Lirip
1
lirip
Tinta 2020 Full Edition
Tinta is the official literary folio of the Union of Journalists of the Philippines - UP Batch 2020-2021
All parts of this literary folio are highly encouraged to be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording or photocopying form as long as they are credited to the respective writers and to the Union.
Mga tipong ginamit: Lora Regular - Pamagat at Brand Open Sans - Katawan
tula 8
at the crossroads
10
forth thy stains
14
fright with all its might
20
calcium
22
dahon ang mga araw
26
the composition of a spoonful
28
this is what my christmas wishlist looks like
32
dispocheck
41
the words that remain
46
the ocean bleeds for Alan Kurdi
47
10836875
48
simbolo ng simula
sputnik
lung hiya baga
hippocampus balintataw fovea
honeycomb dyornal
wildewoman soul
wildewoman
wisdom tooth
prosa all she feels
12
living with ourselves
16
happy pills
30
‘till we meet again, mr. space head
34
under a seattle weather
36
ukay? okay.
38
taguan
42
ulat ng pandama
45
wildewoman
soul
baga
sputnik
soul
lung hiya
sol
lualhati
at the cro
sput
i am speak at the verge of breaking, past
improbability, with my defens
remorse, as my heart grieves
this distance, before the world
unfitting hands, given my hel
done, on the basis of my long
nor expectation, by dint of ev
i ask you, mo
plea do not let
be a st
Disappe
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ossroads
tnik
king to you the point of reason, amid our
ses revoked, whilst stripped of
s, in all your sanctity, despite
d departs, regardless of these
lplessness, after everything’s
ging, under neither condition,
verything, (so long as you ask),
ost ardently
ase this story
tory of
earance
Lirip
9
forth thy stains lung hiya
Goddess forbid the stain on her knickers A trace of milk from an unborn womb trickling Down her tiger striped thighs, clashing thunder. Woman, don’t tame them. Let no man lame you any less supernatural For enduring the unholy pains of creation Hostess, forgive the stains on your knickers Brown, white, red, and yellow; Caused you discomfort yet fueled Your rage towards the world that choked Your femininity as a debt for living. Sister won’t forget the stain on her knickers For there is blood beyond those walls Of countless voices from glossed lips Tainted cheeks, curves and curled Her army fires with roses and thorns, Blinds the ill-sighted gender and reintroduces them. Mother, rise a forest with thou bush Nourish the hills that bring forth life; A trace of glass from a fertile womb trickling Down her tiger striped thighs, bless the clashing thunder. Man, don’t tame us.
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Tinta 2020
DIBUHO ni
Lirip wisdom 11 tooth
all she feels wildewoman
As a woman, there is that ever-present and looming worry that none of what you feel is real. You’re not entirely sure about the universality of this anxiety, but based on some of the conversations you’ve had with surrounding women, it’s a pretty common thing. You remember when your Gender and Development professor once talked about the origin of the word ‘hysteria’. Apparently, in the past, it was a medical condition that women who seem emotionally dysfunctional or “hysterical” were diagnosed with. Think of it this way: there was an actual time wherein men who were acting out in rage were considered normal for their socially perpetuated and accepted masculinity, while women were confined in hospitals for having emotional fits or intense mood swings. Even etymology can be strangely patriarchal. But anyway, this only further propagates the idea that women are crazy, women are hormonal, and ultimately, women cannot be trusted because feelings could easily sway them from making logical decisions. And while it isn’t entirely untrue that emotions have a way of influencing our actions, we aren’t entirely dependent on them. Here is a universally known scientific fact: Men have hormones too.
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They know it, you know it, but the hormones are so often laced with connotations of female emotions that this is rarely recognized nor brought up. Obviously, there are biological differences to the way our brains are wired, and consequently, what kind of hormones and other bodily substances are produced to affect how we make decisions. But that doesn’t mean we are any less rational beings. Sure, you may have had your fair share of tragic PMS stories, including a few days ago when waterfalls ran down your eyes more times than you could count, but these emotional reactions can’t fully be attributed to hormones, or the way our bodies function. Things haven’t been easy lately, and your body’s just about had enough as well, and wanted to express it. Probably not in the most convenient manner, but what can you say? We all need to get a nervous breakdown out of our system every once in a while. You were pretty sure you were going nuts the entire time a whirlwind of emotions danced around your head. You questioned the legitimacy of your anger, of your frustration, of your stress, and of every little negative thing you felt, until you came to the very obvious conclusion that the only thing that could truly determine the validity of your feelings was you. Every single crevice of your brain felt like it was on fire for a moment, and there was absolutely no way you were discrediting that. Biology can have its say on who you are and what you do, but you can’t completely strip yourself of your humanity; of your right to feel as immensely as you do.
