Makata Vol.6
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Issue No.1, January 2005

not succeeding as a poet I flunked my life

To make matters worse
I am forced to write on the edges,
hide behind useless metaphors,
speak the intolerable, consult
with coerced readers, only to find it
difficult, my writing too difficult,

that I forbade the sun in my windows,
forgot the wonder of darting sparrows,
killed an innocent roach roaming
like a dirty inspiration, punch keys
Of oft-quoted trees to agree,
agree with me, agree with me.

Who would I look upon in this unsagely hour
when the one the top had a heart attack,
the hand behind the broken stones
has ignored my brittleness on purpose,
when my craft rhymes with crap?

I’m not even a minor in the vast minority
of archipelagic muse-chasers. My net
has holes in it, huge zilch among silk-
makers of the thousand-island soul.

I am, as a sport has it, benched, no player,
perhaps and perchance a towel boy
of boy geniuses, veteran pros, wiping
beads of light amidst their perfect game.

Great bard whiners! I’m so dead,
and has not even a place to be buried.
I am the roach after boring and being
bored in crevices, roam the angry night
to be crushed by someone incidentally
as desperate and angsty as me.

Tryst

I wait for you in the dark.
No longer the moon would suffice,

The brilliance of longing having blinded many.
No longer the stars that has gleam for its epitaph,

Not the leaves that swirl with this disgrace,
Not the evermores that luck has lost

in the night thickets.

This seeking that season expects nothing to fall,
Nothing to bloom, nothing to be taken completely over with

Is the waking that fears no sleep, a cradling of consciousness
That speech only recognize without the rhythm of blankets,

Without the learned lullabyes to stave off drowsiness.

Are you with me are you coming have you gone already?

Light has already magnified what is there to see.

What continuity, when all one can look for is a dead end?
When connection has nothing to do with what is growing,

Not underneath, but over it, the walls invisible in ferns,
The air filled with what can take over, the water islanding rocks,

Lilies licking its bud, birds darting away in its passing.

I still wait, the waft of evening air cry of your currents,

The swift intangible, the sweet lookabout,

The trees dancing with your wingless humming.

© Alexander Agena


REAL(M)ISMO

Wari ay tapat at totoo
ang tila walang-kupas
na obra ni Amorsolo.

Tunghayan,

matimyas na larawan ng kanayunan:
sa sakahan ay may pesanteng nakaumis
habang nagpupunla ng libong butil –
ng palay kaya o mais?
(ngunit huwag nang tantuin,
ang talinghaga’y makikitil!)

Masdan,

walang bakas ng hapô o inis
ang kanyang mukhang
maputi, marikit at makinis
ni hindi maaninag ang pagkatigmak
sa sarili niyang pawis
kahi bilad sa matinding init ng araw
at lubalob sa putikan na animo’y
tubig na kaylinaw.

At kung magpapatangay sa namnam,
kulang na lamang ay sabayan
ng malumanay na indayog ng kundiman
upang lubos na malasap ang sarap
ng buhay-bukid na panatag.

Sirang romantiko o loko-loko?
Ngunit huwag nang pagdudahan
ang artistang nagpatotoo
sa kanyang isiniwalat na personal
at marubdob na sentimyento.

Pakatitigan,

‘di matawaran ang husay ng hagod
sa maingat na pagkatimpla
ng mamahaling oleo
sa itim, puti, dilaw,
asul at pula.

Pansinin pa ang pagkapino
ng masalimuot na mga linya,
ito man ay mapa-diretso
biglang liko o kurbado
(kung kaya maipapalagay,
ang lumikha nito, malamang
ay hindi pasmado!)

At kung kanbas lamang ang subukan
ng kalyuhing kamay na salatin--
tunay ngang sa walang-mintis na katotohanan
ang halos walang kapintasang larawan
ay pawang salat at salat din.

Pagnilayan...

duplikasyon
ng payak na pamumuhay
sa sulyap at unang tingin
lalo sa mata ng ‘di nagpagal
sa mismong malayong bukirin--
kaya napasambit ang matinik
na kritikong manunuri:
“dakila si Amorsolo’t
magsasaka’y binibigyang-puri!”

A, kung masilayan lamang sana
ng mga abang magbubukid
itong pinatingkad sa kulay
na kanilang pagpapakasakit—
inspirado’t dagling maghahagilap
ng mumurahing pinsel at pintura,
hahamunin ang kritiko pati na si Amorsolo
sa kanilang pagpapaguran
na obra maestra.

