RIVER FOLIO - YAON 2019

YAON is the literary folio of The Gold Panicles, the official student publication of Caraga State University - Main Campus.

“Yaon” is a Filipino word that means, “there is”. It is a reflection narrating that there is a story inspired from people in different walks of life.

These stories are originally translated and interpreted by the scribes and artists of The Gold Panicles and its contributors.

No original work of art shall be used nor published without the permission of its authors.

EDITORIAL BOARD Editor in Chief

Dean Joshua Solis

Literary Editor

John Ray Bantasan

Creative Director

Arvin B. Buyser

Managing Editor

Renante Tabudlong

Photography Director Illustrations Director Photographers

Illustrator Chief Adviser

Dean Joshua Solis Arvin B. Buyser Shane Airah Jakosalem Nicole Light Villabeto Sean Audie I. Buscano Rafaella J. Utrera Enrique F. Taragua, Ph.D

Technical Adviser - English

Meldy A. Acabo

Technical Adviser - Filipino

Cristine Pernito

Technical Adviser - Visuals

Engr. Isagani M. Roma Jr.

FOREWORD

Hello, traveler!

You have just boarded your vessel. Take your oar and ferry through the other side of the nearest lake. In this trip, you are bound to face stills and rapids. But, don’t fret -- your raft is built for this journey.

There will be rapids. Rapids of struggle, anguish, or vibrancy that will force you to thrive. Then there will be stills. The stills that unwind the soul for rest or tranquilizes the soul to stagnate.

May the journey through the night take your soul to the lyrics of songs, prose, and poetry. The ride may feel short or lengthy, but for as long as your core is enthralled to delve deeper to harmony, you will find your safe place.

River guide, Dean Joshua Solis

6 | River

01

The Stream of Life

02

Oblivion

04

Mudskipper

05

Ilog ay Pag-ibig

07

Fire to the Rain

08

Should we Rejoice?

10

Liwayway

by Gideon Maratas

by rngd

by Juan Sicat

by Marrol Miole

by Mae Jovelyn Corporal

by Sui Generis

by rngd

River | 7

The Stream of Life

by Gideon Maratas Back when I was in my prime Alive and kicking at that time, Pubescent, footloose and fancy-free, A glint of triumph lit relentlessly.

Geared up I was to take on the world, Surmising I’d always get the gold.

But really check! Reality sucks.

It is in a constant state of flux.

It’s like I was in an endless battlefield.

Despite the gloomy and ill-lit route, A pale light hinted me a way out Realizing I wasn’t to settle for less.

Deep down I was tired of excuses, To these should I disregard?

I then literally slapped my face, hard.

The glum area in late adolescence Had put out sunset’s refulgence.

I got lost in a quantum realm; Of this life, I was at the helm.

Stumbling blocks on the track, Downfalls deemed as bad luck, Losses coming out unchanging, They’re inevitably part of the game.

From the dusk, I fell into the chasm; To the dawn, I found enthusiasm.

To the dichotomy between the two Portrayed a concept out of the blue; Hope, delight, satisfaction, Cheerfulness, pain, depression, Despair, and disappointments Were life-requisite condiments.

As I rambled around the wilderness, Life tormented me on its process; I strode leaving an emotional scar; I looked like a wounded beggar.

Yet none discerned how isolated I was; I got appalled by this nightmare.

Could this be vanished by a prayer?

Thus, now’s the time to resolve; As life has mysteries to solve.

Now’s the time to learn to survive; As my spirit’s willing to strive.

Now’s the time to give life meaning; As the bright sun keeps on shining.

And now’s the time embrace reality; As the stream of life tells uncertainty.

“I don’t know where to go!” I yelled;

1 | River

Oblivion by rngd

I was once cradled in thy embrace— Dark, impenetrable abyss of your truth.

You were once intriguing, Caught between the yeses and maybes of decisions.

You sure can be as clear as day, But spine-chilling as the howling of the beasts.

I am sure That if ever the lunatics will be as fine as today, We will be their crazy.

The strong winds of Amihan gently kissed my face, Speaking with the speaking waves.

I am lost in my reverie, How did it end up here?

River | 2

Photo by Arvin B. Buyser

3 | River

Mudskipper

by Juan Sicat

The sun ascends to mock the ripples that sprang out from plunged fingers.

Chides and squints this blazing ball, and dares to mar the scant smile of the dour boy. Little silly, Momma said.

The fingers linger, antsy and most soft, often eluding stalks of mangrove origins— rafts to bothered ants or meager leaf, perhaps.

Which way little silly?

