To Date a White Guy

Poetry by | May 27, 2012

I know what they’re thinking.
When they look at me,
they automatically assume
that I spent more hours
sitting in front of a computer
rather than get a career
and that probably
I was the kind to always want the
easy ways out of life.
They will start cracking jokes about how
you rescued my family from poverty and how
big my budget was for papaya soaps
and pedicures, which never did a lot
for my “native” look anyway,
this money, which came from you anyway.
When I talk, I’m sure they will listen.
They will listen to every
word, watch out for incorrect prepositions,
interchanged pronouns, or a run-on sentence. Sometimes,
I want to indulge them and say an
unforgivable grammar mistake, but I can’t.
I’m well-read, well-versed and eloquent, fuckyouverymuch.
They’d think that we met in Boracay,
spent a weekend together, then brought you home to introduce you
to my family–they’ll even try to guess which
godforsaken probinsya I must’ve come from
and debate whether electricity or good Internet
connection was running there.
They’d assume you came to see me and
marry me because I will take care of you and be your
official caregiver, and you’d be my ticket out of this third world,
not because we are madly in love.
Maybe they’d even throw in a joke or two
about how we may never fight because whenever
we start to, it would end by you saying, “Green card”.
Honestly, I know all of these.
I know all of these by heart.
I can feel it in my
bones, feel the weight of the words
they so want to speak. I feel
the heat of their stares and the pangs
of their disappointment. And I know,
that every time I seem to prove
them wrong or when we look ridiculously happy, I know
they’re jealous of me.
Yes, they’re jealous of me.
Their own racism is killing them. And that,
when I know, I always want to bask in its glory,
feel the moment; I’ll carry it on my way home,
put it in an airtight bottle,
bathe in it every waking morning.


Karla Stefan Singson currently leads her Davao-based events and PR outfit, PREP (PR, Events and Promotions). She also writes for print and online media.

Inip

Fiction by | May 24, 2009

Kahapon, ito ay isang tulang pag-ibig. Isinulat ko ito para sa’yo. Hinintay kita ng matagal, pero hindi ka dumating. Ayan tuloy, nainip ito at naging isang hamak na litanya. Makinig ka ha? Mabilis lang ‘to.

Kahapon, ito ay isang tulang pag-ibig. Binanggit ko ang lahat ng mga bagay na bumuo ng araw ko. Binanggit ko ang mga makukupad mong ngiti, gaano ka kabuti sa pamilya mo, at ang katangi-tanging paraan ng paghawak mo ng bolpen. Binanggit ko rin gaano ka kagaling gumuhit; pinuri kita hanggang nagtampo ang mga kaibigan ko at hindi na rin nila hinintay na dumating ka. (Nakakapagod raw kasi makinig sa mga himig kong puro ikaw, ikaw, ikaw.)

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How do you write a poem?

Poetry by | December 14, 2008

How do you give birth to beautiful thoughts?
How do you pull the stars, the ocean, and the sunset
Towards a piece of paper?
How do you convince the angels to whisper and coach you?
Or the devils, to just sit and listen?
How do you tell the pen
To write something meaningful?
Something people will look for?
Something they will tell their friends about?
How do you generate colors from a black-inked pen?
How do you write with a smile in your voice?
How do you match the right words?
How do you summon the nicest punctuations?
How do you arrange everyday expressions
To form a symphony?
How do you liven up a dormant heart,
A dead emotion,
An indifferent soul?
How do you write a poem?

—-
Karla Stefan Singson is a 4th year Marketing student and the president of the debating club of the Ateneo de Davao University.

Minatamis

Poetry by | October 7, 2007

Sinfully glazed
With warm sugar
Cubed bananas
Sit lap-to-lap
Overlapping
Competing for my
Attention

I pinched the topmost
Piece with the fork
In my hand
Some juice squirting

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