Sunday Best

Poetry by | May 21, 2017

I believe in Sundays more than I do God or mothers—
More than structures or figures—
My faith in Sundays is tireless, I am a devotee.
Would you agree?
The universe gave us Sundays
To save face
or
To seek forgiveness for the formidable days that follow
A treat after a long stressful week—sweet and satisfying yet desperate
Some days would come to you as a bribe
To shut your eyes and mouth for the day—
to simply live and let live.
Would you believe?
The most splendid thing about Sundays is that
people mind their own business.
Nobody cares about anybody,
even the eyes of bystanders
take their rest-
the world neglects to detect
the amount of melanin
on people’s skin
other than their own kin.

My favorite Sundays are the rainy ones–
Stores closed, streets almost empty, and houses full!
On rainy Sundays, people mind their own business.
Would you confess?
On Mondays, people transform into
vile creatures
That speak with a spiky tongue
They crouch on cobbled streets composed of corpses—
Creatures like these
forget to forgive faultless fellows but funnily
remember to read
what’s
underneath
people’s trousers–
A man-ual, “This is a penis, show respect”,
and something else, I suspect.
Which raises the question,
Would you?
Soon enough, it’s Sunday again and
I’ll be wearing nothing–
Why not? On Sundays, people mind their own business.


Angellica “Ineng” Narvaiza is an activist. She is currently studying BA Communication Arts at the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

The Parks of San Pedro Street (Part One)

Fiction by | May 21, 2017

“I should have my revenge!” These poisonous words were running slowly in the veins of the desperate mind of Miguel as he was walking in the hushed yet lighted San Pedro Street at twelve o’clock midnight. His black jacket, white shirt, faded denim pants and gray rubber shoes perfectly protected him from the cold night’s wind. The fairly looking, medium built boy could not sleep because the laboratory result stated that he is HIV positive. This frustration gave Miguel a melting of heart and bothered soul. So, the young man rose from his soft bed and decided to leave his well organized room for a stroll in the downtown area San Pedro Street is the heart of Davao City due to its iconic landmarks. On the right side, stands the gray-colored San Pedro Cathedral; with its Spanish-style frontal-curved design makes the structure visible in the place. Adjacent to the church is the two storey beige color Sanggunian Building, in which, in front of this edifice erects the centennial monument. Neighboring to Sanggunian Building on its left side is the decade old Davao City Hall. The 1926 design building with its magnificent columns on the entrance hall makes the structure a truly landmark. San Pedro Street has four small parks-Osmena Park, Quezon Park, Rizal Park and Centennial Park.

Osmena Park is at the right side of the Sanggunian Building. It is a walled sanctuary. The green park has become a safe haven for birds which are looking for asylum in a busy metropolis. The park has tall, green trees that sway with the wind and colorful flowers that embellish the park lane, and gives blissful view to the people sitting on the benches. During day time, the chirping of the birds and the sound of the swaying leaves become the music of the place.

Continue reading The Parks of San Pedro Street (Part One)

In the Company of Strangeness: From Davao to Bucas Grande (Part 1)

Nonfiction by | May 21, 2017

A journey is only as good as the company you travel with.

I first knew about Bucas Grande some eight years ago, and thought it might just be the most beautiful place in the Philippines. Its images online showed inviting turquoise waters around deserted island hills teeming with foliage. I remember too, quite distinctly, a picture of a woman wearing a blue bikini swimming among yellow jellyfishes. It looked so fantastic—paradise with a twist!—and I yearned to be there. Someday.

However, with my miniscule social circle, I never found a friend who wanted to go there—or, to be exact, someone who’s willing to pay to go there—even as the place grew in popularity to the point that there are now various tour packages featuring it. So when an old acquaintance posted on Facebook that he’s organizing a trip to Bucas Grande, I asked to be in immediately, never mind that I didn’t know anybody else coming.

Continue reading In the Company of Strangeness: From Davao to Bucas Grande (Part 1)

Chicken Time!

Poetry by | May 14, 2017

One landed on the roof
with a dull thud that i thought
was a fleeting second of thunder
crumpling against the clear sky
just as the three-o’-clock prayer
was airing: “You died, and yet
your well of life sprung forth”
onto the afternoon gone quiet
save for the drunken laughter
gathering in the backyard
where twelve reddened fingers pointed
towards their newfound feathered friend
flailing and crowing thrice
before snapping its neck, after which
I was called out with one thought
in their minds: “Supper!”


