Handuraw Folio 2022

Ang Pagsay-o

Nadumduman mo pa bala ang pila sa mga hitabo kag pagkabutang nga naghatag saysay sa imo pagkatawo? Kaangay sang ikaw nagmatomato lakat kag gilayon nagyapa-yapa ang imo mga ginikanan sa kalipay; sang una ka nagpalangga; kag sang tuman gid ang imo ginbatyag tungod sa ginhambal sang iban nga tawo tuhoy sa imo. Bangod sang mga ini, amat-amat ka nga nanuto kag nakatuon, kasubong nga nagkalamat man ang relasyon mo sa imo pamilya, isig-katawo, kag ilabi na sa sosyodad.

Sa kada bahin sang aton istorya sang kabuhi, masami nga aton ginabalikan ang mga leksyon sang nagligad kag ang nagapabatyag nga kahapon. Apang, may yara nga kabahin sa aton pagpanglakaton nga ginapili na lang nga kalimtan bangod nga ang mga ini, natapos na kag wala na sang liwan nga mahatag sa aton kon ‘di kasakit kag kasubo lamang.

Sa paghanduraw sang aton ginhalinan kag pagpanglakaton, mahimo nga aton pa ginauyatan ang mga leksyon nga aton nakuha diri. Apisar sang mga samad nga aton naagom, aton man sa gihapon nahabibaloan kag nahangpan ang aton kaugalingon. Gani, aton balikan ang mga sipad sang handumanan nga masami madumduman.

Ini ang ginapanag-iyahan ni Gindihon bangod sang pagkamalipaton... Handumanan sang mga kinahanglan handurawon...

Punduhi lang anay

Apisar malayo ka sa akon– mabatyagan ko ikaw Mabudlay man sa imo magpabutyag– ako maga-intindi

Gani magkari ka sa akon kag magpahunay-hunay Sa pagpanumdumon nga ang kahapon amo man sa guihapon mintras san-o Diri ka anay sa akon luyo kay updan ko ikaw sa pagdamgo Wala ka sang dapat kabalak–an ang matahum mo nga igpat, ang pagabuligan namon sa pag-agubay

Hatagi tyempo nga ikaw naman ang maka-obserbar Bangod indi sa tanan nga oras ang ikaw lang ang maga-apresyar Kon daw kabudlay na gid, nagaka-upos man ang imo ikasarang Apang ini indi kabangdanan nga madula ang imo kapuslanan

Unahon anay kaugalingon, punduhi lang anay Asta nga ikaw ang amat-amat na nga makabalik gikan sa pagpahuway Sa imo madinuagon nga pagpanglakaton, may bwas nga nakahanda Tungod kay nangin maisog ka, dal-a ang bag-o nga kakusog kon ikaw makatindog na

Ang kalibutan makahulat. Ang tion nga nakatalana para sa imo ang magahulat– nagahulat.

Ako ang Mayroon Ako

Mga mata’y unti-unti nang imumulat Maaaring nangangamba, sisimulan ko muna sa pagkurap Papaano na matatayog kong mga pangarap, Kung ang dahas ng nakaraan ang nag-iwan ng peklat?

Tutunguhin ang daang nais Hindi man sigurado kung ang dulo’y matamis Ang mahalaga’y patuloy na naglalakbay Matalisod man, ako sa akin ang aakay

Hangad kong maging liwanag Gabay sa’king paglalakad Ilaw sa kasawiang-palad Sarili’y kasama saan man mapadpad Tatanawin ko kahit nasa malayo Kahit nasa hinaharap na maaaring magbago Sa’king bawat paghakbang, hindi makakalimot sa paghinga Sama ng loob ay iiwan, sarili ay papalayain na sa pangamba

- nabi

False Identity

I am half-awake and half-dead

I wish I were someone else instead

This pen in my hand

Withers away like sand

I am an artist

They tell me

I am an artist

It does nothing to relieve my worries

I am a vessel, a machine

I am my maker’s call

Never the creator, for I do nothing but stall Witness his glory, his destruction

Watch as the world stands still at his discretion

I am a poet and nothing less

I am a poet, striving for the best

But I am a fraud, a sham

A farce of a face; a sacrificial lamb

I try and I fail

Like a steady boat with a broken sail

Always fearful, but never fearsome Always loathsome, never fulfilled

These false identities I always keep Haunt me in dreams and deprive me of sleep.

- Razil Satumbaga

The Letter L

It is not a word Nor a song, a lyric Or a sword

It is merely a play on the tongue That singular upward curve That tips itself so gently And slips away so quietly

The letter L Stamped across the forehead of a child Forefinger at attention, thumb lowly hanging

The sarcasm in her gap-toothed grin was just the beginning

Adolescence curved itself that way First raising, then turning, then flying away

Why L, one might ask

It is simple as it is complicated But what about L, you might add Love, loser, lesbian, laughter

The joke that slides through their gaze Like a billowing shadow hidden behind a frosty haze It is subtle but it is striking

Their hands were cold, needles sharp They all wanted to stamp out the flames Make us lose our spark

It was that letter L that drove us apart Tore down walls, burned through halls

It turned men into monsters, words into weapons Or so they told I look back now

At that dreaded day Torn down by that little curve But that moment has settled into a memory And faded into a dream We were happy, we were smart, we were okay And that little L Was the only thing that managed to stay. Think of me softly

Do you ever do that thing? Fantasize about someone’s lips Think about the way they might kiss The way they might hold your hips The callouses along the grooves of their palm

As it glides down your spine Leaves nothing but this odd yet comforting sense of calm

Do you ever feel, that maybe Just maybe They’re thinking of the same?

- Razil Satumbaga

Lucifer

I used to be made of light, Spontaneous, sporadic, and immensely bright Shining my way past every hallway Coming in and completing everyone’s day

Then came along the storms, That started all this decay My mind turned into a maze And I couldn’t see anything past the haze

I stood past, stood back Stepped on every possible crack Inducing every misfortune Made to wander about like a crazed loon

This smoke that gathered in my consciousness Stuck to me like an abscess The sound of their chants, calling me a saint Suddenly sounded very faint Until I was standing alone No one’s days to brighten but my own They moved me from the main shelf

To the back, where I couldn’t burden anyone but myself All the trees here are rotten A hellscape filled with vicious men They tore at my hair, my skin, my clothes Everything that ever made me whole

They took away my light The very thing that gave me life But I knew who had truly done it The ones who dragged me to this pit

I swore to get them back Swore to push them down every crack I used to be made of light Until they told me I was shining too bright.

- Razil Satumbaga

Sa Idaeom It Adlaw Ag Buean

Sa idaeom it nagasilak nga adlaw Nakapiyong eon ro mga mata sa kasilaw Owa’t pahuway nga ga-obra sa tunga it eanas Sige pahid sa sige tueo nga hueas

Sa idaeom it nagasilak nga adlaw Nag guwa it baeay nga uwa it pamahaw Ag nagsakay sa baroto nga naga eutaw Nagapangisda sa baybay nga bukon it malinaw

Sa idaeom it nagahayag nga buean Nagabaktas sa sige buhos nga uean Owa it pundo nga pagbyahe bisan madueom Dumaeugdog, kumilat ag nagbaha it madaeom

Sa idaeom it nagahayag nga buean Maabong nag-agi nga hilong sa daean Mahipos, ginakubaan, owa it kibahan Sa kada pag-uli, sa kahadlok, nagadaeagan

Sa idaeom it adlaw ag buean Ginapanundom ro mga dag-on nga nagtaliwan Nagkaeadusmo, nagtinangis, nagtindog imaw saea Sang mga inadlaw nga sige tiis sa pag-obra

Sa idaeom it adlaw ag buean Ginatueok ro baeay sa eugta nga ging ipunan Nagpahuway ag nagpungko sa pueongkuan Ginapanumdom ro mga natabo ag inagyan

- Kuotation Mark

Our Love was a Supernova

Our love was a supernova

We collided, but in the best way possible I only wonder now, if you thought of the same Our love was a supernova We collided, and my heart hurts at every mention of your name

I lay awake most nights

Watching the stars, wishing for your face Wishing for a time gone by A life that lost all grace Our love was a supernova Lips that utter at the same measure Breaths that huddled at the same pace Fogging up the glass and removing your every trace Our love was a supernova But all that explosion left me with more pain than pleasure You were my dream, a shooting star A view I only appreciated from afar But stars burn bright and die And our love stood still on a single lie Our love was a supernova And we danced in the embers of our fates, forever and ever.