© Maryjane Alejo

Maryjane Alejo is a freelance performing artist, a member of Tambisan sa Sining, honorary member of Concerned Artists of the Philippines, a 'joiner'(!) in Kilometer64 and a rockin'roller of the streets, communities and boondocks.


The Neighbor's Geese

He keeps them fenced in together
with the fattening pig, a few chickens
he's raising for the pot, some lanka trees--
his flock of five white geese.
He'd kept a dog there once, a lonely
hungry brute, snarling and barking all day,
and an ewe which lambed in due season.
One cold wet night while he slept,
the dog broke its leash and killed the lamb.
Ewe and dog are gone now--to their fates,
I guess. So there are the geese.

He keeps them, he says, to keep watch,
to guard his few trees, the pig, the chickens
scrabbling in the grass, the thumb-sized patch
of gravel he had claimed under God's heaven
as his. If geese had business of their own
other than this, he'd never have asked.

Wind blows here, leaves, twigs fall forever
on the gravel patch. Prowler cats break in,
stray dogs snaffle past, rats, mice scuttle through,
sometimes a toad hops toad-fashion
to his water trough. Geese make no distinction,
announce the news in raucous gabble.
Or perhaps it's just goose talk,
"Bad food here, amigo," and the rest
squawk back, "You bet, not enough here
to make crap!" Goose laughter. Loud, loud.
If geese were polite, they'd be like us.

Keep only what comes to your door,
freely and in peace is what
I always say to myself. I'd say it to him
but he's full of his own reasons--
I doubt he'll attend. I'd tell him,
Keep only what would stay, willingly--
for a day or two--to breathe, rest, feed.
Furred, feathered, or human, bearing gifts
or empty -handed. Above all
keep only what you can love, truly,
abundantly, without regret, although
they could pick you bone-clean
before they go, leaving you their dust
to sweep to the high wide sky.

There go his geese again, honking
and screeching fit to bring down the heavens.
They crane their long proud necks, raising
their beaks to sound their urgent cry.
They march in peerless dignity,
holding their heads high. Despite his fence,
perhaps these geese guard a nobler terrain
and more grand than what we see
with our mere human eyes.

I can't free them, they're not mine.
I can free them only in my mind.

© Merlie Alunan
St. Paul's Sanctuary
Dec. 10, 2004
Makati City


TAGLAGAS

Ikaw na anak ng taglagas
palutangin mo ang iyong mga pilikmata
Sa pawis na naipon sa mga butas ng iyong mukha.
Palaglagin mong parang tuyong dahon sa kalagitnaan ng tag-init
Ang mahahabang buhok sa dulo ng iyong talukap.

Iyon lamang at mapapawi na ang hapdi
Ng sikat ng araw sa naglilibag kong batok
Na sa sobrang libagin ay maaari na itong tamnan ng kamote
Na ihahain mo mamayang gabi
Sa mga nakangangang bunganga (ngunit pigtal ang mga dila)
Sa habag ninyong hapag-kainan.
Iyon lamang at mapapatag na
Ang mga kulubot sa aking talukap
Na tila nakasanayan nang nakapinid.

Kung may mata man akong nakatanghod
Asahan mong ito’y nakasimangot,
Nangungulimlim, nagbabadya ng unos.
Ngunit ang unos na nais ko’y yaong may matang
Tinimpla ng mahabang panahon ng pakikipagpingkian
May titig na nakakasugat, nakakatibo.
Mga matang namumula,
Nakaugat sa lupa, nakatingala sa langit,
Nag-aanyaya ng ulan.

Nino Inosente

Kanina, nakita kong pumulandit
sa makinis na mukha ng dagat
ang isang naghihingalong alon.

Walang-kayabangan nitong inangkin
ang nagngingitngit na alat ng dalampasigan.

May batang maninisid na ‘di mapakali
sa pagkahig sa bumbunan ng buhanginan,
waring manok na namimingwit
ng bulate para sa pananghalian.

Sa isang kisap-kidlat ng mata lamang,
tumigil sa pagbungkal ang bata
at nagkandirit-ala-pipit papalapit
sa pusod ng mga puting talampakan.

Ipinako ang mga puting tuhod
sa sinapupunan ng kamusmusan.

Pumutok ang panubigan
at nagluwal ng mapulang ulan.

