suno kay Jade Mark Capiñanes sa “A Portrait of a Young Man as a Banak” Paano mo masagadsad nga indisila makahisayod kag makabatyag sang kasulgan ukon nga kasubonggihapon nga panong ang makit-annga nagabalik? Matuod lamang nga indi silaisahanon. Madugay nanga nadula ang akon abilidadnga masaypan nga General Santos ang pila ka bahin sang Kamaynilaan.Hapos lang sa imo ipatultolang mga...
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...
Failing to gallop over a huge rock,He thinks he would never knowHow to run again. He remembersThe mouth mysteriousThat a while ago whisperedTraces and routes. He would no longer mindThe uncut beard, but home,How his youngest scratchesHis stomach, stretches,Before lying down on the bamboo bed;How his little girl at middayPicks Rambutan leavesAnd imagines them as money bills.How his wife tries to...
The year was 1999, February had just begun, and the tide swelled oddly in Babag after a night of heavy rain. Frequently, there is a slow, unobtrusive silence in the way the water rises to shroud the unevenness of the marsh. The rocky streets, the takâ and kayagang mounds, and the tangkong patches hide under the stillness. All sorts of brackish water fish and mudcrabs glide along footpaths and the...