- Razil Satumbaga

My Friend

“But all will be alright in the end, yes?” my friend asked.

It was a difficult question to answer — at least for me — because I’m just as equally unsure if things will turn out fine.

“Yes, I believe so,” I replied.

What I meant was that I believe we’ll all have our resolutions, but whether these resolutions end up as good or bad is not for us to know just yet.

This is the same friend I once told that perhaps in the future, I will not be able to sit through a movie inside the cinema; that maybe I’ll end up loathing filmmakers and artists for they, unlike me, realized their vision by translating those into the big screen. I always fear ending up a bitter person.

In a sense, he had the same sentiments as me. More than anything else, he wanted to pursue journalism. But he didn’t.

Through the years, we’ve reconciled with the fact that, more often than not, external pressures end up more convincing than our conviction. The ugly truth is that conventions are so powerful that they end up taking and taking and taking pieces of ourselves that make us unique until we have nothing left that is ours anymore.

We clicked in an instant, in part because we spoke the same language and shared almost the same worldview. We both dwell on parallels, frustrations, and many other things that make life too difficult a puzzle to solve. We still dream and hope in the in-betweens though.

It’s rare to have friendships of this sort. So we believe in each other, and no matter how doomed the world appears, we try to believe in it too.

-

Richard D. Olano, Jr.

Ang Panug-An sang Nagtunod nga Adlaw

Masami nakon nga ginahanduraw yadtong adlaw nga natapos namon ubra ang amon sintas sa Culasi sang nagligad nga tuig. Nanaog ako sadto halin sa bantug nga Parola kag nagtindog sa atubang sang dagat; matutom nga nagpamati sa mabaskog nga paghalok sang mga balod sa mabalas nga baybayon.

Pat-od ko nga kon mas palawigon pa guid nakon ang pagpiyong kag pagpamati, mahimo ko mahangpan ang akon kaduyugan. Apang sa indi mahibaluan nga rason, ginmuklat ko ang akon mga mata kag ginsug-alaw ang mga panganod nga kaangay sang duldol nga ginlumsan sa manari-sari nga mga duag.

Nagdinagyang ang mga pispis sa kahilwayan kag ang mga kahoy sa palibot nagsaot-saot sa pagdapya sang mabaskog nga hangin humalin sa pusod sang lawod.

“Diri sa Capiz, nagtambi-palad ang kultura kag kinaadman; nagpuyo sa duog nga tumalagsahon ang katahum,” ang akon hutik sa kaugalingon.

Sa akon malawig nga pagpamunanong sa nagalumbayag nga mga sanga sang kahoy, akon nabinag-binag nga may yara nga mga duog kon sa diin ang mga banas mangin maragtason nga pagsaysay isa ka adlaw; mga duog nga magatudlo sa aton sang kabakod, paglaum, kag paghigugma.

Bilang isa ka Capisnon, luwas sa duog nga hamili, pat-od ko nga ang mga butang nga indi makit-an, indi mabati-an apang mabatyagan — amo ini ang aton tinuod-tuod nga panublion.

Amo ini ang panug-an sang nagtunod nga adlaw sa Culasi sadtong tion.

- Richard D. Olano, Jr.

To All the Boys I Couldn’t Tell

This one is for the boys I couldn’t face, The boys whose faces I managed to memorize, From the quirk of their brows to the curves of their smiles That flush of their skin in the summer heat To the wrinkles in their hoodies when the rain pours.

Those crinkled eyes and dimpled smiles That joyous laughter that makes my heart beat faster and my mind stutter, The way you say my name and the feeling that tugs at the end of every letter.

I can’t help it, You’ve got me hooked on your every awkward grin, Your sad smiles that still look so pretty, Like dancing in the rain or a good rest after shedding tears full of pain

You could have been the best thing that happened today, If only I had the heart to ask you to stay.

- Razil Satumbaga

- Japheth Fernandez de Leon

“Keeping doesn’t always mean torture”

Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide.

For others, keeping is torture. Keeping means not forgetting, and not forgetting means allowing bitterness and pain visit their homes too often. Keeping is murdering oneself—suicide. Keeping is an absurd attachment to scraps. A bizarre obsession with things of no use, as though they were artifacts or fossils of the extinct. For them, keeping is collecting trash that should’ve long been fading in the dump. But not for you.

“Not for me,” you echoed.

You love the idea of keeping, regardless what the things you keep can remind you of. You love to keep little gifts no matter from whom they came, except those that mean a curse for a lifetime, of course. You don’t throw remnants without further thinking. You pause and shilly-shally. You still look through their core and try to seize a reason for you to keep them however tiny may that be. You try to think of how much they meant to you before, how they mean now, or how will they mean in a month, in a couple of years, in a decade—who knows how will they mean in time and cause you regret for throwing them without giving careful thought?

As eccentric as it may sound, but you often still keep the papers stained with someone’s cursive or comical drawings, not because you love to recall how the person who wrote or drew on those papers had torn your heart once into shreds, but because it amuses you to reminisce yourself unnecessarily laughing at how the ink from the fountain pain he was using besmirched his nose and cheeks; how you were just blithe over a little thing. Or you keep them, thinking they may be used as valuable sheets of evidence in the future. Evidence for what? That it happened. That the entire past wasn’t as painful as it seemed. That there are moments still worth bringing back to mind.

You know as well anyone could have burned those polaroids you had taken at a festival, in a car, or at the beach with your used-to-be favorite companion. Or friend. Or lover. Anyone could have done that. But not you. You can’t watch the fire run to Even the very first receipt you had gotten from purchasing at

booksale still lives somewhere in between the aging pages of your diary. You placed the envelopes that contain those handwritten letters from an ex-lover inside a box and sealed them so no one would ever invade. The can of pineapple juice an old chum had given you remains undamaged despite of age, whereas for others they would’ve thrown it themselves a long time ago.

But you aren’t they. You love keeping what’s usually useless and discarded for others. You love keeping what they could have watched getting eaten up by a flame or carelessly or acrimoniously sent into the ocean of junks. You keep and you collect things like a kid who doesn’t want to give up his toys, even if they look old, or crippled, or their colors are already washing out.

For you, keeping is a hobby, your act of appreciating, your source of happiness, and your way of recognizing and reliving the memories. Keeping is giving the moments a life buoy in case of drowning. Keeping means feeling what stings until you feel it no more, until you see the value behind a used paper, a polaroid, a receipt, an envelope and a letter, or a can of pineapple juice. Keeping is saving yourself from regrets. Maybe, not for others. Yet, for you, it is. Things in the past may begin to feel like they never happened at all, but you have something you’ve kept to which you can cling to remind you that they did. That they were real. The last edge of the polaroid and disperse it into ashes. And the ashes drift in the wind. “Take them off the wall, but don’t burn,” you’ve always said as though commanding yourself. You don’t want to regret having held nothing to attest a memory that was once real. That it wasn’t ‘just a folklore’. You get rid of the people, sure. But not of the memories. Not of the moments which, for once, meant felicity to you.

Even the very first receipt you had gotten from purchasing at booksale still lives somewhere in between the aging pages of your diary. You placed the envelopes that contain those handwritten letters from an ex-lover inside a box and sealed them so no one would ever invade. The can of pineapple juice an old chum had given you remains undamaged despite of age, whereas for others they would’ve thrown it themselves a long time ago.