SALAMING-TUBIG

mamamangha ka:
parang salaming-tubig ang palad niya
nakahuhuli ng balangaw
na nakapailanlang
sa kapirasong langit na asul

sa ibabaw ng kanyang palad
paduyan-duyan ang maliit na batingaw
malalim na lagutok ang isinisigaw
timbulang hinaing sa hangin

hanggang sa mahulog ito
tila ulan ng yelo
nakatitig nang diretso
habang dumadausdos
paglapag, kumilapsaw ang palad

mamamangha ka:
basag ang balangaw

BISITA

May bisita sa aking silid:
Isang pusang nangingitim
Sa rungis. Nakalaylay
Ang buntot ng isang bubwit
Sa kanyang kiming bibig,
Nagtitimpi ng pagngiyaw
Sa tahimik na pagkurap
Ng naghihingalong bumbilya
Sa mukha ng aking kisame.

Ang bistay ng kuko nito
Sa gasak na balat ng kobre-
Kama ay tulad ng haplit
Ng dagitab ng sigarilyo
Sa aking pisngi.
Isang mabilis na patalastas
Ng panunugat sa kaluluwang
Nagsusumiksik sa aking balat.

Ang kaluluwa, nagpupumilit
Suutin ang lahat ng butas
Sa aking katawan – isang kawatang
Palutang-lutang, pumapailandang
Upang pasukin ang kaibuturan
Ng isang ligaw na nilalang.

Napapadta ang pusa
Sa bawat kislot ng daga,
Isang paghahabol-hininga,
Tulad ng paglulon ko
Sa kaluluwa
Sa loob ng silid;
Isang naligaw na estrangherong
Matagal ko nang kilala.

© Michael Francis C. Andrada

Si Michael Francis C. Andrada o Mykel ay kasalukuyang Instruktor ng Panitikan at Humanidades sa UP Diliman Departamento ng Filipino at Panitikan ng Pilipinas. Naging writing fellow siya sa apat na pambansang palihan (UP, Ateneo, Iyas-La Salle Bacolod, at Iligan) para sa kaniyang mga tula, maikling kuwento at isang-yugtong dula. Bokalista siya ng two-man band na Baklas.


How To Not Write A Poem

See how many chocolates you can eat
Without biting into a single one
11 miniatures
Gag on a sugar high

See how white the faded denim fringe of your cut-off shorts
Looks against your tanned thigh
Turn your arms this way and that,
Compare them against the aforementioned thigh
See which is darker
(it's the thigh, it's always the thigh)

See if you can make water bead up on your forearm
It helps if you used extra baby oil and aloe vera after your bath the night before

Tap a tune on your keyboard
See how it comes out looking like 3489ut9 foesdvx790eiritr9u043903

Deep condition your hair
Apply a facial mask
Take up crocheting.

Happily pick up ringing phone only to find
It is irate editor
Looking to pick fight
Yeah, you understand the meaning of deadline
No, you don't need to look it up
Yes, you will quit procrastinating

Immediately become brilliant
Write something witty and dazzling
Sparkle on paper
All the while vowing not to go near the candy section
Of the department store again.

(previously appeared in Megaera)

© Aurora Antonovic

Aurora Antonovic is a Canadian writer and visual artist whose work has recently appeared over five hundred times in seven countries and five continents. She currently acts as Canadian liaison for Muse Apprentice Guild.


ELECTION

Starved through forty-two days of hustings
waking early and alone, late and alone;
coloured happy by bright hope
you fed me piecemeal like a pigeon.
I was happy to eat, a familiar, from your hand.

Today, on the forty-first day, the waiting
catches up with me like yellow bile.
I could spit your advances;
aim venom at your eye. Beware,
my patience has worn threadbare and thin.

CUTS

Your lovers are a thousand slippery threats.
They cut your fingers, refuse to bend or cease
their wicked slicing. You are shallows
tortured by cruel coral that grazes
your smallest parts. You are thin.

You came disguised, a hollow hag,
pawed for brimming. I am no fool.

Follow where I point;
you might see those plastic flowers
bite down on dust under wrenching monsoon clouds,
down tools. After the drop, there is no bottom.

Flay me guilty, I bared the dark places you cover.
Ride on; pursued by need, you endlessly betray.

© Avril Bones


Lucifer, sa libing ng Kristo

Sinasabi ko nang huwag nila akong sundin
pagsinabi kong tumalon sila sa bangin.
Nauubusan ng hangin ang kanilang pakpak
ang katawang luwad, siguradong lalagpak.

