M A K A T A
May 2001
Issue No.5

Ngayong Tapos Na Ang Pagdiriwang kapag kaarawan nitong ating lungsod lahat ng nasa luklukan ay matiyagang kumakayod maalikabok at lubak-lubak na kalsada, nakatambak at inuuod na basura, kanal na naiibsan ng pag-asa, ngayo'y napupuna na katutubong sayaw, awit at dula, proyektong alay sa kapwa, paligsahang para sa madla, ay binibigyang halaga ngayong tapos na ang pagdiriwang lungsod ay muling hinubdan pagmasdan n'yo ang ating hirang nagluluksa na naman. 1990 Davao City, Philippines pagnanasa (kay JM) sa mga sandaling pangalan mo'y nangangalabit ito'y aking iginuguhit sa papel na di mapupunit kinukulayan at isinasabit sa dingding na di nagngangalit, suyuin man o di kaya'y haplusin ang katawan mong angkin. 1990 Davao City, Philippines magneto (kay stefano) nang magkatitigan tayo sa paliguang pampubliko dahan-dahan, ikaw at ako ay nagsamagneto at nang maglapat ang mga basa tang katawan humalakhak tayo ng walang pakundangan! Marso 14, 2001 Zurich, Switzerland Lamay Himbing na himbing ang buong syudad walang makapipigil sa kanilang maindayog na paghilik at masarap na panaginip samantalang ako heto, gising na gising pilit inaaliw ang sarili sa pakikinig ng musika ni kenny g upang huwag dalawin ng antok sa pagbabantay sa mga pasyenteng humihinga ma't buhay ay parang lantang gulay na nakaratay sa malalambot na kamang tilang nagsisilbing kanilang mga kabaong. Marso 23, 1998 Zurich, Switzerland © Edgar Bacong Edgar Bacong's poetry have appeared in ANI (CCP's Literary Journal) in Manila, Peryodiko Dabaw, Batakan, Bangkaw and Pag-asa Magazine in Davao City, Tambuli in Zurich, and The Filipino Observer in London.   THE MAKING OF OBELISKS AND PYRAMIDS These rocks beckon: their voices are hard to ignore. We transport them from far-off shores. They are heavy because our dreams dwell in them. And they are alive because our gods whisper in them. They are mysterious because they have our faces. We will erect them and they will be our eyes: we will guard and secure eternity. Or at least through them we will take a glimpse of eternity… LANDSCAPE Morning, and the dew clinging on leaves and grass slowly melts down and drips off to flow with the rivers to take the long journey of finding and assuming a new form. A drop of dew, like snow, is an eye with a gaze fixed to the future, its future. Each drop is an eye because each has its own sun. ANNUNCIATION She nodded with detailed emphasis as if engaged in a conversation where she held good grasp of the whole point Then she clasped her hands close to her bosom in a so careful manner like when one handles a delicate and priceless porcelain And the brightest of suns shone in her eyes and from her lips sprung the secrets of pain and relief © Papa Osmubal Papa Osmubal's recent book, titled "Lighthouse", was published by Giraffe Books in Quezon City, Philippines.   A MOTHER'S SHORT PRAYER Moon, mother of stars and of comets, come before me tonight to light the storybook as I read it and as my son cries: Today, the milk's tin is dry. HAIKUS As waves hit the shore, the shells crack their wings until they vanish like smoke The sea waves its hands to the smiling shoreline waiting for the whip. But its mouth is shut therefore cannot hurl brickbats at the distant coast. However, it is as determined as ever to conquer the land. Now, the sea looks hot it is boiling, fuming mad planning its attack. Move, you prepare, men The enemy is coming quash and beat them down! DASH POEM s/he-cannot-kill-me- for-i-do-not-have-life- s/he-can-kiss-me-how- ever-for-i-do-have-lips- my-lips-are-not-as-red-as- roses-they-are-as-white- as-a-blank-US-bond-paper- but-s/he-insisted-s/he- wants-to-kill-me- so-why-don’t-you- give-me-life- ALPHABET POEM A attunes me to ! B binds me @ C creates a # D dabbles his $ E engages in % F fucks with ^ G goes to & H hikes * I invents ( J jibes with ) K kills _ L loves + M mingles with < N nags > O okays ? P prays for : Q quacks to be a ; R rests in { S sets in } T talks about = U unveils his \ V vexes / W wipes its ] X x-rays - Y yanks Z zeroes in ~ PLUS POEM {[I+am+not+like+you]-coz [you+are+what+you+are]} (and) I+am+what+I+am {[Just+like+the+sun]-it[+is+a+sun And+not+a+moon+although]} (They) both+smile+at+us+night+and+day © Raul Moldez Raul G. Moldez, a bilingual poet and fictionist based in Cagayan de Oro City. He was a fellow writer to the Fourth Iligan National Writers Workshop and was published in HomeLife, Philippines Free Press and such webzines as Poetry.Com, Bugs and Bytes, Makata (Dalityapi), Likhaan Online, etc.   