But you aren’t they. You love keeping what’s usually useless and discarded for others. You love keeping what they could have watched getting eaten up by a flame or carelessly or acrimoniously sent into the ocean of junks. You keep and you collect things like a kid who doesn’t want to give up his toys, even if they look old, or crippled, or their colors are already washing out.

For you, keeping is a hobby, your act of appreciating, your source of happiness, and your way of recognizing and reliving the memories. Keeping is giving the moments a life buoy in case of drowning. Keeping means feeling what stings until you feel it no more, until you see the value behind a used paper, a polaroid, a receipt, an envelope and a letter, or a can of pineapple juice. Keeping is saving yourself from regrets. Maybe, not for others. Yet, for you, it is. Things in the past may begin to feel like they never happened at all, but you have something you’ve kept to which you can cling to remind you that they did. That they were real.

- Gerard Paul Gallo

Two Stones and One Bird

Pair of stones laden on the road, Both came in the same shape and form, One closer to thee, one further down, Yet both could rattle this bird’s heart.

One was seen first but out of reach, By the bird who flew away from her niche, Its curves and its firmness- o what delight, This stone the little birdie dreamt of all night.

Yet on a closer look, another stone was seen, In arms’ reach but unspokenly forbidden, For the bird had this stone near all this time, And wasn’t eager to admit that it was blind.

One might think, why a bird wants a stone, Exactly from the pair laden on the road, “Why both would hurt either way”, the bird would say, “Yet I want to pick one that’s worth it to stay”.

- Sarah Rose

Uhtceare

It’s time.

How I’ve dreaded and longed for this day. I’ve seen some come and go, but now I must take their place.

The rays of the sun peek from the cobwebs on the window pane. Sometimes she forgets and the trickling of water splashes on our flesh.

It’s my time now.

To see her curves in places where there shouldn’t be. I will see the crevices of the bed where she has sunk for hours on end. I finally now could hear the tremors of her mind and sorrow of her heart pouring on pages or flooding her sheets.

If I could only endure just one more night of not having her by my side, or her caressing my edges.

It’s been over two years since the last ones were replaced. My time to be with her should come soon.

Maybe not now, but eventually.

- Sarah Rose

Huling Patak

Unang patak, bantayog na kanlungan Kisap unti-unting lumilisan Aking tala’y nalagak sa hukay Yaong iglap kariktan dahang napundi

At tuluyang kumawala, unang patak

Ikalawang patak, abot buwan pasasalamat

Ako ay ikaw, bahid sa pagkatao Ngunit aking kublihan ngayon ay alabok Gayon ako’y lumayag na walang daungan Hindi sapat ang hapdi sa nadanas Animo’y gasgas sa pagkataong walang lunas Di namalayan, ikalawang patak

Ika-apat na patak, panibagong paglalakbay

Habang alaala na lamang yaong yakap ni inay

Sa oyayi ng hangin, ako’y henele Sa tangan mong tahanan di man muling maramdaman

Ay naka-ukit patuloy na pananabikan Ika’y naway may ngiti sa labi Sapagkat susubukang di na muling hihikbi Umagos, ika-apat na patak

Kanlungan tuluyang humalik sa lupa Bulong sa hangin aking pagmamahal Sa wakas wala nang luhang papatak Huhugutin kutsilyong sa puso’y tinarak. Hayaang mga sugat ay mahilom

Ikatlong patak, ilang taon ang dumaan Nang sandaigdigan huling nasilayan Isang anghel na pinagkaloob ng kalangitan

Tuluyang nilisan mundong minulatan. Isang libong kutsilyo itinarak sa puso Subalit bantayog pilit na tinayo Kahit aking tala’y sobrang layo Sa pagod binitawan, ikatlong patak.

At muling ibalik sigla ng kahapon. Binitawan, aking huling patak

At pangakong iyong naiwang anak ay di na muling iiyak -

Marielle Louize C. Barro

Anak Kong Kalayaan

Ang ina, ang sanggol Tali ng buhay nila’y pinutol Walang awang iginapos Binihag ng mga makasalanan Hanggang kailan? Hanggang kailan? Magdurusa, magtatago Ang katotohanang pilit lumalabas Lumabas ma’y pilit ikinukubli Sa seldang ‘di niya hiniling. Tatlong oras. Tatlong oras ng pagtangis Puso mo’y dinurog Ng mga ganid at sakim Pilit mang magpanggap

‘Di rin magtatagal Ang kalayaan kong inaasam Naglaho na’t itinakwil. Anak ko, anak ko Kailan ka magbabalik Halina’t hilumin ko Ang mga sugat sa puso mo Nang sa gano’y Magbabalik kang muli Mahagkan ka’t mayakap Kahit man sa huling sandali Nagsusumamo ako, o Diyos! Ibalik niyo na sa akin Ang anak ko! Ang anak ko!

‘Di ko maitatanggi Siya ri’y anak ko Anak kong kalayaan! Magbalik nang muli!

-

Alen Benedict R. Buco

Sabi

Sabi ng nagtutulog-tulugan Suntok sa buwan lang ‘yan Parang bituing ‘di mahawakan Kalayaang inaasam

Sabi ng nagbubulag-bulagan Imposible lang ‘yan ‘Di makikita ang kapayapaan Sanay na sa kadiliman

Sabi ng nagbibingi-bingihan ‘Di maririnig ‘yan Nakabusal ang katotohanan Pipi na ang mamamayan.

- Alen Benedict R. Buco

Angels in a storm

It’s a selfish thing to wish for… but I long for our time in the storm, and I wish we could go back.

At least, in there –

When the winds were as sharp as stainless steel, clipping off our wings, shredding our skin like pieces of parchment, threatening to slash us by the pulse, forcing the tears out of us until they were replaced with blood – You needed me.

The strips of myself that the wind tore, I did my best to catch as they whirled around in the maelstrom. Just so I had pieces that I could use to fill in those parts of you that were missing.

In the process of trying to keep you whole, I was made whole.

Those moments when you took the time to talk to me, your words created a calmness – the eye of the storm – that left me with a much stronger, more pleasant chaos ensuing across the terrain of my veins.

Even with clipped wings, your hollow talk levitates me a good seven inches off the ground, the closest I’ll ever get to flying again.

But when the storm passes, and you’re held together and stable, will you still let me hold your hand? Will you still seek me for comfort? Will I still have your words for wings?

On a clear, bright, summer day along the expanse of a golden meadow… Will you still need me?

- Ryde Rendell Ponsaran

Metaporika ng dapit-hapon

Muli na naman kaming nagsalubong ng metaporika ng dapit-hapon. Kanyakanya ang lahat, nagmamadali. Makikita mo sa mga mata ng bawat isa ang pagod at pag-asam kahit na paunti-unti nang kinakain ng takipsilim ang paligid. Atat na atat nang makauwi sa kanikanilang tahanan kahit na sa tingin ko nama’y iba sa aming nagbibiyahe’y mas nais pa ang manatili sa kasalukuyang lugar.

Dala ng yamot na dulot ng halos tatlumpong minuto ng pahihintay, hindi ko namalayang naikukumpara ko na pala ang bilis at bagal ng bawat sasakyang dumadaan. Mayroong nasa jeep, nagsisiksikan at meron rin namang modernized jeepneys na tila ba’y o talagang nakikipagkumpitensiya sa nauna sa paghakot ng pasahero. Masikip rin naman kung iyong titignan ngunit atlis, komportable ang byahe pauwi.

Kung sana lang mayroon rin kaming auto, edi sana kahit anong oras maari akong makapunta kung saan ko man ninanais. Edi sana ramdam ko na talagang nasa isa akong music video at hindi na kailangan pang magkabuhol buhol ang mga hibla ng buhok ko at ng aking katabi.

Pero kung tutuusin, kahit naman nakakapagod magbiyahe, nakatutuwa rin na alam mong may kasabay ka pala, ano? Hindi mo man sadyang marinig ang kwento mula ibat-ibang libro na nailalantad ng panandalian, alam mo sa sarili mong may nakukuha ka rin doon. Nakakatuwa nga naman talaga.

