The skies are blue, the roses are red, and the sun will always be yellow. That's how easy it is to describe things with, well I think so. ‘Cause when I met you I couldn't grasp the right words to tell, the phrases to say, and the description to define. You can’t fit into any word, phrase, or definition; because your name embodies the three of them combined.
The quest for finding immortalized muses in inks is now over… but discovered. Let’s delve into the diverse divine whos of playwrights as we commemorate World Poetry Day—a day where the beauty of words, power of phrases, and soulful descriptions are celebrated.
(Graphics by Yuko Shimomura, Ronalyn Hermosa, & Rhea Dianne Macasieb/The Communicator)
Free Palestine
by Nymphia Wind
I think of Palestine and how people are dying.
I think of how bad I think I am at writing poems,
how I swore never to write them again.
I think about the genocide in our midst,
how I could stomach living like this.
I think of Palestinian liberation
and ours.
I think of the time where I’m not bad at writing poems
anymore.
I think of boycotting Starbucks and McDonald’s.
I think of empire
and its fall.
Estranghera ng Sariling Salita
ni Aireen Marzo
Sa esksaktong puwesto kung saan madalas magtapo ang bugso ng bigat,
may tintang lalapat hanggang sa maging sulat ang dating mga sugat
Hihinto nang saglit, sisilay sa kawalan;
pipihit ng bahagya, sabay usod sa upuan
Para bang napapagod din ang salita kapag walang pakiramdam
Ikukuyom ang palad, didiin ang bawat tipak
Naging sugnay na lang ang dapat sana’y pangungusap
Naputol ang talata, naubos ang tugma;
nadagdagan ang mga gusto na papel at nasayang na tinta
May tanong na lilitaw bigla: paano bumalik kapag ubos na ang mga salita?
Wala paring kakaiba.
Nakasilip pa rin ang mga bakas ng hatinggabi,
pinagmamasdan ang punding posibilidad, ng mga lantang pangarap,
ng paghalik ng hangin sa maninigas na balat
Animo’y patay-sindi ang mga anino sa bawat espasyo,
padilim nang padilim
Wala akong matanaw na pag-asa sa kisap ng lampara’t bukas-sarang bintana
Hindi ko na rin malingon ang sariling repleksyon
kahit dalawang hakbang lamang ang layo ng salamin mula sa kinauupuan
Para saan pa't babalaking sumilip kung kapintasan lang din ang masasaksihan?
Bukod sa pitik ng bentilador at pag-andar ng orasan,
hindi ko rin gusto ang tunog ng aking pangalan.
Kibit-balikat—ang madalas kong itugon sa t’wing kakatok ang gabi
Naamoy marahil nito ang hindi ko na maalala kung pang-ilang tasa na ang tinimplang kape
Lasang bangungot, sing-pait ng reyalidad
Mainit ang hagod ng mga sugat na malimit kong idaan sa pagsusulat
Sapagkat dito lang ako sumasapat
Ang tanging espasyo na hindi marunong manumbat.
At sa pagdaan ng mga araw,
kasabay nito ang humahakbang na oras sa nagmadadaling mundo
At sa pagsalubong ng bawat bukas,
matatagpuan ko pa rin ang sarili sa parehong espasyo:
sa gilid ng kongkretong pader, sa pagitan ng nakasalansang mga libro;
sa nakasaradong mga bintana’t nakakandadong pinto
Dito, sa nag-iisa at paulit-ulit na puwesto...
kung saan ang papel at panulat ay madalas magtagpo
—nandito pa rin ako.
Nagsusulat at nagtatanim ng bawat piraso sa iba't ibang sulok ng mundo,
upang kung sakali mang hindi ko na maalala kung sino ako,
may maiiwan pa ring palatandaan nitong aking pagkatao
Marahil, ang mga salita ko
Itong mailap na presensya o ang patay-sinding mga piyesa.
Isa lamang akong ligaw na kaluluwang tahanan ang turing sa mga titik at letra
Minsan, manunulat; madalas, estranghera.
Bukod doon...wala na.
A messy sestina for the honey blonde-haired pretty
by Kanluran
I sometimes cannot think even with the ability to think.