Hah, sino pa ba ang nagsasabi ng totoo
dito sa walang diyos na disyerto?
Mali ang mga libro! Kung sa mundo
ang anyo ko ang sinasamba,
e di dapat ako ang pinakamaganda!
Ang anghel na ginawang diyablo
para makapaglitson ng tao. Pero hindi ako
ang mukhang kambing na demonyo
na may pulang balat at hiningang kalburo.
Maaaring ako nga ang ahas
na luminlang sa kanilang ina
na dinurog ng talampakan
ni Mariang Ina Niya.

Oo, dito naghahari ako,
pero hinintay ko itong Tupa
at naroroon ako sa sabsaban
at humalik sa lupa.
At oo, sinubukan ko Siyang suhulan
ng mga kongkretong kaharian
upang ipamalas Niya sa akin
ang yabang ng ka-diyosan.
Subalit, sino ba naman ako
kundi utusan lang
at trabahong naibigay sa akin
ang maghasik ng kasamaan.
Taga-gawa ni Diyos Ama
para maitanghal ang Kristo sa dambana!

Ngunit nang yumuko
ang korona Niyang pinupog ng dugo,
at tapakan nila ang mamon Niyang puso,
akong gumawa sa kasalanan ay walang kinalaman
kung sinong demonyo ang nagbigay sa kanila
ng ganoong kasamaan.

© Jaime Jesus U. Borlagdan
http://jimplejimple.blogspot.com


Falling

falling
like rain
tears flow

streaking
your cheeks
like streams

falling
like rocks
- tumbling

words spoken
without thinking
- twice

my heart pounds
against
my chest
- aching

for your touch;
yet you turn
falling

into him
into the arms
that hold you tight...
....falling

Quilted Freedom

Enslaved by color, I did not want
These chains that bind me
To the color of my skin.
Indebted to masters unbefitting,
Links forever strung together
To duties expected of me.

Dreams of freedom, just out of reach.
Words of wisdom carried by wind:
Follow the patterns, hung out to dry.
Spoke of the way north: to safety
And the land of the truly free.

Stitch by stitch, the story unfolds
In swatches and patterns
Unveiled by someone's loving hands.
Sitting by candle light;
Others by fires,
They speak of freedoms
Wanted by all mankind:
Branded upon my brain.

Taken as a child,
Away from my family,
My world and my home.
Across the turbulent ocean
To the land of Liberty.

Sold into bondage, eternally enslaved
With the hopes of one day walking free.
Words of wisdom spoken in whispers,
Told of rails underground:

Follow the pattern, hung out to dry.
Swatch by swatch sown together
Into a hand-stitched heirloom
As past generations found
Their way to freedom.

Mourning

Painted-on smiles
hide the pain
felt deep inside.
No more tears,
I vowed,
done crying
for everything
I could not fix.
Why, then, do I
still weep?
Is it the hope
of keeping
their memories alive,
or the desire
of having them near still,
instead of being called
to their heavenly home?
I wish I knew.

Israel's First

I was Israel's first, a pioneer
Living among the Columbia's seven.
As an astronaut, I fulfilled a dream
Never dared by another Israeli.
Remember me always
As the man I dared to become.
My family, my country,
On this fretful February day,
Never forget me; I am with my God.

For Eric

The loss of innocence in a child's face, fallen from a mother's loving grace.
Into the world, he dared to venture with words she couldn't censor.
A child once so caring and quiet; he had grown into a young man wanting to riot.
With a bat tucked away from her view, it was harm he wanted to pursue.
Confront the child, the courts had the nerve; but there was no jail time he had to serve.
He kept steadfast on this perilous path, not realizing it could one day lead to his death.
A grieving mother stands alone, wondering how she could do it on her own.
A child she had little help to raise no longer gave her praise.
Words between them were now of anger and contemplate; she represented everything he
wanted to hate.
With his father, he wanted to live for the freedom he promised to give.
There were no curfews; no rules, to say the very least. These were, of course, the very things
to entice this selfish little beast.
Living with dad, as it's been said, was this child's only dream. Or so it seemed.
For, over time, the boy had grown wise. He began to see through the lies
And see the man for who and what he truly was. There was no longer trust.
So, back with the mother, the child did go; given one more chance he couldn't blow.
He was given a warning; there'd be no more bargaining.
He would be facing time if he didn't walk the line.
It wouldn't be any short-term stay; he would be sent away
But he was still a child, fourteen and wild.
He lost control; he lost his soul
On choices I hope he soon regrets.