The water sluices through the hand with such cold and taunt, and still hard to haul, the fish skips.

Skip! Skip! Skip!

Leaf to soil. Soil to wood.

Wood to shell. Shell to water.

Water to leaf over a leaf.

The back hunches to reach, when unwanted and faulty, the ankles peck the chill and alarm the fish again. Skip!

With such sleight and wit-work, the boy can only dream of catching the elusive goby; and dreaming was yester night, little silly.

Skip!

River | 4

Ilog ay Pag-ibig ni Marrol Miole Buhay ay parang ilog na parte ng kalikasan, Pinagkukunan ng marami at iba’t ibang yaman.

Tulad na rin ng pagmamahal na nuon pa’y nariyan na, Hinihintay lamang ang hudyat ng pagragasa, Mula sa iisang taong hinihintay’t sinisinta.

mga pangamba ay mananatili.

Sa simula ang pag busagak nito’y mahina.

Tulad na lamang nang panahong ligawan pa.

Mahinahing babaybayin ang direksyong pakurba-kurbada, Na tulad rin nang mga pagsubok na binibigay mo sa kanya.

Noon ang mga ilog ay napakalilinis, Walang pagdududa kang mahihinuha.

Ngunit, ngayo’y ika’y magdadalawang isip na, Dahil maaari na itong magdulot ng Diarrhea at amoeba.

Iihip ang hangin, aawit ang mga ibon, Sasayaw ang mga puno, ngingiti ang araw.

Kung iisip’y, tila lahat ay ayos na, Subalit darating ang mga pangamba sa relasyon niyong dalawa.

Tulad na lamang ng pag-iibigan ng iyong ama at ina, Kung saan pag-ibig sa henerasyon nila’y totoo at dakila.

Hindi tulad ngayon na ang pagpili ng mamahalin ay kaduda-duda, Dahil nakakatakot rin namang mahawaan ng epidemya.

Magkakalat ang nga dahong laya; Dadagdag pa ang mga basura.

Mga bagay na tila mga peste, Unti-unti nilang lalasunin kayong dalawa May mga taong pagsisikapang linisin ito; Tutulong upang ayusin kayo.

Lilinis ang tubig, dadalisay na muli, Magkakaayos kayo,subalit ang

5 | River

Tubig ay napakahalagang element, Tulad na rin ng pag-ibig sa buhay ng hayop man o tao.

Subalit, paano kung tuluyan na nga itong naging kontaminado?

At nagresulta sa pagkapatay ng pusong bato.

Kagaya ng ilog na patuloy sa paglakbay sa direksyong ‘di pa alam, Puso ay dapat hayaan ding sumugal sa pag-iibigan na walang kasiguraduhan.

Ang hangin at mga tao sa paligid mo’y nakahandang umagapay sayo, Upang sa sariling pagkakamali ika’y matuto.

Photo by Sean Audie i. Buscano

River | 6

Fire to the Rain

by Mae Jovelyn Corporal

Where are thy rain?

When the lungs of the Earth are ablaze, Creatures are in pain turning into coal-like remains.

The agony of unheard cries, Echoing in the vastness set to rampage, Waiting for someone to call back, Amidst the hovering shadows in the space.

Where are those courageous hearts?

That once dumbfounded by such beauty and grace, Then trampled the forest with no clemency, Set every creatures hearts on fire.

No one knows what they really want to acquire.

Was it for the greater good?

Or was it a tool for the future destruction?

If for the latter, the Earth will really fall into quagmire.

7 | River

Should We Rejoice?

by Sui Generis

Should a journalist rejoice in all these killings?

Should those who write be in delight from all these massacres?

Should we rejoice in every purity lost in some dark corner?

Should a writer be filled from those who have nothing to eat?

Should a journalist rejoice from all the lives lost from fighting for their ancestral lands?

Should a writer rejoice?

A writer who makes other’s stories his own tale A saga unending for every day is both a curse and a blessing To make a living from all the deaths To make a wonderful story out of a tragedy To convince even to the most obvious lies To put spectrum on a narrative of a monochromatic fate To thread the past, present, and the future But the question remains Should we rejoice?

From all these unwanted realities?

No, we don’t We never rejoice.

We mourn Mourn to those who cried Mourn to those who seek freedom Mourn to those who can’t eat Mourn to those who live in the dark Mourn to those who seek Who seeks justice!

We never rejoice No, we don’t For we, journalists do not write using blood Nor do we want to be heard using a gun We write To tell an unfortunate fate To speak an unspoken word To be a voice for the voiceless We do not rejoice We mourn with those who mourns For we write not to be popular But for justice to be attainable For us, we seek candor For even how elusive justice may be at least we can say that in these papers justice is served.