I sometimes cannot even find myself speaking the right words.
How do I make everything that comes from my mouth as pretty
as those of the other authors’ thoughts put in verses?
Maybe I lack the inspiration to be the poet that I want to be
and write the voice of my mind in lines?
I wanted to make every poem I write so pretty
that I forget that I can write as soon as I think;
that I do not even know how to start with words.
How do poets even write those lines?
How can I even pen down the verses
that I desire to tell? How can this be?
Late at night, I ponder under the moonlight: “Who may be
the inspiration to the prettiest poetic verses
that this author writes? Where will all the lines
that I would make come from if I can’t even find the right words?”
I get too frustrated most times that I cannot think!
All these was until the day she showed up, the honey blonde-haired pretty.
From just seeing how her eyes dazzle, I can write so many words.
With her brightest beautiful smile, I can write a stack of lines.
I can put each cutest interactions we had into verses.
Maybe I can write a whole book about how she is so pretty.
Now that I think of it, it’s funny how a single inspiration can be
so wonderful. I can now think with the ability to think, I think.
Every moment we’ve spent together, I can put as the longest verses.
I believe that I can even make a whole anthology so pretty
that it’ll be the prettiest collection of thoughts that there'll ever be.
With all the sweetest words we exchange, I can make lines
thinking that those words, to me, are not just empty words.
Now I wonder if this is how the other poets think.
Before, I could not even put a single thought in my mind into lines,
let alone write the letters that I form within into the words
that I wanted to tell. Now, she’s the subject every time I think.
Maybe now I can be the poet that I’ve always wanted to be.
It is her, the honey blonde-haired pretty,
it is her who I think of when I write verses.
With everything now in lines, inked down from thoughts in words,
when I’ll be asked who I think of when I write verses,
the definite answer should be “the honey blonde-haired pretty”.
Ang Araw Ng Mga Tula
ni Baldo Morfal
Ang araw ng tula, ay araw ng laba
Para sa kaniya, na ang talento’y naka-tanikala
Sumasama sa bula
Ang mga tugma
Nawawalang parang mantsa sa kinukusot na palda
Ang bawat salita
Nahahalo sa pinagbanlawan niya
Ang lahat ng obra
Na imbis na binibilad sa mata
Ng mga gutom na mambababasa
Damit ang kaniyang kinukula
Upang may maisuot ang ibang pamilya
At makakain naman ang kaniya
Why do I write, you say?
by Dulce Amor Rodriguez
Is it because writing courses through my veins? Or is it that writing stumbled upon me like a
chance encounter that now shapes my identity, akin to a know-it-all adolescent?
Honestly, I just find solace in the realm of words. Being awkwardly poised in the dance of speech, I find my reach in the grace of letters. Writing is like breathing to me, and I simply crave the freedom to breathe, to weave coherence from chaos, to mold meaning from scattered thoughts. Writing validates my existence as a balm for wounds, giving pain a name before bidding it adieu. Eventually, I became accustomed to the rhythm of the atmosphere in my room every time my pen met paper. Even those closest to me misunderstand sometimes, leaving me to carry a weight I don't want to burden them with. So, I confide in my notes, sparing them the discomfort of not knowing how to help.
Every day is just plagued with positive and negative thoughts about everyone and everything.
It's no one's fault that I write melancholic or optimistic verses; it's just because of everyone and
everything.
Kapag nagmahal ang mahirap
ni Shannia Angel Cabuello
Ang hirap magmahal kapag mahirap. Isang benteng buo na lang ang natitira sa pitaka ko. Ilang araw pa akong mag-iisip kung paano ito pagkakasyahin hanggang sumahod na uli ako. Paano pa kita hihilingin sa isang wishing well kung para sa pamasahe na lang ang barya ko?
Ang hirap magmahal kapag mahirap. Kailangan mong kumayod at maglaan ng maraming oras
sa mga bagay na hindi mo gusto para lang magkapera. Paano ko maibubulong ang pangalan
mo kung sa sobrang busy ko eh hindi ko inaabutan ang kahit anong 11:11?