© Robin M. Buehler
Mays Landing NJ


12/12/2004 - 9:14 am

I am quiet.
Still as a tree on a windless morning.
Waiting,
Waiting for the bird who would perch itself up on
my branches
Just.
To be with me,
Remind me that I'm. Alive.
And not just alone.

I wait.
My whole lifetime
I. Wait.
I'm tired,

I'm weary.

I have been.
reduced to
the waiting has become
who I am.

I am endless longing
sadness
desolation

© Tina Calasanz
http://bridgingtheparadox.thcal.com
http://becomingspace.thcal.com
Bio: I'm the webmaster/web developer for the University of the Philippines Diliman - College of Social Sciences and Philosophy, and a graduate of Philosophy in the same college. While most of my waking hours get lost in hundreds of lines of programming code, much of my real life lies in the experience and wonder of the life beyond what is seen, in the spaces between words and breath, between I and Other, between World and Spirit.


DIYETA

Babae akong
pinagbabawalang kumain ng laman
pagkat bawat calorie nito'y
katumbas ng pamamaga ng mukha
dagdag na baba at inches sa bewang

Babae akong
hindi pinahihintulutang tumikim ng laman
pagkat ang pagsuway dito'y
katumbas ng sari-saring paratang:
kiri, haliparot, mababa ang lipad

Subalit, Babae rin akong
nagbibingi-bingihan
sa idinidiktang
pagdidiyeta sa akin ng lipunan.

© Mic Camba

Kasalukuyan niyang tinatapos ang kanyang MA sa Philippine Studies.


Cease To Sleep

Blisters across the horizon
came to squint its
orange crepuscular glare
only in a lifetime
appearing, displaying, emerging
now seen so naked
with hymn of shadows
glow and light rays
that enthralled visions
for the blinds
and those pretending to be

Chiffoned years have passed
in chiliad,
a repetition
with the cloak of paper mosaic
and the creatures shadows
now half-assembled
but the footprints are still embedded
on the bed of nails
and on steel memories
derived from the length
of a cresset fire

One by one, silent stars grumble
protruding from the boardwalk,
a reflection
in equilibrium
with the diminishing light,
now darkness came to end
and wind paused,
into a lull
poised in between conscience
and bloodied hands
only to mold
the wounds and scars
into poachy drums so carnivorous
and time killing.

Childhood Smile

as a young child I dream
that there'll be a better
tomorrow
where the birds fly
with the rhinoceros chasing
far behind,
on an open field
so green that it reflects
the color of heaven
and the cloud lines
darkens to get ready
for the wet season
of heavy rain and storm

behind the colourful shadow
of the rainbow
the breeze whistles
from the eastern horizon
to teach me to smile
though I'm alone,
no friend on the table
except broken dreams

Farming

It wasn't the day when we're supposed to play
the games childhood memories molded
from Jacinto St. to Banadero St.
making dreams on the piles of hay,
the blonde complexion of a blithesome day
where the wind would blow
and come the furious breathe
of summer breeze in an afternoon delight.
A bloater on the table, with spoon and fork
waiting for everybody, to arrive and smile
in glee even if perspiration define their shirts
with blisters of hunger gurgling
inside the corners of their stomachs.
We were a family then
with songs and hymns, I recall,
singing out of tunes
the most comforting song
accompanied by unstringed
acoustic guitar.
The visage of darkening clouds
never appear on the afternoon,
freedom of speech calorifica,
twisted fist raised to heaven
chanting restlessly.
We were children then
young with noble hearts
and the sight of darkness
encourages us to dream
with our eyes staring away form the glint
of the reshaping horizon
now hand painted by black clouds
and evaporated coffee cups.
The grasses were brown,
the cretaceous soil is dry
a familiar bird of glossy black plumage
roam the openness of the sky
with its conical bill
and harsh cry,
blocking my view of the angry sun.
Looking for oxygen but with
a lighter on hand
the etiquette of the afternoon circumnavigates
on the desirous fire, the rice stalks burn,
we were there, holding hands

© Eugenio R. Corpus III


inip

upang maiwasan
ang sundot ng inip
sa iyong mga mata

haplusin mo ng titig
ang kalmot ng sabon
sa mga daliri mong

nakipagkarera kanina
sa paglingkis ng araw
sa gulod ng iyong labada.

o kaya’y pumikit ka muna
at humabi ng kwentong
isusupot at ipasasalubong

sa bunso mong aabutin na naman
ng paghikab ng araw, nakapamintanang
umaasam sa maaga mong pagdating.