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Photo by Shane Airah Jakosalem

9 | River

Liwayway ni rngd

Matikas ang iyong tindig, babae.

Matalim ang dila, Mapanuri ang mga mata, buo ang kalooban; dahil hindi ka pinalaking duwag.

Pinamalas ang katapangan sa kalagitnaan ng pagduyan ng lupa.

Habang umaalingawngaw ang sigaw ng mga ibon, maiging naghihintay sa iyang pagtugon.

Isinulat mo ang mga titik sa talulot ng kalachuchi, nagbabasakaling madatnan ng ibang manlalakbay.

Nagpadala sa mga hampas ng alon, dahil alam kong itutungo ka nito sa kasiguraduhan.

Malimit kang nag-iisa sapagkat hindi sumasang-ayon ang madla, hapong-hapo sa pagbungad ng umaga; pero lakas-loob na nagpatuloy.

Nanatili kang matarik sa likod ng mga pang-aalipusta.

May mga naipanalong giyera.

May mga nasawing pangarap.

May mga naiwan.

Naiwan.

Nagpaiwan.

Napagod at saglitang nagpahinga, humayo, naglakbay at sumubok muli.

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11 | River

11

The Gray

13

Lucid History

14

A Night Walk

16

An Elegy

17

Seven

18

Rough Edge

19

Mirasol

by Dean Joshua Solis

by Raven Daryl Mae Suarez

by Juan Sicat

by Sui Generis

by Dean Joshua Solis

by Mae Jovelyn Corporal

by Juan Sicat

River | 12

The Gray

by Dean Joshua Solis

The sun burns light, The moon sinks might, And all there is is the gray, All galaxies amazed, The stars ablaze, And all there is is the gray.

Flowers in the field they grow, Wonders in the abyss below, Yet all there is is the gray.

Swift the birds of prey, And all in the fray, But all there is is the gray.

Winds and trees they rustle, Winds and seas they whistle, But all there is is the gray.

And the gray is there, And the gray is light, Yet the gray is darkness, But the gray dims all, But the gray should be.

11 | River

Photo by Dean Joshua Solis

River | 12

Lucid History

by Raven Daryle Mae Suarez

Our memories are lucid dream, So vivid like a cool clear stream.

It seems only yesterday did we last, Though million seasons have long sailed past.

So fresh are the scars they still churned; The pain is as deep that I’m drowned.

Our bygone days felt crystal waters to me, But when touched it quickly streams away.

My eyes welled up in tears that never run dry.

My heart bleeds in agony I cannot deny, But painful must I wake in reality— Our past is all but just a lucid history.

13 | River

A Night Walk

by Juan Sicat

Where I tugged the free-floating moon, Beside the riverbank housed by fireflies, A whisper strained the crisp monsoon And sang the towns folks’ dreadful tune— So I hummed along with the lonesomes’ lullabies.

Then the crickets behind bush-covered soil Have tickled out the unkind songs And the query came clearer than the distant broil, Was I rightly alone in my life-long toil?

The free-floating moon proved me wrong.

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Illustration by Yessamen Sevillano

15 | River

An Elegy

by Sui Generis

Why is the wolf in love with the moon?

In its silence, he sings a beautiful melody of chorus of love, despair, and courage.

Why would he call for her even she hears him not?

His ballad that envies even the dawn and the dusk for his songs will ne’er be heard in the light yet in the dark is where it cries.

His melody is a haunting specter to all who hears it but for him, it is his symphony of affection to her muse above that gleams to the moon that dresses the night.

It is his songs that gave the night its life— A life where a tune is its blood.

He sings such beautiful songs Or does he?

Is it a song of his affection or is it a lamentation of his love unheard?

He sings a song or grieves for his voice was never heard by his muse.

The wolf howls to the moon not by love but it is the elegy of his unrequited love, for his songs and voice no matter the beau his muse hears none.

River | 16

Seven

by Dean Joshua Solis

Red is for fire, Catching the dreams of the unwanted, Reducing the shadows of fear.

Orange is for dusk, Leaving behind the tears in the clouds, Painting the canvass with hope so frail.

Yellow is for the sun, Who comes and leaves as the day goes by, But returns when the night is over.

Green is for the moss, Shelling what the waves are teasing, And all things left behind.

Blue is for the sky, Where hopes and dreams are thrown, And answers with tears falling asunder.

Indigo is for the skin, Bruised and beaten as the feels touch, But heals again to be hurt.