Sa tingin ko rin nama’y malapit nang lumarga ang jeep na sinasakyan ko. Sa unang araw na nasubukan kong mag-commute, aba, hindi ko inaasahang aabutin ako ng dilim kahit na nagmadali pa akong makauwi.

Sa huling sulyap sa bagong flyover na ginagawa at mas nagdulot ng traffic dito sa kalsada (ayon sa kasabay ko), muli na namang pagkukumpara ang aking naisaisip.

Sa tingin ko, halos lahat naman maaring maikumpara at makahulma ng pananaw sa buhay. Kahit na sa mga sasakyan at flyover lang.

Tulad na lang ng sitwasyon at emosyon ng mga kasabay ko sa pag-uwi na dumaan ang sinasakyang jeep sa kailaliman ng flyover. Masikip, madilim, natatabunan ang liwanag na hatid ng katiting na sinag na pilit na inaabot ang silid ng aming sinasakyan. Sobrang kupad rin ang daloy ng sasakyan mapa jeep, motor,

o kahit ng mamahaling auto man dahil nga naman sa pinapagawang flyover sa kabilang kanto. Mayroon ring mga pagkakataon na kailangang huminto at ibaba ang mga pasahero, na siya rin naman nagpapaluwag at dagdag espasyo sa loob ng jeep. Nakakainip, nakakabadtrip, mas lalong nanaig ang pagnanais na makauwi sa tahanan sa lalong madaling panahon, kinakalaban ang takbo at pitik na tunog ng orasan. Parang sobrang tagal bago maakabot sa patutunguhan.

Ibang-iba kung nasa itaas ka. Puno man o hindi ang sasakyan, pare-pareho ang nasisilayan ng lahat sa kabila ng pagkakaiba ng sinasakyan. Nahinuha mo na rin ba ang metaporika?

Tulad ng mga sasakyan na hinahapit ka man o nilalampasan, patuloy na darating ang pagsubok, chansa, o kung ano man ang magdadagdag o magbubura ng kulay sa buhay mo. Puno man o hindi ang iyong kaisipan sa mga oras na ito, nasa iyo pa rin ang desisyon kung itatapat mo ang manibela twungo sa itaas o sa baba. Sa itaas na maliwanag, matiwasay, kitang-kita ang ganda na patagong dala ng kadiliman, kahit na punong puno at siksik pa ang iyong isipan. O kung sa baba, na madilim, nakakasakal, at sobrang sikip na tila bay kailangan mo na lang lisanin ang sinasakyan kahit na ano mang klase ng sasakyan ang mayroon ka. Mapa-motor man, jeep, o auto. Marami ka ring kailangang ibaba para mas gumaan.

Ngunit kahit naman anong bilis at bagal ng takbo ng iyong buhay, pareho parin naman pala ang pupuntahan ng lahat. Kahit na mag-isa ka lang umuwi, sumabay sa hindi mo kakilala o komportable ka mang nakatulog sa biyahe, lahat naman tayo’y iisa lang ang nais mauwian. Sa ating Tahanan.

-Ma. Kristina Larra P. Brebaño

“Pauwi ka na?” “Ah, oo Ian.”

A Million Miles or More

Midnight again.

This time, I have you with me. But indefinitely. Pastel houses fairly identical and verdant front yards well-manicured are all bathed in pale moonlight as they zip past the view of the glass window. The road seems endless. I don’t know if that’s absolute distance or simply distance influenced by your presence in the driver’s seat. Ninety-nine kilometers per hour and still it feels like time around us is molten sugar, flowing lazily until it hardens to the point where even the tiniest motion would break it.

Yellow-orange streaks flash in and fade out from the streetlights outside, strobing through the windshield, painting your skin and mine. How unreal this is. And that smile creeping up the side of your cheek, just amazing from the passenger-seat angle. Beneath those pretty eyes of yours I hope is one, just one, thought of me. The airconditioning is up to its peak for some reason, with traces of your perfume wafting around as it mixes with the scent of car-seat leather. As cold as it is, I remain warm as I wrap myself

in the blanket of our conversation. Talking mostly about nothing yet oddly feels like everything.

Each step on the gas, each swivel of the steering wheel, each pull on the gear shift – is one squeeze of my heart closer to falling so deep for you that I fear I can never recover. It’s rather unhealthy to let another person have this much control over me, have so much say over my happiness, my joy, and my pain. But at least, I have you with me. Even though indefinitely.

I’ll let you drive for a little while longer. Maybe for one more mile or a million. Until reality kicks in the brakes and you disappear from the driver’s seat in one blink, leaving me in the car alone with my senseless emotions and your ghost. Paralyzed and numb, I’ll let the rubber burn as the wheels spiral out in chaos, either crashing into a stranger’s living room or flying off the edge of a cliff. Both ending in a crash of flame and metal and your perfume and my desperation.

Sadly, I can’t help believing that it’s all worth it.

Five Years Later

At 10, she couldn’t wait to be on her own, away from her family.

At 15, she was on her own; alone in a big city.

At 20, she couldn’t wait to go home to be with her family, away from the big city.

-Poetato

Ang Pagpakigkita

akon ikasarang madugay ko na nga ginakwestyon bisan ano ko kapangabudlay, pagpalamuypoy lang ang makuha ko sa pagtulok sang iban, matuod nga mabatyagan ko nagabalik sa akon panghuna-huna nga may mas maayo pa maluwas sa akon ginhambalan niya ako sa pagsiling nga ako may ikasarang sa pagpakigkita sa iya sa pagbaton nga indi na maga-untat ang pag-ilig sang akon luha madugay na ako nga naga-agwanta– husto na gid man bala?

apang ang gintudlo Niya nga pagpahuway– “Kakusog mo ina.” sa pakigsugilanon ko sa Iya, amo ang nadumduman ko nagbaton ka sang kakapoy, indi kaperdihan nagundo ka agod madirekta sa insakto nga dalanon ang imo kaugalingon -kore

hanggang sa muli

it’s me...

future goals and manifestations...

The Sun Stole My Heart

I long for the moments when you wake me up with your most gentle touch. The light you radiate into my soul makes me blush

The warmth of your smile brings bright dazzle to my eyes, and the reassuring rays of hope you cast beneath my silent cries

Until then, I thought what we had was something I could forever hold on to, but you’re impossible to reach, and it hurts that I can’t be with you

It breaks my heart to think that you’re all I got, but I’m just one of your millions Did Cupid shoot the wrong arrow? Or is this a new storm of my illusions?

Oh, your love is so dangerous, yet I can’t stop adoring you even more, You’re my rainbow in every cloud and the most precious pearl on the vast ocean floor

No wonder Icarus grinned even when his body was wrapped in hot melted wax For escaping wasn’t his freedom, but the contentment you filled in his cracks

I wish I could be as brave as him to fly to you without the fear of dying. If only these grails could come true, then we’ll both have our happy ending.I know that nothing can ever satisfy me as long as I can’t hear your “I do”

But I’ll always wait for you to rise over the horizon with the night skies turning into a hopeful hue

-

John Gabriel Gealon

I used to be asleep

Blanketed by misery and defeat The regret was yet to seep in my bones

My heart, as soft as it was, would turn to stone I would so often be filled with life, So present, so true, I thought I could rise

But like fish, I would be killed Not by knife, but by pen, how incredibly skilled

I used to have wings Shot down by green colored slings I would fly where the heavens could reach My feathers falling, until I reached the ground;

I lie awake from the tragedy As life greeted me at the front door My insides churned, and I dropped to the floor

Then as I awake once again It asked me, with its hoarse tone, “Child, do you wish to see more?”

I reply, “No, not ever again. I’m sure” For I am no longer a child, so irreverent and vile I am grown, but so harrowingly senile.

