Philosopher's Love Song
by Tita Lacambra-Ayala
If truth is real
it will
become true
If truth is
unreal it will
not become
as you
are truth
as you are real
you will
become true
if not to me
at least to your self
at least to the part
that’s real
to me when I
touch you
The Tree by G. Burce Bunao (Poem)
The Tree
by G. Burce Bunao
The tree was very beautiful to me
When I was a boy
I climbed for fruit or out of a branch of the tree
Made me a toy–
A top, for instance, that spun around, carefree
And wound for joy
Until it toppled over and was dead.
No longer the boy,
I find the tree as beautiful as though not
Just for branch
Or a bunch of fruit but-more than that-for a bed
Or to fence the ranch
In which I raise the beasts that fill the pot
In the many shapes
My simple commerce turn them to like bread
Or fish or grapes
To feed the brood the little woman me.
There go the boys.
Go watch them, strong limb; spread up the tree,
They pluck their toys
Out of its branches, as out of my childhood tree
I shaped my joys.
by G. Burce Bunao
The tree was very beautiful to me
When I was a boy
I climbed for fruit or out of a branch of the tree
Made me a toy–
A top, for instance, that spun around, carefree
And wound for joy
Until it toppled over and was dead.
No longer the boy,
I find the tree as beautiful as though not
Just for branch
Or a bunch of fruit but-more than that-for a bed
Or to fence the ranch
In which I raise the beasts that fill the pot
In the many shapes
My simple commerce turn them to like bread
Or fish or grapes
To feed the brood the little woman me.
There go the boys.
Go watch them, strong limb; spread up the tree,
They pluck their toys
Out of its branches, as out of my childhood tree
I shaped my joys.
Kay Gilda by Rio Alma (Poem)
(This is a poem pennd by Rio Alma as tribute for the passing of Gilda Cordero-Fernando in 2020.)
Kay Gilda
by Rio Alma
Kung pagsaulan kong basáhin sa isip
Ang nangakaraang araw ng ligalig,
Walang mahagilap na lungtiang titik
Liban na kay Gildang namugad sa dibdib.
Yaong Gildang lagìng ginugunamgunam
Na bitwing marikit at di mapaparam,
Minsang naging tanglaw niring kapalaran
Sa mundong madilim at tigib sa panglaw.
Makaligtaan ko kayâng di bigkasin
Ang kaniyang payo at masayáng bilin?
Huwag ikalungkot ang gabing madilim,
Kung nabubúhay pa at diwa ay gisíng.
Lumipas ang araw naming matatamis
Kahit nagdidilim ang buong paligid;
Ang halakhak niya’y mahimalang tinig
Pantaboy sa taksil at itim na bagwis.
Ngayong nawala na at nangungulila,
Ano ang gagawin pag muling nagdusa?
Ay! May tatamis pang dapat maalala?
Wala nang tatamis, wala na nga, Gilda!
Kay Gilda
by Rio Alma
Kung pagsaulan kong basáhin sa isip
Ang nangakaraang araw ng ligalig,
Walang mahagilap na lungtiang titik
Liban na kay Gildang namugad sa dibdib.
Yaong Gildang lagìng ginugunamgunam
Na bitwing marikit at di mapaparam,
Minsang naging tanglaw niring kapalaran
Sa mundong madilim at tigib sa panglaw.
Makaligtaan ko kayâng di bigkasin
Ang kaniyang payo at masayáng bilin?
Huwag ikalungkot ang gabing madilim,
Kung nabubúhay pa at diwa ay gisíng.
Lumipas ang araw naming matatamis
Kahit nagdidilim ang buong paligid;
Ang halakhak niya’y mahimalang tinig
Pantaboy sa taksil at itim na bagwis.
Ngayong nawala na at nangungulila,
Ano ang gagawin pag muling nagdusa?
Ay! May tatamis pang dapat maalala?
Wala nang tatamis, wala na nga, Gilda!
To the Man I Married by Angela Manalang-Gloria (Poem)
To the Man I Married
by Angela Manalang-Gloria
I
You are my earth and all the earth implies:
The gravity that ballasts me in space,
The air I breathe, the land that stills my cries
For food and shelter against devouring days.
You are the earth whose orbit marks my way
And sets my north and south, my east and west,
You are the final, elemented clay
The driven heart must turn to for its rest.
If in your arms that hold me now so near
I lift my keening thoughts to Helicon
As trees long rooted to the earth uprear
Their quickening leaves and flowers to the sun,
You who are earth, O never doubt that I
Need you no less because I need the sky!
II
I can not love you with a love
That outcompares the boundless sea,
For that were false, as no such love
And no such ocean can ever be.
But I can love you with a love
As finite as the wave that dies
And dying holds from crest to crest
The blue of everlasting skies.
by Angela Manalang-Gloria
I
You are my earth and all the earth implies:
The gravity that ballasts me in space,
The air I breathe, the land that stills my cries
For food and shelter against devouring days.
You are the earth whose orbit marks my way
And sets my north and south, my east and west,
You are the final, elemented clay
The driven heart must turn to for its rest.
If in your arms that hold me now so near
I lift my keening thoughts to Helicon
As trees long rooted to the earth uprear
Their quickening leaves and flowers to the sun,
You who are earth, O never doubt that I
Need you no less because I need the sky!
II
I can not love you with a love
That outcompares the boundless sea,
For that were false, as no such love
And no such ocean can ever be.
But I can love you with a love
As finite as the wave that dies
And dying holds from crest to crest
The blue of everlasting skies.
Landscape II by Carlos A. Angeles (Poem)
Landscape II
by Carlos A. Angeles
Sun in the knifed horizon bleeds the sky
Spilling a peacock stain upon the sands,
Across some murdered rocks refused to die.
It is your absence touches my sad hands
Blinded like flags in the wreck of air.
And catacombs of cloud enshroud the cool
And calm involvement of the darkened plains,
The stunted mourners here: and here, a full
And universal tenderness which drains
The sucked and golden breath of sky comes bare.
Now, while the dark basins the void of space,
Some sudden crickets, ambushing me near,
Discover vowels of your whispered face
And subtly cry. I touch your absence here
Remembering the speeches of your hair.
by Carlos A. Angeles
Sun in the knifed horizon bleeds the sky
Spilling a peacock stain upon the sands,
Across some murdered rocks refused to die.
It is your absence touches my sad hands
Blinded like flags in the wreck of air.
And catacombs of cloud enshroud the cool
And calm involvement of the darkened plains,
The stunted mourners here: and here, a full
And universal tenderness which drains
The sucked and golden breath of sky comes bare.
Now, while the dark basins the void of space,
Some sudden crickets, ambushing me near,
Discover vowels of your whispered face
And subtly cry. I touch your absence here
Remembering the speeches of your hair.
You can read a literary analysis of this poem here.
Midsummer by Manuel E. Arguilla (Short Story)
He pulled down his hat until the wide brim touched his shoulders. He crouched lower under the cover of his cart and peered ahead. The road seemed to writhe under the lash of the noon-day heat; it swum from side to side, humped and bent itself like a feeling serpent, and disappeared behind the spur of a low hill on which grew a scrawny thicket of bamboo.
There was not a house in sight. Along the left side of the road ran the deep, dry gorge of a stream, the banks sparsely covered by sun-burned cogon grass. In places, the rocky, waterless bed showed aridly. Farther, beyond the shimmer of quivering heat waves rose ancient hills not less blue than the cloud-palisaded sky. On the right stretched a land waste of low rolling dunes. Scattered clumps of hardy ledda relieved the otherwise barren monotony of the landscape. Far away he could discern a thin indigo line that was the sea.
The grating of the cartwheels on the pebbles of the road and the almost soundless shuffle of the weary bull but emphasized the stillness. Now and then came the dry rustling of falling earth as lumps from the cracked sides of the gorge fell down to the bottom.
He struck at the bull with the slack of the rope. The animal broke into a heavy trot. The dust stirred slumbrously. The bull slowed down, threw up his head, and a glistening thread of saliva spun out into the dry air. The dying rays of the sun were reflected in points of light on the wet, heaving flanks.
The man in the cart did not notice the woman until she had rounded the spur of land and stood unmoving beside the road, watching the cart and its occupant come toward her. She was young, surprisingly sweet and fresh amidst her parched surroundings. A gaily stripped kerchief covered her head, the ends tied at the nape of her neck. She wore a homespun bodice of light red cloth with small white checks. Her skirt was also homespun and showed a pattern of white checks with narrow stripes of yellow and red. With both hands she held by the mouth a large, apparently empty, water jug, the cool red of which blended well with her dress. She was barefoot.
She stood straight and still beside the road and regarded him with frank curiosity. Suddenly she turned and disappeared into the dry gorge. Coming to where she had stood a few moments before, he pulled up the bull and got out of the cart. He saw where a narrow path had been cut into the bank and stood a while lost in thought, absently wiping the perspiration from his face. Then he unhitched his bull and for a few moments, with strong brown fingers, kneaded the hot neck of the beast. Driving the animal before him, he followed the path. It led up the dry bed of the stream; the sharp fragments of sun-heated rocks were like burning coals under his feet. There was no sign of the young woman.
He came upon her beyond a bed in the gorge, where a big mango tree, which had partly fallen from the side of the ravine, cast its cool shade over a well.
She had filled her jar and was rolling the kerchief around her hand into a flat coil which she placed on her head. Without glancing at him, where he had stopped some distance off, she sat down of her heels, gathering the fold of her skirt between her wide-spread knees. She tilted the brimful jar to remove part of the water. One hand on the rim, the other supporting the bottom, she began to raise it to her head. She knelt on one kneeresting, for a moment, the jar onto her head, getting to her feet at the same time. But she staggered a little and water splashed down on her breast. The single bodice instantly clung to her bosom molding the twin hillocks of her breasts warmly brown through the wet cloth. One arm remained uplifted, holding the jar, while the other shook the clinging cloth free of her drenched flesh. Then not once having raised her eyes, she passed by the young man, who stood mutely gazing beside his bull. The animal had found some grass along the path and was industriously grazing.
He turned to watch the graceful figure beneath the jar until it vanished around a bend in the path leading to the road. Then he led the bull to the well, and tethered it to a root of the mango tree.
"The underpart of her arm is white and smooth," he said to his blurred image on the water of the well, as he leaned over before lowering the bucket made of half a petroleum can. "And her hair is thick and black." The bucket struck with a rattling impact. It filled with one long gurgle. He threw his hat on the grass and pulled the bucket up with both hands.
The twisted bamboo rope bit into his hardened palms, and he thought how... the same rope must hurt her.
He placed the dripping bucket on a flat stone, and the bull drank. "Son of lightning!" he said, thumping the side of the bull after it had drunk the third bucketful, "you drink like the great Kuantitao!" A low, rich rumbling rolled through the cavernous body of the beast. He tied it again to the root, and the animal idly rubbed its horns against the wood. The sun had fallen from the perpendicular, and noticing that the bull stood partly exposed to the sun, he pushed it farther into shade. He fanned himself with his hat. He whistled to entice the wind from the sea, but not a breeze stirred.
After a while he put on his hat and hurriedly walked the short distance through the gorge up to the road where his cart stood. From inside he took a jute sack which he slung over one shoulder. With the other arm, he gathered part of the hay at the bottom of the cart. He returned to the well, slips of straw falling behind him as he picked his way from one tuft of grass to another, for the broken rocks of the path has grown exceedingly hot.
He gave the hay to the bull, Its rump was again in the sun, and he had to push it back. "Fool, do you want to broil yourself alive?" he said good-humoredly, slapping the thick haunches. It switched its long-haired tail and fell to eating. The dry, sweet-smelling hay made harsh gritting sounds in the mouth of the hungry animal. Saliva rolled out from the corners, clung to the stiff hairs that fringed the thick lower lip, fell and gleamed and evaporated in the heated air.