Violet is for the abyss, Where tomorrow’s unknowns are safe, And mystery is a myth.

1 7 | River

Rough Edge

by Mae Jovelyn Corporal

A mountaineer once said, That if you want to see the beauty that lies ahead, You must stride fast and get paid with sweat, Never go back nor waver to any threats.

On your way, you may encounter a boulder, A big one that traps you like forever.

Just find a way out, never retreat nor surrender, Get pass through in any way or another.

But then you get tired along the journey, You start getting dirty and your eyes begins to blurry.

Even stumbled many times, got a knee injury, Just stand up, be brave and never mind getting thirsty.

‘Cause you’ve come so far enough, The stones you walk by starts getting rough.

River waters polished the path turning into slippery rock, No time must be wasted because you’re on the clock.

Paradise awaits after the rough edge, But it needs a lot of hard work and courage.

River | 18

Mirasol

by Juan Sicat

Today, the water is unclear.

People remember people by the many extraordinary things one could associate with another. A daughter can remember her wayfaring mother by the smell of the latter’s hair. A lover can remember his mistress by the passing mention of ‘sins’. A blind panhandler can remember he is alive by the sound of familiar disgust. I remember you by your smile.

Not in any way did I find your smile the most extraordinary there is, no. But it always meant something inside you was right. And when something inside you was right, we were happy. I valued that.

Yesterday, I would have had ignored you if it weren’t for your smile. Some part of me wished it was directed at me, but how could you have remembered me? It has been fifteen years.

Changes happen. This place does not fare well with changes, its people included. You on the other hand, long separated from rural struggles, seemed to have gotten better because of it.

“What color do you want then?” you asked, your little silly smile curling at the end exactly the way I remembered it.

“The blue one!” the little girl answered.

“You sure?”

“Yes mama.” She half-turned and took the hand of her father.

How would you have reacted? I could have run but I didn’t. My feet were nailed to the floor; a ghost was at hand, only that the

19 | River

ghost did not know that she was.

“I’ll take one of the blue ones.” You handed me a hundred-peso bill, staring at the row of colorful inflated lifesavers.

“It’s free,” I said. It was time to catch the ghost’s attention.

You looked at me. Hard. Pressing. Comprehending. Your face broke into a another smile, almost like a newly-cut wound. It was painful to look at.

“No way. . .”

(Fifteen years and all you could afford for a conversation starter was a “no way”?)

“Is that really you?”

It was my turn to smile. I did my best in making it look authentic.

“Yes indeed,” I replied. “I see you’re back.”

“Temporarily.” You shot a quick glance back at your small family, smiling. “My husband and I, we’re, uh, checking a site. Thought we might as well bring Sophia along for a little vacation. She likes the beach.”

(You do too. Or at least you did.)

“She’s adorable.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

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For several minutes, you filled me, if not exactly against my will, at least without any enthusiasm on my part, with the stories of how adorable Sophia is; which, if I was being honest, I found boring. I wanted to talk about you—about us.

Not long after you’ve done your talking, I did mine. How uneventful my life turned out to be, and I hated the pity in your eyes. Your husband called out, tapping his watch. It was time to go. You said you were sorry, thanked me for the free lifesaver, and shook my hand. Right then, the world swirled like one of those whirls an oar leaves on the water.

Now Your palm was a time machine. It was as soft as it had been on the last day I held it. We were by the river then. Holding hands. Kissing. Singing, mostly off-key. Both of us eighteen.

Counting the reasons why Mang Kaloy should stop taking a dump by the coastline.

“I wouldn’t want him to leave, though,” I said. Despite—” “Would you want me to leave?”

I gave you the answer but I understood it wasn’t really a question, because you left anyway. It was your farewell. Your parting gift. Your little assurance that you’d regret leaving by implying you’d miss the way I loved you. An opportunity knocked and you said you owed it to yourself that you’d accept it, and that you’d miss the way I loved you. You said you need to shoot your shot for this dream and that you’d miss the way I loved you. And that was it. I could not find the strength to come along with you because even if I had it, I didn’t have an estranged foreign father with enough wealth to boot. I had to strive from here on and I had been immensely unlucky since then. But I don’t blame you. I never did.

21 | River

Now I sit by the same river, perched on a small rock, thinking about you. Mang Kaloy is dead, so there is no longer taking-a-dump-by-the-river. But the water is uncharacteristically unclear. I throw a rock and make ripples. There are always ripples. “Mirasol,� mother calls from behind. Time for work.

I take a look back at the river. Today, the water is unclear, and now I think I know why.

