MAKATA 2003

• Ode to a Coke-addict poet
  (with apologies to Edna St. Vincent Millay)
  
  I.

  Love is all: it involves meat and liquor,
  Long sleep after a long shower of rain,
  The nicotine that fills your lungs once more,
  After quitting the gray habit again.

  Depression, a fad that artists adore,
  Makes your love sweeter than sugar from cane.
  Nightlife owning stars, moonstruck to the core,
  You stare at the slow fall of leaves, in pain.

  Love are rare, prized books, stolen, bought or shared.
  Canons fought, theories debunked make you high,
  Avant-garde paintings occupy your time.
  Absurd theatre roles you think you deserve,

  Indian raga, reggae, push you to fly --
  As your life unfolds in rhymes and non-rhymes.

  II.

  I don't think the gods in the night hear your call,
  They are deaf and asleep at your moorings.
  They are tired of all the poets that's all
  That complain of the world's big soul splitting.
  Awake in the dark, your large eyes scribble
  The lines that try to emasculate you
  And the moon helps in effacing little
  Fragments of your half self that you once knew.

  What is left are just specks of grayer dusts
  In your unattended mirror of lies.
  You almost forsake the gods that you lust
  To confront your woes with, wanting to die.
  But certain gods have a hard time to sleep
  When poets like you disown them and weep.

  III.

  When sadness descends
  Upon your weak heart
  From the gray heavens
  That provides your art,
  You request for Coke
  Hoping to really cope
  Things like innocence
  Lost in the absence
  Of other caffeineated
  Activities, as emaciated
  Bodies gyrate like mad
  Dancers afflicted of sad
  Wine. This happy drink
  Lifts the soul in the sink.

• © Alexander Agena

• 
  Intimate Rage

  Let me cry
  when the sunshine is covered
  by dark clouds
  hovering up near the eye of heaven,
  when the cold wind blows sorrow
  and breathe the howls of wolves
  carrying metaphors of nostalgia
  and memories I'd rather not remember.
  Let my tears roll down
  if I'm too tired of dreaming
  under the morose glow
  of the city reflection
  embraced gently
  by the metachrosis of lights,
  scintillating and blinding
  a micaceous glare that suffocates
  and deteriorates my heavily weakened sarcous will.
  Let me fade and be drifted away
  like a saphropyte
  blown by thundering winds
  without purpose, without worth,
  as entwined on the mantle of my flesh
  the sangenous sacrifices t
  hat have resulted to the putrefaction
  of my satiate will
  where each fractal of my molded thought,
  saporous enough to feed my life,
  to wear a smile when everything is sad, s
  hall be crushed and shredded
  just because it is an empty satchel
  and it's braced by pestering cobwebs.

  Lull

  Alone underneath the undertows
  of the bosoms of metallic moonlight,
  stirring my imagination, trying to mold
  dusky passion with the silver lining
  I viewed as misspelled language
  garbling into my ears,
  the phrases, the cipher notes
  have been my counselors
  when the shadow of the night
  mishandles each fractal of my dreams,
  stinging, gradually deepening, penetrating, piercing
  my morose sleep.

  The drunken wind shares its whispers
  of supplications,
  wrapped my flesh
  to the core of my bones,
  as million glints hide my tears
  from loquacious tongues
  fluttering with lopped incantations.

  God blessed me like a fool,
  each of my red corpuscles are rippling,
  drooping for the dangling joist
  beloved but now dusted to fade.

  I still haunt the twilight,
  put my strange notes into my illusions
  and fantasies I can no longer forget,
  melodies that draws trismus
  in a single moment
  being wasted as a symbol of madness,
  my hands shake, squinting through a peephole
  staring to a startled dusk,
  being caressed by the cloak of midnight.

  Hush songs of lullabies fling on my skin
  as I try to close my eyes.

  You As I

  You sing with beauty
  that lasted longer than the arm of forever
  stretching farther from the metamorphoses
  of holy sacraments
  and glittering cloak of darkness,
  morphing in forms of compassionate matrix
  that resile from the genetic adoration
  of a deprived gentle touch of notes
  undefined, unsheathed and masked,
  to caress my skin in forms
  of garbled shadows
  crawling stealthily
  underneath my unresuscitative flesh
  and corroded by the cerements of plummeting age.

  In the dining hall, your voice echoes
  like whispers of Eve
  ravaging through my ears
  seducing me in forms of deja vu
  to choke myself in pieces blistered thread
  hanging over the drapes of heaven
  with folded heaps of hovering clouds
  and sheared by nerves
  so that my muscles could no longer
  lift the lid of my fears,
  until all furies are decayed
  in the armchair of Nostradamus
  and the spells and hymns of incantations
  be one under a brief suffocating lull
  of minds endless pun.