- Razil Satumbaga

The Artist

Every artist had once scribbled an eye behind their sketchbook. It is more of an intrinsic idea as it is the first thing the artist sees .The pupils either dark brown or light blue Eyelashes of great lengths or short. Deep or wide-seated Or perhaps it was the soul that the artist sought

Every artist had once drawn a hand in their journal. It is the very part of the body that the artist is most familiar with .The shapes that it can form are as infinite as its elegance It challenges the depth of the artwork and the perception of the admirers. Varicose or smooth Or perhaps the artist only yearned for touch

Every artist had once drawn a face on their canvas. It takes precision to capture beauty made by hand Each line has its role in sculpting its curves. As exotic as they come. Symmetrical or not Or perhaps it was the face he wished to wake up to everyday

Every artist had once sculpted a self portrait In an effort to see himself The more he embraces his flaws the more beautiful the image becomes True reflection comes in acceptance Perfected or imbalanced The artist finally found himself in his drawings

- Biko

Meet Me by the Pool

He’ll never like me—that’s what I have always thought when our friends tease us, protesting how we should just date each other whenever I get into my silly complaints of wanting to cuddle and kiss someone or being too bored I could just rip my head apart. That last one was dark, but your response to the first one was always a sarcastic “Ta! pwede sa place n’yo?” But you were summer in the beach-marked days of August, while I was the incessant rain of a rush hour in September.

I wouldn’t laugh. I was never the type of person to back down from a conversation of sex and satire, so instead I would take you on this series of inside jokes that we have come to develop, giving replies to the most ludicrous remarks we could think while our friends laugh and sneer because we were just so good at it. We never took them seriously. Or at least I think so. Or desperately wish to. But did you mean it when you said you would take me on a walk at Esplanade or that you’d treat me to fish balls and kwek-kwek at Fort San Pedro? If I actually said yes to your offers, would you have accepted them?

I would think about these things whenever me and some of my college friends would decide to go to some of the places we used to paint our imaginary dates. And when we walk with elbows clutched against each other I would think of the possibility that it

could have been your arms. Or when I decide to eat alone beside the sea walls, that it could have been you handing me the drinks instead of buying it myself.

During these times the only thought that comforts me is the memory of that one moment we spent together in the pool five blocks away from our house, but even that was getting too painful to think about. The sun was high and the tan lines in our legs and elbows were getting too visible, but despite the heat we were having the time of our lives in that shallow pool. We started playing games and at some point started giving dares. Then, you were asked to kiss me. More than being nervous and shy, during that moment I was only thinking about how you wouldn’t accept it. That it was too much for you and that you’re not into those kinds of scenarios. But you said yes. My chest started beating out of my chest and I must have been blushing. I tried to sink myself under the pool because I was afraid you’d notice. You didn’t. You were staring at me intently and although I must’ve been shaking, I tried to calm down. I took a step towards you, you did the same. And then everything went blurry and the blueness of the sky and the pool and the heat was all swirling into this sea of lights and the only sensation I could feel was your lips against mine, and a few seconds later the sound of our friends screaming in delight.

I didn’t notice whether I pulled back first or if you did or if we were on the same level of muddled perception. Have I had too much to drink? Was it the heat? All I knew was that in those few seconds there was a connection between us that felt like a million years of searching for the perfect piece and finally finding it. Did you feel the same? I wish you would tell me that you did. But it wouldn’t matter now. It was just a game. We never talked about it again or ever, yet here I am talking about it now.

Until now I still remember how you were unusually sitting close to me. Holding my hand randomly and reaching your arms out to my shoulders. All of those I dismissed as the acts of a friend. A drunk friend. I was playing along. I couldn’t help it, I was still in denial. I should have known that although alcohol is capable of many things, it was never capable of making someone a liar.

It was only weeks later that I felt the first pricks, and even then I didn’t know better. You were competing in your first pageant and it took a village to convince you to do it. You said no at first, saying how you weren’t ready and that you didn’t have what it takes to win. But I know you did. I carried that thought whenever I went to your practice to help you prepare for the question and answer portion. That, and my longing stares whenever I ask you.

Have I ever told you that you did really great? I should have, right? But there was no need to tell you. You won. There was so much I wanted to say, but that would have

been too selfish—I did not want to make it about me. I was in the audience when you got your crown and I guess you were looking for me, because when you saw where I was standing we locked on each other’s gazes for a few seconds before the emcee called for you.

After that, all I can remember were snippets of the awarding ceremony. But I know I was just staring at you all the time—watching you getting the recognition you deserve and everything you worked so hard for. I was so happy. So happy that I started breaking into pieces. So welled up with emotions that before I knew it I was tearing up. I turned around in case you looked, I did not want you to see me in that state. When you finally got down however, you saw.

The people were just starting to leave while some were taking pictures. I did not speak a word. I was just wiping my tears and there was that connection again. An infinite moment of me and you. A few minutes that could last forever. When you were about to say something, as I knew you would, I jumped with arms wide open and hugged you tightly. Then I leaned towards your ears. Shhh. That was all I could say. Shhh. And you hugged me back as though you totally understood what was happening. But I bet you were feeling the same confusion as I was. Because when I let go you just stared straight into my soul and, like in agreement, unclutched me from your arms. I remember thinking there you go again with your accusing eyes, your velvet lips, and broad shoulders. You were taller than me for a few feet. Something I never really accepted, because when we were in high school you were a lot shorter than me. Your hands were shaking, probably because you still haven’t gotten over the gold rush. I wanted to hold them. I wanted to trace your thick eyebrows. I wanted to close the space between us and have you hold me once more. I wanted to do a lot of things, but I didn’t. Not one.

I walked towards the elevator, waving you goodbye in my usual jolly demeanor. But the truth is, when it closed and I saw the last of you through the tiny slip of the elevator doors closing, I sank together with the weight of that tiny room. I reached the ground floor and knew you wouldn’t be there, but I stood hoping that as the people beside me walked out you’d be standing outside the gates, you would see me waiting for you, and we’d be caught in another infinite moment, forever thinking in silence the unspoken words we wanted to say. Until one of us breaks the stillness once again, and this time I wouldn’t hush you in a hug, and we’d slip back into that suspended time where there’s

just us and the world fading into our pockets. Yet alas you weren’t, and every step I took was a step away from you.

When you finally broke the news to us that you were seeing someone else I was already half-expecting it, but it still caught me off guard. I laughed, I sent my regards, and gave you encouraging remarks. Hope you guys last long, I said. You deserve to be happy, I continued. Of course I was lying. I was dying inside.

I don’t know if you believe this but some people say there are alternate universes. If that’s true, I think I can’t take it. In some alternate reality we must be very happy. I have my arms wrapped around yours as we walk along the river, laughing at each other’s jokes and smiling at how it could have gone an entirely different way, but it didn’t. How good it would have felt like to dangle our feet in the open air and watch the sky turn into the burning color of orange and red, red and violet, and black. Although the day has long turned into night, we’d be there in our infinite moment. Maybe there’s another universe where I was taller than you, and whenever you looked at me you wouldn’t be looking down. I wouldn’t have to tiptoe when I want to brush your hair and trace your brow. There might be one where I kissed you and it wasn’t a game. Thinking of these possibilities should be comforting, but I am done pretending. I wanted you in this universe.

In case you received this, I want to say sorry. I wanted you for myself but I know I could never give you what you want or what you need. By the time you’re reading this I might be taking another program, probably linguistics. I needed to switch away from a medical course because I was sick that way. I discovered it when I broke up with my boyfriend a month before we went to that pool. You never made a remark but I guess you noticed it with how thin I looked. Thank you for not bringing it up. A part of me thinks you know, but you didn’t make a big deal out of it; I did not want people to think that that’s all of me. I was more than the hurdles I face. In the smallest chance that you’re actually reading this, I want to take the chance to tell you that—I love you deep.