LITRATO ni wisdom tooth
DIBUHO ni baga
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Tinta 2020
fright with all its might baga
I see the ruins of collapsed coliseums, of tainted dreams, of pained pictures, of cracked concrete, of dead-end roads, imprinted by the mark of brimstone.
I see the mass of smoke approaching me gradually, a darkness wanting to devour me
I see fire in the distance, engulfing the blue hues with harsh tones of red, the shades of doomsday
and be its unfortunate inhabitant, a dark grey entity awaiting to blind me, suffocate me, to see me suffer under its control.
mixing with the sun’s rays. I see no light-I see monstrous shadows,
voiceless screams
creeping up in every corner,
as I await the fight.
watching my every step, waiting for the perfect strike, hearing my heartbeat spike.
I see how my worst fears pervade in this version of hell I made.
Lirip
15
living with ourselves soul
A somber realization dawned on Eliza the instant the clock struck at 6 p.m. She was made aware of the painful fact that in no time, it will be evening again, and then morning and then evening all over again. It seems that in the past few days, she’s felt the excruciating length of a minute, even that of a moment. What made this fact much clearer now is that day by day, she and the rest of the world are forced to look within for company;stripped of her stash of distractions, making it more and more difficult to pass every second. So with each uneventful day passing, and no other warm body in the room to be the unfortunate subject of her scrutiny, her body presented itself as a vulnerable target. Eliza looks in the mirror and sighs at the parts of her body she disapproves of. Then she walks away, limping her legs behind, fully aware of every step as she lurches forward. At night, she goes to bed hearing herself thinking, noting as each thought comes and goes. In no time, idleness grew into insufferable boredom. At past 1 in the morning, out of the blue or perhaps not really-- she grabbed a pair of scissors and went to the bathroom. What transpired in the next few minutes was, safe to say, catalyzed by overlong solitude. Without blinking, Eliza chopped off her elbow-length ebony hair down to her chin. She made sure the cut was even and then she looked in the mirror, waiting. She waited for that consuming rush of regret to come over what she did. She felt unusually confident that she thought she’s ready for whatever it is you’re supposed to realize just right after you’ve done something irreversible. But surprisingly, nothing came. Actually, she felt quite proud of her decisive action. She thinks the hair looks edgy.
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But, she spoke too soon. Regret greeted her in the sobering light of the day and it swallowed her whole. Over a hot cup of coffee, what was thought of as a firm action turned to be the worst overnight impulse. Understandably, she frets for hours over her short-cropped hair asking, “What was I thinking exposing my fat neck?” Over the course of the day, she was overpowered by self-reproach to accomplish anything except assail herself for acting so harshly. The thing is she used to be so thankful to have so much unaccounted time in her hands but now, she curses it. It deprives her of badly needed agreeable company to draw her attention away from her own unruly mind. That morning, Eliza was compelled by regret to make several trips to the bathroom just to look repeatedly at the mirror. She will then assault herself over the barbarity she thought she committed to her hair. Regret, as it turns out, mercilessly demands to be felt, to be acknowledged. In this tiring refrain of action, hours easily went down the drain. And having exhausted all the words to scold herself, Eliza eventually felt sick of hearing her voice. She managed to calm down. She realized she was being too hard on herself. Maybe at times even hardest on herself than anyone else. It’s fairly hard to determine what caused this epiphany, but it probably has something to do at the sight of the sun setting so gorgeously in the sky that Eliza happened to catch by her window. So, she tried to console her terribly bruised ego. From the beginning, she never really understood why she felt so uncomfortable under her own skin or why she never felt at ease. For one thing, she knew perfectly well how hard she can be to deal with. She knows how unsure she is of herself and just how unpredictable she can be. But she thinks it would be alright. You see, in no time it will be evening again and then morning all over again. She will try a little harder to be kind to herself tomorrow. So that maybe one day, when the time came that she had to live with someone or --heavens forbid, raise a child, she will know full well how to live with herself.