He took out of the jute sack a polished coconut shell. The top had been sawed off and holes bored at opposite sides, through which a string tied to the lower part of the shell passed in a loop. The smaller piece could thus be slipped up and down as a cover. The coconut shell contained cooked rice still a little warm. Buried on the top was an egg now boiled hard. He next brought out a bamboo tube of salt, a cake of brown sugar wrapped in banana leaf, and some dried shrimps. Then he spread the sack in what remained of the shade, placed his simple meal thereon, and prepared to eat his dinner. But first he drew a bucketful of water from the well, setting the bucket on a rock. He seated himself on another rock and ate with his fingers. From time to time he drank from the bucket.
He was half through with his meal when the girl came down the path once more. She had changed the wetted bodice. He watched her with lowered head as she approached, and felt a difficulty in continuing to eat, but went through the motions of filling his mouth nevertheless. He strained his eyes looking at the girl from beneath his eyebrows. How graceful she was! Her hips tapered smoothly down to round thighs and supple legs, showing against her skirt and moving straight and free. Her shoulders, small but firm, bore her shapely neck and head with shy pride.
When she was very near, he ate more hurriedly, so that he almost choked. He did not look at her. She placed the jar between three stones. When she picked up the rope of the bucket, he came to himself. He looked up--straight into her face. He saw her eyes. They were brown and were regarding him gravely, without embarrassment; he forget his own timidity.
"Won't you join me, Ading?" he said simply. He remained seated.
Her lips parted in a half smile and a little dimple appeared high upon her right cheek. She shook her head and said: "God reward you, Manong."
"Perhaps the poor food I have is not fit for you?"
"No, no. It isn't that. How can you think of it? I should be ashamed. It is that I have must eaten myself. That is why I came to get water in the middle of the day--we ran out of it. I see you have eggs and shrimps and sugar. Why, be had nothing but rice and salt."
"Salt? Surely you joke."
"I would be ashamed..."
"But what is the matter with salt?"
"Salt...salt...Makes baby stout," he intoned. "My grandmother used to sing that to me when I complained of our food."
They laughed and felt more at ease and regarded each other more openly. He took a long time fingering his rice before raising it to his mouth, the while he gazed up at her and smiled for no reason. She smile back in turn and gave the rope which she held an absent-minded tug. The bucket came down from its perch of rock in a miniature flood. He leaped to his feet with a surprised yell, and the next instant the jute sack on which he lay his meal was drenched. Only the rice inside the coconut shell and the bamboo of tube of salt were saved from the water.
She was distressed, but he only laughed.
"It is nothing," he said. "It was time I stopped eating. I have filled up to my neck."
"Forgive me, Manong," she insisted. "It was all my fault. Such a clumsy creature I am."
"It was not your fault," she assured him. "I am to blame for placing the bucket of water where I did."
"I will draw you another bucketful," he said. "I am stronger than you."
"No, you must let me do it."
But when he caught hold of the bucket and stretched forth a brawny arm for the coil of rope in her hands, she surrendered both to him quickly and drew back a step as though shy of his touch. He lowered the bucket with his back to her, and she had time to take in the tallness of him, the breadth of his shoulders, the sinewy strength of his legs. Down below in the small of his back, two parallel ridges of rope-like muscle stuck out against the wet shirt. As he hauled up the bucket, muscles rippled all over his body. His hair, which was wavy, cut short behind but long in fronts fell in a cluster over his forehead.
"Let me hold the bucket while you drink," she offered.
He flashed her a smile over his shoulders as he poured the water into her jar, and again lowered the bucket.
"No, no, you must not do that." She hurried to his side and held one of his arms. "I couldn't let you, a stranger..."
"Why not?" He smiled down at her, and noticed a slight film of moisture clinging to the down on her upper lip and experienced a sudden desire to wipe it away with his forefinger. He continued to lower the bucket while she had to stand by.
"Hadn't you better move over to the shade?" he suggested, as the bucket struck the water.
"What shall I do there?" she asked sharply, as though the idea of seeking protection from the heat were contemptible to her.
"You will get roasted standing here in the sun," he said, and began to haul up the bucket.
But she remained beside him, catching the rope as it feel from his hands, coiling it carefully. The jar was filled, with plenty to drink as she tilted the half-filled can until the water lapped the rim. He gulped a mouthful, gargled noisily, spewed it out, then commenced to drink in earnest. He took long, deep droughts of the sweetish water, for he was more thirsty than he had thought. A chuckling sound persisted in forming inside his throat at every swallow. It made him self-conscious. He was breathless when through, and red in the face.
"I don't know why it makes that sound," he said, fingering his throat and laughing shamefacedly.
"Father also makes that sound when he drinks, and mother always laughs at him," she said. She untied the headkerchief over her hair and started to roll it.
Then sun had descended considerably and there was now hardly any shade under the tree. The bull was gathering with its tongue stray slips of straw. He untied the animal to lead it to the other side of the girl who spoke; "Manong, why don't you come to our house and bring your animal with you? There is shade and you can sleep, though our house is very poor."
She had already placed the jar on her head and stood, half-turned to him, waiting for his answer.
"I would be troubling you, Ading."
"No. You come. I have told mother about you." She turned and went down the path.
He sent the bull after her with smart slap on its side. Then he quickly gathered the remains of his meal, put them inside the jute sack which had almost dried, and himself followed. Then seeing that the bull had stopped to nibble the tufts of grass that dotted the bottom of the gorge, he picked up the dragging rope and urged the animal on into a trot. They caught up with the girl near the cart. She stopped to wait.
He did not volunteer a word. He walked a step behind, the bull lumbering in front. More than ever he was conscious of her person. She carried the jar on her head without holding it. Her hands swung to her even steps. He drew back his square shoulders, lifted his chin, and sniffed the motionless air. There was a flourish in the way he flicked the rump of the bull with the rope in his hand. He felt strong. He felt very strong. He felt that he could follow the slender, lithe figure to the end of the world.
There was not a house in sight. Along the left side of the road ran the deep, dry gorge of a stream, the banks sparsely covered by sun-burned cogon grass. In places, the rocky, waterless bed showed aridly. Farther, beyond the shimmer of quivering heat waves rose ancient hills not less blue than the cloud-palisaded sky. On the right stretched a land waste of low rolling dunes. Scattered clumps of hardy ledda relieved the otherwise barren monotony of the landscape. Far away he could discern a thin indigo line that was the sea.
The grating of the cartwheels on the pebbles of the road and the almost soundless shuffle of the weary bull but emphasized the stillness. Now and then came the dry rustling of falling earth as lumps from the cracked sides of the gorge fell down to the bottom.
He struck at the bull with the slack of the rope. The animal broke into a heavy trot. The dust stirred slumbrously. The bull slowed down, threw up his head, and a glistening thread of saliva spun out into the dry air. The dying rays of the sun were reflected in points of light on the wet, heaving flanks.
The man in the cart did not notice the woman until she had rounded the spur of land and stood unmoving beside the road, watching the cart and its occupant come toward her. She was young, surprisingly sweet and fresh amidst her parched surroundings. A gaily stripped kerchief covered her head, the ends tied at the nape of her neck. She wore a homespun bodice of light red cloth with small white checks. Her skirt was also homespun and showed a pattern of white checks with narrow stripes of yellow and red. With both hands she held by the mouth a large, apparently empty, water jug, the cool red of which blended well with her dress. She was barefoot.
She stood straight and still beside the road and regarded him with frank curiosity. Suddenly she turned and disappeared into the dry gorge. Coming to where she had stood a few moments before, he pulled up the bull and got out of the cart. He saw where a narrow path had been cut into the bank and stood a while lost in thought, absently wiping the perspiration from his face. Then he unhitched his bull and for a few moments, with strong brown fingers, kneaded the hot neck of the beast. Driving the animal before him, he followed the path. It led up the dry bed of the stream; the sharp fragments of sun-heated rocks were like burning coals under his feet. There was no sign of the young woman.
He came upon her beyond a bed in the gorge, where a big mango tree, which had partly fallen from the side of the ravine, cast its cool shade over a well.
She had filled her jar and was rolling the kerchief around her hand into a flat coil which she placed on her head. Without glancing at him, where he had stopped some distance off, she sat down of her heels, gathering the fold of her skirt between her wide-spread knees. She tilted the brimful jar to remove part of the water. One hand on the rim, the other supporting the bottom, she began to raise it to her head. She knelt on one kneeresting, for a moment, the jar onto her head, getting to her feet at the same time. But she staggered a little and water splashed down on her breast. The single bodice instantly clung to her bosom molding the twin hillocks of her breasts warmly brown through the wet cloth. One arm remained uplifted, holding the jar, while the other shook the clinging cloth free of her drenched flesh. Then not once having raised her eyes, she passed by the young man, who stood mutely gazing beside his bull. The animal had found some grass along the path and was industriously grazing.
He turned to watch the graceful figure beneath the jar until it vanished around a bend in the path leading to the road. Then he led the bull to the well, and tethered it to a root of the mango tree.
"The underpart of her arm is white and smooth," he said to his blurred image on the water of the well, as he leaned over before lowering the bucket made of half a petroleum can. "And her hair is thick and black." The bucket struck with a rattling impact. It filled with one long gurgle. He threw his hat on the grass and pulled the bucket up with both hands.
The twisted bamboo rope bit into his hardened palms, and he thought how... the same rope must hurt her.
He placed the dripping bucket on a flat stone, and the bull drank. "Son of lightning!" he said, thumping the side of the bull after it had drunk the third bucketful, "you drink like the great Kuantitao!" A low, rich rumbling rolled through the cavernous body of the beast. He tied it again to the root, and the animal idly rubbed its horns against the wood. The sun had fallen from the perpendicular, and noticing that the bull stood partly exposed to the sun, he pushed it farther into shade. He fanned himself with his hat. He whistled to entice the wind from the sea, but not a breeze stirred.
After a while he put on his hat and hurriedly walked the short distance through the gorge up to the road where his cart stood. From inside he took a jute sack which he slung over one shoulder. With the other arm, he gathered part of the hay at the bottom of the cart. He returned to the well, slips of straw falling behind him as he picked his way from one tuft of grass to another, for the broken rocks of the path has grown exceedingly hot.
He gave the hay to the bull, Its rump was again in the sun, and he had to push it back. "Fool, do you want to broil yourself alive?" he said good-humoredly, slapping the thick haunches. It switched its long-haired tail and fell to eating. The dry, sweet-smelling hay made harsh gritting sounds in the mouth of the hungry animal. Saliva rolled out from the corners, clung to the stiff hairs that fringed the thick lower lip, fell and gleamed and evaporated in the heated air.
He took out of the jute sack a polished coconut shell. The top had been sawed off and holes bored at opposite sides, through which a string tied to the lower part of the shell passed in a loop. The smaller piece could thus be slipped up and down as a cover. The coconut shell contained cooked rice still a little warm. Buried on the top was an egg now boiled hard. He next brought out a bamboo tube of salt, a cake of brown sugar wrapped in banana leaf, and some dried shrimps. Then he spread the sack in what remained of the shade, placed his simple meal thereon, and prepared to eat his dinner. But first he drew a bucketful of water from the well, setting the bucket on a rock. He seated himself on another rock and ate with his fingers. From time to time he drank from the bucket.
He was half through with his meal when the girl came down the path once more. She had changed the wetted bodice. He watched her with lowered head as she approached, and felt a difficulty in continuing to eat, but went through the motions of filling his mouth nevertheless. He strained his eyes looking at the girl from beneath his eyebrows. How graceful she was! Her hips tapered smoothly down to round thighs and supple legs, showing against her skirt and moving straight and free. Her shoulders, small but firm, bore her shapely neck and head with shy pride.
