Pagkahuman

Poetry by | July 7, 2019

Human sa paglumpag, human sa mga bubog sa bildo nga sama sa mga nawaning bituon: ikaw ang akong Kataposan, ikaw ang kinaunhang takna sa kinabuhing wala nay orasan, ikaw ang karsada tali sa mga dakbayang wala nay gapuyo; ang ngalan sa kon unsa may mahulog gikan sa mga panganod kay dili na ulan, kon dili Ikaw: tangkugo sa magul-anong undo nga bangason, himno sa pinulongang wala nay gagamit, nag-inusarang suga sa panggabiing bangka sa kabaybayonan—unsaon ko pagdawat nga ang matag pulong mao imong ngalan?


F Alex San Juan writes poetry and prose from—-and is currently on self-exile in—-northeastern Mindanao.

Kung papaanong hindi natatapos ang byahe ng dyip—

Poetry by | July 7, 2019

Babasahin ko pa ang galaw ng katawan ng namamasada.
Ang ikinikirot ng manibela: isang ikot nalang, isang ikot nalang.
Kung sa hindi mabilang na mga pagbaybay sa kalagitnaan
ng lungsod, uubo ng tatlong beses ang drayber malapit
sa flyover sa R. Castillo at maghihintay na namang
matuyo ang pawis sa likod kapag nasa kasuluk-sulukan
na ng Bago Gallera. Kung papaanong hindi ko matunton
ang mapa sa loob ng aking mga diwa, hindi ko pa masagot
sa buwang ito. Baka sa Nobyembre o kaya sa susunod pang taon,
kung sa paglimot sa mga mata mo, mga pisnging
hinahanap ang mga ngiti mo sa labi, mga pagpahinga
ng ulo sa kamay mo tuwing lilingon kang nakaupo sa malayo,
baka mahanap ko na ang sarili ko. Kung gayong hindi ko
masukat ang kahabaan ng Roxas, ang paliku-likong katawan
ng McArthur, ang kurbang mukha ng Marfori, bubulong nalang
ako sa hangin, susulyap sa walang katapusang pag-ikot ng
mga gulong, pipiliting makaalala kung saan ang destinasyon ko.
Kung gayong hindi pa kita mahanap, hindi pa ako bababa.


Nagtuturo sa Ateneo at tumutula-tula si Ian.

Dabaw (Dalagang Kabaw)

Poetry by | July 7, 2019

Ako usa ka dalagang kabaw
Nag sige’g barog biskan dili adlaw
Sa Tionko nangitag ilimnon nga matin-aw
Makuhuran lamang ang gibating pagkauhaw

Ako usa ka dalagang kabaw
Sa nagpundong lapok nakigsawsaw
Aron malikayan ang mga nagtabing langaw
Ug matabunan ang mga isturyang naglatagaw

Busa ako usa ra ka dalagang kabaw
Sama sa uban, dali ra mabaligya sa langyaw


Marianne Hazzale J. Bullos, 18, is from General Santos City and an alumna of Philippine Science High School-SOCCSKSARGEN Region campus. She is a student during weekdays, a master crammer on weekends, and an eagle for lifetime.

Kon Imong Namatikdan

Poetry by | May 19, 2019

Sa kadugayon sa inyong panag-uban
kon tan-awon iyang hulagway
murag wa may kabag-ohan.

Parehong nawonga ang mamukaw,
mangasaba ug mosugat kanimo
kon di ka matulog sa udto.

Pero kon tutukan nimo’g ayo
sama sa paglutok sa iyang mata
sa platong wala nahugasan, makita mo

ang mga abog nga namilit sa aping
ug liog, sa imong tsinelas, abuhan,
sa kalsada na gisuroyan og binaki

ug ginanggang. Daghan nang linya
sa agtang kada badlis pagpabadlong.
Kahumot na pud siya sa bareta ug klorox.

Sa binugkos niyang buhok nagtabun
sa nalagas nga bahin sa ulo. Napagaw na sab
sa kakapoy sa sige’g yawyaw

kada buntag, nga karon igo na lang
sa pagmaymay
ug tambag.


John Carlo Patriana Beronio kay usa sa mga poetry fellows sa niaging 2018 Davao Writer’s Workshop.

To the Passengers I Sat Beside with on the Bus Home

Poetry by | May 5, 2019

Forgive me for not looking
or for looking at you too
intensely in the eyes before
I settled myself in, or before I
answered, “no, lingkod lang” when
you asked if I was with someone.
I apologize for letting my arms
graze yours, accidentally,
sometimes, only to see what
it is like, again.

Once, I let myself think you
were someone else, or I
a different person. I hope
you didn’t find my presence
too big, as it often, always, takes
up more space than it deserves.


David Jayson Oquendo is an Electrical Engineer based in Davao City, Philippines. His works have appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer, Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine, Dagmay, and Cotabato Literary Journal.

How Are You?

Poetry by | May 5, 2019

A writer is sometimes vague
with the world and its gentlest demands,
it finds itself from being vague and all,
the pen is an irony;
it truly ensnares the subtlety,
the ardor, and the incongruity;
and yet it incarcerates the hand
that harnesses it
from the ordinary and the naïve,
what disaster it truly brings
only the heart can truly fathom,
and when no word can bear the slight,
only the soul can truly writhe,
the solitude of a writer’s shadow,
enchanting to the dream,
agonizing as reality in the dawn,
what are we but fainting letters
amidst the wave of life,
what are we but troubled outlines
wrestled into oblivion,
and yet the pen is incognito
lashing hearts within
truly tempting, truly cunning
for the human heart is but naïve
but a writer disdains the humor
refutes the slumber
encumbers the pain
for there is luxury in writing
a thousand words
into the deep
for there is no one surer
left alone and forsaken
but the writer who cannot sleep
heeds the cry of the river
and hears the echo of forever,
a writers walks ingloriously
in this world or the next
entrenched into the bosom of life
estranged from this withered road
all but tread the footsteps
of the cold, damp feet
what price does a writer pay?
to make known
the last gasp of light
from feeling and deceiving
from shedding the greatness
of life in a glimpse;
tis’ the life that knew
the pen never forgets
how vague summers can be
and in the burrow of crowdedness
I lay still and vague
and where these trenches may lead
only the pen knows.


Paulo Morales is a senior high school teacher at Badas National High School in Mati City.

BGR

Poetry by | May 5, 2019

There’s a vein – blue
running across your face
a striking contrast
to your pale skin
like grains to a marble
add character to
an otherwise expressionless
mask you wear playing
a geisha China doll

There’s a light – green
flashing in front of me
a persistent signal
to my eager hands
like trained lab rats
my fingers trace
the contours of your face
which is smooth and gentle
and cold and dead

There’s a thought – red
ready for a full stop]
an intention killed
before it can free
trapped desires and
demons from pretty boxes
your dwelling place
in most cases outlined
by faraway glances


Rory Ian is a physics teacher.

Tokhang

Poetry by | April 14, 2019

More to roses than their roots
they fake love swaying
with the wind,
the inevitability of change.

Night attends
to the garden
to lull them
to sleep.

             The weak let go
and weather with the season;
yellow leaves go first.

Roots dig deep,
below the surface
wider than branches.

By the day
the gardener names
roses, and only roses;

the leaves have all
           fallen
       to
    the
ground.


Darylle Rubino is a faculty member of the Department of Humanities in UP Mindanao. This poem was published in an anthology entitled Continue reading Tokhang