Ang hirap magmahal kapag mahirap. Lagi akong puyat. Wala akong magawa kundi magdamag
na mag-isip kung paano kikita dahil gusto pa ulit kitang makita. Pipikit ako at ipagdarasal na sana pagdilat ko nandyan ka na. Pero wala. Paano pa ako makakatulog kung sinasadya kong kumurap lang nang paulit-ulit para mahiling ka sa malalaglag na pilikmata?
Ang hirap magmahal kapag mahirap. Wala na akong pagkain at puro na lang ako pastil. Ang
totoo hindi ako nakakarami dahil sa gutom. May hinahanap kasi ako sa isang balot eh. Paano
na kita mahihiling kung walang kahit isang wishbone sa mga nabuksan at nakain kong pastil?
Ang hirap magmahal kapag mahirap. Wala na akong makapitan sa takot kong maging pabigat.
Ang desperado ko na atang makuha ka kaya kahit mga tunaw na kandila sa Quiapo ginamit ko
na. Paano naman 'yun tutuparin ng kung sinong diyos kung sinusubukan ko lang maniwala?
Ang hirap maging mahirap. Kailangan kong mabuhay para maging sapat sa pag-ibig mo. At
hindi kita magawang mahalin kasi lagi akong pagod, kulang, puyat, at gutom. Hindi kita
magawang mahalin kasi mahal ang mabuhay. Hindi sapat ang ngiti mo para malagpasan ko ang
isang linggo. Bukod sa'yo ay iisipin ko pa ang maraming bagay bago ko maisulat kung gaano
kita ka-gusto.
Ang kaya ko lang ay hilingin ka sa balon, sa 11:11, sa pilikmata, sa wishbone, sa kandila.
Ang hirap magmahal kasi hindi ako mayaman. Mahal kahit ang paghiling. Mahal kita kaya kita
hinihiling.
I’M TERRIBLE AT WRITING POEMS
by Alli
I can never finish writing a poem. I’m terrible at it. I try to begin something, get to know what I want to write about, open myself up, voice out my thoughts and feelings, become vulnerable, only for the progress that I built for so long to halt abruptly. But maybe, I can finally do it correctly the next time, right?
Here comes another idea and inspiration. Maybe this time I can get it right. I can finally complete a piece that would also complete me. A piece that I can be proud of, something to brag about to my friends. I will pour my heart and soul into this, so it wouldn’t end up like the last poem.
Famous last words— it also didn’t end well. But maybe third time’s a charm. I should do it differently this time. I’ll change my ways and style of writing then I’ll finally get it right…
Or not— just like the first few poems, all of my progress went down the drain.
Why can I never finish writing a poem? Even though I invested my time, effort, and the entirety of myself for it. Even though I already searched for all the possible right words to fill the void of its existence, just to build and complete it. Even though I already strained every last drop of my ink for it.
Maybe it’s because the subjects that I always write about are the people entering my life, whom I thought were the ones that could complete my piece. Maybe I depend my progress on their presence too much, thinking they will be here forever, and once they leave, the story just ends without any warning. Maybe the reason why I can never finish writing a poem— after all the efforts I poured, the thoughts and feelings I’ve expressed, the vulnerability I’ve shown, and the changes I’ve made— was because I think of them, and them only, when I write poetries.
They become my inspiration for a good moment, I get to know them, open myself up to them, voice out my thoughts and feelings for them, become vulnerable in front of them, only for all of these progress that I built for so long to halt abruptly after they leave. But maybe, there will still be a time when I can finally do it correctly, right?
Kumpas ng Alon
ni Roselle Ochobillo
Sa paghampas ng mga alon, dumako sayo ang tingin
Sa nangungusap na mga mata ako'y napatitig
Nakakalunod sa lalim, ang hirap sisirin
Dahil bakas pa, ang dating pag-ibig
Malumanay kung tumingin ang Estrangherong mapanuri
Matikas ang tindig, pilyo ang mga ngisi
At sa bawat pag ngiti, bituin lamang ang saksi
Kung paano nahulog sa bawat nakaw na sandali
Sa paglubog ng araw at paglipas ng buwan
Tulad ng nagdaan na taon, ito ay may hangganan
Kahit napaghandaan, masakit pa rin palang maiwan
At sa iyong paglisan, hindi ka mawawala sa aking isipan
Sapagkat sa iyong mga titig, nabuo ang pagtingin
At kahit malalim nais ko pa ring languyin,
Suungin at tawirin ang nagwawalang alon ng damdamin
Baka sakaling pag-ahon sa dulo ng baybayin, iyong mahalin.