- Felix Rey Van Olandria

Sapatero

Lumalabo ang mga mata sa kakatingin sa isang dosenang sapatos Tinatapak tapakan ang sinulid kaya hindi ko na tinapos

Nalulunod, nakatunganga habang bukas ang bunganga na tila ba’y naghihintay sa akala nilang pagmamakaawa

Ako lamang ay naghahanap ng hangin dahil nakukuha niyo nang lubusan ang akin Dikit sa ding-ding habang ang pandinig at paningin ay natatabunan ng buhangin

Nasaan ang kinakapit nabitawan ko nang saglit Hindi ito maaaring ipagpalit tulad ng paa kong hindi na maibabalik

Kamay na lamang ang aking maaasahan Kinakapkap ko nang dahan dahan ang maruruming daanan na tinuturi kong tahanan

Nang walang naramdaman ay tinulugan ang kalungkutan at nag paalam nang husto sa karayom na aking iniingatan

Ilaw

Apoy ng kandila sa gitna ng mesa nag-iisang ilaw sa bahay na dilaw May tumitihol ba? Ang tubig ko pala sa kapeng itempla at berdeng tsaa Nakakapaggawa ng mahabang tula Ako ay natutuwa sa sariling tugma Nakakapagtugtog ng gitarang tulog na ang kaniyang tunog ay parang bubuyog Ako ay nabigla sa biglang pagsaya Gising na mga bata ay labis na tuwa Ngayong may ilaw na’y kandilang pinatay ngunit ako naman ay sa kandila sumabay

Circus (of fools)

One night I woke up, and my world came crashing down. When I found out without intention that my lover was a clown.

My parched throat cried out: Get me water, or I might die! But instead of fetching spring, I caught a clown up in a lie.

For an ungodly hour of the night, I could still hear faint voices through a door. So peaking into the office, I got front-row tickets to a show that shook my core.

Bright light adorned the clownHis face shoved up his phone. Blasting through the speakers were faint giggles; On-screen – a silhouette of a woman I didn’t know.

With trembling legs that barely worked, I scurried off to my thorny bed. There I suddenly crumbled, with a tight chest and a pounding head. With clammy hands, I rocked myself – ‘til morning mocked my face.

Still sleep deprived with sunken eyes, As I tried to drown out their lust-filled exchange; As I tried to bleach an image I couldn’t erase; As I tried to block the swirling questions in my head, I couldn’t escape.

-Japheth Fernandez de Leon

- Japheth Fernandez de Leon

- Japheth Fernandez de Leon

Through restless nights, you’ve toiled and toiled; Yet, your strength and gait remain so poised.

Come what may, words won’t suffice To offer gratitude for all the worlds you’ve sacrificed.

And remind you that we will always be each

-Japheth Fernandez de Leon

Same Ending

Last time I cleaned my place, offered some comfortable space, I heard and saw the windows crack and incandescent bulbs blew up in rage the brightest of colors faded then my walls collapsed it was as though a calamity stopped by to ruin things that took time to restore everything was chaotic and dark and sad I didn’t like how it turned out maybe, I hated but hatred made it hard to time made me stop hating.

Everything ends up crumbling when someone rubs his shoes on the mat, as he gets inside, touches the softest spot And he stays for a period of time, thinking he loves it here then decides to abandon like it’s a place for getaways.

If someone ever knocks on my door again with that kind of scent a challenge to evade, in that rarest character I’ll ever see may I never face another calamity; I’m never ready for the aftermath. God knows what I truly want and it’s not the same ending for the last time

I cleaned my place, let someone in, offered some comfortable space, I couldn’t seem to find myself at peace.

- Gerard Paul Gallo

OneMother barged in on my room with frantic eyes searching for Romeo. Her hollow cheeks were red like the wilting bouquet of roses with petals turning redder and redder ‘til they seemed almost black—and I knew I had angered her. The townsfolk kept it in hushes of whispers but once, I heard them label my mother as sickly-looking as she is patient. They say such a lovely trait is left to decay on a bone-protruding body. On the quiet nights where her skinny arms are draped around me, I knew the gods were fair when they bestowed upon her the most important kind of pretty. My mother may have dull eyes and yellow teeth, but even the ugliest god is wedded to the goddess of beauty.

In my nakedness, I approached her. “Forgive me, mother.” I uttered.

I wondered then how she would have reacted had she known I was bone-deep, lips-interlocked, tongue-knitted with no Romeo but bare-skinned Juliet. - Bianca

Two

Tell the busted-eye, bloodied, battered boy that a god exists and he will spite you with scarred tongue and broken limbs. He will lead you to his innocent, choking younger sister and together you shall search for a loving deity in the bleeding hole rammed and defiled by a father. You will look at their hanging mother and reprimand her for losing faith. She shall hold your hand and squeeze your fingers broken—ask you to find traces of benevolence in the stretch marks of her womb. She will tell you, “Child, I have birthed no treasure nor grace, I made a life out of a mistake.”

Under a bridge where your white shoes have been tainted by mud, poverty, sins, and despair, you will come to realize that a god has no place in the hearts of those he allowed be tormented.

- Bianca

touch of a warm finger brushed a side day? The naked boy whose arms were wrapped around you is now incandescent personified. He claimed himself an angel words had you not remembered the taste of grace when his lips lingered on you.

This boy, dark-skinned and sea-beloved, had baptized you in the summer heat of June with rosemary-scented love letters; the ones you have safely hidden under the rhubarb bush on your mother’s small garden. You remembered the lilies that sprouted their blooms on your cheeks stomach as soon as they felt him. Now, you understand why. You remembered seeing the earth in its blues and greens rotates in the axis of his sclera, the choir n his voice. Finally, you remembered the raw obedience of this boy for you and you gasped. You froze. You feared. You loved. Girl, what were you to do when an angel

Siko nga Indi Makagat

Indi ko magsugot nga maluyag pa liwat, Kun indi niya makilala ining akon ginsulat, Kay bisan wala bitoon sa langit kag habagat, Siya gyapon akon gusto nga upod kag mahagad.

Sang sa tion nga wala na ko sang pugong Sa akon bibig kag paminsaron, Ang akon lang amo nga madumduman, Amo iya mga gasanag nga mata kag yuhom.

Indi na ko magsugot nga magpuli sa Cabasi Kay sa iya butkon pwede nako mamalayi. Mapaanod ako sa busay sang iya kaalam, Bisan punggan, para saiya ako batinggilan.

Indi ko magsugot nga maluyag pa liwat, Kun indi niya makilala ining akon ginsulat, Pero parehas lang na nga akon siko akon kagat, Kay maayo pang abyan kaysa madula nga tapat. - Sarah Rose

Just one, I would tell myself. One won’t hurt, my mom would say.

The porcelain ramekin sat teemingly on the satin placemat kissed with cream and milk from the previous dish that was prepared on the table. It was filled with these dark, dried clumps of prunes that I could never stomach to eat. However, I pride myself on discipline and determination.

I would never let an old grape get into my way.

“Just one”, my mom would order me.

I savored the jello, unpalatable texture enveloped with the bitter-sweet juices that rickled as I bit into its flesh.

I’ve tasted worse.

Like when one bite turns into another and another.

The empty porcelain ramekin sat peacefully on the placemat kissed with tears and slaver that dripped as I indulged on these nauseating nosh that I would never understand why people would even crave for its taste.

“Just another raisin, dearest,” my mom would tell me. I guess that meant another hour in the bathroom with my raisins and bowl.

- Sarah Rose

Front Row

I’ve always liked sitting in the front rows in the cinema.

Nothing beats the crisp sounds that bounce back almost realistically exuded by those humongous, ancient speakers. Also, the feeling of being one of the first people to see and appreciate the scenes without annoying people passing by now and then cannot even be equated to a winning lotto ticket.

It was a cool December evening when I found myself watching a bit of a bawdy scene. The peeling pastel wallpapers were a sight but the mixtape albums in the corner were giving the place a grunge feel. There was also this old Madonna poster in front of a closet door. Well, I thought it was old because the edges were tearing and sodden.

There were no clothes or junk strewn on the wooden floor but the ambiance reeked of a filthy musky scent; a familiar brew of forbidden aroma.

A young man- roughly around the age of sixteen entered the room with a girl in curls wearing a pink frilly frock. She was probably a few years younger than me; maybe around six or four. My first thought when I saw her was how lucky she was to wear her hair like that. My mom would tell me that I looked like a blob with no neck if I tried to style mine like that again.