When she was very near, he ate more hurriedly, so that he almost choked. He did not look at her. She placed the jar between three stones. When she picked up the rope of the bucket, he came to himself. He looked up--straight into her face. He saw her eyes. They were brown and were regarding him gravely, without embarrassment; he forget his own timidity.
"Won't you join me, Ading?" he said simply. He remained seated.
Her lips parted in a half smile and a little dimple appeared high upon her right cheek. She shook her head and said: "God reward you, Manong."
"Perhaps the poor food I have is not fit for you?"
"No, no. It isn't that. How can you think of it? I should be ashamed. It is that I have must eaten myself. That is why I came to get water in the middle of the day--we ran out of it. I see you have eggs and shrimps and sugar. Why, be had nothing but rice and salt."
"Salt? Surely you joke."
"I would be ashamed..."
"But what is the matter with salt?"
"Salt...salt...Makes baby stout," he intoned. "My grandmother used to sing that to me when I complained of our food."
They laughed and felt more at ease and regarded each other more openly. He took a long time fingering his rice before raising it to his mouth, the while he gazed up at her and smiled for no reason. She smile back in turn and gave the rope which she held an absent-minded tug. The bucket came down from its perch of rock in a miniature flood. He leaped to his feet with a surprised yell, and the next instant the jute sack on which he lay his meal was drenched. Only the rice inside the coconut shell and the bamboo of tube of salt were saved from the water.
She was distressed, but he only laughed.
"It is nothing," he said. "It was time I stopped eating. I have filled up to my neck."
"Forgive me, Manong," she insisted. "It was all my fault. Such a clumsy creature I am."
"It was not your fault," she assured him. "I am to blame for placing the bucket of water where I did."
"I will draw you another bucketful," he said. "I am stronger than you."
"No, you must let me do it."
But when he caught hold of the bucket and stretched forth a brawny arm for the coil of rope in her hands, she surrendered both to him quickly and drew back a step as though shy of his touch. He lowered the bucket with his back to her, and she had time to take in the tallness of him, the breadth of his shoulders, the sinewy strength of his legs. Down below in the small of his back, two parallel ridges of rope-like muscle stuck out against the wet shirt. As he hauled up the bucket, muscles rippled all over his body. His hair, which was wavy, cut short behind but long in fronts fell in a cluster over his forehead.
"Let me hold the bucket while you drink," she offered.
He flashed her a smile over his shoulders as he poured the water into her jar, and again lowered the bucket.
"No, no, you must not do that." She hurried to his side and held one of his arms. "I couldn't let you, a stranger..."
"Why not?" He smiled down at her, and noticed a slight film of moisture clinging to the down on her upper lip and experienced a sudden desire to wipe it away with his forefinger. He continued to lower the bucket while she had to stand by.
"Hadn't you better move over to the shade?" he suggested, as the bucket struck the water.
"What shall I do there?" she asked sharply, as though the idea of seeking protection from the heat were contemptible to her.
"You will get roasted standing here in the sun," he said, and began to haul up the bucket.
But she remained beside him, catching the rope as it feel from his hands, coiling it carefully. The jar was filled, with plenty to drink as she tilted the half-filled can until the water lapped the rim. He gulped a mouthful, gargled noisily, spewed it out, then commenced to drink in earnest. He took long, deep droughts of the sweetish water, for he was more thirsty than he had thought. A chuckling sound persisted in forming inside his throat at every swallow. It made him self-conscious. He was breathless when through, and red in the face.
"I don't know why it makes that sound," he said, fingering his throat and laughing shamefacedly.
"Father also makes that sound when he drinks, and mother always laughs at him," she said. She untied the headkerchief over her hair and started to roll it.
Then sun had descended considerably and there was now hardly any shade under the tree. The bull was gathering with its tongue stray slips of straw. He untied the animal to lead it to the other side of the girl who spoke; "Manong, why don't you come to our house and bring your animal with you? There is shade and you can sleep, though our house is very poor."
She had already placed the jar on her head and stood, half-turned to him, waiting for his answer.
"I would be troubling you, Ading."
"No. You come. I have told mother about you." She turned and went down the path.
He sent the bull after her with smart slap on its side. Then he quickly gathered the remains of his meal, put them inside the jute sack which had almost dried, and himself followed. Then seeing that the bull had stopped to nibble the tufts of grass that dotted the bottom of the gorge, he picked up the dragging rope and urged the animal on into a trot. They caught up with the girl near the cart. She stopped to wait.
He did not volunteer a word. He walked a step behind, the bull lumbering in front. More than ever he was conscious of her person. She carried the jar on her head without holding it. Her hands swung to her even steps. He drew back his square shoulders, lifted his chin, and sniffed the motionless air. There was a flourish in the way he flicked the rump of the bull with the rope in his hand. He felt strong. He felt very strong. He felt that he could follow the slender, lithe figure to the end of the world.
Yevtushenko, On A Rainy Day by Benilda S. Santos (Poem)
Yevtushenko, On A Rainy Day
by Benilda S. Santos
All is quiet where I sit
and listen to rain trickling
through a hole in the waterspout
outside my bedroom window.
I seize the moment
to be alone with my Yevtushenko.
He is saying between quotation marks
that look like droplets of rain
suspended near the edge
of my windowpane,
he is saying,
“And I run like mad
Never catching up with myself.”
How I wish he would run right
into my room so he could see
my pen struggling across this piece
of white paper, writing as though
on soggy stationery
or on shreds of sandpaper.
What would he say
if he could see me thus?
Would he recite,
“I walk across life
Shirt collar open” or,
“I am cruel to the petals”?
Or would he simply
lead me out of this room
to the rain-soaked grass
in my garden
where, in a quiet corner,
under an awning,
my soft-spoken washerwoman,
tall and gentle as Yevtushenko,
is noiselessly erasing with a bar of soap
a darkish stain on my skirt?
Or would he whisper
with outstretched arms,
“Come, let us kiss…”?
But the rain has stopped.
Yevtushenko has to go
back to the second-to-the-last-shelf nook,
next to my husband’s copy of
The Stock Market Handbook.
by Benilda S. Santos
All is quiet where I sit
and listen to rain trickling
through a hole in the waterspout
outside my bedroom window.
I seize the moment
to be alone with my Yevtushenko.
He is saying between quotation marks
that look like droplets of rain
suspended near the edge
of my windowpane,
he is saying,
“And I run like mad
Never catching up with myself.”
How I wish he would run right
into my room so he could see
my pen struggling across this piece
of white paper, writing as though
on soggy stationery
or on shreds of sandpaper.
What would he say
if he could see me thus?
Would he recite,
“I walk across life
Shirt collar open” or,
“I am cruel to the petals”?
Or would he simply
lead me out of this room
to the rain-soaked grass
in my garden
where, in a quiet corner,
under an awning,
my soft-spoken washerwoman,
tall and gentle as Yevtushenko,
is noiselessly erasing with a bar of soap
a darkish stain on my skirt?
Or would he whisper
with outstretched arms,
“Come, let us kiss…”?
But the rain has stopped.
Yevtushenko has to go
back to the second-to-the-last-shelf nook,
next to my husband’s copy of
The Stock Market Handbook.
Paglikha by Benilda S. Santos (Poem)
Paglikha
by Benilda S. Santos
Tuwing makakahanap ako ng tula
sa laktaw-laktaw na liwanag sa ulap sa gabi,
sa laganap na dilim ng ulap sa araw,
ang natatagpuan ko ay buwan at ulan.
Sa mukha ng buwan
nababasa ko ang paglusong at pag-ahon,
ang pagkukubli at paglalantad, at
ang himala ng pagiging malinis na ostisya ng langit
sa kabila ng maraming pilat.
Sa patak ng ulan
naririnig ko ang lagaslas at ragasa,
ang hikbi at hagulgol, at
ang himala ng pagiging dalisay na alak ng lupa
sa kabila ng alat at pait.
At isusulat ko:
Ako ang ulap na bilanggo ng liwanag at dilim,
na magpahanggang-ngayon lambong lamang ng buwan
at magpahanggang-wakas lambat lamang ng ulan.
by Benilda S. Santos
Tuwing makakahanap ako ng tula
sa laktaw-laktaw na liwanag sa ulap sa gabi,
sa laganap na dilim ng ulap sa araw,
ang natatagpuan ko ay buwan at ulan.
Sa mukha ng buwan
nababasa ko ang paglusong at pag-ahon,
ang pagkukubli at paglalantad, at
ang himala ng pagiging malinis na ostisya ng langit
sa kabila ng maraming pilat.
Sa patak ng ulan
naririnig ko ang lagaslas at ragasa,
ang hikbi at hagulgol, at
ang himala ng pagiging dalisay na alak ng lupa
sa kabila ng alat at pait.
At isusulat ko:
Ako ang ulap na bilanggo ng liwanag at dilim,
na magpahanggang-ngayon lambong lamang ng buwan
at magpahanggang-wakas lambat lamang ng ulan.
Sa Ngalan Ng Anak by Rebecca T. Añonuevo (Poem)
Sa Ngalan Ng Anak
by Rebecca T. Añonuevo
Hindi ko maalala ang pighati sa kanyang pamamaalam.
Ang sabi ni Ate’y karga raw ako ni Lola-
Nakasombrero’y kumakaway, parang ibig kumawala,
Pabulong-bulong at nanunulis ang nguso,
Tila ibig mangusap at maghabilin,
Inay, lagi kang susulat,
Kaya't mahahalinhan ng tawanan ang knilang mga hikbi
Hindi lang sulat ang tinanggap naming magkakapatid.
Buwan-buwan ay may padala siyang perang panustos
Sa pag-aaral naming at sa pagkain;di magtatagal
ay kahon-kahon ng mamahaling gamit sa bahay
ang titingala sa aming pintuan.
Titingalain din kami ng mga kapitbahay.
Parang bodega ang nangyari, maliban sa kami
ang naging basyo kinalaunan: samantalang pinalakihan
ang bahay at dumami pa ang kasangkapan’
Tinamad naman si Kuyang mag-aral, maagang nag-asawa
Si Ate, nalulong sa ibang babae si Itay,
at si Inay, sa huling sulat niya’y babalik na raw.
Ako ngayon itong hindi matagpuan ang sarili,
pagkatapos ng labinlimang taon at ibang daigdig.
Tulala ang lahat, namumugto ang mga ulap sa labas,
nang-uusig ang lamig ng marmol na sahig’
nakikipagluksa ang mga sinidihang kandila:
Bumalik siyang nakasilid sa kabaong ng mga pangarap.
Sana’y sumpain ko ang mga dayuhang pumatay sa aking ina;
Sana’y mag-apoy sa dibdib ko ang galit sa kanila.
Sana’y manangis ako tulad ng karamihan;
Sana’y maantig ako ng mukha niyang walang buhay.
sana’y matunaw ako sa init ng kanyang pagmamahal para sa kanyang-
Ano’t habang minamalas ko’y hindi makilala.
Hindi ko maalala ang pighati sa kanyang pamamaalam
by Rebecca T. Añonuevo
Hindi ko maalala ang pighati sa kanyang pamamaalam.
Ang sabi ni Ate’y karga raw ako ni Lola-
Nakasombrero’y kumakaway, parang ibig kumawala,
Pabulong-bulong at nanunulis ang nguso,
Tila ibig mangusap at maghabilin,
Inay, lagi kang susulat,
Kaya't mahahalinhan ng tawanan ang knilang mga hikbi
Hindi lang sulat ang tinanggap naming magkakapatid.