  I was falling, out of clues,
  much more confused than twirling
  of unseen surreal weather and thunderstorms breath,
  as I wake up and senses come to reality
  with complicated vision,
  I wake up with the dead world
  screaming merely the laughter of exorcism,
  dreading a quodlibet of harmonicas
  serenading my requiem, quickening,
  vivifying my own quietude of sullen words
  as bubbles form like driftwood
  choking my esophagus,
  draining my saliva
  but I couldn't cry, interlacing with my relief
  and maltreatment
  I must learn to smile.

  In the mantle of the earth
  the clouds dropped by,
  cuddling me in my sleep
  and in my own architectured hopelessness
  where imagination superlatively commands
  the spoiled spiels of warming gnats
  as my drooped brains polyps bloom
  with blackened images
  of melted woes and prolated affliction...
  there you are wondering
  and here I am ... suffering.

  Typhoon

  A pernicious wind paid a visit
  and uprooted the mango tree
  in the frontyard facing the church gate,
  crumpled roof gutter
  and opened wounds in the attic.
  The water dripped on my forehead
  drop after drop, in rhythm, in rhyme.
  Electricity succumbs to death,
  radio music kneels down to silence
  and the only glitter that I can see
  is the reflection of the settling sun
  on the horizontal chalice
  squinting, trying to hide
  from the monsoons rampage.
  Without respite, she knocked my door
  tearing down the santan and gumamelas
  full bloom in boquay of crystalline shrubs,
  then tested the bamboos resiliency
  by bending it a total of eighty degrees
  to the left and drived it to the right
  in whirling motion.
  She soaked my sofa in her saliva,
  the television set precipitated
  on her succose breath
  more sappy than the fluid in my thorax
  stickier than a stilleto embedded on stone.
  When she moved away
  she left me with only fifty pesos
  and a crampled piece of tissue paper
  a supine poem scribbled
  out of fear, prayers and hope
  that she'll never come back,
  then...
  she wafted a kiss on my cheeks
  and whispered her name...
  ...Assunta.

• © Eugenio R. Corpus III
  Binangonan, Rizal
  Philippines

  
  I MUST SAY NOTHING ELSE OUT

  I must say nothing else out
  of this closeted stillness
  Likewise
  your lips withdraw from
  the conspiracies of dawn

  The dark breathing of fingers
  heals the broken language our
  cold bodies risk
  we become
  privy to the unspoken

  EARLY UNDERNEATH YOUR EYE

  early underneath your eye
  your lover wades stonily
  pent-up
  woebegone somehow
  telltale streets unravel at
  heel in rippling rush
  hush
  caution cringes at the arc
  peeling the suddenmost lip
  easing all welled up of late
  

• © Rosendo M Makabali
  Angeles City, Philippines
  website: http://www.geocities.com/birdandegg

   

• Kissing Naked Muses

  In poetry
  Our thoughts collect
  Where- [words hum
  their own voices
  whether for(ward)back
  as radar
  Colors are liplocks
  that may refuse a keys
  or anything non-pleomorphic
  and f(in sing)ly]- else

  10 P.M. At the Lagoon

  Walls bind music
  to the rooms.

  But the Ever-Maestro
  in flesh, in cells...

  in hearts perhaps,
  is itinerant as desire

  and chooses no square
  to stage the dance.

  © Jose Jason L. Chancoco
  Iriga City

   

• Muted Silence

  I know that the sun
  No longer shine on you
  You, who now have darkness
  For sanctuary.

  I know that
  A long time ago
  You tried your best
  To hold on to
  -but fate would not let you.

  Now I know
  Why your heart
  No longer beats?

  It is long dead.
  -buried in the tombs
  of the unheard.

• © MItsuru
  

  The author is a junior intern on sabbatical from hospital duties and consider himself as a poet by heart. He writes poems and short stories as a therapy for the tired soul. You can find his other works at www.tinig.com where he is a regular contributor.

• Lessons to a raven

  Never dream of white feathers
  If you are cloaked with black ones.
  The sky never reaches its borders.
  But you must bear in mind
  That in every flight
  You are to face death
  Floating and waiting
  In invisible corners
  Of this deceptive fluid expanse:
  Lest you try to look for mirrors
  Lest you are fooled by some palace
  In the shimmers of the sun.

