p o e t r y




Returnings
by Aimee Suzara

I.
There is a voice
that flickers on and off,
on and off
like the underside
of a sparrow's wings in flight---
barely perceptible
in the warm underfluff
which draws its heat
from the heart

There my voice nestles
and reveals itself
only when there is enough silence

Or manifests itself
through my hands
as I create

Listen? It is quiet as a baby's breath
shallow, delicate, and deceiving;
it sustains me and
cannot be snuffed out

Because silence is the most
invincible presence

II.
My voice is the proclaimer of
my origin.

My origin is not a myth
but an earth-material, like the soil
from which the roots draw
moisture
which the rain deposited there---
after drawing the mist
from my breath

Not a myth
but a universe

The origin-al promise
of my brethren
was to disperse us
like seeds on the
Westward wind:
so we are here,
rooted in American soil

But what I cultivate
becomes the promise
of a new return

III.
Like a raindrop
I return to my source
my voice
re-collects
its memories/tells me
about the ancient ones
as I descend into the valley
of Banga-an*
verdant valley of water
and sustenance
I descend like a raindrop
into pools speckled
with rice seedlings
flat mirrors
which reflect a clearer image
and cling to your feet
in a muddy embrace

I descend like a raindrop
joining the millions
which wash over me,
increase into a deluge
as my footsteps quicken
on the turbid path
toes pressing into soft mud
leaving a trail
that soon dissolves

I descend into the village:
triangular rooftops of nipa
women crouched underneath
sifting rice
in graceful repetition
bellies of baskets
making yellow arcs
as the grains leap and fall

Roosters crow
as though it is always morning;
children
in tattered shirts,
mud-smeared faces
splash and dance
oblivious to their
strange visitor

I am invisible:
like a raindrop
I have lost my identity
melted into the
gleaming pools
of rice
and rain---
in this return

I fall into a dream
until I must leave again---

—Aimee Suzara is a California-based Filipino-American who sometime last year spent a short stint in Pampanga province as a volunteer for an NGO advocating the clean-up from toxic waste of the former US bases (Clark and Subic).
*Banga-an is a village in the area known as the Banawe Rice Terraces, Philippines






from heads full of butterflies




1. The Janus Construction
by Ranielle Cunanan (Winner/English)

I am a constant easy exit
My cloud doors mass of departures
Tender, never been holding or being held
While you build enclosures
With the tensile strenghts of the Heart
Gates pivoting shut
With the speed of sudden embraces

We are desperate people
arguing of logic in opposite directions
The force of our philosophies
pulling obstinately at each other
Until we discard numbness
through the backs of our heads
Two faces at the same debate

What is the nature of the gate?
To enter or to depart?
If the doorways hold the same sentiments
Indifferent to the manner of each approach
Does custom dictate the most suspicious ways
Then everything is custom
But don't we make custom?

So unmaking we begin again
Our words mounting
to hold into a hybrid arch

Steel fleshed soothing
Open ended skies
and clouds welcoming
The permanence of boundaries


2. Totoy
ni Carla Maria Concepcion (Winner/Tagalog)

... Matatanaw ang gataong tass ng talahib
na siyang bumabanlong sa pook na liblib
at sa masukal na katahimika'y mababatid
ang isang hukay... ng taong walang malay
na sinisisi ng lipunan
ng magawang pagtaksilan ang lipunan
dahilan sa lubhang karalitaan...

Lumaki siyang matikas, at sing tigas ng bato,
si Totoy at ang kanyang puso...
ngunit ang bato'y napapalambot ng luha
lalo na't hininga ng sinta ay nakataya;
ang siyang nagluwal sa kaniyang katauhan
ay nakaratay... naghihina...
at nadatnan ni Totoy na nakahiga
at labis-labis na ang panghihina;
at walang remedying maipangbango,
sa lusak ng kahirapan.
ng manipis na katawang sumusuko at
sa maputlang palad ang sapo ay dugo...
dukutin man ang bulsang butas...
ang gamot ay wala at paano na ang lunas?
... ang kakapusan ay naghari
at siyang nang hamon ang tukso muli...