John Oliver Ladaga is currently taking up BA English in UP Mindanao. He likes poetry and wallflowers, and doesn’t like being sad.

The Housewife

Nonfiction by | April 30, 2017

There were talks of a major promotion for one of the vice-presidents of Chinabank*. Throughout her 19 years of working there, she had slowly worked her way to the top; drawing approval and encouragement from almost every board member (there were nay-sayers, but that was par for the course). Magnetic trinkets were covering every available surface of our refrigerator door; tokens she had collected from her nearly-monthly travels all over the country on those kinds of business trips the company pays everything for. She was a powerful woman in her field, a mere 4 months away from becoming the company president, when, at the age of 48, my mother decided to retire.

Contrary to popular belief, my mother did not retire because she was tired of 9 to 5 office hours. She was not a white person who, in the face of a midlife crisis, suddenly drops their job and feels the need to compensate all those years of overwork with vacations and cars not suited to their tastes anymore. Being born in a middle-class Filipino family with the mindset that hard work = money, she was determined to stay in that bank until her youngest child, a 9-year-old, had graduated from college. She also did not retire because of the new regulation the Bangko Sentral ng Pilipinas (BSP) had set out that would put the bank in trouble. If anyone could fight and grit their teeth through that trial, it would have been my mother. Besides, that job was her life. When I was younger there were times when the bank took precedence over my childhood. A board meeting over my third-grade recognition ceremony, an overtime shift on my birthday. The abandonment (in the loosest sense of the word) was the very foundation of my preteen angst. But I’ve grown out of that, and this is not about me. It is impossible to believe that my mother would have given up on the employees she treated like family (who referred to her as Mama Bear, she would tell me on nights the withdrawal feels the strongest, her eyes wistful).
Continue reading The Housewife

Apoptosis*

Poetry by | April 30, 2017

(for Lola Mommy)

 

Everything passes

from this life

on to the next.

Everything moves

toward something better.

It’s natural to lose some things.

 

This is the lesson

I remember

from our little chats

on quiet afternoons

in your old house

when it was just the two of us.

 

You told me to travel.

You said go

before age would interfere;

see the world.

You said you could wait

before your great grandchildren would arrive.

 

It’s been a year

since you left us—

since I learned that I had tarried.

Sometimes I regret that

I had not hoarded our times together.

Time was not on our side.

 

But today in the warm breeze

I feel your presence.

Your words echo in my memory

in this foreign land.

Even in your absence

you continue to shape me.

 

— from Marina Bay, Singapore

(23 March 2017)

 

*pronounced /æ.pəˈtoʊ.sɪs/ (“apo-to-sis”)


Genevieve Mae Aquino was born in Manila but calls Davao her home. She has a clutch of diplomas in molecular biology and genetics. She was fellow for Poetry in English at several national creative writing workshops. She currently works as a university researcher at the University of the Philippines.

God is a Woman

Nonfiction by | April 23, 2017

When I was 8, a boy named Carl decided to make my life a daily hell by teasing me, snickering whenever I spoke up in class, and giving me a gentle shove every time he passed me in the corridor. One time his shove made me trip on my own shoes and I stumbled through the hallway. When I told my teacher about his constant harassment, she smiled and gave me a light pat on the shoulder, saying “He probably just likes you!” After the incident, I never again told an adult about something a boy did to me.

When I was 12, I was squished to the corner of the jeepney because the guy sitting next to me has his legs spread all over the seat. All the other passengers, who were all women, looked at him but no one even bothered to tell him. He was taking up too much space. Men take up too much space that we often forget that we also have our own. I even saw the lady across me carefully adjust the corner of her jacket since it was taking up more room than needed. We are raised like that: we are raised to sit with closed legs, to not talk or laugh too loudly, to take up as little space in the world as possible. Continue reading God is a Woman

Sa Kasakit Ug Sa Pag-antos

Poetry by | April 23, 2017

Ang kahapsay bag-o napahiluna
Molusot usa sa gamayng lungag
sa dagom nga gitawag nga kamatuoran.
Walay naanak nga puya
Nga dili matugaw ang paginusara
Sa mga bituon sa kagabhion.
Ug wala kini migawas nga nakabiste
Sa matag Domingong pang-simba.
Asa ka kakitag puya
Nga wala gihabolan sa dugo
Sa iyang kaugalingong inahan?
Asa ka kakitag inahan
Nga wala nagkundasingot sinyagit sa pag-utong?
Kay ang tanan makigharong sa kasakit ug pag-antos
Aron lang molahutay sa taas nga panahon.
Wala mimata ang unang tawo
Sa kaharuray ug sa kahayahay.
Mingsubay kini una sa kalisod
Ug niining mga kalisod ug mga pagsulay
Migiya sa unang tawo
Nga makatukod og sibilisasyon
Sama sa natagamtaman nato karon.
Kay sa kasakit ug pag-antos lang
Matukod ang bag-ong ugma, ang bag-ong paglaom.