Buwan-buwan ay may padala siyang perang panustos
Sa pag-aaral naming at sa pagkain;di magtatagal
ay kahon-kahon ng mamahaling gamit sa bahay
ang titingala sa aming pintuan.
Titingalain din kami ng mga kapitbahay.
Parang bodega ang nangyari, maliban sa kami
ang naging basyo kinalaunan: samantalang pinalakihan
ang bahay at dumami pa ang kasangkapan’
Tinamad naman si Kuyang mag-aral, maagang nag-asawa
Si Ate, nalulong sa ibang babae si Itay,
at si Inay, sa huling sulat niya’y babalik na raw.
Ako ngayon itong hindi matagpuan ang sarili,
pagkatapos ng labinlimang taon at ibang daigdig.
Tulala ang lahat, namumugto ang mga ulap sa labas,
nang-uusig ang lamig ng marmol na sahig’
nakikipagluksa ang mga sinidihang kandila:
Bumalik siyang nakasilid sa kabaong ng mga pangarap.
Sana’y sumpain ko ang mga dayuhang pumatay sa aking ina;
Sana’y mag-apoy sa dibdib ko ang galit sa kanila.
Sana’y manangis ako tulad ng karamihan;
Sana’y maantig ako ng mukha niyang walang buhay.
sana’y matunaw ako sa init ng kanyang pagmamahal para sa kanyang-
Ano’t habang minamalas ko’y hindi makilala.
Hindi ko maalala ang pighati sa kanyang pamamaalam
Usapang Ina at Anak by Merlinda Bobis (Poem)
Usapang Ina at Anak
by Merlinda Bobis
“inang, napakaiksi ng inyong biyahe
mula kama hanggang kalan.”
“ay, anak, tinatawid ko sa mundo
ikaw at ang tatang.”
“inang, nanunuyo na ang inyong mga matang
hindi marahil nasipingan ng diwa.”
“anak, ako ang nagluluwal
ng binhi ng isip.”
“inang, araw-araw yata
ay umiikli ang inyong dila.”
“anak, anak, ang mga labi ko’y hitik
sa mga salitang napipi ng halik.”
“inang, hindi tadyang
ang hinugot kay adan- puso.”
by Merlinda Bobis
“inang, napakaiksi ng inyong biyahe
mula kama hanggang kalan.”
“ay, anak, tinatawid ko sa mundo
ikaw at ang tatang.”
“inang, nanunuyo na ang inyong mga matang
hindi marahil nasipingan ng diwa.”
“anak, ako ang nagluluwal
ng binhi ng isip.”
“inang, araw-araw yata
ay umiikli ang inyong dila.”
“anak, anak, ang mga labi ko’y hitik
sa mga salitang napipi ng halik.”
“inang, hindi tadyang
ang hinugot kay adan- puso.”
Neneng by Merlinda Bobis (Poem)
Neneng
by Merlinda Bobis
pitong taon ka,
ngunit kilalang-kilala na
sa uma-umaga ng makitid mong bangketa-
“’ma, sigarilyo; ale, sampagita.”
dito, tinutuhog ng iyong mga mata
ang piyesta ng iba,
sinisimot ng taynga
ang umaapaw na halakhak nila,
hanggang makarburo ang kislap ng iyong mata
at kuminang ito na singko sa kalsada.
pitong taon ka,
ngunit gabi-gabi, nagpapakasal na
sa hatak ng sanlibong anino;
idinadambana sa lamig ng kongkreto,
sabay bendisyon ng putik sa estero.
pinagkakatuwaan ng mga maligno,
kinakalaro nila, kinakandong pa,
kinakasama, kinukubeta-
tagasalo daw kasi ng himutok nila,
tagaalis ng buwisit na tinga.
by Merlinda Bobis
pitong taon ka,
ngunit kilalang-kilala na
sa uma-umaga ng makitid mong bangketa-
“’ma, sigarilyo; ale, sampagita.”
dito, tinutuhog ng iyong mga mata
ang piyesta ng iba,
sinisimot ng taynga
ang umaapaw na halakhak nila,
hanggang makarburo ang kislap ng iyong mata
at kuminang ito na singko sa kalsada.
pitong taon ka,
ngunit gabi-gabi, nagpapakasal na
sa hatak ng sanlibong anino;
idinadambana sa lamig ng kongkreto,
sabay bendisyon ng putik sa estero.
pinagkakatuwaan ng mga maligno,
kinakalaro nila, kinakandong pa,
kinakasama, kinukubeta-
tagasalo daw kasi ng himutok nila,
tagaalis ng buwisit na tinga.
Poem #45 by Rio Alma (Poem)
Poem #45
by Rio Alma
Madalî ang magsinungaling;
Ordinaryong trabaho ito ng entablado.
Ngunit mahal ko ang sinabi kong mahal
Dahil bahagi ng aking búhay.
Tulad ng mahal kong kanin sa araw-araw,
Ng saging,
Ng laging preparadong sardinas,
Ng mahirap kalimutang higop ng kape,
Ng sagitsit ng kawali,
Ng ulyaning gripo,
Ng lahat ng pumapalyang sistema ng lungsod,
Ng naninisnis na kalinga ng tuwalya,
Ng masunuring sapatos.
Mahal ko na
Kahit ang kailangang inuming gamot.
At mahal ko ang sorbetes pandan dahil mahal mo:
Ang sapin-sapin,
Ang inipit na halimuyak ng ilang-ilang,
Ang kundiman at jazz,
Ang aklat ng tula,
Ang paborito mong restoran,
Si Chaplin.
Ang damuhang ito dahil inupuan mo.
Ang bangketang iyon
Dahil nilakaran mo rin araw-araw.
Ang takipsilim
Dahil matagal mong pinanood
At hinangaan.
Ang bantayog
Dahil niligid mong nakatingala.
Mahal ko ang suklay dahil iyo:
Ang botones,
Ang sinulid at karayom,
Ang imperdible,
Ang garter,
Ang palda,
Ang panti’t bra, at marami pa.
Lalong hindi ako sinungaling kung minamahal ko
Ang araw,
Ang dagat,
Ang naglalahòng bundok,
Ang pangahas na simoy,
Ang ulap,
Ang buhangin at bato,
Dahil naaalaala ko ang init at lamig mo,
Ang lungtian at harot mo,
Ang mga pangarap mo,
Ang lambot at tigas mong minamahal ko.
by Rio Alma
Madalî ang magsinungaling;
Ordinaryong trabaho ito ng entablado.
Ngunit mahal ko ang sinabi kong mahal
Dahil bahagi ng aking búhay.
Tulad ng mahal kong kanin sa araw-araw,
Ng saging,
Ng laging preparadong sardinas,
Ng mahirap kalimutang higop ng kape,
Ng sagitsit ng kawali,
Ng ulyaning gripo,
Ng lahat ng pumapalyang sistema ng lungsod,
Ng naninisnis na kalinga ng tuwalya,
Ng masunuring sapatos.
Mahal ko na
Kahit ang kailangang inuming gamot.
At mahal ko ang sorbetes pandan dahil mahal mo:
Ang sapin-sapin,
Ang inipit na halimuyak ng ilang-ilang,
Ang kundiman at jazz,
Ang aklat ng tula,
Ang paborito mong restoran,
Si Chaplin.
Ang damuhang ito dahil inupuan mo.
Ang bangketang iyon
Dahil nilakaran mo rin araw-araw.
Ang takipsilim
Dahil matagal mong pinanood
At hinangaan.
Ang bantayog
Dahil niligid mong nakatingala.
Mahal ko ang suklay dahil iyo:
Ang botones,
Ang sinulid at karayom,
Ang imperdible,
Ang garter,
Ang palda,
Ang panti’t bra, at marami pa.
Lalong hindi ako sinungaling kung minamahal ko
Ang araw,
Ang dagat,
Ang naglalahòng bundok,
Ang pangahas na simoy,
Ang ulap,
Ang buhangin at bato,
Dahil naaalaala ko ang init at lamig mo,
Ang lungtian at harot mo,
Ang mga pangarap mo,
Ang lambot at tigas mong minamahal ko.
Sa Kabaret by Rio Alma (Poem)
Sa Kabaret
by Rio Alma
Sabi ko, "Maganda ka."
Sabi mo, "At di mura,"
Sabi ko, "Gusto kita."
Sabi mo, "Bayad muna."
by Rio Alma
Sabi ko, "Maganda ka."
Sabi mo, "At di mura,"
Sabi ko, "Gusto kita."
Sabi mo, "Bayad muna."
Huwag Hahampasin Ang Gutom Na Lamok by Virgilio Almario (Poem)
Huwag Hahampasin Ang Gutom Na Lamok
by Virgilio Almario
Huwag hahampasin ang gutom na lamok
Pagkat mabilis itong nakakaiwas
Pag payat, may matalas na pakiramdam.
At magaan ang katawan sa paglipad.
Huwag bubuwagin pag-aali-aligid
Dahil baka magtampo’t lumayo tuloy;
Sa halip, magkunwaring pagod o tulog
At braso’y ialay sa kanyang karayom.
Bayaang dumapo, tiisin ang kati,
May sabon o alkohol namang panlinis.
Bayaang magpista sa dugo’t mabusog,
Bayaang maaliw kumagat, sumipsip…
Saka tampalin. At siguradong letse
Ang lamok na simbagal ng elepante.
by Virgilio Almario
Huwag hahampasin ang gutom na lamok
Pagkat mabilis itong nakakaiwas
Pag payat, may matalas na pakiramdam.
At magaan ang katawan sa paglipad.
Huwag bubuwagin pag-aali-aligid
Dahil baka magtampo’t lumayo tuloy;
Sa halip, magkunwaring pagod o tulog
At braso’y ialay sa kanyang karayom.
Bayaang dumapo, tiisin ang kati,
May sabon o alkohol namang panlinis.
Bayaang magpista sa dugo’t mabusog,
Bayaang maaliw kumagat, sumipsip…
Saka tampalin. At siguradong letse
Ang lamok na simbagal ng elepante.
Lubid by Lamberto E. Antonio (Poem)
Lubid
by Lamberto E. Antonio
Anhin ko mang tignan
(Tinging panakaw pa),
Iisang larawang may dalang kilabot
Ang ibinibigay sa akin ng lubid
Hindi mga paslit na humahagikhik
At nagluluksuhan sa pag-aakalang
Basta Mawawaglit ang kalam ng tiyan
Sa di pagkasangga ng lubid sa paa;
Hindi rin ang hayop na sumisingasing
At inihahagkis ang sungay sa tulos,
O ngunguya-nguyang nagpapaumanhin
Sa bigat at haba ng buhay sa lupa
Kung ang lubid sana’y
Namalagi man lang tulay
Na tawiran sa oras ng gutom, kung
Di naging bagay na ibinubuhol
Upang ipanggapos
Baka matingnan kong
Karaniwang gamit na nakaligtaang
Sinupin sa silid –
Ngunit ito’y lubid na bibitin – bitin
Sa dilim ng sulok: nagsagawa marahil
Yumapos sa ulo ng alagang hayop,
Ito’y napilitang lumipat sa leeg
Ng isang amaing naghanap
Ng sagot sa paghihikahos.
by Lamberto E. Antonio
Anhin ko mang tignan
(Tinging panakaw pa),
Iisang larawang may dalang kilabot
Ang ibinibigay sa akin ng lubid
Hindi mga paslit na humahagikhik
At nagluluksuhan sa pag-aakalang
Basta Mawawaglit ang kalam ng tiyan
Sa di pagkasangga ng lubid sa paa;
Hindi rin ang hayop na sumisingasing
At inihahagkis ang sungay sa tulos,
O ngunguya-nguyang nagpapaumanhin
Sa bigat at haba ng buhay sa lupa
Kung ang lubid sana’y
Namalagi man lang tulay
Na tawiran sa oras ng gutom, kung
Di naging bagay na ibinubuhol
Upang ipanggapos
Baka matingnan kong
Karaniwang gamit na nakaligtaang
Sinupin sa silid –
Ngunit ito’y lubid na bibitin – bitin
Sa dilim ng sulok: nagsagawa marahil
Yumapos sa ulo ng alagang hayop,
Ito’y napilitang lumipat sa leeg
Ng isang amaing naghanap
Ng sagot sa paghihikahos.