  Bring with you in every flight
  The lessons of gravity:
  The way it pulls you down
  And distorts the angle of the wind,
  Like when Icarus was flown
  By his fragile feathers
  And the sea claimed
  His invented foolishness.

  Remember, in every movement
  Of your wings
  equal a kind of heaviness
  A struggle against current
  A failure in flapping,
  While the weather from the west
  Is even more cruel
  To a creature like you
  Small, black, dust in the eye
  of a whirlwind.

• Pangaral sa isang uwak

  Huwag kang mangarap
  Ng balahibong tagak
  Kung ipinanganak kang
  May itim na pakpak.
  Ang langit ay walang hanggan,
  Ngunit dapat mong malaman
  Na sa bawat pagpailanlang
  Ay pagharap sa kamatayang
  Nakalutang at nag-aabang
  Sa lahat ng sulok
  Nitong mapanlinlang
  Na kalawakan:
  Sakaling manalamin ka sa ulap,
  Sakaling malinlang ka ng palasyo
  Sa bibig ng araw.

  Ikintal mo sa bawat paglipad
  Ang aral na hatid ng grabedad,
  Sa pambabalani ng daigdig
  At panlalansi ng himpapawid
  Tulad nang inilipad si Icarus
  Ng marurupok niyang bagwis
  At angkinin ng dagat
  Ang kanyang kahangalan.
  Tandaan, sa bawat pagkampay
  Ay may mararamdamang
  Pamimigat ng pakpak
  Na dala ng bawat pag-ihip
  At pagaspas. Samantalang
  ang habagat ay walang patawad
  Sa tulad mong maliit, maiitim, at
  Nakapupuwing.

• Takipsilim sa dalampasigan ng Bonuan

  Walang kaparis na pula
  ang pumapailanlang at kumakalat
  sa pagkamatay ng araw
  sa kanluran.
  Payapang sayaw ng pusyaw
  ang unti-unting nagniningas,
  walang init, walang apoy
  itong bahid na isa ring larawan
  ng pagdurugo ng mga ulap
  habang unti-unting dumidilat
  ang matambuwan.
  Hanggang sa huli'y
  lahat ng kulay ay kumupas:
  mauubos ang rikit ng init
  at masasaid ang dugo
  ng himpapawid. Mangangasul,
  mangangasul. Mangungulila ang lila,
  at kukulapol ang luksa
  sa gawing ilaya.
  Tanging ang hampas
  ng dagat sa dalampasigan
  at halik ng lansa at alat
  sa mahabang batuhan,
  ang matitirang anag-ag
  na siyang hehele
  sa pusong sugatan;
  sa tuwing tanaw
  nitong mga balintataw
  ang pagitan ng mga pampang.
  At ramdam nitong balat
  ang himbing ng lalim
  at lawas nitong dagat
  at langit ng Bonuan.

• © Reagan Romero Maiquez
  

  Si Reagan Romero Maiquez ay nagtapos ng BA Araling Pilipino sa UP, Diliman at bahagi ng opisyal na lingguhang pahayagan ng mga mag-aaral ng nasabing pamantasan, ang Philippine Collegian. Siya'y tubong Pangasinan rin at nagsisimulang kumatha sa wika ng kanyang probinsya.

   

• KAY RANDY SANTIAGO

  Sa lahat ng sikat
  Sa telebisyon
  Ikaw ang natatanging kirat.
  Hinaharangan ng iyong salaming itim
  Ang namumugtong mata.
  Para sa 'yo, laging tanghaling
  Tapat.

  Sabi mo, hindi ka sunip
  At nakikita kahit na pinakasingit
  Ng mga rumarampang bebot
  Sa entabladong hapag,
  Pinalilibutan ng sanlaksang
  Lalaking iniidolo ka.
  Magkakapagkit
  Ang libido ng bayan
  Tuwing magandang tanghali.
  At tulad ng pangako mo,
  Laging maganda ang tanghaling
  Sa tingin lang ay busog na.
  Hubad na rumarampa sa hapag ang ulam.

  Sa mga awit, itinatanggi mong
  Bababaero ka
  Habang nililikom mo
  Ang mga babaeng
  Hindi na mabilang
  Ng dalawampung mga daliri
  Kamay at paa
  Dalawang tenga
  Dalawang mata
  Kirat pa ang isa.
  Matatalas na ngipin
  Masarap kumagat
  Isang dilang nagtatanong:

  Kuliti mo ilan?

  SALAWAL

  Nagsuka ang baka
  habang naglulunoy sa putik,
  hinahanap ang kanyang salawal.
  Ang itim, nahaluan ng puti,
  sukang sukat-akalai'y
  lamang loob at gunita.