River | 22

23 | River

23

Legacy

24

Milky Way Creek

26

Unending Melody

27

Hundred Memories

28

Boating Madness

30

The Bedrock of Foundation

by rngd

by Juan Sicat

by Anne Marie Forcadas

by Renante Tabudlong

by Dani Morrs

by Kim Louis Aro

River | 24

Legacy by rngd

There is a tender thing dwelling in the pit of you.

You picked it up and coiled it into knots from the shame of being so soft.

You’ve hid in fear that the world inflicted the vulnerable thing.

The soul of you— raw, calm and motionless, that stirs when your heart goes gentle.

You’ve learned to cover your chest with both of your palms, pressing it down intently, hoping to make it go quiet; hushing it into deep slumber.

Told it not to make any sound, not to surrender itself again.

You see, every old lover has dug right into you, trying to teeth right at it.

Every old lover wanted a taste its light, to steal the glory it contains.

Every stranger has heard the thing sing when they kissed you and it sang so softly it made them swallow you whole.

And so you’ve learned to keep it still, keep it at rest, keep it in the deepest recesses of your system.

Asleep but alive— this heart of you, this thing with so much sound that echoes in your ears, this thing you subconsciously named, because it has surpassed generations of decay and redemption; this thing with songs that could force all the stone-men to their knees.

If only they know how to listen.

23 | River

Milky Way Creek

by Juan Sicat

Dear, the pathway Tirelessly swings—bends kind. The green blades Cut through silken dreams Of fingers shrinking far and fine.

Call this home, This minute tributary Of folding nebula—iris clear.

Our whispers glide High across barks and moons and sing softly.

Your voice is a surgeon, I am cut in two: Yours and in death with you.

Your smile is a vessel, Take me north And chase the ever thinning red Against waves of pale And endless corpse.

Our souls writhe at the steam, coiled Around a cattail’s Leaf, kissing dewdrops, And a comet’s tail.

The gods wake to listen At the final shift of tone— Flakes tearing off from the far Barren world we used to own.

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Illustration by Rafaella J. Utrera

25 | River

Unending Melody

by Ann Marie Forcadas

Broken piano keys Composing sad piece.

It yearns for the right tune As it chorused the broken song.

It plays once more Making melodies that endure.

But it quivers in the middle Nearly losing the warble Can this be more of an ending?

A question starts screeching Yet here comes a rush Streaming off the unmelodic sash.

With the scrolls of guidance It helped find the golden tune of vibrance.

Defanging the uncertain flow With the unstopping hope, The piano melody again glows!

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Hundred Memories Renante P. Tabudlong

What if the things that make you sad are the same things that make you happy?

It’s really hard to move on and forget someone you once loved deeply.

Choosing the person over and over again-despite all pains and heartaches.

My eyes were searching your smiles, laugh and another chance.

Sometimes,accepts that we’re just an option.

And no one cares that I’m so lonely.

The jokes you’ve made me, chats full of happiness but you are nowhere.

Inadequate,unloved and unworthy.

No dull moments everytime I’m with you I wish I could write my name on the night sky for you to look up to.

I gave it my all Spreading the message of happiness we’ve been together.

Communicating with you,every twenty four hours a day.

When the night was dark and fall, No one has the strength to count the stars of the night.

You won’t hear any words from me,I accept in this world full of judge and hate.

I told myself that you’re gone but it just won’t sink in.

Hundred memories of moments remain the same.

27 | River

Boating Madness

by Dani Morrs

Row, row, row.

Your boat—down the stream, you row.

Gently?

No. Against the currents, keeping the vessel steady is quite a skill—common to everyone.

Except for a few who can’t even set sail, who struggle to remain in the surface, who row with all the will and effort— and still remain immobile.

Shake, rattle and then sink.

Down the stream, you drown.

Life is but a merry dream?

No.

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Illustration by John Ray Bantasan

29 | River

The Bedrock of Foundation

by Kim Louis Aro

As the river sands mold through ages of pressure and hardship, they conform little by little into consolidation.

Through time, sands are being bold off of their place of measure and kinship.

Consolidation mittle and mittle and will take reformation.

The time of river sands take a hold onto a temporary pleasure and connoisseurship.

The time holds belittle and belittle into recreation.

River sands are not river sands at all—old— as they enter sea of diverse consolidation, rockship.

The life of river sands riddle and riddle as if it is wanting a re-action.

Some remained soft, some remained bold; some are in timid attachment, some are in consistent valorship.

Some are in the ocean middle, some remained in their preferred middle; one remains constant—unless swayed by a greater pressurization.

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This page is for you.

31 | River

This page is for you.

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