Sa Gabi ng Isang Piyon by Lamberto E. Antonio (Poem)
Sa Gabi ng Isang Piyon
by Lamberto E. Antonio
Paano ka makakatulog?
Iniwan man ng mga palad mo ang pala,
Martilyo, tubo’t kawad at iba pang kasangkapan,
Alas-singko’y hindi naging hudyat upang
Umibis ang graba’t semento sa iyong hininga.
Sa karimlan mo nga lamang maaaring ihabilin
Ang kirot at silakbo ng iyong himaymay:
Mga lintos, galos, hiwa ng daliri braso’t utak
Kapag binabanig na ang kapirasong playwud,
Mga kusot o supot-semento sa ulilang
Sulok ng gusaling nakatirik.
Binabalisa ka ng paggawa —
(Hindi ka maidlip kahit sagad-buto ang pagod mo)
Dugo’t pawis pang lalangkap
Sa buhangin at sementong hinahalo na kalamnang
Itatapal mo sa bakal na mga tadyang:
Kalansay na nabubuong dambuhala mula
Sa pagdurugo mo bawat saglit; kapalit
Ang kitang di-maipantawid-gutom ng pamilya,
Pag-asam sa bagong kontrata at dalanging paos.
Paano ka matutulog kung sa bawat paghiga mo’y
Unti-unting nilalagom ng bubungang sakdal-tayog
Ang mga bituin? Maaari ka nga lamang
Mag-usisa sa dilim kung bakit di umiibis
Ang graba’t ‘semento sa iyong hininga…
Kung nabubuo sa guniguni mo maya’t maya
Na ikaw ay mistulang bahagi ng iskapold
Na kinabukasa’y babaklasin mo rin.
by Lamberto E. Antonio
Paano ka makakatulog?
Iniwan man ng mga palad mo ang pala,
Martilyo, tubo’t kawad at iba pang kasangkapan,
Alas-singko’y hindi naging hudyat upang
Umibis ang graba’t semento sa iyong hininga.
Sa karimlan mo nga lamang maaaring ihabilin
Ang kirot at silakbo ng iyong himaymay:
Mga lintos, galos, hiwa ng daliri braso’t utak
Kapag binabanig na ang kapirasong playwud,
Mga kusot o supot-semento sa ulilang
Sulok ng gusaling nakatirik.
Binabalisa ka ng paggawa —
(Hindi ka maidlip kahit sagad-buto ang pagod mo)
Dugo’t pawis pang lalangkap
Sa buhangin at sementong hinahalo na kalamnang
Itatapal mo sa bakal na mga tadyang:
Kalansay na nabubuong dambuhala mula
Sa pagdurugo mo bawat saglit; kapalit
Ang kitang di-maipantawid-gutom ng pamilya,
Pag-asam sa bagong kontrata at dalanging paos.
Paano ka matutulog kung sa bawat paghiga mo’y
Unti-unting nilalagom ng bubungang sakdal-tayog
Ang mga bituin? Maaari ka nga lamang
Mag-usisa sa dilim kung bakit di umiibis
Ang graba’t ‘semento sa iyong hininga…
Kung nabubuo sa guniguni mo maya’t maya
Na ikaw ay mistulang bahagi ng iskapold
Na kinabukasa’y babaklasin mo rin.
Ang Araro by Lamberto E. Antonio (Poem)
Ang Araro
by Lamberto E. Antonio
Nagsimulang kalawangin
ang araro.
May inuukilkil ang hangin
sa pinid na kubo.
Nagsimulang kalawangin ang araro.
Di maiiwasang mapawaglit nito.
Walang sasawata sa kalawang nito.
Kinakalawang na tulad ng itak
na itinaga sa bato,
tulad ng makinang naghahanap
ng malangis na kamao.
Walang sasawata sa kalawang nito.
Kinakalawang dahil sa mga bagay
na di ikatulog,
muhong pinamumukadkaran ng dugo
kapag nalilipat ng pook.
Kinakalawang dahil sa mga sulong pinagdiringas
ng punglo.
Dahil sa umagang gumagapang sa talahibang
pinatabal ng salansan ng mga bungo,
at bugso ng panagimpang umaalingawngaw
na taon habang pinupugto.
Ang araro---
subyang sa gunita ng nanglalamy
na anino.
by Lamberto E. Antonio
Nagsimulang kalawangin
ang araro.
May inuukilkil ang hangin
sa pinid na kubo.
Nagsimulang kalawangin ang araro.
Di maiiwasang mapawaglit nito.
Walang sasawata sa kalawang nito.
Kinakalawang na tulad ng itak
na itinaga sa bato,
tulad ng makinang naghahanap
ng malangis na kamao.
Walang sasawata sa kalawang nito.
Kinakalawang dahil sa mga bagay
na di ikatulog,
muhong pinamumukadkaran ng dugo
kapag nalilipat ng pook.
Kinakalawang dahil sa mga sulong pinagdiringas
ng punglo.
Dahil sa umagang gumagapang sa talahibang
pinatabal ng salansan ng mga bungo,
at bugso ng panagimpang umaalingawngaw
na taon habang pinupugto.
Ang araro---
subyang sa gunita ng nanglalamy
na anino.
Pastol by Lamberto E. Antonio (Poem)
Pastol
by Lamberto E. Antonio
Sakay ng kalabaw na may tarak na silahis,
Ang pulang kanluran sa pisngi ng pastol
Ay kundimang maisisipol.
Narinig ko nang sumipol ang isang babaing
Binangas ng hangin at gilik ang mukha;
Narinig ko nang sumipol ang isang lalaking
Hinukos ng pagbuntot sa araro.
At nasumpungan ko ang sariling sumisipol:
Isang batang nagmula sa paghahanap
Ng itlog ng maya at tagak —
Nakatalungko at nag-aalis ng amorseko sa damit
Sa puyo ng burol habang nanghuhula
Sa salayasay ng mga bituin.
by Lamberto E. Antonio
Sakay ng kalabaw na may tarak na silahis,
Ang pulang kanluran sa pisngi ng pastol
Ay kundimang maisisipol.
Narinig ko nang sumipol ang isang babaing
Binangas ng hangin at gilik ang mukha;
Narinig ko nang sumipol ang isang lalaking
Hinukos ng pagbuntot sa araro.
At nasumpungan ko ang sariling sumisipol:
Isang batang nagmula sa paghahanap
Ng itlog ng maya at tagak —
Nakatalungko at nag-aalis ng amorseko sa damit
Sa puyo ng burol habang nanghuhula
Sa salayasay ng mga bituin.
Kanina by Rolando S. Tinio (Poem)
Kanina
by Rolando S. Tinio
Sa almusal kanina, namagitan sa atin
Ang dalawang basong tsaa at kubong asukal,
Ang dalawang bilog ng matamis na tinapay,
Ang pagbanghay sa pandiwang inuunlapian,
Mga tanong-sagutan, walang kabagay-bagay,
Pakulang-tingin, palihim na pakiramdaman,
At wari’y pagkabigat-bigat na pananamlay
Dala ng kagabing pagkakahimbing na kulang.
Nagsimulang bumalong sa aking kalooban,
Halos dalamhating walang ngalan, walang saysay,
Parang sinat o panlalatang palatandaan
Ng totoong karamdamang saka pa dadalaw.
At nabatid kong muli ang lubhang pag-iisa,
Ang makubkob sa sariling alaala lamang,
Sa mga iniisip na walang matutunguhan.
Sa ilang sandali, namamahay pala kita
Sa katahimikang walang bintana, pintuan.
by Rolando S. Tinio
Sa almusal kanina, namagitan sa atin
Ang dalawang basong tsaa at kubong asukal,
Ang dalawang bilog ng matamis na tinapay,
Ang pagbanghay sa pandiwang inuunlapian,
Mga tanong-sagutan, walang kabagay-bagay,
Pakulang-tingin, palihim na pakiramdaman,
At wari’y pagkabigat-bigat na pananamlay
Dala ng kagabing pagkakahimbing na kulang.
Nagsimulang bumalong sa aking kalooban,
Halos dalamhating walang ngalan, walang saysay,
Parang sinat o panlalatang palatandaan
Ng totoong karamdamang saka pa dadalaw.
At nabatid kong muli ang lubhang pag-iisa,
Ang makubkob sa sariling alaala lamang,
Sa mga iniisip na walang matutunguhan.
Sa ilang sandali, namamahay pala kita
Sa katahimikang walang bintana, pintuan.
Pasalitang Awit by Rolando S. Tinio (Poem)
Pasalitang Awit
by Rolando S. Tinio
(Para kay Ella)
Sa iyo hahapon ang aking umaga,
Sintang maligalig kapag umaalon.
Kulubin mo ako sa usok at baga;
Ang bawat araw ko’y tulutang humapon.
Sa iyo pipitak, liwanag ng loob,
Mahal kong kay rupok, akala mo’y ulap.
Payapa kong ito’y payapa ng tulog,
At lalong payapa tuwing mamumulat.
Sa iyo tataas ang aking tanghali;
Lahat ng anino’y magtatalilisan.
Sa tanghaling tapat, ako ang itangi;
Kasuyo, huwag mo akong bibitawan.
Sa iyo lalatag, pilak ng ligaya,
Aakyat ang buwan, titining ang dagat.
Aba’y biglang-bigla, di halos makaya,
Hudyat ng tag-ulang bubugso, kakalat.
by Rolando S. Tinio
(Para kay Ella)
Sa iyo hahapon ang aking umaga,
Sintang maligalig kapag umaalon.
Kulubin mo ako sa usok at baga;
Ang bawat araw ko’y tulutang humapon.
Sa iyo pipitak, liwanag ng loob,
Mahal kong kay rupok, akala mo’y ulap.
Payapa kong ito’y payapa ng tulog,
At lalong payapa tuwing mamumulat.
Sa iyo tataas ang aking tanghali;
Lahat ng anino’y magtatalilisan.
Sa tanghaling tapat, ako ang itangi;
Kasuyo, huwag mo akong bibitawan.
Sa iyo lalatag, pilak ng ligaya,
Aakyat ang buwan, titining ang dagat.
Aba’y biglang-bigla, di halos makaya,
Hudyat ng tag-ulang bubugso, kakalat.
Pagwawalay by Rolando S. Tinio (Poem)
Pagwawalay
by Rolando S. Tinio
May mga kalungkutang hindi mabansagan,
Walang dahilan o katwiran,
Kinahihinatnan nang walang kamalay-malay:
May kaunting pangangatal sa ilang bahagi ng katawang
Unti-unti mong napapakiramdaman.
Tinutuluyan mo, o tumutuloy sa iyo,
Bahagyang pananamlay na hindi maiospital.
Ano ang gagawin nila sa ganito?
Kay raming higit pang nag-aagaw-buhay!
Kagabi, halimbawa, pagtalikod niya,
Paglalaho sa sulok na walang ilaw,
Para siyang hinigop ng dilim
Na kahit dahil lamang sa patay na ilaw,
Parang dilim ng—naku naman!—kamatayan.
