Poetry in English

To Mother

Mai Santillan June 24, 2019

The poet dedicates this to her own mother, Lea Belen Santillan. The first poem she has ever written for her.

Under the tangerine sky
           I frantically wore
            my yellow tsinelas
            from an afternoon 
            of bato lata 
            and Slipper X

I dusted myself off
and waved farewell
to my playmates
as their mothers
wiped sweat off their faces
with Good Morning towels

I wonder
why Mother never 
           fetched me
           from the plaza

           made my assignments

           or let me cheat
           on quizzbees 

What does it mean to Mother?

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What the Brooke’s Point Farmer Taught Me

Nico Pablo June 24, 2019

There are things bigger than me.

           Like husking the coconut 

           to sip its water,

           hacking the shell, and scraping the meat

           into strands before the third moon sets.

Perhaps your oracle eye fishes

in the shallows for the glimmer of a treasure

chest in the waters off this Palawan quarry.

           Like deciding which fruits of the earth

           can sell, recicada, in any weather

           or can enter the tapahan

           where smoke becomes copra.

No crows seem to caw 

at the rim of the memory

of houses built in debt.

           Like your sun-drenched face cracking open

           to let laughter out. The pink flower

           on your granddaughter?s cake blooms

           against bales of hay piled by rice paddies.

There are things bigger than my stories,

like this island unbowed before a drought,

like the hard shell of the earth.

The Mermaid Speaks

Nico Pablo June 24, 2019

I cannot remain

The fairytale of the seafoam

Or flicker of maiden?s

Face in the pool.

By your hand,

I churn, fluid 

As my temple. 

And am I not creature –

Necessary creation 

Of what surrounds me? 

See my disappearing fin,

Camouflaged in synthetic fiber

Flora, ghostlings

Of progress. 

Call me leviathan.

My ocean body shimmers:

Constellation of seaglass, bottles without messages, 

Sunlit scale among silver bellies of wrappers, 

Rainbow coral and oil spill, pearl and polystyrene,

Plastic bags bobbing like jellyfish heads.  

Now call me Gorgon,

Slithering 

Hair slathered in venom.

Peer into my eyes.

Tell me 

What you see. 

White Bodies Splayed on White Sand

Alfonso Manalastas June 24, 2019

1.

There is no mapping out a space
definable only by the pigment

of its occupants. In these shores,
the economy of skin and hair

and eyes outweighs the mandate of coin.
An island local jokingly quips:

the border that outlines General Luna
from the rest of Siargao is determined

by the sudden, sporadic presence
of white bodies splayed on white sand.

A German tourist at a local nightclub
takes out his phone to film six

brown bodies across him, cheeks
blushing pink, teeth polished

and gleaming like mothers-of-pearl;
an ornate display of what attempts

to be the finest catch in an island
best known for its clam and fish?

their scales silky, slippery; guts strong
like shells carrying saltwater; mouths full

and seething with a language
so broken it is almost beautiful.

Urban Jungle

Lakan Uhay Alegre June 24, 2019

Concrete trees mount this jungle
the home of the corporate hoarders and lunchless laborers.
Sunlight veils its walls, producing shadows 
to shade the windowless homes.
Traffic symphony signals the roofless residents 
to wake-up, to look for a new cardboard sleeping bag
and to scout another cave for slumber.
Elite apes live in concrete treehouses
while peasant roaches creep the cemented ground.
Both live harmoniously
with freshly picked out supermarket fruits
and recycled meat as nourishment.
Garbage fertilizes the jungle streets
and nurtures the strong with bacteria.
Every night, bullet rain blesses this jungle
to purify it from weeds, and blood splatters
the walls, painting a geographical
map of metropolitan mass murders.