LITRATO ni sol
LITRATO ni hippocampus
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Lirip
19
calc
hippoca
I have never broken a bone despite being accident-prone. I’ve tripped so many times over slightly uneven pavement-on a slippery floor, on an errant pebble, even over my own feet, and on thin air. I’ve even fallen down more than a couple of stairsteps, and while standing on chairs, trying to reach shelves beyond me and once getting out of a jeep during a rainstorm in heels. But still, I have never broken a bone. That’s good, I think at least, my bones are stronger than me. 20
Tinta 2020
cium
ampus
Although sometimes, I think my bones do not like me. They don’t seem to listen. On those days, my bones do not want to get out of bed, or move or do anything, really. And sometimes, even my flesh and my nerves and my blood would rather listen to my bones. Not to me. I am afraid of the day when my heart decides to follow suit. But at least, I have never broken a bone.
Lirip
21
dahon ang
balint
Mayo 2020 Hindi ko na ninanais na bilangin pa’ng mga araw na nalagas sapagkat napagtanto ko nang hindi na ito muling sisibol pa. Habang nakakulong ang aking pagkatao sa kasuluk-sulukan ng tinatawag nating tahanan, mga araw ay tila naging mga dahon na nangamatay, nangaglagas, nangatuyo. Ito ay naging mala-tsokolate’ng kulay, waring napuspos ng kainitang taglay ng tag-init at nagpupuyos na araw.
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g mga araw
tataw
Kumakaluskos ang mga ito at sumasaliw sa huni ng hangin. At mga ito’y wala ng pinaroroonan, wala ng kasiguraduhan ang kanilang pagpapatilipad sa paghugong ng hangin. Magaan na lumulutang-lutang ngunit pagkabigat ng paglipad. At sa huli ang mga ‘to’y nangadurog ang mga araw na noo’y nangaglagas Nagkapira-piraso, naging tila abo na nilululan ng marahang hangin. Hindi na mapagtatagpi-tagpi at hindi ko na ninanais na bilangin pa’ng mga araw na nalagas sapagkat matagal pa’ng muling pagsibol ng mga araw.
LITRATO ni wisdom tooth
Lirip
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LITRATO ni lung hiya
Lirip
25
the comp of a sp
fov
3 cups of father’s clumsily-asse
8 oz. of mother’s vintage expire 5 cloves of brother’s
1 cup of grandmothe
2 cups of grandfath
5 oz. of aunts’ floral perfume
1 cup of uncle’s molding s
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LITRATO ni baga
position poonful
vea
embled brick red childhood kite
ed lipsticks and balled-up lights glowing ceiling stars
er’s golden necklaces
her’s old Polaroids
es - unmistakable in the dark
superiority complex gaze
Lirip
27
this is what my christmas wishlist looks like honeycomb
TW: Death, grief I want to arrive at the New Year’s party of grief and kill it, to slice it open, hands deftly ripping apart the confetti of flesh until I find the memories of my youth buried deep inside the body. I remember my first gift was a book about dinosaurs who disappeared after the Big Bang, a story that fails to mention what happens to those who continue living. When you died, they warned me about the gargantuan task of mourning my loved ones on holidays, when the shining lights would remind me of the glint from the doctor’s spectacles when they said you had gone to sleep. I imagine that everyone eventually dies, even grief itself.
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Tinta 2020
LITRATO ni wisdom tooth
On the last day on Earth, it will be Christmas and snowing for the first time in the Philippines, everyone running outside to taste the air, oblivious to their impending doom. Now, I finally understand them. I will be there making snow angels out of the ashes of everything that lingers still. Mother, when the pepper gray fluff settles on the windowpane, I can finally write you my first holiday greeting to heaven, your place at the dining table still there as always.
Lirip
29
happy pills baga
I measure months with each box of antidepressants I finish. Yet after every 30 pills. I still feel the same: lethargic and drained, albeit not moving a muscle. 517 days ago, I thought taking them would instantly make me happier-- a minuscule 10 milligram tablet wondrously brightening the strong bleak colors I’ve known for so long. And so I counted down the weeks. Week 1, the monochromatic colors were coupled with constant spinning. Week 2, less spinning, but everything still a shade darker. Week 3, week 4, week 73, I still hoped for that magic.