  Nagsuka ang baka
  habang iniisip ang isang talinghaga:
  bakit walang naaaninag
  na langit sa lubluban
  tulad nang sa palayan?
  Nakasampay sa hangin
  ang awit ng mga palay.

  Nagsuka ang baka
  ng mapusyaw na buntunghininga,
  gatas na marumi
  sa maruming paliguan.

  Pag-ahon, nakita ng bakang
  nalawlaw ang kanyang salawal,
  kapirasong balat,
  malambot sa pagkakababad,
  tulad ng lupang naulanan,
  namumulaklak ang katawan
  ng isang maputik na panagimpan.

  MANUNULAT

  Ipinangsusulsi niya ang titig
  sa gulagulanit na papel.
  Ginagawa niyang alon ang tunog
  at ipinanghehele sa bangkang papel.
  Sinasalok niya ang halimuyak ng kanal.
  Panis na laway ang kanyang pluma.

  Sa kanyang panulat:
  namamahay ang dumi
  sa bubong na kuko ng bata.
  Ang bata'y nakikisukob sa kisameng langit.
  Kanlungan ng mga bastardo
  ang tuyot na matris ng lansangan.
  Bagong-bihis ang mga pader -
  Kahilera ng Imperyalismo Ibagsak
  ang Sto. Niño Win,
  Serbisyong Bayan, at Punks Not Dead.

  Hinahanap niya ang sarili
  sa kanyang panulat
  at natigalgal nang malamang
  siya'y lukot na papel,
  nakataob na bangka,
  baradong kanal,
  said na pluma,
  mantsa sa mata.

• © Michael Francis C. Andrada
  

  Si Michael Francis C. Andrada o Mykel, 24, ay dating Kultura Editor ng Philippine Collegian (2000-2001), UP Diliman. Katatapos lang niya ng digri sa BA Malikhaing Pagsulat nitong Oktubre 2002.

• dalamhati sa dalampasigan

  nakita kong

  hiniwa-
  hiwa
  ng araw
  ang dagat.

  natagpuan ko
  ang aking sarili,
  sugat-
  sugat.

  © Bebang Siy
  

  Si Beverly Siy o Bebang ay graduate ng BA Malikhaing pagsulat sa Filipino sa UP Diliman.

   

• SA BULAG NA MUSIKERONG PUMUPUWESTO SA EDSA

  Kabisado ng kamay mo
  ang bawat hakbangan
  sa di-nakikitang leeg
  ng gitara.
  Boses mo'y nakapagpapalundag
  ng puso,
  nakapagtatanim ng bato
  sa lalamunan.
  Ngunit wala kang tanghalan
  kundi ang kalsada.
  
  Sa telebisyon,
  naghahatid ng musika
  ang mga manikin.

  KUNG KAYO SANA'Y IBANG URING BITUIN

  Kung kayo sana'y ibang uring bituin,
  Maestro Lucio at Mang Levi,
  di sana pinikitan ng madla
  ang inyong paglalaho.
  Kung kayo sana'y bituing tanso lamang
  na ang kislap
  ay dili iba't kintab na usbong
  sa punas ng panyong sumasamba,
  nakahinang sana
  ang madlang mata sa kisameng langit
  nang kayo'y maglaho.
  Ngunit kayo'y bituing lantay;
  kaya't nang maglaho kayo,
  ulila
  sa mata ng madla
  ang eterang langit.
  

  © Alexander Martin Remollino
  Si Alexander Martin Remollino ay isinilang noong 1977 at nag-aral ng Legal Management sa UST. Sa kasalukuya'y isa siyang freelance writer.
  website: http://ourthoughtsarefree.blogspot.com/

• Karatula

  Sa ospital,
  Bagung-
  Bago,
  Karatulang
  Malaki’t
  Makintab:
  We are
  Now
  ISO
  9000-
  Certified.
  Our mission:
  To serve
  You Better.

  Sa katabing
  Dampa
  Ng pinagtagpi-
  Tagping yero
  At karton,
  Idinidikit
  Sa lumang
  Kahoy
  Ng pako
  At karam:
  Nanggagamot—
  Napilayan,
  Nasasapian,
  Nakukulam.

  Payatas, isa pa

  Absuwelto
  Ang mga akusado.
  Anila, aksidente
  Ang pagkamkam
  Ng bundok-basura
  Sa mga basurero.

  Kamangha-mangha.
  Ganap na natabunan
  Ng itim at bagsik
  Ng duming-lungsod
  Ang kanilang pamilyang
  Himbing.