Si Totoy ba gulo ang isip ay tumakbo...
hingal man at pagal na ang katawan
at bitbit niya ang kalawanging bolo at muling tumakbo
at sa ika alas-tres en punto
ay pumasok at nagbulabog itong si Totoy
at kahit sa kahuli-hulihang
kakalasing-kalasing na barya
ay sinimot ang caha de yero...
dala-dala niya ang bolo at tumakbo...
hingal man at pagal ang katawan,
di na naisip ang nagawang kataksilan
na handog sa sintang nakaratay
sa kawawang dulot ng kahinaan...
muli at muli'y tumakbo siya
upang saklooban ang isang pagdurusa
ngunit lahat ay huli na... at nasayang lang
at huli na ang handog niya mula sa kataksilan
at hukay ay naging huling hantungan
sa ngaluwal sa kaniyang katauhan...
Subalit ano mang kataksilan ay may bayad...
at agad siyang tumakbo at nagtago
sa bahay na ginawang tanggulan...
ngunit di na siya nakatinag na muli
at naratay na lamang din sa lupa ng pagkasawi
... at ang pangalang Totoyay nagmistulang isang nabibinging alingawngaw
ng isang kaluluwa na humanap ng lunas na kaginhawaan
ng nagmula sa kataksilan sa lipunan...
kung ito'y kataksilan man...

... at matatanaw ang gataong tass ng talahib
na siyang bumabanlong sa pook na liblib
at sa masukal na katahimika'y mababatid
ang isang hukay... ng taong walang malay
na sinisisi ng lipunan
ng magawang pagtaksilan ang lipunan
dahilan sa lubhang karalitaan...


3. The Perfect Crime
by Mylen Salamat (Selected Entry)

It all began with that fatal night of my perfect crime
A crime that you'll never think that anyone could possibly or deliberately
Concur.

I took the forceful weapon out my pocket
I clutched it in my hands
Then rolled it over
My hands shaking
My grip tigthening
I proceeded with my plan...

Every minute seemed stretched like forever
Once again I held it out--the weapon
Pondered conceived all possible thoughts one at a time
Certain to face consequences...

The last time it found my eye
Shall I stop?
Oh no, not in my life did I care, my own blood spurting out for this night I
am forever
cursed.

And steady at my aim
I slayed everything that myself have created
Even my sighs I could not hear for the
Blistering thought of guilt and agony
Burst my fears and burned my ears Did I weep?
All my tears flowed like an endless stream
And remorse is all that I have become
My soul had banished and my soul had gone

Will I be forgiven?
I did not know
No I do not know...

For whatever thought that have put myself held for...
I am but to blame
Not my innocence, not my pride
Nor my humanity
Not my faith nor the people surrounding me
Nor my love

I sure am a criminal
Yet that night I am sure too...
That the crime I committed was not by any chance
-- half my sin

And though I incessantly
Pray for my soul
And plead for my death, the pain
Will never stop,
I will never ever heal

Perhaps you'll never understand
Nor know how it was done
Nor what it really was
It is this --
The killing of an innocent child
Rest in peace, my unborn one


4. Exam
ni Homer Jose (Selected Entry)

Ala 6:00 ng umaga
Gumising para mag-aral muli
Puyat pa simula kagabi

Alas 8:00 ng umaga
Naghahanda na, papasok
Hindi na nag-almusal

Alas 9:00
Sa eskwelahan, nag-aaral pa
Hirap na ang isip at kalooban

Alas 10:00
Nag-sulit, sukatan daw
Ng kakayahan

Alas 12:00 ng tanghali
Tapos na ang isa
Sisimulan ang iba

Paglipas ng ilang araw
Putang ina!
Bagsak din pala

*Winning and selected entries to 2nd annual Heads Full of Butterflies poetry contest sponsored by the Kappa Sigma Fraternity at the University of the Philippines.