Not much was going on until the boy grabbed the girl by the wrists to face him as if she was just a raggedy Anne doll. It was nothing new for me because growing up with boys, I knew they were rash to play with.

Nonetheless, I felt the hotness of his breath on my cheeks as he uttered words I cannot fathom over and over, almost like an enchantment with amplified eagerness.

I shook away the buoyant heaviness inside my skull and the quivering tension that rose from the soles of my feet towards my thighs. I wished I wore my jeans instead of this dress that my mom forced me to wear.

couldn’t remember the girl’s exact facial features; only her refined curls. The scene bared how the strands of her hair wandered on her porcelain-like cheeks and bounced freely on her shoulders as her head bobbed up and down. I couldn’t feel her emotions. Bad acting, I thought.

The curtains went up. I just adored sitting on these front-row seats. It almost felt as if we were actually part of the story which was nice except when it’s a horror show. The lights went down and I saw this girl onstage in her Sunday’s best; a pink one specifically styled with her ironed straight hair along with the rowdy curls estranged on her forehead. She was sitting in the front row on a cinema-like setup.

Strange. She could’ve used a bit of color on her cheeks.

- Sarah Rose

- Alen Benedict R. Buco

Kung Mag-abot ang Kagab-ihon

Sa pag takop sang adlaw, sa pagtuhaw sang kagab-ihon, Kadulom sang langit ni isa ka bituon waay may nagtambong. Ari ako sa higad, kadalum sang paminsaron San-o pa matapos ang kadulom?

Pilit ginadumdom ang kasadya nga nabatyagan. Bisan ano ka pilit gulpi lang nag kuriit, Gangut-ngot ang corazon sa kasakit nga nabatyagan, Napauyapot sa dughan alang-alang.

Amat-amat nag hutik sa kaugalingon. “Isa na ako ka lamharon nga tawo, indi na ako bata.” Pinunasan ang mabasa nga mata kag namati sa sonata. Pilit gina yuhom ang sakit nga naangkon.

Sa ‘di malayo nakita ko ang imo mga letra. Mga papel nga puno sang matam-is mo nga ambahanon kag promisa. Naghatag sa akon sang kalipay sang una, Apang gina kumos ko na sa karon.

Kung bal-an ko lang nga amo ini ang hantungan, Mayad pa waay ko na lang ginsuguran. Nangin isa ako ka bulag nga makakita, Pilit nga gina piyong ang mga mata sa kamatuoran.

Amat-amat ko na nga pagabatunon, ang tanan may katapusan. Mga handum sa isa kag isa nadula ka anggay sang bula. Ang nagligad nagin kahapon lang. Ang aton ginsaluhan nagin isa ka handumanan na lamang.

Sa pag tuhaw sang adlaw kag pag takup sang bulan. Ang sidlak sang kasanag nag pukaw sa akon. Gintuldokan ang mga hitabo sang kagab-e, Nagbangon kag nagpadayon sa mga hulubaton.

- Gwen Jerric V. Alvarez

Fading Sunset

College never went the way I thought it would be.

The free time in my schedule turned out to be my breakdown periods, barely having any time for a “metime” moment.

I could vividly remember the excitement when I entered the premises of my university. Screaming deep inside my soul, “Finally! I am so much closer to the finishing line.” But with my latest footsteps, I realize how slowed I have become. I have seen how tired I seem. I didn’t feel like myself. Not because I am doing something against my will, but because I almost lost the purpose why I am here aside from trying to cross the last stage of my academic journey.

Why am I taking this course again? Why Social Studies when I already knew back then that it would be tough for myself.

I take myself back on the application period. The examinations, the interviews. The desperation to enter an academic institution. The nights were I almost broke myself overthinking my application did not went through. I was desperate to finish school. But it was a dream of mine to become an educator. To inspire the youth, especially teens of my current age. It was a goal of mine to teach history, originally. To travel the globe, and bring forth discoveries. I could vividly remember the fire that was ignited within my soul. But now, it’s almost gone. Turned to gas and almost just a spirit of what was once a golden sunset of myself.

If what it takes to survive is to dream, how come it is a nightmarish journey? Why does it cost so much, just to breathe the same air others do for free?

- Jaymelle Keith De la Peña

Melon and Strawberry

What is it with you – that gets me so warm? Seriously, tell me your secret.

Are you hiding the dying embers of a thousand Christmas fireplaces under your taut skin? Perhaps when all the stars in the sky have lived out their lives, they decided to retire in the spaces between your fingers?

Don’t forget to explain your eyes, too. They seem to still contain all the hearts they captured across the ages as they flitted from one generation to the next. Two orbs of honey-resin that anyone stupid enough to look into them is bound to get trapped… sinking… and thinking… of absolutely nothing at all but how no rain could ever refract light the way your irises do.

I bet if you take off your flesh and bones, I’d find a soul lit with fire the color of melon and strawberry. That could explain the brisk burning on my neurons every single time you’re around.

Please tell me if I’m right about you. Or you could also tell me to f*** off.

- Ryde Rendell Ponsaran

Animated Friends

Took me long enough to pick my pen and paper up again. But I did.

And if these things had eyes, I’m sure they would roll them at me. Probably sick of me by now. Not because I used up – wasted – every drop of ink and every last page when I was with them last time writing about someone who doesn’t even spare me a thought.

But because I’m back. To write again. About the same person. And if my pen and paper could talk, they would tell me, in unison, to “get the fuck over it.”

-

Ryde Rendell Ponsaran

Fort san Pedro

I’ve got this crazy idea: why don’t we go for a date? To tell you the truth, I’ve never really had the desire to take my past distant stars to dates before. Where it’s just the other person and me. With you, the entire game changes. And I can’t believe that I like you so much that I’m willing to pursue the most impossible feat in the world of an unattractive like me: dating a guy like you.

First, let’s entertain the unlikely possibility that you would say yes. After that’s out of the way, let me tell you where we’re heading: Fort San Pedro. Yes, that poorly-maintained fort by what used to be the docks. Why there? Not to scare you away… but that’s where my dad used to take my mom for their dates, driving around on a motorcycle, brimming with reckless youth. Back in their time, I guess the place looked more… well, not crumbling to pieces. Today unfortunately, the best spots – the elevation holding up a statue (of probably San Pedro himself) and the jetty sticking out into the water –don’t appear to be structurally sound anymore. But amidst the wear and tear from almost two decades of weathering, there remains a whispering glint of something unfathomably beautiful. A nostalgic kind of beauty.

Of course, we’d have to go there before dark because neither of us can defend ourselves in the event of being mugged at knifepoint during the night. If only you didn’t quit taking up taekwondo lessons then we’d have nothing to fear. Either way, being under the sun wouldn’t be all bad, though. The salty breeze would look great through your hair and I could see it ruffled to perfection, splaying out in velvet strands of raven locks. And no, I’m not jealous that my fingers couldn’t do a better job. God, the sheen of your cheeks and your smiling lips dyed by the tender sunset would be a taste of heaven.

But it would be a different kind of magic going to the fort at night. As Lady Nyx begins her reign, the place would burst with street-food and the

accompanying aromas wafting about. That’s an absolute plus because you seem to be your best when you’re chewing. The cover of darkness is also another plus. I’d be free to act impulsively, allowing me to reach my most intimate goal for the night: complete the spaces between your fingers using mine. And perhaps you’d let me because no one else would see. We could walk along the jetty and catch each other if we slip on the cracks and crevices. Last but never the least, we could talk. And I’d suffocate in your words. And you would laugh. Yes, that laugh, so childlike that it betrays your visage of adolescence.

By the end, I’d tell you goodbye and watch you leave in a taxi (because you can afford taxis). Or maybe we could head to my place. I still have that shirt you let me borrow, you know. So… are you coming?

- Ryde Rendell Ponsaran

Earphones

“I’ll give them back to you next week, I promise” No, no. You can keep them. I’m serious. It’s fine. Really, it’s fine.