This Begging Jar Short and straw beside a torch inside imagined reckoning, my books are virgins in your eyes stacked upon a marble bench. Spines uncracked as smooth pecans. Pages play like hailstones on budding fuchsias perfect in their tiny bells threatening your fantasy of little girls as flawless as a chip-less shell washing down a satin beach. I shake my tiresome destiny, pretending I'm a fist of salt, not the meat of slaughtered lambs. We chat about the Middle East, but cannot touch the empty air where you once dreamt a knee would sit in tasty curves. Our silences piano scores I've practiced hard until my hands know ivory slats, their sharps and flats like burials. I curse at my guileless mind, make pretty purses of my snakes. The rain waits like an old woman hugging her rusted hips-- too knowing, spooked to open brittle begging jars. Shaving Bitter Longing's Legs "Grab the broom of anger and drive off the beast of fear." -- Zora Neale Hurston My anger is sleeping around and I'm pregnant, wanting to abort these ghosts, leave the hut of liquor's mouse, feeding plump escapist cells. I'm wedded to these surly weeds despite their thorns and rooted angst. In one village, I am a child clawing at accepting laps. My words just aren't digestible. I toy with begging, but I can't. I pop your beer and pour your glass of Chardonnay. There will be two patches of earth I shall need to label "home." Climates of diversity are brewing bed sores in my dreams. One has kegs for centerpieces, snapping plastic silverware; the other is a sober scene of sweet implied serenity. One makes hamburger of grief; the other covers it in sauce. One hugs a tear as if it's born of leprosy; the other owns its snakes and shoots. It's humid there in late, late spring. Razors gather rust and sit, awaiting courage, shaving cream. It's coming near the time to choose between the drought and sticky mist of honesty. Choking on these vitamins of "maybe this will free my soul, stroke it like a homeless cat," I pack my sleeveless negligees, wander to the warmer side. Me on Ice I'd pop a cork, pour a drink as sure as house keys slip and turn. I liked this plastic paradise where storms wore masks and didn't spit. It thickened scars and courted sleep. Bottles were an agile spotter; I was secret acrobats, steadier outside myself. It tummy-tucked those fallen moons. Made the night digestible. Our fights are all my mind recalls these seven years. Married on an August day, but living in a bed of snow. You in languished loneliness; me on ice and liking it. We were not a perfect stitch for wounds that didn't want to close. © Janet I. Buck Bio: Janet Buck's poetry, poetics, and fiction have appeared in CrossConnect, The Melic Review, Kimera, Recursive Angel, Southern Ocean Review, Stride Magazine, Urban Spaghetti, In Motion, OffCourse, Samsara Quarterly, Big Bridge, The Paumanok Review, Thunder Sandwich, The Pedestal Magazine, and a variety other print and internet publications. She is a two-time Pushcart Nominee, a recent recipient of The H.G. Wells Award for Literary Excellence, and one of six winning poets in the Kota Press Anthology Contest. In December 1999, Newton's Baby Press released her first print collection of poetry entitled Calamity's Quilt. Three others have followed in its wake: Reefs We Live, Bookmarks in a Hurricane, and Before the Rose. Janet was one of ten U.S. poets to be featured at the "One Heart, One World" Exhibit at the United Nations Exhibit Hall in New York City in April, 2000. In the year 2001, Buck's poetry is scheduled to appear in The Montserrat Review, The Amercian Muse, The Carriage House Review, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Rockhurst Review, and dozens of journals world-wide.   a parliament the pieties you spoke of well thank you ah I mean think you eh it was all of a dream you think was no terrible matter or glorious one it is think we yea something gay to a man’s back or where does he think of me in all of that muck and ruckus eh?  he don’t that’s all I can’t know what’s by some any or all accounts something else again or not if not or not truly again it then for sure for again that time if there was a real moon and stars were kept a secret if you’ll told be if wasn’t a moon being told behind a tree family table-talk a bitter disappointment it must have been that alright nightly given to a day that would have been else it would have been it would be something different now the bitterest would be this if given with a kiss and forgotten the look of it all the sparkling hyperbole and manufacture and the droll regard quite out of keeping with the results obtained for your benefit will you lend me an ear bereft of hearing or the blood money I hoped and didn’t receive? squib and drift about other people & Poe to R.B. the man I was back then would have played with a ball or a toy train first and I would have remembered then the track and field the trees and when the sun arose orange breeze and the white city and black and red and blue and yellow all about this parsimonious city I rang all the alarms the sea monster it awoke by me bed the Irish sea captain said it mothered me all the Limeys down by the quayside in the Blackpool line  as if whatever you said was true  it wasn’t the sad song you said you sang  or the all old ports o’ call you withered at  ‘twas only this very nice you can call it that Roncesvalles here my mind about wonders ever my mind will tally the shreading Wilberforce and crust for a tenpenny nail and along Seventh Street and Peachtree Street and the Porte de something statuesque prostitutes and the man wanting to go there yelling about something he’d lost or had been taken from him the really bad black night the one that isn’t day © Christopher Mulrooney Christopher Mulrooney (born 1956, Athens, Georgia) lives nowadays in Los Angeles, California (USA). He has published poetry, fiction & translations in Stardust Memories, Trope, Makata (Dalityapi), The 2River View etc.   