At ikaw ang parang—paano nga ba?—pumanaw
O pinanawan.
Pinanawan
Ng lahat ng mga gunitang pinangalagaan:
Mga walang-buto’t-balat na musmos sa kandungan
O mga napakamaselang halaman, o ulap,
O buhay na buhay na pangarap
Na hindi marahil dapat pinagsakatawan.
At ngayon tuloy,
Pati gunita, gunita na lamang.
Parang hindi ikaw ang labis maligayahan.
Parang hindi sa dibdib mo lumatag ang kapayapaan.
Sa sandaling iyon, nawalay kang lubos
Sa sariling kilala mo kaninang-kanina lang
At hindi mahulaan—bakit pa aasahan?—kung kailan
Kayong muli—tiyak na hindi na!—magkakangitian.
by Rolando S. Tinio
May mga kalungkutang hindi mabansagan,
Walang dahilan o katwiran,
Kinahihinatnan nang walang kamalay-malay:
May kaunting pangangatal sa ilang bahagi ng katawang
Unti-unti mong napapakiramdaman.
Tinutuluyan mo, o tumutuloy sa iyo,
Bahagyang pananamlay na hindi maiospital.
Ano ang gagawin nila sa ganito?
Kay raming higit pang nag-aagaw-buhay!
Kagabi, halimbawa, pagtalikod niya,
Paglalaho sa sulok na walang ilaw,
Para siyang hinigop ng dilim
Na kahit dahil lamang sa patay na ilaw,
Parang dilim ng—naku naman!—kamatayan.
At ikaw ang parang—paano nga ba?—pumanaw
O pinanawan.
Pinanawan
Ng lahat ng mga gunitang pinangalagaan:
Mga walang-buto’t-balat na musmos sa kandungan
O mga napakamaselang halaman, o ulap,
O buhay na buhay na pangarap
Na hindi marahil dapat pinagsakatawan.
At ngayon tuloy,
Pati gunita, gunita na lamang.
Parang hindi ikaw ang labis maligayahan.
Parang hindi sa dibdib mo lumatag ang kapayapaan.
Sa sandaling iyon, nawalay kang lubos
Sa sariling kilala mo kaninang-kanina lang
At hindi mahulaan—bakit pa aasahan?—kung kailan
Kayong muli—tiyak na hindi na!—magkakangitian.
Lumbay by Rolando S. Tinio (Poem)
Lumbay
by Rolando S. Tinio
Nalulumbay ang puno ng goma sa gilid ng bulibard
At ang puno ng akasya sa likod ng goma.
Mukhang uulan sa buong mundo.
Wala na ang mahal ko, iniwanan ako.
Nalulumbay ang tubig na laging kulay-abo
At ang tatlong bapor na kulay-kalawang sa laot,
At sa likod, ang ulap na parang tinggang natunaw.
Wala na ang mahal ko, iniwanan ako.
Nakatungo ang mga dahon ng niyog,
Marahang pakampay-kampay
Sa hanging humahampas, naglalarong
Anaki’y mga batang walang kamalay-malay
Sa talas-kutsilyo, talas-labaha ng lumbay.
At naalala ko ang isang awit na puno ng hinagpis,
Parang sugat na humahapdi, lalong tinitistis.
At naalala ko ang wala nang mahal ko
Na naparaan sa aking mundo,
Parang ulap na bumitin nang ilang saglit,
Saka nagpatuloy sa maraming lakad sa himpapawid
At, sa tingin ko, hindi na, hindi babalik.
by Rolando S. Tinio
Nalulumbay ang puno ng goma sa gilid ng bulibard
At ang puno ng akasya sa likod ng goma.
Mukhang uulan sa buong mundo.
Wala na ang mahal ko, iniwanan ako.
Nalulumbay ang tubig na laging kulay-abo
At ang tatlong bapor na kulay-kalawang sa laot,
At sa likod, ang ulap na parang tinggang natunaw.
Wala na ang mahal ko, iniwanan ako.
Nakatungo ang mga dahon ng niyog,
Marahang pakampay-kampay
Sa hanging humahampas, naglalarong
Anaki’y mga batang walang kamalay-malay
Sa talas-kutsilyo, talas-labaha ng lumbay.
At naalala ko ang isang awit na puno ng hinagpis,
Parang sugat na humahapdi, lalong tinitistis.
At naalala ko ang wala nang mahal ko
Na naparaan sa aking mundo,
Parang ulap na bumitin nang ilang saglit,
Saka nagpatuloy sa maraming lakad sa himpapawid
At, sa tingin ko, hindi na, hindi babalik.
Payo sa Bumabasa ng Tula by Rolando S. Tinio (Poem)
Payo sa Bumabasa ng Tula
by Rolando S. Tinio
Hindi nalalayo
Sa pagpangos ng mangga
Ang pagbasa ng Tula.
Amuyin, sapulin sa kamay
Ipalasap sa palad
Ang init at kinis ng balat,
Saka hubarin ang dilaw na katad
Na minsan man itim na pekas,
Parang matang ibig mangusap.
Huwag na huwag ngangatain.
Tubo at mangga’y magkaibang sining.
Tandaang laman ay hindi parang laman,
Humihingi ng ingat, pagmamahal.
Turuan ang ngiping dumagan
Nang hindi mag-iiwan ng sugat.
Unti-untiin ang pagsisiwalat
Sa buto…
Na namimintog, lumalapad–
Kutsilyong walang talas,
Pinatuyong sinag ng araw,
Usok-at-ulang nagsabato,
Garing na ‘di pa nakakatam,
Siksik na taguan ng yabong,
Lilim, at tatal.
Huwag mithiin asetikong buto,
Ang puting ermitanyo,
Bago mapagdaanan ang mga ehersisyong karnal.
Bayaang maganap
Tamis, pait, saklap
Sa isang panlasang wagas
Huwag kainipan ang labo
Ng pisnging humuhulas.
Pagkatapos na makipagtapatan
Sa mga istasyon ng pagkalaman,
Kusang liliwanag ang sagradong buto–
Na ‘sim bigat ng katotohanan,
‘Sing gaan ng pangarap at kalawakan!
by Rolando S. Tinio
Hindi nalalayo
Sa pagpangos ng mangga
Ang pagbasa ng Tula.
Amuyin, sapulin sa kamay
Ipalasap sa palad
Ang init at kinis ng balat,
Saka hubarin ang dilaw na katad
Na minsan man itim na pekas,
Parang matang ibig mangusap.
Huwag na huwag ngangatain.
Tubo at mangga’y magkaibang sining.
Tandaang laman ay hindi parang laman,
Humihingi ng ingat, pagmamahal.
Turuan ang ngiping dumagan
Nang hindi mag-iiwan ng sugat.
Unti-untiin ang pagsisiwalat
Sa buto…
Na namimintog, lumalapad–
Kutsilyong walang talas,
Pinatuyong sinag ng araw,
Usok-at-ulang nagsabato,
Garing na ‘di pa nakakatam,
Siksik na taguan ng yabong,
Lilim, at tatal.
Huwag mithiin asetikong buto,
Ang puting ermitanyo,
Bago mapagdaanan ang mga ehersisyong karnal.
Bayaang maganap
Tamis, pait, saklap
Sa isang panlasang wagas
Huwag kainipan ang labo
Ng pisnging humuhulas.
Pagkatapos na makipagtapatan
Sa mga istasyon ng pagkalaman,
Kusang liliwanag ang sagradong buto–
Na ‘sim bigat ng katotohanan,
‘Sing gaan ng pangarap at kalawakan!
Problem Is by Conchitina R. Cruz (Poem)
Problem Is
by Conchitina R. Cruz
They say poor Filipinos multiply
like rabbits since they have nothing
to do but fuck. Living in houses with room
only for the inevitable brush
of the hand against the buttock in between
chores, on the way to switch
channels to the daily noontime show,
no money and little space
lead to nowhere
but to coupling. We used to joke
and call our selves typical Filipinos,
broke and empty-handed,
when all we did was touch, and for all
the movies we missed, fancy dinners
we didn’t have, books we borrowed
but never owned,
we compensated
by making love.
You told me not to worry,
that someday the worst
would end, just a couple of right
moves and it would be over.
Should I have told you then
we’d never been better,
should I have told you then
to hold your tongue, but we had
no room for such words.
We were rabbits,
Seeking the other side, bent on
Crossing the pasture.
by Conchitina R. Cruz
They say poor Filipinos multiply
like rabbits since they have nothing
to do but fuck. Living in houses with room
only for the inevitable brush
of the hand against the buttock in between
chores, on the way to switch
channels to the daily noontime show,
no money and little space
lead to nowhere
but to coupling. We used to joke
and call our selves typical Filipinos,
broke and empty-handed,
when all we did was touch, and for all
the movies we missed, fancy dinners
we didn’t have, books we borrowed
but never owned,
we compensated
by making love.
You told me not to worry,
that someday the worst
would end, just a couple of right
moves and it would be over.
Should I have told you then
we’d never been better,
should I have told you then
to hold your tongue, but we had
no room for such words.
We were rabbits,
Seeking the other side, bent on
Crossing the pasture.
Gift, 2 by J. Neil C. Garcia (Poem)
Gift, 2
by J. Neil C. Garcia
Lost in the sea’s
unforgiving blue,
I seek you.
Before me
the day unscrolls
its naked scripture:
sun, vision’s burning field,
islands, faint presences
crumbling in the distance,
water, the fickle immensities
life is made
constant by.
And it strikes me
I love the sea
because it borders
this suffering world
and the next:
the soul, it is said,
travels in a boat
from a winding inland river,
homing clear-eyed
toward the ocean--
which is the bottomless
beyond.
And I know:
here, upon this beach,
wash the crushed remains
of what was once mortal:
bone and kelp,
driftwood and tentacle,
porous red coral--
keepsakes
life leaves behind
before
dissolving
back to brine.
I am home here, then,
whom the world
never loved,
and from its torn edges
I can almost see
it all end:
an onrushing tide,
a radiant sea-swell
sweeping away all appearance,
gentle eddies
whittling the self
till it is no longer
even sand.
I think of you
landlocked and lost
in another element--
your body.
The sea teaches me
love is a wish
not for safety
but for destruction.
I am not ashamed
to admit it:
I love you
the way water loves.
Which is to say
I wish the world
were through with you,
so you could return to me
ravaged, upon this shore:
a shell
held tight
inside my palm.
by J. Neil C. Garcia
Lost in the sea’s
unforgiving blue,
I seek you.
Before me
the day unscrolls
its naked scripture:
sun, vision’s burning field,
islands, faint presences
crumbling in the distance,
water, the fickle immensities
life is made
constant by.
And it strikes me
I love the sea
because it borders
this suffering world
and the next:
the soul, it is said,
travels in a boat
from a winding inland river,
homing clear-eyed
toward the ocean--
which is the bottomless
beyond.
And I know:
here, upon this beach,
wash the crushed remains
of what was once mortal:
bone and kelp,
driftwood and tentacle,
porous red coral--
keepsakes
life leaves behind
before
dissolving
back to brine.
I am home here, then,
whom the world
never loved,
and from its torn edges
I can almost see
it all end:
an onrushing tide,
a radiant sea-swell
sweeping away all appearance,
gentle eddies
whittling the self
till it is no longer
even sand.
I think of you
landlocked and lost
in another element--
your body.
The sea teaches me
love is a wish
not for safety
but for destruction.
I am not ashamed
to admit it:
I love you
the way water loves.
Which is to say
I wish the world
were through with you,
so you could return to me
ravaged, upon this shore:
a shell
held tight
inside my palm.
Mayonnaise by J. Neil C. Garcia (Poem)
Mayonnaise
by J. Neil C. Garcia
The principle of its thickness
is not found in the oil,
not in the whisking, however
loving that may be.
