p o e t r y




Three Poems from Macau
by Papa Osmubal


1. Filipino Diaspora

Leaving is excruciating.
Why? I do not exactly know, perhaps because
of the pull of two contrasting worlds:
the severity of a razor-sharp knife
drawing neat line separating flesh from cancer,
the bird’s vast and endless ocean
between hibernation and spring feast.
Remember the baby’s first gasp
of air that is full of pains?
The struggling baby can only react with tears.

Leaving is like birth.
It is the process of going
from familiar to unfamiliar,
from the water to the dry,
from the womb to the arms.

I am leaving soon: the pains, hidden treacheries
and silence of my town, Magalang, I consign
to the dusts and ashes of my youth
and of my father who passed away
not of cancer as what doctors diagnosed,
but of my country’s cruelty, apathy and poverty

It is sad and painful to go because my luggage
is heavy with dreams, faces, moments and memories.


2. Before the Verdict

News item: A video has been shown on national television of six white policemen setting dogs on black men for 40 minutes, beating them up and hurling racial abuse at them. The six Afrikaner ‘white’ policemen were arrested on Tuesday and were expected to appear in court today on attempted murder charges. —November 9, 2000. Agence France-Press for South China Morning Post.

Listen to me, honored members of jury,
and please look into my eyes for you to find out
how deep are the wounds of my soul.
Eyes possess the most vivid words.
Eyes never lie.

The fangs of the dogs did not hurt me,
the tongues of my offenders did.

My wounds, the wounds of my flesh, will heal sooner or later,
but the scars will remain to remind people
how one day savage dogs and white men ruled this land.

My offenders who called me names
may walk out of this courtroom free
and cleared from offences, but I must let them know
a child brought up believing in God and justice
will not ever fuck his poor sick mother.
I do not know what logic governed their minds
to call me fucker, sucker, fakir, bastard.

As dogs chased me, I dropped and lost
a few pennies for my mother’s medicine-
earned by carrying coals in the mining site on the next village.
I do not want my offenders to pay my pennies back,
I want them to offer apologies to my mother.
My mother is always devoted to her poverty
and followed only one man who would sire me.

I beseech you, most honored men and women of jury,
to pass the verdict not out of your pity toward me
nor out of your disgust toward my white offenders.
Please pass the verdict that the voices within you dictate.


3. Morning

The flowers woke. Yes, I literally mean woke.
They folded their petals last night: call it slumber.
And they spread them back again this morning,
like us when we stretch out our arms, yawning,
after we rose from our daily death.
But, tell me, is there time in the flowers’ life?
Is time to them as necessary and natural
as sunlight and fog and dew and moonlight?
I know there are only blooming and wilting,
and what is between those is but life
without dreams or imaginations.
Time is just a part of thought.
And thought, once misused
or abused, spoils one’s existence.
To be conscious of time is to be conscious of death.
And the flowers are neither conscious of time nor of slumber,
thus rendering them immortal
like songs and butterflies and rainbows.
Time is frightening because it sets boundaries and limits.
Time is a prison where everybody needs to escape from.
God did not create time.
We created it to rebel against God.






Tribute to Michael, Christine, and John
by Julie Anne Sempio

Swimming in emptiness
a distinct space
of sparkling existence
A mother’s womb
Sanctuary for the unborn
But now listen to voiceless screams
tearless crying
something so fragile
hurting without understanding
pain, overwhelming feeling
of destruction
Who could deprive them
of sights to see,
music to hear, love that heals
A woman? A man?
No one.






Mum
by Ma. Theresa M. Bernabe

Speak to me in silence
Not in words
Hold me in thoughts
not in dreams
for it is not in words
that you make me
feel
and
it is not in dreams
that you make me real...

for it is merely in silence
and in thoughts
that I can be your soul
it is merely in silence
and in thoughts
that I can be with you
till eternity.






[tula]
Paanyayang Kultura
ni Jake Anthony Lucas Sampana

Luma na ang mga disenyo
ng gusaling bunga ng arkitektura
maging ang salitang
nilimbag ng makata.

Naagnas na ang mga nililok
na eskultura
at kwadrong pinagpintahan
saka ang entabladong pinagtanghalan.

Pawala na ang himig
ng musika
at indayog ng paa
pati ang kaugaliang hinubog ng katawan.

Ikaw ay inaanyayahan
sa libing ng iyong kaluluwa
sapagkat ang katawang-lupa mo
ay luma, naagnas at pawala na.






[tula]
Dahil anak ka ng aking mga dasal
ni Jay Mendoza

Haplos sa hapdi o harot
Ng paghinto ng ikot
Ng maugong
Na mundo.
Sa sandaling bumalik
Ang mga imaheng
Nakabuka ang mga palad,
Dumadalaw ang pag-aalala
Para sa bukas na naiinip.

Ikaw, anak ang nag-iisang
Lupa na patuloy
Kong itinatago
Pinipigil ang mga pagdausdaos
Sa bangin ng aking pisngi.
Dahil sa iyong pagtalon
Mula sa aking kumukurap
Na mga mata,
Matutuyo ka na
Tulad ng buhangin.

Kung ganoon,
Ito na nga marahil ang kahulugan
Ng habang buhay;
Ang pakinggan ang iyong
Paghinga
At isabay ang
Paghimas sa iyong ulo
Sa pintig ng iyong murang puso.
Ang kabisahin ang mga kurbada’t
Palusong ng iyong bubot na balat,
At bantayan ang iyong mga panaginip na
Di pa makaunat.

Ngayong gabi,
Iipunin ko ang mga tamatagas
Na panalangin ng
Isang ama.






[tula]
Sirit (sitsiritsit)
ni JuanCarlo dg Toledo

sa ilalim ng araw,
ayokong mag-basketball
o’ kumain ng ice-cream

gusto kong mag-swimming.
mag-swimming ng naka-damit.
(baka kasi ma-sunburn at mangitim).

sumayaw ng boogie, ng cha-cha.
kaya mo bang sumayaw?
sumabay sa baybay? (buwisit!)

ayokong maubusan ng sasabihin,
ng yosi. makari kasi, makati kasi.
para bato,

mananatiling tahimik,
parang bato, masarap ipukol,
masakit ang bukol.

sa pagpawi ng misteryo,
tumilapon ang sikreto.
kailangan maka-score (sisiw, chicken).

sa ilalim ng araw
ayokong mag-basketball
o’ kumain ng ice-cream.



















p r o s e




[blip]
Another day
by Titus Toledo

When he woke up, he knew he was already dead, only he did not know it would come out like this: He thought things would be different — a different time, say, a different place, a different person. It surprised him that things appeared the same.

He felt the same.

He felt nothing, which about summed up how he felt all his life--- which was nothing.

For a while, he lay there without moving. He figured the exercise might prove him wrong. He shut his eyes and tried to picture the events as they happened, if they happened. There was no point really. Clearly he remembered it all, one fact after the other. And, even if granted he remembered wrong, the evidence was all over him.

He was dead all right, as dead as they come.

He slipped out of the covers, sucked on a cigarette, and showed himself out into the warm morning sun.