M A K A T A
March 2001
Issue No.3

eksenang sauna kapag naghuhubad na ng saplot ang mga punongkahoy nagdadagsaan tone-toneladang laman sa kwadradong painitan dilat na dilat ang mga mata abalang-abala ang mga paa ngunit bahagya ang tawanan, usapan, at bulungan nakikiramdam lamang ang bawat adan kung kanino niya idadantay ang pagal na katawan at kaluluwang walang mapagpapahingahan. Mga Lunan Kapag ganitong wala akong pasok sa ospital pinuputakti ng kung anu-anong plano at balak ang loob ng isipan, nangangati ang mga talampakan, at minsan di ko na namamalayang ginagalugad ko na pala ang syudad ng Zurich. Kapag nagutom sa pagliliwaliw at nais magmeryenda tinutungo ko'y ikalimang palapag ng Manor pagkat doon nakahilera ang masasarap at mura na waehe*1. Kapag nais kong magrelaks maupo ng maayos uminom ng Java Green Tea, Cafe Aquarium naman ang aking tinatambayan. Pagkat buhat sa ikalawang palapag mapagmamasdan ko ng walang sawa ang  payapa at malayang pag-agos ng Limmat. Sa pamimili ng damit at sapatos di lamang isa o dalawang shopping center ang hinahalughog ko sa Bahnhofstrasse.*2 May Jelmoli at Globus para sa bulsa't pitakang busog. Ngunit sa tulad kong kapos modang Manor at H & M ay sapat nang sa katawa'y pambalot. Sa paghahanap naman ng mga sangkap gaya ng kangkong, luya, sibuyas, gata, isda't kalabasa, para sa putaheng ihahanda sa Migros o di kaya'y sa tindahang Pinatubo nalulutas ko ang problema tungkol sa panlasa. Ngunit kapag ganitong nag-iisa ako naghahanap ng mga totoong taong makakausap di tungkol sa yamang naipon sa pangingibang-bayan kundi sa damdaming namamayani ngayong sumasapit ang tag-araw, bakit, bakit wala akong lunan na matutuluyan? * 1 waehe - a Swiss - German word for pie. * 2 strasse - a German word for street. © Edgar Bacong Zurich, Switzerland Edgar Bacong's poetry have appeared in ANI (CCP's Literary Journal) in Manila, Peryodiko Dabaw, Batakan and Pag-asa Magazine in Davao City, Tambuli in Zurich, and The Filipino in London.   A DISCOVERY ON THE EAST COAST OF FLORIDA At midnight, The sun Tiptoes On the bottom Of the ocean. The sun Does not want To make noise, Disturb the sleep Of seahorse and octopus Next morning, The sun's toeprints arise, Are washed by waves To the land. When observed, We learn The sun was a woman, Not Apollo. Apollo was another lie Of our Western society. REVELATION Red flowers Around the pond. Red flowers Reflected on the water. Under the water Flowers take off red dresses. My windows rattle. SOULMATES His slippers, fur-lined, the hide of a llama Slain in Tibet by a Communist government To be exported for sale in rich men's stores, Caressed his aged feet as he slowly sipped brandy, And made witty remarks about the bad manners Of the twenty-first century bourgeoisie To his mistress, a high school English teacher. She, petting the tiger tattooed above her ankle, Thought  his concern about bad manners Make little sense and was utterly pointless. Being thirty years younger, she did not know What his jokes were about.  Shibboleths Such as manners, good taste, or courtesy Had little meaning to her generation. She thought a man who like him used Such words as noblesse oblige Was an anachronism and bizarre, But she had a penchant for the recherché. Also, like Romeo, he made love by the book. For he had memorized the best-selling sex manuals. THE NEW CHAIRMAN OR CHAIR OF THE HUMANITIES He was a man capable of  murder, But being a coward, he became A college professor of English. He always used logic and noble language When he discoursed on the hierarchy Of rules and positions, but beneath He had unrealized anarchic impulses That he concealed by speaking platitudes At faculty meetings and writing Unperceptive articles on shoes In a play by Harold Pinter. He was imprisoned in his own lies, Lived very happily in this enclosure. © Duane Locke Tampa, FL., USA Duane Locke, Doctor of Philosophy in English Renaissance literature, Professor Emeritus of the Humanities, was Poet in Residence at the University of  Tampa for over 20 years.  Has had over 2,000 of his own poems published in over 500 print magazines such as American Poetry Review, Nation, Literary Quarterly, Black Moon, and Bitter Oleander.  Is author of 14 print books of poems, the latest is WATCHING WISTERIA ( to order write Vida Publishing, P.O. Box 12665, Lake, Park, FL. 33405-0665, or Amazon or Barnes and Noble).  