We know how everything
once began with the egg:
the purest littlest room
where life first took up residence.
There it fattened and rolled on its own
sweet sphere until God decided it was unnatural
for life to be rolling with no purpose forever.
Life must live outside itself.
And the egg cracked like a voice
rumbling in the great quiet emptiness,
when it suddenly happened:
light, a round golden yellow
started to stain bright surfaces
and where it did, life was.
But as I give my own wiry touch of it
with a whisk to an emulsion full of fat,
I remember that life
can only go so far, like mayonnaise -
it toughens to consistency when beaten,
but when allowed to be it breaks.
by J. Neil C. Garcia
The principle of its thickness
is not found in the oil,
not in the whisking, however
loving that may be.
We know how everything
once began with the egg:
the purest littlest room
where life first took up residence.
There it fattened and rolled on its own
sweet sphere until God decided it was unnatural
for life to be rolling with no purpose forever.
Life must live outside itself.
And the egg cracked like a voice
rumbling in the great quiet emptiness,
when it suddenly happened:
light, a round golden yellow
started to stain bright surfaces
and where it did, life was.
But as I give my own wiry touch of it
with a whisk to an emulsion full of fat,
I remember that life
can only go so far, like mayonnaise -
it toughens to consistency when beaten,
but when allowed to be it breaks.
Wife by Marra PL. Lanot (Poem)
Wife
By Marra PL. Lanot
As a tot she was
Surrounded by fishbowl silence
She had no horns
No wings, no tail
Just a smile nobody
Noticed while adults
Talked at mealtime.
She did not ask what worth she had—
Who am it or
What is i.
When guests arrived
She gulped down food
Slipped out of her chair
And floated into her room
Like a bubble and burst behind closed doors.
Now she’s an actress
In search of a script.
Sometimes she freaks out
Tired of her horns
Wings, tail, tired
Of bowing, smiling
For no one. Guests come
And do not wonder who she is or
Is she an it
A doormat, an empty chair
A wallflower or décor.
She still remembers to
Sneak out like a bubble
Float into her room
And burst behind closed doors.
She is protected
By her fishbowl silence.
By Marra PL. Lanot
As a tot she was
Surrounded by fishbowl silence
She had no horns
No wings, no tail
Just a smile nobody
Noticed while adults
Talked at mealtime.
She did not ask what worth she had—
Who am it or
What is i.
When guests arrived
She gulped down food
Slipped out of her chair
And floated into her room
Like a bubble and burst behind closed doors.
Now she’s an actress
In search of a script.
Sometimes she freaks out
Tired of her horns
Wings, tail, tired
Of bowing, smiling
For no one. Guests come
And do not wonder who she is or
Is she an it
A doormat, an empty chair
A wallflower or décor.
She still remembers to
Sneak out like a bubble
Float into her room
And burst behind closed doors.
She is protected
By her fishbowl silence.
Anniversary by Alfredo Navarro Salanga (Poem)
Anniversary
by Alfredo Navarro Salanga
Why celebrate the day we married
With a poem about your hair?
Perhaps because I've always wondered
How it would have been if left uncut:
After ten long years it could have grown
Maybe long enough to brush the floor.
But life is so very much like hair
(or should that be the other way around?):
the cutting of it marks beginnings.
We have been blessed, the two of us,
With the resiliency of your hair -
We have always been capable of growth
And of not loisng our way.
by Alfredo Navarro Salanga
Why celebrate the day we married
With a poem about your hair?
Perhaps because I've always wondered
How it would have been if left uncut:
After ten long years it could have grown
Maybe long enough to brush the floor.
But life is so very much like hair
(or should that be the other way around?):
the cutting of it marks beginnings.
We have been blessed, the two of us,
With the resiliency of your hair -
We have always been capable of growth
And of not loisng our way.
Chain Poem by Felix P. Fojas (Poem)
Chain Poem
by Felix P. Fojas
Handle this poem with care
And leave no sense unturned,
See what creeping nuances
Hide beneath each mossy word.
Touch the shape of its sound,
Hear the sound of its shape;
Make yourself truly worthy
To receive the poem’s blessing.
X, a young executive,
Read this poem recklessly and
Was struck down by lightning.
Y, a grass widow, crumpled
This poem for not rhyming
And was murdered in her sleep.
By now you know that this chain
Poem can cast a deadly curse.
Make seven copies and send
Posthaste to your enemies.
by Felix P. Fojas
Handle this poem with care
And leave no sense unturned,
See what creeping nuances
Hide beneath each mossy word.
Touch the shape of its sound,
Hear the sound of its shape;
Make yourself truly worthy
To receive the poem’s blessing.
X, a young executive,
Read this poem recklessly and
Was struck down by lightning.
Y, a grass widow, crumpled
This poem for not rhyming
And was murdered in her sleep.
By now you know that this chain
Poem can cast a deadly curse.
Make seven copies and send
Posthaste to your enemies.
Bringing the Dolls by Merlie M. Alunan (Poem)
Bringing the Dolls
by Merlie M. Alunan
Two dolls in rags and tatters,
one missing an arm and a leg,
the other blind in one eye— I grabbed them from her arms,
“No,” I said, “they cannot come.”
Each tight luggage
I had packed
only for the barest need:
no room for sentiment or memory
to clutter loose ends
my stern resolve. I reasoned,
even a child must learn
she can’t take
what must be left behind.
And so the boat turned seaward,
a smart wind blowing dry
the stealthy tears I could not wipe.
Then I saw—rags, tatters and all—
there among the neat trim packs,
the dolls I ruled to leave behind.
Her silence should have warned me
she knew her burdens
as I knew mine:
her clean white years unlived -
and mine paid.
She battened on a truth
she knew I too must own:
When what’s at stake
is loyalty or love,
hers are the true rights.
Her own faiths she must keep, not I
by Merlie M. Alunan
Two dolls in rags and tatters,
one missing an arm and a leg,
the other blind in one eye— I grabbed them from her arms,
“No,” I said, “they cannot come.”
Each tight luggage
I had packed
only for the barest need:
no room for sentiment or memory
to clutter loose ends
my stern resolve. I reasoned,
even a child must learn
she can’t take
what must be left behind.
And so the boat turned seaward,
a smart wind blowing dry
the stealthy tears I could not wipe.
Then I saw—rags, tatters and all—
there among the neat trim packs,
the dolls I ruled to leave behind.
Her silence should have warned me
she knew her burdens
as I knew mine:
her clean white years unlived -
and mine paid.
She battened on a truth
she knew I too must own:
When what’s at stake
is loyalty or love,
hers are the true rights.
Her own faiths she must keep, not I
The Secret Language by Luisa A. Gloria (Poem)
The Secret Language
by Luisa A. Gloria
I have learned your speech,
Fair stranger; for you
I have oiled my hair
And coiled it tight
Into a braid as thick
And beautiful as the serpent
In your story of Eden.
For you, I have covered
My breasts and hidden,
Among the folds of my surrendered
Inheritance, the beads
I have worn since girlhood.
It is fifty years now
Since the day my father
Took me to the school in Bua,
A headman's terrified
Peace-gift. In the doorway,
The teacher stood, her hair
The bleached color of corn,
Watching with bird-eyes.
Now, I am Christina.
I am told I can make lace
Fine enough to lay upon the altar
Of a cathedral in Europe.
But this is a place
That I will never see.
I cook for tourists at an inn;
They praise my lemon pie
And my English, which they say
Is faultless. I smile
And look past the window,
Imagining father's and grandfather's cattle
Grazing by the smoke trees.
But it is evening, and these
Are ghosts.
In the night,
When I am alone at last,
I lie uncorseted
Upon the iron bed,
Composing my lost beads
Over my chest, dreaming back
Each flecked and opalescent
Color, crooning the names,
Along with mine:
Binaay, Binaay
by Luisa A. Gloria
I have learned your speech,
Fair stranger; for you
I have oiled my hair
And coiled it tight
Into a braid as thick
And beautiful as the serpent
In your story of Eden.
For you, I have covered
My breasts and hidden,
Among the folds of my surrendered
Inheritance, the beads
I have worn since girlhood.
It is fifty years now
Since the day my father
Took me to the school in Bua,
A headman's terrified
Peace-gift. In the doorway,
The teacher stood, her hair
The bleached color of corn,
Watching with bird-eyes.
Now, I am Christina.
I am told I can make lace
Fine enough to lay upon the altar
Of a cathedral in Europe.
But this is a place
That I will never see.
I cook for tourists at an inn;
They praise my lemon pie
And my English, which they say
Is faultless. I smile
And look past the window,
Imagining father's and grandfather's cattle
Grazing by the smoke trees.
But it is evening, and these
Are ghosts.
In the night,
When I am alone at last,
I lie uncorseted
Upon the iron bed,
Composing my lost beads
Over my chest, dreaming back
Each flecked and opalescent
Color, crooning the names,
Along with mine:
Binaay, Binaay
Leyte by Victorio N. Sugbo (Poem)
Leyte
by Victorio N. Sugbo
Island of nothing,
Tower of suffering,
Mystery of hunger,
Star of Concabato,
Playground of the south wind and Rainstorm,
Bulwark of Queen Imelda,
Maker of copra for the Ang Gos,
Buoy for those without salvation,
Manufacturing plant of children,
Trail of typhoon Yolanda,
For all these, we still love you.
by Victorio N. Sugbo
Island of nothing,
Tower of suffering,
Mystery of hunger,
Star of Concabato,
Playground of the south wind and Rainstorm,
Bulwark of Queen Imelda,
Maker of copra for the Ang Gos,
Buoy for those without salvation,
Manufacturing plant of children,
Trail of typhoon Yolanda,
For all these, we still love you.
A Way to Kill Schoolchildren by Victorio S. Sugbo (Poem)
A Way to Kill Schoolchildren
by Victorio N. Sugbo
Earlier, the President said that
the country had managed its debt
problem better than other debtor
countries, citing an economic
analysis by economist Richard Mattione
entitled “Managing World Debt: Past
Lessons and Future Prospects.”
– BT 2 February 1986
Tell them fairy tales –
A huge boar gores mountain villages;
Black-streaked monkeys tote guns in tree perches;
Charmed mice with pots and pans flee
to the lowlands;
A dreaded king eats slime to live.
If they look wide-eyed,
It is not out of wonder;
They cannot think beyond listening
The gnawing at their stomachs.
If they shake their heads
Or rankle or yawn,
Give them melted caramels.
Promise them toy trains, toy rails, toy bridges.
Show them how a brat can be made invisible
Under their breaths.
And when they clasp their hands
Like little angels,
Tell them more fairy tales.
by Victorio N. Sugbo
Earlier, the President said that
the country had managed its debt
problem better than other debtor
countries, citing an economic
analysis by economist Richard Mattione
entitled “Managing World Debt: Past
Lessons and Future Prospects.”
– BT 2 February 1986
Tell them fairy tales –
A huge boar gores mountain villages;
Black-streaked monkeys tote guns in tree perches;
Charmed mice with pots and pans flee
to the lowlands;
A dreaded king eats slime to live.
If they look wide-eyed,
It is not out of wonder;
They cannot think beyond listening
The gnawing at their stomachs.
If they shake their heads
Or rankle or yawn,
Give them melted caramels.
Promise them toy trains, toy rails, toy bridges.
Show them how a brat can be made invisible
Under their breaths.
And when they clasp their hands
Like little angels,
Tell them more fairy tales.
Paleontology by Victorio N. Sugbo (Poem)
Paleontology
by Victorio N. Sugbo
Grandfather, you had left long before
You even heard my very first gasp of air.