o kaya’y kalmahin ang sarili
at ipalagay na ang ligamgam
ng palad mo’y kayang ihaplos

ng idinrowing mong batang nakangiti
at nag-gugudmorning sa bunso mong
nahihimbing pa nang iyong iwan

dahil sa kagustuhan mong hindi
mahuli sa pulong na bumibilasa
ngayon sa iyong mga mata.

parang pagdura na lamang

parang pagdura na lamang
para sa kanila ang pagbigkas
ng pasensya o pagpapaumanhin

kapag hindi sila dumating
sa takdang oras ng pulong
o ano mang klase ng tipanan.

tulad ng pagbaon ng barena
sa dingding, dapat nating iukit
sa ating mga kukote

na mga importanteng tao
ang hinihintay natin
kung kaya abalang-abala.

unawain natin sila kung gayon
sa kanilang pagkahuli. ano ba naman
ang kalahating araw na pagtunganga

kumpara sa kapakanan ng bayang
pinaggugugulan nila panahon
at buo nilang buhay? masyado

silang abala sa mga gawaing pambayan
at sa pag-uutos sa kanilang mga utusan
upang asikasuhin ang maraming bagay

na di na nila kaya pang atupagin.
tsk, hindi na sila magkandaugaga
kung kaya dapat nating intindihing

kung gano kaigsi ang kanilang panahon
ganon din kakitid ang kanilang pasensya.
samakatwid tayo na naghihintay

ay di dapat maningil o magreklamo
sa di nila pagdating sa takdang oras
dahil baka biglang maputol ang pisi

ng kanilang pasensya at ang bilasa
nating mga mata’y matalsikan pa
ng laway nilang babad sa paminta.

© Emmanuel V. Dumlao

Instructor, UPLB. Teaches Panitikan. Holds poetry writing workshop every Tuesday 7pm at UPLB main library. LAYB ang tawag ng mga participants sa kanilang grupo. Organization: bukalsining (buhay kalayaan sining, samahan ng mga manunulat at artists para sa karapatang pantao)


JANUARY

Very
Cold this morning...
I am decanting tea
And the fragrant steam is warming
My face.

---

snowflakes
all about the street
busy shoppers rush
we kiss our first kiss
and snowflakes dance for us

---

With Apologies To Robert Herrick And Julia's Clothes

whenever she wears
that simple cotton dress
and walks that walk
that sets it swishing here there
my God who needs silk

[previously published in Poetic Voices, March 2002]

---

I see
an apple on the ground
bright red
I stoop and pick it up
underneath it's rotten

---

no matter
how much wine
I drink
there is always
tomorrow

© C. W. Hawes

C W Hawes is a bureaucrat by day and a poet by night. He regards as his Muses Shelley, Whitman, Basho, Issa, Ishikawa Takuboku, the Imagists, and Millay. His favorite living poet is Wendell Berry. He has had more than 250 poems published in print and online in the USA, Canada, Phillipines, and the UK since 2002; over half of which have been in his favorite form, tanka. He was chosen to be the featured poet twice on Poetic Voices; was guest editor of a Japanese-form issue of The MAG, which appeared Summer 2004; and was a winner in the 2004 Tanka Splendor contest. He lives in the mid-western USA with his wife, daughter, dog, and cat.


A CHRISTMAS HAIKU
beeSPUNKY

1. children singing carols---
the baby wakes up
from its crib.

2. christmas songs
playing in the radio---
my tears falling.

3. a baby squirrel
feasting on nuts
a christmas buffet.

4. snowflakes falling,
down the evergreen tree
a white christmas.

5. the chinook wind
blowing from the rockies---
my snowman melt!

© Losally Navarro

beeSPUNKY is the pen name/ mirc's nick of LOSALLY NAVARRO. she's writing haiku from Calgary, Alberta, Canada. She finds inspirations in winter, the snow, hockey, the city, its people, the rocky mountains,the prairies and her sathruvu for her haiku. Writing is one of her passion aside from being a hockey fanatic and a reality tv shows buff. Four of her haiku has been published in the Philippine Daily Inquirer under the _Expression corner of the YOU's section. This is her second attempt.


BAGOBO XMAS

“Pinaskuhan, sir”, this phrase
leaps from your begging lips,
accented by the highlands
from where you have stayed
bound all throughout the year.

Yours is an annual journey,
a ritual grown out of neglect
and habit: each December
you flock to this city, buoyed
with promises of gifts brought
by this season’s customs.