Caption on the Icarus Incident
by Sendong M. Makabali

I do not need to get far.
The greatest feat I can
endure is to face the door.

All I need is to get past.
The ache for home or street.
The sting of nectar or rust.

The belch after brew or swill.
The sap or husk of white.
Black is the best hole to fill.

I was here first, and then last.
Space still misplaces me, while
time bares its teeth of dust.

My angels arrive jaded.
They smell of stray insects
I used to swat as a child.

I figure out how they must
compel me to belong.
All I need is to get past.
Eternally poised for flight.







[tula]
Ang Kasal (sa Disyembre)
ni JuanCarlo dg Toledo

pasensiya na kung natagalan.
nalanta ang rosas kong dala,
nalusaw and tsokolate kong bulsa.
walang dyip sa kanto
dumaan mga sasakyan ng inip,
iglip sa kahihintay.

sa pag-ring ng telepono,
sa pag-katok ng pinto,
magulat at huwag huminga.
naintindihan mo ba ako?
sadyang kuripot sa lambing.

"sinong tinakot mo"
sabi mo habang humihitit
ng philip. walang mintis
ang bilis. at ako naman bubug
sarado ng usok mong buga
matindi, mabagsik, siksik.

may dalaw sa lunes,
huminahon at huwag makulit
pabili ng philip, pahirap
ng ilaw. walang papasok
sa lunes. pasensiya na
kung matatagalan.

(Abril 2000)



















p r o s e




[fiction]
Hard Core
by Sendong M. Makabali

I.
—I gave up work today.
—Are you sure you did the right thing?
—I should have done it a long time ago.
—I suppose I should ask you what you're going to do next.
—I choose not to make plans for the future.
—And your folks?
—I haven't talked to them about it yet.
—They ought to know.
—I don't think I'm ever going back.
—Have you some place else to stay?
—There's lots of places in the city I can room in.
—How will you live?
—My savings will last me a year.
—And afterwards?
—A year is all the lifetime I need, beginning now.