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But as change doesn’t happen overnight, there are no miracles that can make the chemicals in my brain do a complete 180. They weren’t my answer to everything. They aren’t supposed to be. They are not my happy pills, but rather things I gulp down with water to keep me alive. With that, I measure seconds-- each tick a reminder to inhale through my nose and each movement a countdown for my next dose.
Lirip
31
dispocheck dyornal
Kumusta ka? Ayos lang, hindi pa naman pinanghihinaan. Kinakaya pa sa kabila ng mga hampas ng alon at lakas ng daluyong. Nakakatayo pa, kahit sugat-sugat na ang binti’t tuhod sa daming beses na nadapa, natapilok, nabuwal habang naglalakbay. Binabagtas ang daang inaakalang kadiliman ang hantungan, dahil wala nang makita. Ni isang kutitap ng alitaptap ay walang masilayan. Ayos lang? Hindi. Natatakot, sa totoo. Hindi rin alam kung bakit nasisikmura na sa araw-araw na pagtatanong ng ‘kumusta’ ay laging kasinungalingan ang inilalahad. Laging binubulag ang mga nag-aalala, pinapakita na kinakaya pa, lumalaban pa kahit ang katotohanan ay bunbunan na lamang ang wala sa hukay. Todo pa sa pagsuporta, pag-angat, pagsigurado na ayos lang sila, ngunit lingid sa kanila, o hindi kung nahalata na, patuloy na lumulubog, kinakain ng dilim na isang kumunoy na hindi makatakas. Kahit hindi gumalaw, manatili lang, lulubog at lulubog pa rin hanggang nasa ilalim na ng walang hanggang dilim. Natatakot?
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Tinta 2020
Marami. Maraming kinatatakutan. Hindi mabilang na pinangangambahan. Dinadala na lang lagi sa bartolinang tawag nila ay kalungkutan, lalong sumisikip kada buntung-hininga at hindi na kailanman lumuwag. Sa oras na lisanin ang lugar, pagbalik ay mas maliit pa. Sinasakal, pinipiit hanggang hindi na makahinga at ubod lakas na mananaghoy sa alapaap. “AYOKO NA!” “TAMA NA!” Laging sinisigaw. Ngunit walang makarinig kundi sarili lamang... Ayoko na. Mabuhay? Oo. Makulong sa ganito? Sigurado. May ginagawa naman ba upang kumawala? Lahat na yata, ginawa na. Ngunit sa ganitong uri ng sigwa, wala nang kawala, at kung makaraos man, dadating na naman muli ang panibagong unos at ang pagtatapos? Kalunos-lunos. Tila wala nang buhay, pilit na binubuhay kahit ninanais na lang wakasan ang lahat dahil hindi naman na nakikita ang pag-asa. Lumaban ka. Ayawan na. Huwag kang sumuko. Bakit pa? Nandito kami. Sigurado ba? Kapit lang. Kapit lang? Matagal na akong bumitaw. Pasasaan pa ba? Kaya kung may magtatanong pa kung ano ang lagay, isipin muna kung itutuloy pa. ... Kumusta ka? Ayos lang, lumalaban pa. Maniwala ka na lang. Ayaw ko nang magpaliwanag pa.
LITRATO ni alpas
‘till we meet again, mr. space head sputnik
The most beautiful boy I know was in love with the universe. I remember how he always gushed about how beautiful the cosmic space is, eyes brimming with passion and voice filled with awe. I would listen to him discuss black holes, celestial dust, anti-matter, and the Milky Way, even though my mind would frequently wander on how he talks with his hands, how the dimples on his left cheek show up when he laughs, how amazing the world is to come up with someone as beautiful as him. He made all the nerdy blabbering seem interesting. He once told me that we could be whichever constellation we wanted to be. We could be the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper, the Ursa Major and Ursa Minor — whatever they call us, wherever they find us, people would look up and think that we belong together. While I listened to him say this, I couldn’t stop thinking about how he was my Polaris, my Northern Star, because he was my fixture in this vast sky, my point of reference. Because he stands out. Because when I get lost, I could just find him and feel on the way home. One night, we were lying on his bed, staring blankly at the unlit glow-in-the-dark star stickers plastered on his ceiling, when he suddenly turned to me and asked: “how lucky are we to be alive in this universe?”