Life Disponge in Poetry
by D. Catchillar
Poetries are for the fools—
The spinning consciousness of our desires:
We are the sins that know how to dream,
The hopeless, voiceless courage of the truth.
The pens speak of our pain,
Mimicking the words of our lives:
We carry our unparagoned hopes.
We wish to see the world unperplexed.
If one must ask why I carry poetry,
I shall utterly contradict that it carries me:
In my blood are the stories to bleed.
In my head are the names that seek.
There is a name for my grief.
A story for him that digs deep:
He thinks the world is unkind!
So ruthless, so painful, and so momentary.
There is a name for my fear.
A story for him that ferociously lives:
He thinks the world is terrifying!
A terrain full of deceit and abuse.
There is a name for my sadness.
A story for him that whispers and aches:
He thinks the world is lonely!
Each door leads to unending uncertainties.
There is a name for my anger.
A story for him that silently lurks:
He thinks the world is cynical!
Each hand that transgresses is but patched with enmity.
There is a name for my longing.
A story for him that desperately haunts:
He thinks that the world is vulnerable!
Each mind is hostage by the lifeless endearments.
And there is a name for my love.
A story for him that earnestly hopes:
He thinks that the world is a tormented oasis!
Devoted by any disposition, abandoned to grow.
When poetry becomes my dwelling, I am consumed by introspection.
Each word and phrase is a tapestry of my essence:
I speak of everything intertwined with the very fabric of life itself.
I am the thought and the soul—the poetry.
WALA PA SIYA
ni vivienne
kapag dumating na siya, ‘di na ko mag-aatubili
at magsasayang pa ng oras.
matagal akong nag-antay,
nagpahinog ng mga batayan.
lagi naman akong magiging handa,
sisiguraduhin ko na ang matagal kong pag-aantay
ay bubunga ng pag-ibig
na hindi lang kulong sa aming dalawa.
pagmamahal na kumukupkop ng iba,
nagsisilbi sa lipunang ipinangakong pagsilbihan,
pag-ibig na magtatagal at
may kasiguraduhan.
at pagsapit ng gabi, sisikapin kong mahalin ka
sa paraan na gusto mo,
pagagaanin ang bawat bigat na dinarama
at makikinig sa mga kwento.
sa paglitaw ng araw, babangon, magmamahal,
at makikibaka tulad ng ipinangako sa pulang bandila,
buhay man ay ialay laging tatandaan na mahal kita.
oras man na magkawalay, lagi’t lagi tayong babalik sa yakap ng bawat isa,
kung hindi man ay magpapakatatag at patuloy na magsisilbi,
dahil nanumpa tayo na ang ating pag-iibigan ay pakikibaka.
wala pa siya, hindi pa siya dumadating,
kaya siguro sumusulat ako sa hangin,
na sana may sumalo at tupdin,
ang inaasam ng pusong mahalin.
when the words sing
by ciane
Her words start on a sheet of paper torn from a book, on a 20% battery phone at night, on an
old worn notebook with loops of pen scribbles, or on a sticky note for a freedom board. She
always dedicated her words to a muse— a whimsical daydream or a horrible nightmare. Her
poetry could be a declaration for the subject of her affection. As a letter written for a friend miles away. As an obituary for herself tucked away in a decade old pink notebook.
It didn’t matter what the medium was — for her words would sing of rhythms, of blooming
flowers that would never wilt, of ink that would never go runny. It would be the closest peek of
her inner mind, yet so farther away from its barest form. There was so much inconsistency,
almost like there were multiple involved in its making. But this is hers, all her thoughts — her
inner monologues.