WHITTLING Flooding comes quick, dramatic with lightning's thrusts, harsh with a cruel brilliance that leaves blackened tracks of pain, digs ragged holes in sweet spring mists and memories, lines them with cruel stakes, and loss that has me falling forever over nothing. Thrown to passion's quick hand, my lover's brown skin stretches to breaking, and the claws that make me bite fill my heart with horror, drive me to flight; up under thunderheads riddled with static and ice shards that sting until wings whittled from the fabric of despair lift me clear, and I am weightless, freed. I AM A PRISONER IN MY MIND My lips stained tobacco yellow, canyoned with age, press themselves together and refuse to utter a word; not one of the throng choking me, piling up in my throat will do, and my stubborn yellow lips trap me, bar me in. I am a prisoner in my mind. DREAMED From the front it was an ancient crumbling house, rose coloured, with shutters hanging skewed and tin roof failing beneath gravity's weight. Inside were twin bath tubs of green marble lying side by side and clean in soiled surrounds. They echoed of some silent marriage long dead. The rooms rambled into each other, broad and crooked, falling suddenly into unexpected corners, ending in faded carpets and cluttered with refuse. Three horses stood in the yard, shaded by trees. Lazy clouds of flies followed as they wandered, one by one in line, down to a brown sluggish river. The musty smells of decrepit wood and paper hung on the verandah like curtains of mildew, closing me in, closing foul traffic noise out. WATCHING THE SKY Watching the sky, and listening to the passing and passing of cars, the passing of feet, and of time in the sand on the beach, I wonder how slight I am. My weight cycles with the moon, and the colour of my hair with sun's season. That these things should change me is no surprise. But do my nights of drinking worry the sun's hair grey and slow the night moon in her orbit? © Averil Bones Averil Bones lives in Sydney, Australia. She lists nature, and the ocean in particular, amongst her greatest influences, and spends her leisure time counting her blessings, trying to maintain an active interest in environmental matters.   Bargain Kanina pa kita tinititigan Habang napapansin ko Ang lungkot sa iyong mukha Kumikislap habang tinatamaan ng Haring Araw Ang namamasang mga mata Na kasing linaw ng pighating di ko mawari Tinanong kita kung bakit at halos sabay Ding namutawi sa iyong mga labi Ang katagang "wala" subali't bakit sa pagtugon mo Kasabay sa pagpahid ng mga luhang Parang tubig sa ilog na masaganang Umagos sa iyong mga pisngi? Sinaktan na naman ang puso mo, alam ko Di lang miminsan kitang nakitang ganyan? Di lang miminsang napaluha ako kasabay mo? Hindi mo nga lang alam dahil siya lang lagi ang nasa isip Mahirap talaga ang sakit na dulot ng pag-ibig Pusong nasaktan, puso rin lamang ang pwedeng sumagip Maari bang minsa'y lumingon ka Sa dakong kinaroroonan ko? Malay mo, mayroon din palang lunas sa mga hinanakit mo Sa dako rito, sa banda rito "Bargain" ang dibdib ko at me malaking diskwento, Kasama ang buong buhay ko, para lamang sa iyo Under That Same Waiting Shed It was raining then The first time we met Under that waiting shed With nothing in our minds But to be home and not to be late I hated the rain It always brings back something No, not this dear heart who's aching But this restless body wanting To be lain You caught these weary eyes I didn't know why A face among the crowd Mesmerized by your charm I suddenly felt warm I began to love the rain After all, you're all that I'll gain Cared nothing even the flooding With this love overflowing I must be insane You smiled as I laid my eyes Breathless as I wanted to speak Speechless as I wanted to breathe Grasping for something in the air Perhaps it's love true and fair We stayed till it's ten Never minding the minutes, the hours Occupied buses, taxis coming and going Just watching and wondering Lips longing and wanting Then came this bus you've been waiting The rain already stopped then Suddenly you're gone But never did I get your name What a shame Now, time has passed Since that November rain There I am under that same waiting shed Wondering perhaps it will rain Hoping for you to come again © Ronnie Ocate Jeddah, Saudi Arabia / Manila, Philippines makata 2001 january february march april may june july august september october nov-dec