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I couldn’t understand him at first until he explained to me William James’ Multiverse Theory, which posits that physical laws prove that there exists the Multiverse, containing every possible permutation of reality. Back then, I couldn’t care less about the infinite number of universes for I was perfectly content with the one where the two of us were lying on the bed together. Yesterday, I read on the news about a large breakthrough in astronomy. Scientists discovered the largest void ever in space, which might just be the entry to the multiverse. I admit that now and then, I picture in my mind the universes where he and I end up together in perpetuity. Maybe there’s one universe where he and I both study in UP and we wait for each other at AS to walk home together. An alternate universe where we live in a small, dainty studio apartment and fall asleep next to each other every night. Another one where we own a cat named after his favorite constellation and Harry Potter character, Sirius. Perhaps he and I just landed on this one, where our time together is momentary. If this multiverse theory holds true, then it’s like he did not do anything wrong to me at all. It will somehow soothe my pain and I can finally let him go. I can make myself believe that the reason why he left me for someone else is not that I wasn’t enough or that his love faded. We just found each other in the wrong universe; that’s all.
Lirip
35
under a seattle weather soul Today, I feel as though I am driving under cold Seattle weather, showered by endless rain. I feel like I’m seated in the driver’s seat of a car looking at the windshield blurred by constant precipitation. The wipers offered a clear view but only for a moment, always just for a moment. Outside, people are walking in the streets but they are merely apparitions in my view. All of them were passing in a hurry. From my seat, the sound of the rain seemed like a piece of incessant racket. It started slowly by dropping a few heavy notes in long intervals before erupting to a full-blown strain of uneven beats in staccato. Without warning, my legs slowly felt numb in the gas pedal while my hands were resting in the wheel, unwilling to move. The paralyzing numbness reached my mind and I feel like slowly being blanketed by fog -- as if any second I will be receding into a deep slumber. While lying on my bed this early Monday morning, I felt like driving under a cold Seattle weather. Inside my tiny bedroom apartment, the sunlight pierced brightly through the window. The sound of the alarm clock rang in repeat penetrating the thin walls of my room. By this time, I should have been inside a cramped MRT train if I wanted to spare myself from the litany of my boss for latecomers. But still, I am on my bed, stripped of any will. It’s a sunny Monday morning yet I feel like driving under a cold Seattle weather. 36
Tinta 2020
LITRATO ni soul
Lirip
37
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ukay? okay. lung hiya One man’s trash is not always another man’s treasure when the wearer is presented with minimal choices fit only from their ribs to the extra cup of rice that’s mounting down their thighs. There is added guilt both in consumption from glutton and of cheaply sold fabric, yet your pride can be easier adjusted to the means of your wallet.
