirst,
And it shall never be finished.
My love, it is into your lips that I commend my spirit.

All this is a giant leap of faith.
I believe in the scriptures that I taste from your holy lips.
I believe in the gospels written by your divine tongue.
I believe in the pulpit which I find,
And always find, at the church inside your mouth.
I believe that your whole body is the Eucharist turned into flesh.
I believe that every breath you take is a glimpse
Of my salvation and redemption.
And even if I die every time you inhale,
And you bury me in the crypt between your lips,
I know, and I’m sure of this, after you exhale
I shall rise again.

Now, even if you see no holes in my palms,
No wound in my side,
Reach out your hand and have faith in me.

Jade Mark B. Capiñanes, an AB English student at Mindanao State University – General Santos City. This is the piece he performed in “#HugotGensan: Ang Unang Tikim,” a spoken word event organized by Pangandungan, a newly-formed writers group in GenSan.

Notes on Peace: In Ciudad de Sambuwangan

Nonfiction by | July 31, 2016

The rugged coastline came into view as our plane approached the airport of Zamboanga City, Sambuwangan to the ancient Sama people. This was only my second time to visit this city. The first time was a quick stopover as we transitted for Tawi-Tawi. But this second visit, only days after the Zamboanga Siege, and with the city still trying to salvage itself from the trauma of those days, brings out various emotions in me.

As we neared land, houses on stilts below us grew larger, ships lining the coast called eager young men and women to a better life, perhaps in Sabah. Flooded houses also grew more vivid, reminding the plane’s passengers of yet another recent calamity that hit the city.

I searched within me if I’ve come prepared for the work ahead. Have I read enough materials on this siege? How much do I know of the ethnic diversity in the area, to better understand the situation? How sensitive am I to woundedness? Will anyone be ever really prepared to face such monsters as trauma and grief?

Continue reading Notes on Peace: In Ciudad de Sambuwangan

Fatima, the War Nurse

Poetry by | July 31, 2016

In her clinic in the camp, she whispers
Her prayers, hoping no one had been hurt.

But when the forest hushes from gunfire and grenades,
She hears howls of pain, Tabang! Tabang kamo!

Her instruments were all set, laid on the bamboo table – scissors,
Syringe, and bandages – waiting for the wounded.

A bloodied brother in front of her came with a headwound.
Scalp grinning, slit by a bullet. And she stitches it

The way her mother had sewn her pink abaya.
Curious eyes peeking, vision passing through amakan walls.

Veiled women outside covering their mouths.
Pink, sequined veil covers her head. “The color relaxes

The patient,” she remembers. As she buries the needle
In the warrior’s skin once more, she recalls how an old patient

Repelled her, refused her care, for she was wearing a veil.
She had not removed her tondong.

She had turned to another patient, since then.
She gave a slight smile behind her surgical mask

When “Alhamdulillah” came out of the wounded man’s mouth.
Fatima hears gunfire go off again as she washes her hands.

She closes her eyes and waits
For the forest to be completely silent.

—
Mohammad Nassefh R. Macla graduated from the University of the Philippines Mindanao with a degree in BA English, major in Creative Writing. He is a Kaagan-Moro writer from Panabo City, Davao del Norte.

May you also love me like a fever

Poetry by | July 23, 2016

Translated from the poem by Adonis Durado

May you also love me
like a fever,
Fever whose heat would not subside.
Heat born with chills.
Chills that disdain covers
Source from a deep jealousy.
Jealousy that cannot be appeased
Having been assured too many times.
Assurance expelled in one cough.
Cough of one so delicate, may be
sprained by a tickle to the soul.
Soul that’s a swelling in your loin
but a swelling in my chest.
Chest, ah, this chest of mine
ever breathing your
moods, antics, will…
for I am your refuge,
your one piece of blanket,
your single teaspoon of medicine.

Anthony L. Kintanar is a member of Bathalan-ong Halad sa Dagang-Sugbo (Bathalad-Sugbo), the foremost organization of writers in Cebuano, and has contributed to its publications as author, editor, and translator. He attended the Silliman University National Writers Workshop and was an associate editor of the Sands and Coral, Silliman’s literary journal.

Does it really matter what the dead think? (Part 2)

Fiction by | July 23, 2016

Ted chews the pancit he has shut into his mouth. He stares at Melissa and raises his brow, as if to ask her if anything’s wrong. She hasn’t said much throughout the meal, and she’s only spoke to him intermittently since he arrived.

“Have I told you this pancit is delicious?” he mutters.

“Thanks,” she says, folding her arms.

He piles strips of cabbages and mushrooms on the side of his plate. “I don’t like vegetables, darling,” he’d say, “I just like the noodles.” She used to argue with him that the taste of the vegetables have seeped into the noodles anyway, and that’s how the real pancit guisado should come as, so he might as well eat them, the lot. She can’t be bothered now, though. Besides, in their arguments, he always wins.

Continue reading Does it really matter what the dead think? (Part 2)

Panggaon unta ko nimo sama sa usa ka hilanat

Poetry by | July 17, 2016

Panggaon pod unta ko nimo
nga sama sa usa ka hilanat.
Hilanat nga way kunhod ang kainit.
Kainit nga gikaluhaag takig.
Takig nga di buot magpabukot,
daw suol sa lawm nga pangabubho.
Pangabubho nga di pahaplas
kay dili na mosalig sa pasalig.
Pasalig nga maukal ras usa ka ubo.
Ubo sa usa ka tandogonon,
dali rang malisa sa kundat sa kalag.
Kalag nga lisay sa imong bugan
apan lisay ning akong dughan.
Dughan, intawn, kining dughan
kong baskog kanunay sa imong
sapot, tiaw, pagbuot… kay lagi
ako man ang imong abtanan,
imong usa ka panapton nga habol,
imong usa ka kutsaritang tambal.

This poem is part of Adonis Durado’s poetry collection, Lisay sa Bugan, that was recently launched in Davao city. Adonis Durado is the author of two previous collections, Dili Tanang Matagak Mahagbong (2008) and Minugbo Alang sa Mugbo og Kalipay (2009). He was the recipient of several literary awards, including the Emmanuel Lacaba Prize for Cebuano poetry, the Outstanding New Writer Award (Cebuano Studies Center and Faigao Foundation), and the Writer of the Year (Bathalad Foundation). You may read the English translation of this poem here.

Does It Matter What the Dead Think? (Part 1)

Fiction by | July 17, 2016

Her hand still holds the telephone handset. The sound of it dropping onto its base seemed like a closing door, banging and locking her into her guilt and uselessness. The clear blue skies outside her window in Armidale seemed to have turned overcast like the grey skies of her General Santos town. She cups her mouth as she lowers herself onto the floor and feels the tears roll down her cheeks. Her mother’s cry on the phone keeps playing in her mind.

“Inday, ulahi na ang tanan. It was too late for all of us. We tried, but Nene didn’t make it to the hospital.” The old lady’s controlled voice showed the sincerity of their endeavors to save her sister. “We could have saved her if we’ve known beforehand.”

Melissa, or Inday to her family in Gensan, knows that her sister and her sister’s baby could have been saved had her sister been admitted to the lying-in clinic. There, midwives would have been able to determine her state of pregnancy earlier and prescribe a caesarian procedure at the hospital. Melissa had insisted that giving birth at home with the assistance of a midwife would be okay. This is what most women do in the Philippines. Nene agreed.

Continue reading Does It Matter What the Dead Think? (Part 1)