Had she asked me about the final touch, I wouldTeach her how wires need not be tangled.Only festooned with tapes. Only by calmed hands.Gently, like her habitual kamote-planting.The Afghan had cautioned, strongly,About setting the thing off, I told her. SheHad known the initial steps, one by one, taughtOver nightly musings, and about killingAnd living. How can the mind forgetFueled by the heat of...
Makatilingala ngaa kapayas ang imo nadumduman sadto nga kahigayonan: nagaagay ang duga sang sanga nga gin-utdan sang dahon kag buli bag-o ginsawsaw sa ginkutaw nga habon. Gintayhopan dayon agod amat-amat magdako ang ginabuhat nga bula, nga amat-amat buy-an kag palupukon. Nagpabilin lamang ang kapait sa laway. Ikaw, subong, ginaatubang ang tanom nga balunggay, indi gid kasubong. Gintulukan mo ini...
Duha ka beses ka ginsulalom, imo nadumduman. Sang una, ginpahigda ang imo butoy-butoy, habol ang kahapdos sa init kag kakatol sa hangin, kon may ara—indi bala amo sina pirme sa Dadiangas? Kon bugtaw, imo madumduman nga nagaduyan sa idalom sang mga iras sa mga kahoy kag nagakamang ang laway sa mga piod sa liog. Sang kadugayan, nag-agas ang mga butoy, gindala sa hangin—ang pagtuo sang katigulangan...
Introduction The works of young writers from Southern and Eastern Mindanao demonstrate strong artistry and a sense of rootedness in place. The writers in this selection include a member of the Blaan community in Matanao, Davao del Sur; a Butuanon creative writing major from Agusan del Norte; a Bangsamoro Kagan who has worked for the local government in Davao del Norte; and a poet and children’s...
Saif speaks of the struggleTo the listening birds of the tugan,Words persuadingSheltered in frail nests.
Listen! The crescentAnd star calling azan.Once again, the birds returnLooking for twigsFor their nests.
The call is answered.The tugan is the final meeting place.
At dawn, the march beginsOn the path only the heart knowsTo the hills of warAnd freedom.
At the back of the truck,Guns clank againstThe metal floor. RocksAnd shallow cratersMock our short naps. “Assalamo alaykom!”Welcoming men smiling,Standing by the masjid.Kids waving at us,Forgetful of their white kupyasAnd beaded tondongsGathering dust. In my vision, Darapanan flashesParadise. The wrap aroundMy head removed,Loosened by swift, suddenWind. I hold my breath,To hear the chant of...
Your wounded bodyFits the old mattress.Your death corrupts time.Still is the hut, whileFighters stifle cries.In the forest, warGoes on, and the sunDries the wet puddles.Paradise awaits youNow. The peaceYou died for remainsA hopeful promise.Now we both returnBut part ways. I go backTo the forest. You, to Him.
The child’s eye peeks into the holesOne to anotherOf the masjid’s walls, innocentOf the terror of old nights,Of wounds and laments. The holes won’t showThe burning trees,No longer the lifeless scree.The smoke invisible,The spilled blood dries. Only the swaying leavesDew from yesterday’s rainFlash before his eyes. He seesAnd hears the river revived. As he glancesThrough the eyehole once more,He...
How are the sunsetsOf the old mujahid?Melancholy overThe dormant, rusted boloThe sole unyoung rifleSpangled with scarsFrom trenches forgottenGnaws at his bonesThe growing dark.When will the sunset everSlip out without notice? The last rays through curtainHoles before himStays his solitude.His dead war comradesMarch in single file.He hears bombsFlight of bulletsSmell of earthDamp grass again. But...
I. In their bamboo huts, where bulletsCould trace them, they tried to hideBehind their mothers’ bodies as ifThey could be infants in wombs again. Their mothers’ pleas the only shield,“Tama na! Mga sibilyan lang mi!”But foes remained unmindful—the earsDid not hear what the hearts refused to see. Like dominoes standing, the mothers fell.Blood ran to the edges of bamboo floorsBefore they even hit...