II.
—What do you think of the place?
—Spare.
—Just the way I want it. Do you want a beer?
—Yes, thanks.
—Dropping out from society sure is a funny thing.
—What do you mean?
—Why, I finally got a more interesting crop of people to pick on—I mean real people, compared to the lot I had when I used to play the rat race. I mean, I am now actually making contact with absolutely no effort.
—People have always been around. What's so different about people between then and now?
—That's just it. Before I used to think of people as animate shut-ins. I used to go out of my way to peel them to their core, to find out what made them tick if you stripped them of their joys and fears, desires and failings—the entire flab that passes for humanity.
—And did you succeed?
—I think I did. I lost interest immediately. There was nothing inside them after all. So I gave up on them.
—But you take interest in people again, you were saying.
—Yes. At least in the ones in this orbit. I admit I gave up on people too soon then. It took me some time to realize I had the same hollow make. It was time I had to come to terms with my own empty core. That led me to where I am now. I can divest more down to my core, to strip it to its final, irreducible hard element.
—You meet people—how?
—Yes. A crop of them lovely castoffs. I don't even have to step out the door. First one was the old lady who owns and rents out the rooming units in this compound. An old wiry, wrinkled pod. Asked a lot of questions before she let me rent this room. I told her I was writing a book—can you believe that? The cheapest excuse ever invented. Anyway, she fell for it. I believe I established instant respect in her when I paid her one year's rent. Next day I brought in my things and began settling myself. The old lady was solicitous but I politely refused her help. It took her two weeks before she had to, well, pry into my inner sanctum. She was worried not so much about me being a recluse—I never went out—not even once, I had pretty well stocked up on my first month's provisions. It was the other roomers who prodded her to check up on me. She rapped cautiously on my door. I promptly let her in. She smiled apologetically. She excused herself and asked me if I needed anything. She wanted to know how I was getting along with the neighbors. I told her I kept to myself and that I had nothing to complain about the people next doors. She was impressed about how neat my room was. Although it was daytime, the fluorescent lamp was on and gave the room a clinical aspect. The pads of yellow paper and cluster of ballpens on the desk beside the bed somehow reassured her. A cool draft was steadily seeping in from the window above the kitchen sink. The small refrigerator was humming soundly. She readily took the chair I offered and instantly fell under a chatty spell. She appreciated profusely my being a quiet occupant—in fact, I was so quiet that my neighbors in the other two studio-type rooms that flanked mine were starting to get concerned. The first complainant, so to speak, was a medical student next door. He too was a quiet occupant. But I could hear him at his books at night. I could hear him putter about his kitchen things—making coffee or preparing snacks, I guessed. Most of the time he was reciting—memorizing—from his books. He kept on that way for a week. One night, close to midnight, I thought I heard him address someone. I was about to sleep after my nightly ritual of ten mental runs of the English alphabet—backwards. I half-listened to his muffled rambling. I was startled a bit when I realized he was actually talking to me. The gist of what he said—he sounded earnest, too—had something to do with how terribly bored he was with his study and that he would consider it a favor if the person next door would make some signs of life once in while to divert him. It was the same thing on the following nights. In fact, it became part of his nightly study regimen. I then gave up my nightly ritual with the English alphabet, because I found the medical student's appeal a more effective soporific. In the other room are a man and a woman. Husband and wife, according to the old lady. The husband works as a night guard at a bank. He probably sleeps all morning while the wife entertains herself with a children's show and another for housewives on TV. On some late afternoons, before the man goes off to duty, I could hear them make love. It is a squeaky and thudding affair, with the man breathlessly whispering to the woman to keep it down or else the neighbors will hear. The old lady chuckled heartily when I told her this. At night their room droned with the drama specials on TV. It was the wife, the second complainant, who was most intrigued by the silence of my room. The old lady said my neighbors meant well in sending her to check on me. Her grandson used to occupy my room she said further. He was in between jobs and needed some time to recharge. He was amiable and endeared himself easily with the neighbors. He was a good cook and would invite the couple and the medical student for meals and lively talk. Naturally, when the old lady's grandson invited for dinner there would only be three of them here. It was on such occasions that the woman and the medical student managed to hit it off together. It came to a point when the two became so quiet at table that the old lady's grandson was able to see through what was happening. So he gave up dinner invitations. However, even his succeeding lunches began to take on a dreary flavor. The husband and wife were reticent and the medical student hardly touched his food. One day the medical student came up to him and asked him to arrange a dinner for the night and invite the woman. The student confessed that he was in love with the woman and that he wanted to be alone with her after dinner and desperately requested the old lady's grandson to let them have the room until midnight. The old lady's grandson refused. The medical student insisted no further and sullenly left for his own room. The next day, the old lady's grandson left, telling her he was due to start on a new job.