For this, you accost
indifferent vehicles at rush hour,
bang on deaf gates all
for the meager change
that comes from pricking
lowlander conscience.

once proud tribal blood
now hamletted in an ageing gym,
even the mayor gets in the act:

at week’s end, you are ferried
on dump trucks accustomed
to their daily load of refuse,
back to your dwindling lands

cold and empty, even the
settlers’ gods will weep.

SITIO BUDSI

They say you were once
full of water rupturing
off the ground
from a tiny crack of soil.

Gone now are the depths
which held creatures
too fantastic for memory,
the sacred familiars
of some native god.
Instead, a graveyard of leaves
lie undisturbed this afternoon;
the only intrusion, the sporadic
strobe flash of strangers trying
to divine your secrets
with digitized pictures.

There are no elementals here.
They have long been driven off
by the sound of mortar
burning fertile loam into ashes.

There is only us, occasional visitors
taking note of your remains, a barren
footnote in these neglected hills.

© Misael Paranial

Misael Paranial is an occasional contributor to the Makata. He lives and writes in Davao City.


1) Soliloquy

will i still keep on or cease
protecting the memories
of our first communion after
you took away the diary and
left me aching soulfully alone?

i will shed tears not to mourn you
but to relive that mystical moment
as i took hold of my final solid grasp
punctuating your soft delicate clasp
as you paved my untimely death
while I was on my way to heaven!

2) Egocentral

i am that facial image
upon the pond with
mirror-smooth water
a careful dip of your finger
sends a thousand ripples
crippling my facsimile.

beg me not to set free
my natal freudian grip
it is not easy to be me
allow me to heal myself
i want to be solely alone
my name is Narcissus!

3) Damnation (a revision)

rain bows down
in cups and bowls
instant coffee-colored pools.

damn the dam
breaching promises
the stomach aches!

damn the axe
cutting trees and lives
buried in landslides!

damn the greed
breeding man's bedevilment
sans forest, his charred soul!

Dedicated to the thousand human lives taken by the fury of Typhoons Unding, Violeta, Winnie & Yoyong (November & December, 2004 Philippines). The actual culprit was the fury of the axe/chainsaw generated by the insatiable greed of some few errant loggers.

© Tony Mercado Peña


A Place I Called My Own
A Collection of Haiku

Tumbang preso-
sardines can
tumbles down.

Echoing
in the church hall-
Nene's bakya.

Merienda
on the streets-
fishballs!

Luneta Park-
a hero watches his
countrymen.

Like sodden matches-
troso float in the
floods.

In the window
their viand hangs-
tuyo!

Rosary-
Maria holds the
beads of mysteries.

Like rainbow-
scoops of
dirty ice cream.

Yema rolls
in colorful cellophanes
glistened.

Taal Lake
outside my veranda-
still as a night.

© Lanie Shanzyra P. Rebancos

Lanie Shanzyra P. Rebancos is a poet and writer who lives with her family in Philippines. Many of her haikus have been published in different literary journals. She is currently working on her first book, a collection of short stories and haiku.

web: http://www.geocities.com/shanzyra/


ILANG IMPRESYON SA PAGHIHINTAY NG MASASAKYAN SA QUEZON AVENUE KUNG GABI, NA KASABAY SA BANGKETA ANG MGA TINAGURIANG 'KALAPATING MABABA ANG LIPAD'

Katulad ng malimit mangyari,
malamang
na mauunahan niya akong makipagdaupang-palad
sa isang sasakyan.
(Ang lunsod kung gabi ay isang gago:
ayaw pauwiin ang mga uuwi't matutulog
mula sa trabahong dinatnan ng gabi.)

Siya'y hindi uuwi,
at siya'y sa umaga pa makikipag-ulayaw
kay Pagtulog.
Ang mga umaga para sa kanya
ay ang gabi-gabing nagpapaupa siya ng pagnanasa.
Sa gayon siya itinapon nitong lipunan
kung saan maliit pa sa butas ng karayom
ang puwang sa mga nagnanais
na mamuhay nang marangal.

INSPEKSIYON

Ngayong wala nang sampung hakbang ang kalayuan
ng pangminutong kamay ng orasan sa katanghalian,
dumadausdos ang mga kamay ng inspektor
sa mga lukbutan-hita't binti
ng mga nakapilang manggagawa sa groseri
na lalabas sandali upang tugunan
ang tawag ng kanilang mga sikmura.

