Poetry by | January 15, 2012

I listen to the sky speak of tenderness
in a dialect dappled with stars. I listen
to trees talk eagerly of cooler winds

and true love among everything else
that is awfully missed in this part of town.
Like an ancient thief prying for the word

that reveals Earth for all its treasures,
I listen so I can learn about the night
and its most careful gestures so when

it is my turn to speak I can say – Yes,
the world insists on darkness and difficult
magic. And yes, there is music to ease us

in our sleep. In my dreams, I learn of time
as the heartbeat of angels spoken with
indelicate accents of light, and although

I have yet to offer what little I have left
of prayer, I keep my fingers unfurled,
my palms open to promises of better days

and lovelier afterhours. Yes, let us talk of love.
Let us talk of prayer. Let us talk of things
we have yet to offer. Because when this part

of town slowly yields to slumber,
it will be to the drone of rainclouds drifting
over a thousand fluorescent flowers.

Allen Samsuya was a Creative Writing major at UP Mindanao. He was a fellow for poetry at the 2009 Davao Writers Workshop, at the 18th Iligan National Writers Workshop, and at the 50th Silliman National Writers Workshop. Some of his works have appeared in Philippines Graphic, SunStar Davao and the Best of Dagmay anthology.

Inside the Raincloud

Poetry by | August 14, 2011

You came up to me
inside the raincloud,
a couple of storms back,
and asked me of secrets
that only the sky and I
know of. I remember
telling you a handful

of stories like how lightning
is a few flimsy strings
that broke from the harps
of angels, how gardens grow
between the colors of a rainbow ,
how the moon really is
an island made of haloes.

It was a good talk. I remember
holding your hand as we walked
slowly towards that corner
where you gave me a kiss
and refused to say goodbye.
I remember watching you
step inside that single raindrop
that brought you back
to your part of the world
where you became part
of the flood once more.­­

Allen Samsuya had been a fellow for poetry during the 2009 Davao Writers Workshop, the 18th Iligan National Writers Workshop, and the 50th Silliman National Writers Workshop this year.

Supernova-ready Stars

Poetry by | October 24, 2010

Someday, when science makes it possible for us
to put up convenient stores in space,
we’ll build one and do business and live our days
by selling everyone pure unadulterated stars

It’s sure to sell like crazy since everyone
wants something stellar, something brilliant,
cosmic and quaint, yet familiar
enough for comfort.

Something like all other things—
kept in order in neat shelves,
tagged with fixed prices,
readily available over the counter.

And when on the verge of being black holes,
they’d remain just as convenient—
instant escape to inescapable places, the end
of all things, the universe’s Doomsday special.

Allen Samsuya studies creative writing in UP Mindanao. He was a fellow at the Davao Writers Workshop 2009.

"She doesn't know, but I know…."

Poetry by | February 14, 2010

She doesn’t know, but I know
how she still has the hots for me—
How she keeps her hair kempt
and smelling of warm gin
and citrus so she’s sure
she intoxicates me
despite the distance she claims
to have between us. And how
she wants me to take her hard
against something, a wall perhaps,
or a closet, or a king-sized bed.
This, I can tell by the way she walks
away— the weight of a love
nurtured in secrecy constantly
shifting on the curve of her waist
but she walks away, anyway.

Allen Samsuya is a writing student at UPMin.


Poetry by | June 7, 2009

We might not come back home for awhile to Cotabato
because there are more things to do than catch a bus
and travel a tedious 6 to 7 hours. Imagine the hassle
of having to stop by a terrible total of 10 terminals
and all for what? Once there, we’ll probably waste our weeks
on good-for-nothing visits to former classmates’ houses,
old friends, and dozens more of other people we used to know
so well, but now find hard to even barely recognize—
as when we chance upon them whenever we buy
our fruit shakes and burgers at Manong’s, or when we shop
for overpriced stuff at South Seas, or at nights when we party
and waste ourselves at Pacific Heights.

Continue reading Cotabato

Noodles and Expiry Dates

Poetry by | February 3, 2008

I wish love were just like instant noodles –
that it came with its flavor written on its pack—
   sweet or spicy,
   nothing too strange for the tongue;
that it came with instructions:
Cook in briskly boiling water for three minutes.
Mix special seasoning of secrets and soy sauce into a paste.
Drain noodles of unnecessary water. Mix well with the prepared paste.
That it could be consumed,
   whether a little half- or over- cooked,
‘til hunger is no more;
that it would warn
   every starving boy and girl
   when it will expire.