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Creative Nonfiction by Katrina Angela Castro | February 7th, 2010
I had it with me since then. It was what kept me sane from all those cynic thoughts I couldn’t prevent. It was my intense fondness for drawing. I was too obsessed with it. I couldn’t stand not doing it even for just a short while. It seemed as if my childhood days revolved around my sketch book. Drawing was my passion, my shock absorber.
I used to be very languid back then, more than what I am now. I was so sensitive that I had to pin my ears back on what others might be saying and doing behind me. I became very conscious of my words and actions because I did not want people to criticize me. I was a silent detective, collecting even the little signs of spitefulness. I admit that I had those irrational suspicions. I just couldn’t avoid them.
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Creative Nonfiction by Riza Racho | February 7th, 2010
How do we measure success? Each has her own answer to this basic question, and each is correct. It depends, I guess, on where one is coming from, or perhaps, where one is at the time the question came. Since is no right answer to this question, there is only the supposition of its accuracy, of its veracity. From whose perspective will the assessment of such accuracy come? I guess it will be from the perspective of one who had been there.
I measure my success not in terms of how much I have in the bank—for there is not a lot there, just a few measly pesos to tide me over till the next paycheck—nor even how long I have taught in the University. To do so, I think, is inutile, for then, I am but one of the many who have given their best to honor the age-old tradition of greater service for the glory of God. I am but one of the soldiers who march to the battlefront, swinging her gun to the rhythmic cadence of inspired heroism before the guns start to mow us down. I am one of the many who may still live the ideals of a world gone awry, tenaciously holding to what could have been so that this world could become a more habitable one for those who will come after us. So, what, then, is success for me?
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Poetry by Rory Ian Bualan | February 7th, 2010
He took his time and made up his mind,
now he talks in front with spectacles on:
“This is not a way of life—it’s the way I am.”
So the line goes; and being sarcastic
makes him feel good, like a pat on his
square-model shoulders.
He glanced at the sun, noticed it’s early;
so he lingered and walked like forever.
“It is not fashion, babe, it’s passion!”
So he proclaims! And comments, rants,
insults with pure joy and pride—like
a panelist in one of those ramp realities.
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Poetry by Erika Navaja | February 7th, 2010
Just got my clothes all washed up,
ready to dry. Perfect day
for clothes-hanging, although
moments ago the sun hid
among cloud blankets.
Wind chilled my wet hands
as I hung a week’s worth
of memories selected, arrayed properly:
the tee I wore going to a hotel function,
the bloodied socks caused
by three-month old abrasions,
the hankie I used for crying out loud
(and for honking sea-green mucus into),
some running stitches
hastily keeping my pants shorter,
frays on skinny jeans
out of clumsy hands playing
with scissors, the get-well-soon shirt
with distinguished signatures, my secret
stains on a panty hem, the yellowed
armpits, the gloomy pinks, the bright blues
fading blacks—still no sun? The chill
passes what seemed to be buntings,
welcoming next week’s festivities to come.
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Poetry by Gino Dolorzo | January 31st, 2010
For Henrietta Diana de Guzman
They cling to your name; rose.
They mark your tears and fear
of protests, protruding
like their desire to have you
slipped past my grip. Your image,
your scent is unjustly treating
me as martyr who breaks
vows worn ’round his finger. Who falls,
folds his heart and eyes, but not much
to keep resentment. Who longs to take
a dip with you in deeper sea
of blankets moistened by sweat
of your struggled movements
evoking fire and innocence.
Who has lost his limits. Lie on me,
rose, let me pluck those thorns.
Gently, let me.
—-
Gino Dolorzo is a senior education student at Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan.
Poetry by Jeff Javier | January 31st, 2010
I once wrote it like how I drop a stone on still water. The first word would splash and the lines thereafter ripple in and out of paper going back to the first words and out again to the margins, through the fibers and on the four corners on this thin crust of a paper, now shivering on the creases, waves rolling, tsunamis mounting, swallowing monuments and mountains, roaring and marching in and out the field, multiplying liquid soldiers, one ripple clashing against the other, creating more splashes and little spheres up on the air.
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Review by Karlo Antonio David | January 31st, 2010
Aaron Jalalon’s play “Red Wine for Teddy” is an excellent work of literature because of its demonstration of refreshing humour, its ability to ironically reveal Philippine realities and its nature as a work that is uniquely Filipino. It is both entertaining and profound, a helpful tool in bringing the masses back into the path of intellectualism they have for a long time strayed from.
The play, which consists of just one scene, is about four meat vendors: the eponymous Teodor, Lydia, her daughter Ji-ji and Ardong. It is revealed in the four’s dialogue that Gary, an American who was a patron of Teodor, had been found murdered in a dump site. The four express the possibility that theft was the motive for the murder, and, in a light hearted sequence of dialogue, they fondly lament his death.
The play’s strongest aspect is its humour. It seems superficial, but on closer reading, it reveals the attitudes of its characters.
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Creative Nonfiction by Sergei Reyes | January 24th, 2010
Unlike others who preferred creating nonsensical doodles, I fancied writing my thoughts on paper using my left hand, but due to my awesome talent to do continuous cartwheels, I broke it when I was six.
I was excited to show off; my arms were extended as if reaching for a tree branch, and my feet were giddy to come off the ground. My friends were aghast as I did one cartwheel after another. When I was about to finish my third, a female with huge hips and bouncy ass passed by and unconsciously bumped me, so I fell. I never felt anything until my friend who had been awed at first was horror-stricken, and he shouted, “Hala Sergei! Ang kamay mo!”
I looked at it, and saw that my left arm had formed an “L” shape.
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Poetry by Doreen Mae Alolod | January 24th, 2010
My wrists throb
From your grip
Because you want me to listen
To your singing
“What’s with that singing Pa?”
I ask
But you sing
Words that I don’t know
My wrists ache
From your grip
“Why does your voice have to tremble?”
I ask
And you sing
Words that I don’t know
My wrists ache
From your grip,
But I don’t mind.
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Poetry by Paul Randy Gumanao | January 24th, 2010
As long as they have names
they are not small
I could easily point to Kitty
among the group of cats
or turn to Mr. Paw among the dogs
and stroke its furry back
I know of a lion named Torr
whose only pride is its misfortune
of having a coarse, roaring voice
and a terrifying looks
enough to startle the herons at poise
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