She wrote for the small girl who was still too young to fully understand the wrongs of the world,
still not ready to handle the woes of reality. She wore shoes that were too big for her, walking
aimlessly with no direction to go. She weeps, lost and helpless in her circumstances, her knees
dirtied with grime and uncared bruises. She wrote poetry of her grief, about the sorrows made
by youth so deep that she drowns in them. She wrote to the girl who had watched the world be
unfair to her, bitter in every thing that had molded her. The words then woefully sang of misery,
every rhyme lined with her tears, disappointed of being let down by the world that was not kind.
She wrote to the girl with a glowing smile who was tender and kind. A curious soul, that one,
who wishes to learn more than what was settled for her. She wrote poetry about her delight,
about wishful aspirations, of what she will achieve and see someday that will answer her
curiosities of what the future holds. The words sang for thrilling ambitions, the syllables never
having a comma nor a stop.
She wrote to the girl who has experienced heartache, the girl who deludes herself with fantasies
and restless thoughts and dreams. She overthinks her decisions, jumping into conclusions that
she can never be certain of. She wrote poetry of her foolishness and love for those she
cherishes, of the people who have and had been her subject of affection. Her loyalty and
worrisome nature is her greatest strength and weakness, who keeps her promises down to a
fault that could be her own undoing. The words sang of warmth and care, every line chosen so
thoughtful for the muse of her prose and poetry.
And in every line and rhythm, she wrote poetry for herself, for that hostile but gentle girl who
yearns. She yearns for understanding within herself and this life she lives, for an ounce of
tranquility in her mind. She yearns to have things she does not have yet, hopeful for every
sunrise. She yearns for companionship, to trust and have courage to share a part of herself to
another. The words sing with her like a howling wind, a siren song, a lullaby — all close to her
soul, her heart, her very being.
Ikaw na Tulang Walang Kapara
ni RJello
Isusulat kita sa tula,
Sa isang piyesang malaya
Pagtutugmain ang mga salita,
Sa akdang walang limitasyon at sadyang matalinghaga
Sa gabing ito’y kay banayad ng isipan
Saksi nito ang mga tala’t buwan
Kakapain ko ang bawat letra ng alpabeto
At doo’y isusulat ang isang tulang para sa iyo
Pipiliting bumuo ng tulang walang kapara,
Para sa sariling nagnanais kumawala
Ang tanging paksa ay ikaw,
Sa pinakayapak na kaligayahan,
At mananatiling ikaw,
Hanggang sa dulo ng hangganan.
Isusulat kita sa tula,
Sa paraang may laya’t kariktan,
Ikaw ang magiging paksa
Ikaw hanggang sa huling tula.
The Day Letters Clicked
by Mayen Medroso
The paper felt rough beneath my fingertips as I traced the squiggly red line. "A is for Apple,"
Mama said, her voice was warm but laced with a nervous edge. Easy, right? Except, it wasn't. It
was my first time wrestling with the alphabet, a squiggly monster with twenty-six eyes.
But for Mama, it was a different kind of first: her first time guiding a tiny hand through the world
and letters, a journey as new to her as it was to me. Unfair, it seemed, this world of letters and
sound. Why couldn't I just play with my dolls, play doctor with my sister, or play pogs with my
friends? The alphabet was a monster with twenty-six eyes, each one glaring down at me,
demanding answers I didn't have.
Mama plastered the walls with colorful alphabet posters. "A is for Apple," she'd say again and
again, pointing at the red, round fruit. But the apple on the card looked just as foreign as the
squiggly line it represented. "B is for Ball," Mama repeated, her voice strained. I stared at the
blue ball on the card, then at my own red one lying forgotten on the floor. Still, the connection
wouldn't click.
The swat on my hand stung, and the hit on my head hurt, but the real pain was the clatter of the
book hitting the floor after Mama threw it down in frustration. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring
the already confusing chart. My lower lip trembled, threatening to erupt in a full-blown cry. "Why
can't I just play with my toys?" I whimpered, kicking my foot against the floor in frustration.
The scent of stale crayons hung heavy in the air, a familiar comfort amidst the frustration. A fat
tear escaped, tracing a salty path down my cheek, leaving a cool trail in its wake. I felt dumb. I
ran to my room and slammed the door. I was mad. I was angry. At my mama. At the
twenty-six-eyed monster. Why was Mama so mad? It was like she expected me to already know
about this at four years old when it was my first time learning it.