III.
—This room is filling up nicely.
—But it is still as spare as before, only gloomier.
—Exactly. What you discern is the stuff of my molting.
—I don't understand.
—I don't expect you to get it all at this phase.
—You're pushing this madness a little bit too far.
—I'm still good for the last three months of my lifetime.
—What I don't understand is that you look more hale than you ever did before your self-exile. Strangely, you seem so... solidly serene.
—Better—I'm beginning to lose my old skin.
—All this talk is scaring me. I need a beer.
—You will get more than that, my old friend. Here, and have a cigarette, too.
—What else do you have in store? I think I've seen everything.
—Tonight is a special night.
—Let's make it more special. Let me take you on a night out. How long has it been since you last had a diversion?
—Thanks for inviting me out. But isn't this diversion enough? For you, I mean.
—Don't laugh—I have to admit that I come here exactly for this insanity of yours. I ought to come here more often if I didn't resist the longing.
—You come when you have to come. It's what makes the whole thing special.
—Whatever happened to your next-door folks?
—I let the medical student come in as often as he wants or needs to. The first time was shortly after I told you about my chat with the old lady. He just upped here with some beers early one night and gave me a rundown of his school hangups. I let him talk most of the time. Sometimes he just sits here and smokes for hours while I read Nicanor Parra aloud. It took him not a few nights more of his school woes before he finally got around the one subject I know still sparks your interest, my old friend. He is of the lanky sort and a bit pale. However, there is fire and strength in his eyes that could at any moment be channeled to the punitive parts of his body. This much could be hinted at out of the passion he expended in relating the story of his unconsummated love for the married woman who lived in the other room. His story had dwelled in general terms on the charm and beauty of the woman. He strongly lusted after her. The old lady also comes here almost regularly. The last time, she congratulated me for making the woman in the next room happy. The noise from my room of late lifted the deathly silence it used to exude. Although the woman was not within comprehending what she must have caught I was sometimes declaiming, she was certainly affected by emotions she perceived my delivery evoked. Actually, I read in monotone. I have yet to meet the woman personally, though. It is evident that she would eavesdrop on this room whenever I had company. Her TV would either be turned off or its volume turned down very low. Especially so when it was her husband's turn to engage my non-reactive company. The security guard came up here one afternoon with a gun. It was his first visit. He said the gun was for protection. For his wife's protection, that is. He was putting his wife's safety in my charge while he was away at night. He said he had nobody else to turn to. He said he had just been talking to the old lady about his concern for his wife's safety. The landlady had told him he needed not worry since I could be trusted to watch over things, since I was the only other roomer aside from his wife who rarely left the compound. He taught me how to load and unload the gun, but instructed me to keep it loaded. He said I needed not worry over my not having fired a gun before. He said all I had to do, when the need to fire it arises, was to aim at close range. I kept the gun in one of my desk's drawers. He would come here on his nights off. He brings me beer and goat's meat. He would talk about his work, how it bored him, how he missed his bed, how madly in love he was with his wife. He belongs to the toady sort, dark and ruddy from head to foot. He always smelled strongly of Skin Bracer. He has a low booming voice that breaks easily in croaks when excited. He drank until midnight and always took his leave cheerfully. It was the medical student who first intimated the undeclared rivalry between him and the security guard. He too eavesdropped on the latter's visits to my room. He had nothing but blind loathing for the man. The security guard, on the other hand, had nothing but pity for the boy. Of course, he was not blind to his wife's feelings for the boy. But he was confident that his wife was madly in love with him—her husband. The whole thing had a tragic air to it. The medical student was itching to break the deadlock, by whatever means. The security guard was biding his time. I let them play their little game. I drank their beer and listened to them as they unlid their life stories. I was never called to react or to divulge on anything that was said about the other. Until one night the security guard asked to see the gun he entrusted me for safekeeping. He unloaded the gun except for one bullet. He pocketed the discarded bullets. He handed the gun back to me calmly and told me to keep it. He then told me that he would come to visit the following week. It was the first time he made an advanced engagement. He told me he would bring along his wife. He also told me that the old lady would be present. He also told me that the medical student would come—it turned out they finally agreed to settle the matter civily over some game with the gun. He also told me to have a friend of mine to join the party, which I have and am doing now, my old friend. I expect them to arrive all at the same time any moment now.
—What?!
—I told you this would be a special night.
—You're crazy!
—I think they're coming now...

IV.
—Well, I've lived my lifetime.
—That was a foolish stunt you pulled off on me back then.
—None of that now, my old friend.
—You're lucky your folks are willing to take you back.
—And return to them I shall not.
—What? What have you got now? No job, no money, no home...
—You still don't get it, do you?
—Help me.
—Okay. I still have the gun.
—Oh no...
—Okay. Watch me carefully.
—You're not really...
—There's really a bullet in here, see. This time it's no booby. I'm spinning the barrel. I think this goes well in my mouth.
—You're crazy!
—