Walking the damned streets, whether the sun had just warned the shadows to retreat or the night had just persuaded the light to sleep, whether it’s wandering under the amber-glow of the streetlights and letting the August drizzle sting my eyes, the cloak of isolation incomprehensible refuses to melt away with all the other emotions I used to have. Being empty hurts. Being empty and lonely, though – that hurts the worst.

But when I reach into my back pocket, uncoil the fragile wire-cord, plug the speaker-buds into my ears, and press play on an album... there’s no hurt, no blankness, no loneliness. Everything disappears as the music waterfalls into my eardrums and cascades against the opera-house walls of my mind. Although temporarily, the void inside me becomes filled with melodies endlessly on the loop. Filled enough that it was bearable moving miles away from home and ignoring each new pair of judging eyes that I met. Filled enough that I was capable of quieting the nagging voice inside my chest that told me no one will like me for who I am at my core. Filled enough that I could pull through having dinner alone for weeks.

Right now, I’m handing you my most prized possession. My bestest friend. My lifeline to sanity. Knowing the value that it holds, you might think me

senseless for doing this. But I’ve found something better. Someone, actually…

The new music that drones within the cavities of my skull as I walk down pedestrian lanes at dusk and at dawn, brushing away each worry devouring my thoughts, silencing the voices, blocking out the eyes. An orchestral piece that echoes long after it’s finished, perhaps because I instruct the instruments to never stop. A chorus of glow that fills the void inside me, and I hope not just temporarily.

… You. So, yes. You can keep my earphones. I’ll do just fine.

- Ryde Rendell Ponsaran

Paghinulsol

Wara ron ako nakadipara, Sa ana nagakururyanot nga alima. Ang mga alima nga daw kang kan-o Ako pa ang kargo-kargo. Wara ron ako makadipara. Indi ron gali makamurot ana mata. Ang mga mata nga daw kang kan-o Tuman pa ka sipat kag klaro.

Wara ron ako nakadipara. Indi ron matikang mga kahig na Ang mga kahig nga nagdayadayan kanakon Kada magmaoy ako kay ura kinaon.

Sa tulad ko lang nadiparahan Kag daw akon man hinulsulan. Sa karako nga mga inadlaw, indi kami imaway. Akon pinalangga nga Lola, aga pa nagpahuway

Bottoms up

How delusional of me.

I’m an accessory! Merely a tool. A piece of dishware. One among many others. Just a glass you once drank from, taking in my contents gulp after gulp, when you were in despair and troubled at 3.am. that one morning.

How delusional of me.

To think that it would mean more than that? I forget to remind myself not to get attached to each set of fingers and each set of lips that touch me and fill me and drink from me.

For better or for worse, you’re different than the rest. In the way that every time that cabinet door opens, I pray in the name of the finest porcelain that you are the one behind it, finally there to take me to use me another time.

Oh, look. That must be why I can’t move past you. Do you see it? Right there, near my rim: a chip.

A micro-fracture. From our first time together. I remember now – you bit into my surface so hard as tears swelled in your eyes. You… damaged me.

Since then I’d rather roll off the countertop, becoming pieces on the floor, than have anyone else savor the liquid poured into me. No matter how decadent the wine. How delusional of me.

I can only wish I was a wineglass in your cabinet. But sadly, I know the truth. Why you never came back for me – nobody ever bothers with a bottle of beer after they’re done with it, after the high. Nobody dares to look for it in the pile of last summer’s trash, let alone think of where it even is.

You certainly didn’t.

- Ryde Rendell Ponsaran

2021 Diary Dump

Diary log 265: 23rd of Sept.

Today, my heart is happy. It’s barely a week since we started talking And here I am telling myself, you’re built differently.

Diary log 275: 3rd of Oct.

This is the first time I’m hearing your voice. I am not familiar with ‘Line Without a Hook’ But here I am concentrating on the song, drowning all the noise.

Diary log 330: 30th of Nov.

I started calling you Twinkle barely a month ago. It suits your personality and actual name So here I am trying to explain without sounding insane.

Diary log 352: 19th of Dec. We’re speaking less than usual. It must be a sign that you’re slipping away But here I am trying my best to sound casual.

Diary log 364: 31st of Dec.

You’re a Gemini, I’m a Leo. The stars don’t align for both of us And here I thought, you’re the one from the get-go. -Poetato

Ini balikan kung ikaw may bag-o nga handumanan…

you can add color to the sketches

mini posters

FRONT COVER - Jade Danielle T. Isidro

INSIDE FRONT - Gwenneth Meg D. Sonis

1 & 2 - Karla R. Porras

3 - Karla R. Porras - Jade Danielle T. Isidro

4 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso - Jade Danielle T. Isidro

5 & 6 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 7 & 10 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro

11 - Franz Chrysler Marie C. Delgado - Karla R. Porras

12 - Franz Chrysler Marie C. Delgado - Jade Danielle T. Isidro

15 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 16 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 17 - Karla R. Porras 18 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso - Nicole Anne A. Moscoso 19 - Karla R. Porras 20 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro - Franz Chrysler Marie C. Delgado 21 - Franz Chrysler Marie C. Delgado 22 & 23 - Karla R. Porras 24 & 26 - Karla R. Porras 27 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 29 - Karla R. Porras 30 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 31 - Audrey Alvarez - Karla R. Porras 32 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro - Karla R. Porras 35 - Karla R. Porras - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 36 - Karla R. Porras - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 37 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 38 - Crisha Jane Geonanga 39 - Karla R. Porras 41 & 42 -Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 43 - Karla R. Porras 44 - Franz Chrysler Marie C. Delgado - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 45 -Franz Chrysler Marie C. Delgado - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso

46 - Franz Chrysler Marie C. Delgado - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 47 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 48 & 49 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 50 - Leanne Claire Gange 51 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso - Karla R. Porras 52 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso - Karla R. Porras 53 & 54 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 55 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 56 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso - Genrou Josh Catacutan - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 57 - Nicole Anne A. Moscoso 58 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 59 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 61 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 62 & 63 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 64 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso - Franz Chrysler Marie C. Delgado 65 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 66 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso - Amethyst A. Alumbro 67 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso - Jade Danielle T. Isidro - Nicole Anne A. Moscoso 69 - Karla R. Porras 70 & 71 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 72 & 73 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 74 - Karla R. Porras 75 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 76 - Franz Chrysler Marie C. Delgado - Amethyst A. Alumbro - Nicole Anne A. Moscoso 77 - Karla R. Porras 78 - Nicole Anne A. Moscoso 79 & 80 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 81 & 82 - Joshua A. Celestial

INSIDE BACK - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso BACK COVER - Jade Danielle T. Isidro

EDITORIAL BOARD A.Y 2021-2022

HANDURAW

ISSN:2423-2769 | Member of the College Editors Guild of the Philippines under the banner of West Visayas State University Forum-Dimensions Publications Inc.

RICHARD D. OLANO

ZYNNIE ROSE C. ZARAGOSA

Editors-in-chief

RON ELIZER G. DUHINA

KEVEN RIZZO C. SITJAR Associate Editors

SARAH ROSE M. LINAS CLINT M. BELLOSILLO Features Editors

JOMER J. RUEGO Sports Editor

NICOLE ANNE A. MOSCOSO Managing Editor

RJAY Z. CASTOR NOVE JOY S. LOSBAÑES News and Special Reports Editors

JOHN PAUL A. DAQUIN Filipino And Hiligaynon Editor

JADE DANIELLE T. ISIDRO MARIA KAYLA T.TINGZON Literary Editors ANGELINE S. ACANTILADO Online Editor KARLA R. PORRAS GWENNETH MEG D. SONISO Art Directors

REESA T.AZARRAGA Senior Staffers

GERLYN JOY P. ROJO

Editors-in-chief

REYNOLD L. SOMIDO, JR. Features Editors

JOHN

JULIE ANNE L. COLLADO Managing Editor

JONAR B. DORADO

Filipino And Hiligaynon Editor