Si Gil Nambatac kay usa sa mga BisDak nga nagtubo sa Mindanao, gikan sa Dakbayan sa mga Busay, Dakbayan sa Iligan City, nga nagdamgo nga puhon mahimong usa ka magsusulat nga lehitimong magbitbit sa naratibo sa panagbisog sa mga linupigan ug gipangdaogdaog sa katilingban. Nahimong fellow sa Cornelio Faigao Memorial Writers Workshop ug sa Iligan National Writers Workshop para sa mubong sugilanon. Padayon siyang gaapil-apil sa lain-laing workshop sa nasod para makahimamat ug makighugoyhugoy sa mga banggiitang magsusulat ug mailhan ang uban pang sama niya nga adunay damgo nga mahimong magsusulat sa nasod nga dili hilig mobasa.

Palangga Ta Ka

Poetry by | April 23, 2017

Hambala ko nga nadumduman mo
kon san-o ta una nagkita,
kon paano ta gastorya;
kon gaano ta sang-una.

Hambala ko nga waay ka
nalipat sa mga adlaw nga
kanami pa sang imo pahiyom
sadtong mga adlaw nga
napasanag mo ang dulom.

Indi ko pag hambala
nga waay ka na kahinumdum;
nga nalipat ka na
nga gipalangga ta ka.

 


Emmylou is a 4th Year BA English Student at the University of the Philippines Mindanao. She is a feminist, and an activist; a solemn hero with a fragile heart.

Skins

Poetry by | April 16, 2017

The first time I saw you, you had liquid emeralds for eyes and they desired me. They lusted over my thick hide and rich meat that could save your family for the winter. So when I felt the cold steel of your knife pierce through me, I did not fight back. I let you take my life so you could save yours.

The first time I remembered you, your hair was slicked back but a lone, stubborn curl refused to cooperate, making my left hand itch. You smiled at me, flashing a dimple, and called me, “Ma‟am.” And oh, how eager you were to fly. So I watched. I watched you join the biggest con game on earth—war, just to leave the ground for a while. I also watched as your plane was blown into smithereens.

The first time I knew I loved you, you did not exist. I looked for you in the sky, in the ocean and in every nook and cranny of the land. I married a girl with freckles and had twins. While I was happy, I knew I would always wait for you.

The first time you found me, I knew the wait was going to be a part of my lives. I opened my eyes and there you were, smiling, as if you knew, too. We broke our mother’s body but she loved us with every bone she had, nonetheless. That was one of my happiest lifetimes; chasing shadows, getting into brawls and learning every line on each other’s palms. But the best part would always be waking up every morning, certain of your love for me.

The next time I met you, we were both adults and life had come first. I was hard, ambitious and stern—more so than you. You managed to keep that reckless glimmer in your eye somehow. While it was easy for you to discard your armor, mine was molded deep into my skin. You took your time anyway, as if making up for the other lifetimes. And before I knew it, you left galaxies between my thighs and unmade every lesson life had taught me.

Some lifetimes, I would find you with your heart in another soul’s hands. To watch you kiss your wife to work and dress up as a ridiculous Santa to your kids’ delight was an exquisite joy on its own. But to watch you wait for the grinning boy incapable of happiness in Pinto was the second hardest thing I ever had to do. He did not arrive and yet, years later, there you still were.

Other lifetimes, we never even meet. I learned not to look for you in a child’s laughter, a model’s hips and a scent in the train. I just had to be so you can return to me just as I would return to you always.

But for now, I am content to have you in my arms, your dark hair spilling over your pony tail, tickling my nose. “Which was your favorite?” you ask. I look up at the vast emptiness of the universe and trace my fingers over your night skin. “Different bodies, same souls. Same love.”


Viel is a BA Communication Art student at the University of the Philippines Mindanao. She is now on her fourth year and will graduate on June.