LITRATO ni lung hiya
Lirip
39
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Tinta 2020
LITRATO ni sputnik
the words that remain wildewoman
there was no note; only 3 seconds of glowing gray light and your sister’s apology because i loved you. and me, in a confusing trail of denial and a non-existent word for the deepest sadness. there was an old palanca; spanning three long sheets of paper remaining unopened for over three years. all i remember from it are words-- many of them about dreams, and how far we’d be getting from here. there were birthday letters; one for every year since we’d first met with apologies for not being a good friend. they stopped coming three years ago, and all i can bear are my apologies for accepting your unsolicited sorry’s. there was my eulogy; a piece i wrote a year ago perhaps the last time i could ever write your name in paper. it’s made me realize that if i couldn’t write in grief, you probably couldn’t have written in your deepest sadness. there was no note; it’s been 3 years and i’m 21 now yet still, i look always and everywhere for your words. but i believe that even in tragedies where we feel we’ve lost the most, some things live forever. Lirip
41
taguan sol
“Dalawa, tatlo, apat,…” Pagmulat. Ang sinag ng araw ay tumatagos sa bulaklaking kurtinang nakasabit sa bintana-- dama ang init sa mga talukap ng mata. Sa labas ay humuhuni ang mga ibon, hudyat ng isang mapayapang umaga. Ngunit isang bagyo ang nagbabadya- hindi sa labas ng balay, bagkus ay sa loob ng puso ng isang dilag na pupungas-pungas pa—nagdadalawang-isip kung sa pagtulog ay babalik na lang muna. “…lima, anim, pito…” Pagtanto. Ang kanyang isip ay muling dumako sa mga alaalang kinain na ng kahapon. Gabi iyon. Malamlam ang ilaw mula sa poste sa may kanto, sapagkat ang buwan ay tila nagtatago. Bumilang siya, marahan pero may bakas ng pananabik na manalo sa laro. Ang tawanan ng mga bata ay umaalingawngaw sa tahimik na plaza hanggang sa sila’y lumayo. Pagkaraan ng sampung segundo, nagsimula siyang maghabol at manaya, at habang tumatagal, ay mas bumibigat ang mga yabag ng mga paa. Hindi ba, hindi ba’t nakababagot na tumakbo at magtago? Ang unang mahúli ay talo. Ang mahulí ay talo. Mas mabuti na lamang bang mag-isip na tulad ng isang musmos na ang nais lamang ay maglaro? Na kahit ang suot ay marumihan, na kahit ang pisngi’y magalusan, basta’t manalo?
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“Walo, siyam, sampu.” Pagtanggap. Bumangon siya matapos mahimasmasan. Naisip niyang ang tagu-taguan ay hindi lamang nilalaro sa pagkabata bagkus pati na sa pagtaya ng sariling nadarama. Ang unang mahuli ay talo. Ang mahuli ay talo. Inabot niya ang telepono sa mesa sa kanyang tabi, at sinimulang pindutin ang mga numerong nakabisa na sa tagal ng paghhintay. Masyado nang matagal ang sampung araw na pag-iisip kung kailan siya babalik. Ang unang mahúli ay talo. Ang mahulí ay talo. Siya ang unang tumaya, ang unang nataya- ng kanyang mga ngiti, ng kanyang mga salita, na lumalabas lamang sa gabi. Isa, dalawa, tatlo, apat, lima, anim, pito, walo, siyam, sampu. Nagbilang siyang muli, dahil baka sakali, sagutin niya ang tawag kahit sandali. Pero siya na ay nahuli. Isa, isa, isa pa. Hindi na siya sumagot pa.
LITRATO ni alpas
DIBUHO ni singaw
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ulat ng pandama lualhati
Bawat oras ay may kaakibat na babala sa madaliang paglipas ng ating pag-iral at alaala. Kasabay ng pagtakbo ng oras at mundo ay ang siya ring pag-inog at paminsan-minsa’y pagkaagnas, paglisan. Sa tuwing tumitingala ‘pag gabi sa durungawan ng daigdig, makikitang kumikinang hindi lamang ang mga estrella sa kalangitan, kundi maging ang pagkaway ng mga gunitang tinalikuran. Ang bawat huni ng mga ibong naririnig mula sa puno sa bakuran ay waring pagkatok ng kapayapaang nais pumasok muli sa sariling puso at pag-iisip. May banayad sa bawat haplos ng ating balat sa minamahal, kasabay ng pag-aayang manatili sa ‘yong piling sa habang buhay. Nanunukso ang amoy at panlasa ng mga rekados ng putaheng sa bawat kagat ay may pait na bakas ng alalaalang pinilit nang ibinaon. May kapayapaan sa pagtalos ng konsepto ng pagkabuhay. Ngunit higit na komplikado’t pasikot-sikot ang pag-iral ng indibidwal. May mga pagkakataong makakakita’t makakarinig ng inhustisya at karahasan, makakadama at makakatikim ng hagupit ng abuso, at makakaamoy ng daghang kasinungalingan. Pag-aapuhap ng kabuluhan at pagkilala ang dala ng bawat babala ng paglipas at pag-agnas, at sa huli, ay siyang pagbasag ng pamamanhid na hahamon sa hungkag na pag-iral at paglisan.