  Inilibing
  Ng papel, plastik,
  Styropor, lata,
  At kemikal
  Ang lahat
  Ng mga palahaw.

  Walang makaangal.
  Walang maisumpa
  Ang pagdadalít;
  Sa mga isinusuplong
  Ng hintuturo,
  Walang mahatulan
  Kundi pag-ulan.

  Birhen

  A 120-year old statue of the Virgin Mary standing at the French Hospital in Bethlehem
  became a casualty of war when it was badly hit by Israeli fire.

  —Reuters

  Sa bayan ni David, walang kinikilalang batas
  Ang bala kundi pasulong. Wala itong sinisino,
  Lalo na sa mga ganitong labanan ng dalawang
  Lahing sintanda na ng mga tipak ng bato
  Sa dakilang pader ng templo. Kahit ang Birhen.
  Ang Birheng nakabukad na rosas ang mga palad
  At nakasisilaw ang sinag ng pagbabasbas
  Sa mga batang buhat-buhat ng mga inang
  Nagtatakbuhan upang huwag maabutan
  Ng bagsik ng bala. Marami na sa kanila
  Ang naulila at ang tanging manunubos
  Ay balabal ng Birhen, Ina ng Diyos,
  Sa tuwing sumisilong sila rito sa pag-ulan
  Ng nakamulatang paglusob ng mga bala.
  Sa pahayagan, nakatanghal ang kasalanan ng bala—
  Basag ang maamong mukha ng Birhen at tila
  Kailanma’y hindi binisita ng Arkanghel. Basag
  Ang kanang dibdib Niya na nagbigay-buhay
  Sa dakilang musmos ng Bethlehem. Wala nang sinag
  Na tumatagos sa kaluluwa mula sa mga palad
  Na dating nakabukad na rosas. Ang Kanyang labing
  Panalangin at pananalig ang sinasambit ay umaawit
  Ng digmaan. Basag din ang Kanyang tagiliran,
  Ang puson na kalinis-linisang hinahagkan ng asul,
  Ang banal na brasong nagbuhat ng banga ng alak
  Sa isang kasalan sa Canaan, at ang kanyang balikat.
  Ang balikat na puspos ng karangalan, sa larawan,
  Mistulang pagsalo sa lahat ng kasalanan.
  Nakatayo pa rin naman ang Birhen sa Bethlehem,
  Sa kabila nito. Hindi matinag-tinag ng pangangaligkig
  Ang pagkapuspos sa biyaya. Pinahuhupa ang pagligwak
  Ng tuluyang pagkawasak ng banal na bayan,
  Sa pamamagitan ng mga matang mistulang binulag
  Subalit may di mapulbos-pulbos na liwanag.

  Ang Salamangkero

  Ika’y bagamundo
  Ng mga pagbabago,
  Pag-inog ng mundo
  Sa mga bagong
  Siklo.

  Inaaliw kami
  Ng mga daliri mo—
  Mabilis na mabilis,
  Pagkumpas pataas,
  Rosas ay naglalaho.

  Pinag-iingat kami:
  Maaring itong
  Pagkamangha,
  Kamay mong
  Mang-uumit.

  Paulit-ulit,
  Maglalaho
  Ang aming gunita
  Sa angking hiwaga
  Ng pagpupuslit.

  Ang Babaylan

  Nakatanghal
  Sa pagitan
  Ng mga haligi
  Ang madilim
  Mong mga mata.

  Hawak ang tora,
  Dagat na bughaw
  Ang iyong bestidang
  Hinahagkan
  Ng kahel na granada.

  May ibinabadya
  Kang pagsambulat:
  Isang pagbubunyag
  Ng pinakatagu-tagong
  Lihim.

  Ibulong mo sa akin
  Kung saan babasahin
  Ang lihim—sa dagat
  Bang malalim
  O sa matang madilim?
  

• © Louie Jon A. Sanchez
  Caloocan City
• DALAMHATI

  Tahimik na paghikbi.
  Nakayukod--
  tila taimtim na nagdarasal
  sa dingding na bingi
  at bulag
  sa mga luhang dahan-dahang pumapatak.

  Pagpikit ng mga mata.
  Ang pag-ungot na di marinig
  Kahit di lunurin ng lamig.

  Buntong-hininga.

  Pag-sikip ng dibdib.
  Pagkagat sa labi.
  Nginig ng buong katawan.

  Panghihina.
  Paghimbing sa alaala ng kalungkutan.

  Dalamhati.

• © Luwi Infante
  

Makata Archive

• October 1999 to December 2002 issues