Since September 1999, he became a cyber poet and started submitting on-line, and since September 1999 he has added to his over 2,000 print acceptances with 1,231 acceptances by e-zines.   Pulbos Pulbos na puti ang bumuhay sa yo.. Nilagyan ng tubig at iyong sinuso Nabuhay kang payak pero anong gulo Dito sa yong mundo, mundo nga ba  to? Naging kolorete ang pulbos sa mukha Iba't ibang kulay , iba't ibang luha Nabura, nalusaw, nahiga, dumapa Pinahid, ni retouch, lumaban, napahiya.   Pulbos na puti din, ang nag pa- high sa  yo Isang singhot mo lang tagos hanggang buto Saan na ba ako? Anong lugar ito? "Wow.....       Cool.....            Pare..... nasa heaven na ko....." Agad mong kinuha ang galil  sa dingding Pinasak ang bala at ulo'y nagpanting Katawa'y lumatag, paningin nagdilim.. Ang tumapos sa yo, pulbos na maitim. Sinaboy sa dagat, pulbos ay kumalat Isda'y nakinabang, kinain ng dagat, Ginawa ka sa pulbos ng ating nilalang Mahalin mo tao ang pulbos mong katawan. Dito sa Bayan Ko Dito sa bayan kong napakasaya Pag meron kang cellphone sikat ka Pero nasalubong ko kanina Sa kahabaan ng Ayala.. Si Mang Goriong magbabalut Sigaw niya.."..penoy!!.. balut!" Habang walang tigil sa kapipindot Ng lintext na tu tu tuut.. Wag ka ng magmalaki sa hawak mo Dahil kumakalam naman ang sikmura mo Noon pag may cellphone ka. status quo Ngayon pamukpok na lang ng ulo Ang cellphone mo... Asukal Minsan ko pang pinasadahan ng tingin ang "kape" na  nasa dalityapi  nakapaskil Iniisip ko pa lang ang aking Tatay ng may biglang tumawag, "Kuya!.. si Nanay!" Dali dali akong nagpunta  sa iyo sa huling pagkakataon sana'y umabot ako.. Pero 'di mo ako nahintay... sumama ka na kay tatay. Alam kong masaya ka na makakasama mo na sila Huwag mo kaming alalahanin Masakit man, kakayanin namin Kelangan kong gising lagi. Bale wala  ang lamig ng gabi kahit mapaso sa init ng kape. "wag mong lagyan ng asukal... pwede? Tik Tak Halos huminto ang paghinga namin Sa kwartong iyon na ubod ng rimarim Dagsaan ang mga taong nakaputi Hawak ang gamit panagip dili Binomba ang oxygen Tinawag ang attendant Sinaksak ang suction Tinusok ang lalamunan Ambu bag pinisil Sinaksak ang swero Binomba ang puso. "Clear!" Code blue na Wala na Yumao na Saka lang kami Muling nakahinga. Tik..tak..tik..tak (Katahimikan...) © Tuff Touch Olongapo City, Philippines   Meadow I still see the birches shudder from its past, The buttercups cupping the tears of the weeping skies, Oak trees in their scenic silence As they shy away from the kisses of the winds of change, And the voiced charms of the mellow scents Of sweet basils and rosemary.     Do you remember sorrow     That I once breathe in this haven,     And the faded days of     The juvenile laughter that we burst     In the empty air,     And the minutes we consumed     During the night with spangled stars     Perched on the boundlessly reaching     Night skies as they looked down and adored     Earth in the cursed hollowness of the dark? Then we sang beyond the world’s sophistries For here, no existence bleeds with much grief. While sorrow contains The Earth and the Seas And the Heavens, We blessed ourselves in our name And made love for the sake of Death. Divas of Solitude I felt in my veins The anguish Of a broken-hearted Lark as her songs Run with my Blood and fills my spirit. I saw the cardinal In her legendary Scarlet demureness With her bleeding elegy sung Like the heartbeat of a lover In loss and despair. Then, there was the crestfallen White crowned sparrow As she alight on dead branches And embraces bitterness Along with the dejected Melodies of her soul. © Charles Carpio Florence, Italy   SILENCE (in the Lion's Den) I am mute now, and the days before silenced like the idiot box whose languages are making an idiot out of me, an outsider straining my eyes to kill time -- is an enemy in this 'Fine' Country of rules where every front page is good news and angst is met by lashes this controlled environment of strange tongues and thoughts not my own will never be, can never be where I belong to is to a circus of seven thousand islands the home of crocodiles in brown uniforms and anacondas in respectable barongs ruled by an action hero of dreamy-eyed movie fans they are rotten but free forever they will haunt me their murmurs a shout to my ear till my heart burst in yearning for they are every me that distance can bury but never kill we will undig this grave break this grand cage and curse the stifling silence that I have to endure in this wealthy Lion's