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


    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.


    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.


    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.


    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.


    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,
    she wafted a kiss on my cheeks
    and whispered her name...

  • Eugenio R. Corpus III
    Binangonan, Rizal


    I must say nothing else out
    of this closeted stillness
    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
    your lover wades stonily
    woebegone somehow
    telltale streets unravel at
    heel in rippling rush
    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

  • 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.



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

    Sabi mo, hindi ka sunip
    At nakikita kahit na pinakasingit
    Ng mga rumarampang bebot
    Sa entabladong hapag,
    Pinalilibutan ng sanlaksang
    Lalaking iniidolo ka.
    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?


    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.


    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

    ng araw
    ang dagat.

    natagpuan ko
    ang aking sarili,

    Bebang Siy

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



    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,
    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,
    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,
    We are
    Our mission:
    To serve
    You Better.

    Sa katabing
    Ng pinagtagpi-
    Tagping yero
    At karton,
    Sa lumang
    Ng pako
    At karam:

    Payatas, isa pa

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

    Ganap na natabunan
    Ng itim at bagsik
    Ng duming-lungsod
    Ang kanilang pamilyang

    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.


    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.


    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

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

    Pinag-iingat kami:
    Maaring itong
    Kamay mong

    Ang aming gunita
    Sa angking hiwaga
    Ng pagpupuslit.

    Ang Babaylan

    Sa pagitan
    Ng mga haligi
    Ang madilim
    Mong mga mata.

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

    May ibinabadya
    Kang pagsambulat:
    Isang pagbubunyag
    Ng pinakatagu-tagong

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

  • Louie Jon A. Sanchez
    Caloocan City

    Tahimik na paghikbi.
    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.


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

    Paghimbing sa alaala ng kalungkutan.


  • Luwi Infante

Makata Archive


  • Welcome to Makata

    Makata will be published the first week of each calendar month. We will email you when the new issue is up each month.

  • Volume 4 Issue 3, March 2003

    Alexander Agena

    Eugenio R. Corpus III

    Rosendo M. Makabali

    Jose Jason L. Chancoco


    Reagan Romero Maiquez

    Michael Francis C. Andrada

    Bebang Siy

    Alexander Martin Remollino

    Louie Jon A. Sanchez

    Luwi Infante

We welcome your submissions:


Read the Submission Guidelines


Makata 2003 Archive

January 2003

February 2003

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.