Only these papers wrapped in
Manila paper are all I have of you.
I had long wanted to see you
And knew this was a long shot.
Father is gone. So is mother.
And on my table, I place
Your Ateneo diploma de mercantil,
Your marriage contract with grandmother,
This roto picture when you once ran for city mayor,
The twelve land titles, your letters to grandmother,
This brownish piece of cloth that graphs the streets of our house,
This cursive Spanish-worded document with your signature.
I arrange your papers,
Hoping I would see you here.
by Victorio N. Sugbo
Grandfather, you had left long before
You even heard my very first gasp of air.
Only these papers wrapped in
Manila paper are all I have of you.
I had long wanted to see you
And knew this was a long shot.
Father is gone. So is mother.
And on my table, I place
Your Ateneo diploma de mercantil,
Your marriage contract with grandmother,
This roto picture when you once ran for city mayor,
The twelve land titles, your letters to grandmother,
This brownish piece of cloth that graphs the streets of our house,
This cursive Spanish-worded document with your signature.
I arrange your papers,
Hoping I would see you here.
Once When I Visited Uncle Santo by Victorio N. Sugbo (Poem)
Once When I Visited Uncle Santo
by Victorio N. Sugbo
Do you still go fishing?
Not anymore. I do not have my boat;
The sea swallowed it
In the last storm.
Don’t you miss the sea, Tata?
It has been ages
Since I visited the sea.
I like to spend my time here
In this old boat,
My bed.
For when I cast a line
So many stars
So much fish come
Circling
Under the water where I row.
by Victorio N. Sugbo
Do you still go fishing?
Not anymore. I do not have my boat;
The sea swallowed it
In the last storm.
Don’t you miss the sea, Tata?
It has been ages
Since I visited the sea.
I like to spend my time here
In this old boat,
My bed.
For when I cast a line
So many stars
So much fish come
Circling
Under the water where I row.
State of the Nation by Victor Sugbo (Poem)
State of the Nation
by Victor Sugbo
Noy Tatong cooks for a Panamanian crew
Of a Dutch cargo ship;
His letters tell of vast oceans and waves
Huge as town cathedrals:
The icy coldness he dreads each time
The ship tosses wildly in the Arctic dark;
Nang Loleng babysits for an Arab couple in Dharan;
She cries when she is left alone
Locked in her master’s house like some convict;
She writes young girls like her jump
Out of windows there;
Nanay collects their dollars always with a long deep sigh;
Noy Tatong, Nang Loleng, I keep your pictures
Between the folds of my notebook;
O how we must live apart
To stay together.
by Victor Sugbo
Noy Tatong cooks for a Panamanian crew
Of a Dutch cargo ship;
His letters tell of vast oceans and waves
Huge as town cathedrals:
The icy coldness he dreads each time
The ship tosses wildly in the Arctic dark;
Nang Loleng babysits for an Arab couple in Dharan;
She cries when she is left alone
Locked in her master’s house like some convict;
She writes young girls like her jump
Out of windows there;
Nanay collects their dollars always with a long deep sigh;
Noy Tatong, Nang Loleng, I keep your pictures
Between the folds of my notebook;
O how we must live apart
To stay together.
Third World Opera by Simeon Dumdum Jr. (Poem)
Third World Opera
by Simeon Dumdum Jr.
When he kicked the governor,
The applause
Was deafening.
Everybody stood up
And cheered.
Even a baby cooed,
So he thought.
Such an adulation
He never had in his career,
And it was for an act
His role
Had not demanded.
Why, he was about to burst into song
After kissing the leading lady
When he saw
The governor, smiling
In the front row,
And he remembered the dictator,
The governor's master,
And his sins
Against the people.
For his part, the governor
Deserved credit.
That he loved Vivaldi
Whom he thought painted The Last Supper
Was well known.
Better known
Was his passion for the theatre,
And the tragic thing that could happen
Was for one
To think his honor a fool
In matters of the stage,
And so when the actor descended,
In surprising haste,
And planted
A rather realistic kick
In his groin,
He felt honored,
Marveling with gratitude
At how much theatre had progressed,
And joined the crowd
In the applause.
by Simeon Dumdum Jr.
When he kicked the governor,
The applause
Was deafening.
Everybody stood up
And cheered.
Even a baby cooed,
So he thought.
Such an adulation
He never had in his career,
And it was for an act
His role
Had not demanded.
Why, he was about to burst into song
After kissing the leading lady
When he saw
The governor, smiling
In the front row,
And he remembered the dictator,
The governor's master,
And his sins
Against the people.
For his part, the governor
Deserved credit.
That he loved Vivaldi
Whom he thought painted The Last Supper
Was well known.
Better known
Was his passion for the theatre,
And the tragic thing that could happen
Was for one
To think his honor a fool
In matters of the stage,
And so when the actor descended,
In surprising haste,
And planted
A rather realistic kick
In his groin,
He felt honored,
Marveling with gratitude
At how much theatre had progressed,
And joined the crowd
In the applause.
Pillage by Alfred A. Yuson (Poem)
Pillage
by Alfred A. Yuson
Stones. We had to deprive them of stones.
Clearing the paths to the village, we sent
the old men and the children home. Flowers.
No one could ever raise a yard of color.
Our machetes went to work. The women wept
when they saw how sweat beaded our brows.
The river flowed, now as fast as stories told
of loss of face. How could they smile toothily
at one another, even when mornings promised
our departure? How can they look one another
in the eye, thump breasts and shoulders, suckle
from mothers? Their mountains were as forlorn.
Without stones, without flowers. But that is how
wars are won and dark souls are remembered.
So said our generals, who always knew better.
We had to suck away their spirit, leave no chance
for rebirth of courage. We took away all their stones,
the polish of their dreams. We buried the love
that made them strong. We burned all buds and flowers.
Now there are no heroes even in their bravest songs.
by Alfred A. Yuson
Stones. We had to deprive them of stones.
Clearing the paths to the village, we sent
the old men and the children home. Flowers.
No one could ever raise a yard of color.
Our machetes went to work. The women wept
when they saw how sweat beaded our brows.
The river flowed, now as fast as stories told
of loss of face. How could they smile toothily
at one another, even when mornings promised
our departure? How can they look one another
in the eye, thump breasts and shoulders, suckle
from mothers? Their mountains were as forlorn.
Without stones, without flowers. But that is how
wars are won and dark souls are remembered.
So said our generals, who always knew better.
We had to suck away their spirit, leave no chance
for rebirth of courage. We took away all their stones,
the polish of their dreams. We buried the love
that made them strong. We burned all buds and flowers.
Now there are no heroes even in their bravest songs.
A Good Cry by Alfred A. Yuson (Poem)
A Good Cry
by Alfred A. Yuson
Not an eye was dry
when I told them my story.
How at 55 I suffered
from longevity.
Only whiskey makes me well.
Yet nights I drink I cry.
Boyhood seems so long ago,
apparently of yore, another planet.
Tired of serial arguments
with this world; wired; flamed.
Gods are gone, loves alone.
No real friends but the kids.
More than half of what
scares me shitless lies beyond.
The photo albums remain
undone, I scratch my head
half the time.
Half the time
I search for a joke. Only
the clock hangs there, very
funny. Its hands move but
imperceptibly. Wish my heart
and mind were at 10:10.
by Alfred A. Yuson
Not an eye was dry
when I told them my story.
How at 55 I suffered
from longevity.
Only whiskey makes me well.
Yet nights I drink I cry.
Boyhood seems so long ago,
apparently of yore, another planet.
Tired of serial arguments
with this world; wired; flamed.
Gods are gone, loves alone.
No real friends but the kids.
More than half of what
scares me shitless lies beyond.
The photo albums remain
undone, I scratch my head
half the time.
Half the time
I search for a joke. Only
the clock hangs there, very
funny. Its hands move but
imperceptibly. Wish my heart
and mind were at 10:10.
Dream of Knives by Alfred A. Yuson (Poem)
Dream of Knives
by Alfred A. Yuson
Last night I dreamt of a knife
I had bought for my son. Of rare design.
It went cheaply for its worth—short dagger
with fancily rounded pommel, and a wooden sheath
which miraculously revealed other miniature blades.
Oh how pleased he would be upon my return
from this journey, I thought. What rapture
will surely adorn his ten-year princeling’s face
when he draws the gift the first time. What quivering
pleasure will most certainly be unleashed.
When I woke, there was no return, no journey,
no gift and no son beside me. Where do I search
for this knife then, and when do I begin to draw
happiness from reality, and why do I bleed so
from such sharp points of dreams?
by Alfred A. Yuson
Last night I dreamt of a knife
I had bought for my son. Of rare design.
It went cheaply for its worth—short dagger
with fancily rounded pommel, and a wooden sheath
which miraculously revealed other miniature blades.
Oh how pleased he would be upon my return
from this journey, I thought. What rapture
will surely adorn his ten-year princeling’s face
when he draws the gift the first time. What quivering
pleasure will most certainly be unleashed.
When I woke, there was no return, no journey,
no gift and no son beside me. Where do I search
for this knife then, and when do I begin to draw
happiness from reality, and why do I bleed so
from such sharp points of dreams?
King's Orders by Jose F. Lacaba (Poem)
King's Orders
by Jose F. Lacaba
Whereas, the time for heroes is past
and there's nothing more for them to do;
whereas, swords have all gone to rust
and fire and storm have been pacified;
whereas, in forests we no longer have to cross
the old troll has lost his protection racket;
whereas, confused monsters are in exile
and not a single witch remains,
now, therefore, be it resolved,
as it is hereby resolved,
that once a year we shall offer
the illustrious heroes of the race
fragrant flowers and boring speeches,
and whoever tries to return to the forest
shall be jailed, whoever goes up the mountain
to look for nymphs shall be hanged.
by Jose F. Lacaba
Whereas, the time for heroes is past
and there's nothing more for them to do;
whereas, swords have all gone to rust
and fire and storm have been pacified;
whereas, in forests we no longer have to cross
the old troll has lost his protection racket;
whereas, confused monsters are in exile
and not a single witch remains,
now, therefore, be it resolved,
as it is hereby resolved,
that once a year we shall offer
the illustrious heroes of the race
fragrant flowers and boring speeches,
and whoever tries to return to the forest
shall be jailed, whoever goes up the mountain
to look for nymphs shall be hanged.
The Sacred Passion of Saint Joseph by Jose F. Lacaba (Poem)
The Sacred Passion of Saint Joseph
By Jose F. Lacaba
Matay na niyang isipin
ang kabuntisan ng Birhen
anopa't babaling-baling,
walang matutuhang gawin
ang loob niya't panimdim.
- Pasyong Mahal
Chisel, plane and hammer,
listen, I'll whisper
my bitter secret: though
I've never whatchamacallit her,
my girlfriend's pregnant.
An angel tells me there's nothing
for me to be ashamed of,
there's no reason to cry;
in fact, I'm supposed to be glad
because my girl's been raped by God.
Hammer, plane and chisel,
is anger allowed to
a carpenter? Suffer in silence.
The weak and the small,
I hear, are no match for heaven.
By Jose F. Lacaba
Matay na niyang isipin
ang kabuntisan ng Birhen
anopa't babaling-baling,
walang matutuhang gawin
ang loob niya't panimdim.
- Pasyong Mahal
Chisel, plane and hammer,
listen, I'll whisper
my bitter secret: though
I've never whatchamacallit her,
my girlfriend's pregnant.
An angel tells me there's nothing
for me to be ashamed of,
there's no reason to cry;
in fact, I'm supposed to be glad
because my girl's been raped by God.
Hammer, plane and chisel,
is anger allowed to
a carpenter? Suffer in silence.
The weak and the small,
I hear, are no match for heaven.
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