Lirip
45
the ocean bleeds for Alan Kurdi soul
His soft cheeks rest against the coarse black sand clothes drenched in the freezing water his body white- sans life adrift in the Mediterranean Sea, he never reached dry land never set foot in a safe harbor We like to think we are good people But when Satan say we all deserve hell It was for the death of this little boy
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10836875 wildewoman
This silence is murderous Debilitating in greed, Writing out deaths in digits, Mocking what’s left of our freedoms And lovingly sponsored by the state. This silence is
Lirip
47
simbolo n
wisdom
Sa harap ng sagisag Siya ay nakapostura n Kay liwanag ng palig
Sinong mag-aakala, na Ng pagdanak ng dugo, n Patuloy pa ba tayo
O kikilos na ba upang map
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ng simula
m tooth
g, katabi ng bandila, nang may ngiti sa labi, gid, suot ay kay puti.
ito na pala ang simula ng libu-libong mga labi? ong mamimighati?
patalsik ang mapanghati?
Lirip
49
mga taga-ukit ng prosa, tula, litrato, dibuho lung hiya
nakakahinga, nakakahinalang, pero hindi nanghihina magsalita
baga
siklo ng paghinga at di pagpahinga
hippocampus
short-term to long-term memories
wildewoman
last, alight
sputnik
distant as the milky way
soul
that which remains
wisdom tooth
sana hindi na lumabas
singaw
pagdaka’y mapapawi
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Tinta 2020
lualhati
payapang/kaligayahang inaasam
fovea
nakakakita ngunit walang nakakakita
sol
the dominant note, unresolved without its tonic
dyornal
huwag mong sasabihin, ha?
alpas
makalaya sa sariling pagkakakulong
balintataw
ipipikit o imumulat
honeycomb
a home for something sweet
lirip Tinta 2020 EDITORIAL BOARD AGATHA MARIA GREGORIO Editor-in-chief
KRISCEL CARANDANG Associate Editor
CECILIA MARIZ MUNSOD Managing Editor
SIMOUN ROBER MONZON Poetry Editor
GABRIEL JOSEPH BARROSO Prose Editor
PATRICIA LOUISE POBRE Art Director
JAZRENE JOEANNE MACULADA Chief Photographer
GERALDINE PEARL SANTOS Layout Artist
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Union of Journalists of the Philippines - UP Executive Committee 2020-2021 CECILIA MARIZ MUNSOD
Chairperson
GERALDINE PEARL SANTOS
Vice Chairperson for Internal Affairs
MIRYAM KALYXTA TOLENTINO
Vice Chairperson for External Affairs
MARY MARGARETTE CRISOSTOMO
Vice Chairperson for Finance
GABRIEL JOSEPH BARROSO Vice Chairperson for Education
JOHN IRVING GANDIA
Vice Chairperson for Information and Research
JEANNE PAULINE ALVAREZ Vice Chairperson for Membership
PIA KARLA TUAN
Vice Chairperson for Publicity
Members Abio, Marian Louise Alcones, Franklin Paul B. Aligway, Jaycen Alvarez, Jeanne Pauline Asiddao, Arneth Ausa, Lara Jamila Avengoza, John Joshua Barroso, Gabriel Joseph A. Boiser, Jasmine Abbygail Brozo, Czarina Alezandra Carandang, Kriscel Cariaga, Danielle Sydney G. Chi, Ma. Cristina C. Crisostomo, Mary Margarette M. Gandia, John Irving Gregorio, Agatha Maria Guiyab, Shaira Mari Ines, Jezreel S. Lagman, Danicah Faith Lita, Camille Joyce G. Losito, Jefferson Maculada, Jazrene Joeanne
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Tinta 2020
Magno, Leila Marie S. Manalo, Jonette May Medina, Trizia Monzon, Simoun Rober Munsod, Cecilia Mariz Papagayo, Hazel Hanne Pintang, Raevien Pobre, Patricia Louise Puente, Beatrice Purisima, Leandro Rafael Raterta, Mark Nephi Raymundo, Khim Joshua Mikah Ann Lorraine Salvador Samaniego, Anthea Sachi Santos, Geraldine Pearl Silva, Lucia Ann Tolentino, Miryam Kalyxta Tuan, Pia Karla Umpara, Samraine M. Yabut, Angel Dale Marie Zablan, Clarist Mae
PRESENTED BY
UNION OF JOURNALISTS OF THE PHILIPPINES - UP
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Tinta 2020