Den. WASTELAND Brown catsize rats walk the wires as kids paddle through overflowing sewers with bits and grime and stench of garbage. Can a generous splash of alcohol counter foot disease? Pink-faced babies suckle sagging breasts while their mothers talk of Rosalinda swaying her voluptuous hips half a world away. Life is unfair, she is sexy and beautiful. Caged fighting cocks crow in succession, in tune with shouts of shots, hoots and curses of men fueled by round and square bottles of Ginebra. Do they ever get sober? The sari-sari store is crowded again by pot bellied smart alecks with their bloated heads and benches shaking from sun up to sun down blaming the government for the never-ending traffic and oil price hikes. Who seated them anyway? Life is easy for them. These lives ruled by entropy - spontaneous, ever in disorder - is the law of nature. Their days will come and go without books, without order yet they will persist to chatter of latinas or smoke their cocks to feast on alcohol and complain on tax as their kids' stomachs growl for too less food and excessive parasites thriving in this wasteland. why desire to be in control when worms in time will devour all things, from garbage to men, from lifeless to breathing, when this world is fated, to disintegrate to crumble to its end? Why even bother to dream? By the Window The moon is sliced by black lines like the shadow coconut tree four dead silent rooftops away. Your rickety bike signals the nightly rummage for garbage that is, your life. Your sleepy head dreams of soft pillows, yet your little, boy's hands grope through the stink, the prize at  the nearing daybreak. You leave on your bike, burdened through the next dump, yet remain trapped outside the lines as I indulge on soft pillows yet stay trapped within these lines to sort this garbage, that is my life. Daisyree C. Miranda Philippines / Singapore   Dreams Weary, I had traveled long before they knew me I have reached the floors of the deepest oceans I have traveled long roads, others have never been I have been alone, trapped in my destiny to solitude I can still reminisce my shadow that used to be with me She is there whenever I walk along blinding paths I thought I was free whenever I enclose myself in this darkest room I never knew, she is a lot stronger that way In reality, she's always there, night or day. On days, she is here right by my side On darkest nights, she engulfs my entire self Wherever I may go… I am restless I face myself before the mirror Stretched my hands before it Slowly, I let my hands caress the slope of my face But, who else, what I see is only my reflection. It is my reflection, indeed I'm still alone… trapped in my world There's only one who can hear my language A language that can be heard only by myself. Years have passed I still continued my journey I had searched and I climbed mountains I reached the sky and cruise to different seas I breathe but the wind never let me be I have toured the busiest cities And walked on every road I may see I have been with different people on different corners Only knowing that I'm still, and always have been alone. How I wish I'd never see a shadow again How I beg to find someone who'll walk with me Without the darkest shade of my dreaded shadow But with the brightest light that relates to who I am I have fell but still struggled to stand up I have been wounded, but still tried to stop the blood I have drowned but still fought back to swim up I was blinded but still dreamt to see the light What I felt was very painful I felt I was strong, though I tremble inside Then I grasped the side of my bed for survival I woke up and I realized, I was only dreaming. As I open my eyes, Once more, I look in to the mirror I can no longer see my reflection But now, I can see you. © 09/15/99 Schadow1 website: http://schadow1.tripod.com   MAYANG A Kampampangan Poem Mikilala Miyabe Mikaluguran Mipamuysit Mikaluguran Oneng E malyari uling na pin Atin na ka Migkatampo E mipanatu Uling meragul ka buntuk Minamin keka na kaluguran daka eme pa rin tinggap uling bisa kang mag dili Eda ka antindyan ot makanyan ka balamu ing aldo ena sumala keka Makayan wari ing lulugud na ena balu ing darapna keng sarili na Sana akit me ing aslag na ning kekang dapat dalanan king bye bang kanita Eka malili at balikan luguran daka. © John Paul Manalang makata 2001 january february march april may june july august september october nov-dec