Ay! sawimpalad na inspektor.
Binabayaran siya upang hanapin ang apoy
sa sahig ng karagatan.
Binabayaran siya upang hanapan ng mga nakaw
ang mga ninakawan,
silang manggagawang ang sinasahod ay laging sapat lamang
upang manatili silang nakatayo
sa pagitan ng kagutuman at di-pagkabusog.

© Alexander Martin Remollino
http://ourthoughtsarefree.blogspot.com

Isa ring peryodista, sa tuwing bumibiyahe ay nagdadala siya ng tape
recorder kahit na wala siyang interbiyu, upang makapakinig ng mga
kaset tape at huwag marinig ang radyo sa mga bus, sapagkat napatid na
ang kanyang pasensiya sa walang katuturang mga kantang sa
kabutihang-palad ay silang talagang namamalasak sa ngayon.

Sumusulat din sa Ingles, may ilan siyang akdang napasama na sa mga
antolohiya, kabilang ang isang koleksiyong multi-media CD-ROM na
lumabas sa Australya kamakailan.


(For the lives that was lost and changed forever by a tsunami)

Open the sea
and reach inside
its secret depths
of silent hands,
and hear
the song of waves
that no longer play
upon a thousand ears,
for water has claimed
from the land,
and the rain
cannot cry
enough tears.

© Maria Belen Concepcion-Villacorta

URL: http://whenthebellerings.blogspot.com/
Brief bio: -A registered nurse


IKALIMA NG HAPON

Paakyat akong hinila
ng hinihingal na hagdanan.

Bukaspalad na naghintay
and malinis na silid-tulugan.

Ngiting mainit and salubong
ng ilaw sa tabi ng higaan.

Malambing ang haplos
ng kumot at mga unan.

Walang tutol kong hinubad
ang sama ng loob ng araw.

HAIKU

I.

For My Real Mother

dust on the ground
the bones of
my forefathers

wind by the river
sighing
like my mother

moon rising
looking for the face
that looks like me

II.

Waiting For You (Carla's Dream)

the cool autumn rain
with the warm scent of our skin
moistens the window

in waking sleep
we tumble as legs, arms, mouth
caress the soft sheets

my soft sheets sigh
breath rising like a river
as limbs rise and fall

waiting for you
your voice fading in shadow
the morning wanes

IN MY SECRET COUNTRY
(for the woman who looks like me)

I.

In my secret country, you and I
will have names.

Our sorrow will rain on the desert
of our shame.

I will wrap myself around the forest
of your solitude.

Your blood will bloom
in my veins.

In my secret country, we will bear
our birthmarks like arms,

and draw swords together.

II.

I am here, at the riverbank.
Do you not recognize the way

I wash my sins? Your sins
are mine. The water bathes

the sores of our feet, mirrors
the color of our pain, the

scars of our defeat. Our bones
will drift down this river, our

blood will thrive in these trees.
Together we will shed skin.

Do you not recognize
the way I wash my sins?

III.

I dream of you.

The dreams are monochrome, numb
like my legs after a day's work.

I have a photograph in sepia.
Old, but it will have to do.

You are hiding before the camera -
"Still life with face and flower vase".

Even in my dreams you hide.

We should look at mirrors and
observe how we pass each other by.

REMNANTS

I.

wet hair whips my face

my footsteps lose shape
my presence vanishes

the wind is a child
busy with bucket and spade

clouds are plucked, squeezed,
bleached, hung back on

stretches of blue clothesline
beach grass lines the dunes

tufts of stubborn hair
like the talahib that grew on the

dark empty spaces in Diliman
before the fly-overs were built

in those years when I was lonely
my face a wet gray cloud

II.

my poems in the morning
taillights of dreams

worms waiting for early birds
the man shouting "Balut!"

waking the jeepneys
chico dropping from the tree

the maid makes bad coffee
time has chipped the china

I can see the teethmarks
coated with cane sugar

why do you lie to me? even
the pan de sal look like fists

© Ella Wagemakers

Short Bio: date of birth 27 September 1961 in San Juan, Manila; graduated from the Ateneo de Manila (A.B.) in 1983, emigrated to The Netherlands in 1988, married in The Netherlands January 1989 (Dutch husband), essay published in "Not Home, But Here" anthology edited by Luisa A. Igloria, poems still unpublished (I don't know where I can try them out since I've been gone for so long); teaching degree and Master's degree in Tilburg, The Netherlands in 2001 and 2003, working as an English teacher at the Dutch Police Academy in Apeldoorn; no children.



All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is prohibited. All rights reserved.