Years passed. My room remained decorated with faded alphabet posters, a silent reminder of
those strained lessons. But slowly, almost magically, the jumble of letters started to make sense.
The "A" became the first sound in "apple," the "B" the beginning of "ball." Words strung together,
forming sentences, stories, poems. The monster with twenty-six eyes faded away, replaced by a
world unlocked, a language that allowed me to express myself, to create.
As I sit here writing, the memory of that day surfaces. The frustration, the anger, the feeling of
being misunderstood. But with it comes a new understanding. Mama was just as lost as I was,
navigating the uncharted territory of motherhood. The alphabet was her tool, her way of
teaching me something valuable, something that would become the foundation and preparation
of my life.
Maybe she wasn't the most patient teacher, and maybe I wasn't the most intelligent student. But
through the struggles, we learned together.
And now, whenever I pen a verse, as I write poetry, I think about that angry little girl surrounded
by faded alphabet charts and a young mother, brow furrowed in concentration, trying to explain
the squiggly lines. They are both frustrated, both learning. But a bond connects them, a bridge built letter by letter, word by word until they understand the language of each other – love,
frustration, and ultimately, growth. And the alphabet that was once a monster has become my
paintbrush, and the world, my canvas.
para akong batang nanonood ng cartoons tuwing kausap ka
ni jeul
hindi masusukat ang aking pag-ngiti tuwing bubuksan ko na ang telebisyon
tuwang-tuwa ako sa tuwing magsisimula na ang cartoons na paborito ko
labis ang pagkasabik na mapanood ang panibago na namang kabanata
at sa tuwing kausap ka, para uli akong batang nanonood ng cartoons
dahil masaya ako tuwing nakikita at naririnig ka,
inaabangan ko ang panibagong araw na masisilayan ang iyong bawat emosyon at paggalaw,
at labis ang kagustuhang makilala ang bawat bersyon ng ikaw
punong-puno ang puso ng pagkasabik na mas makilala ang istoryang mayroon ka
Find where my soul is…
by Lyka D. Bautista
I sat once in unknowingness
To contemplate the far-stretched ideas I can ever think of
Be whimsical, witty, and wise
Get lost in the running ideas
Yearn for something inanimate
Weave its lifeless form to life
Sit with me...
There’s something mysterious and mythical about the night sky
The moon and stars are the silent witnesses
To the silent whispers, sacred prayers, and tears during the night
The cityscapes and city lights have never been bothered by the thousands of cold feet
Shadows’ bend and break
Take a stroll with me...
The sun and sand have never been this strikingly beautiful
There’s a spot to build a sand castle
Collect the bivalves and seashells as I wonder about their empty insides
Pick the beach stones and put them in the denim's pockets
The orange sunset slowly painted the once-deep blue sky
Join me...
In the tallest mountains, I shout with glee
Caught in the rain, loving the scent of the earth
Collecting remnants of dried flowers and leaves in my book
Hiding the secret letters and poems
Discovering the perfume bottles in our old vintage cabinet
Listen to me...
Heavenly bodies, nature, music, and love
Bring resurrection to the muse of timeless subjects in someone’s poetry
That transcends the curse of time and limited space
Anthropomorphized in all ways possible
All of that lies deep in the bones and soul, skin deep, and agonizing
Thy pen bleeds in the name of art
Of all the living and non-living
It can be defined by the things you love
It can be found in the commonplaces of ideas and interest
Did you find my soul?
If you do, thank you!
I think of me
by Kholeen
My poems are for me
Verses filled with anguish and uncertainty,
Each inscribed word is for myself only.
As selfish as it may seem yet within them I find my sanctuary.
Those failed plans, faltered dreams, and false hopes,
When my head is full of inhibitions and my soul is in chaos,
Squeamish of the noise outside or maybe inside, I’m confused.
Alone I write, in the middle of moonless nights.
Screaming like a hopeless mare through the lines of the paper
Silent cries and stifled sobs, seeping through my cadaver
With my sweaty palms recording every thought,
Waiting for the waves to stop drowning my boat.
Easy
by Shaq
I was 16 when I turned you into a poetry.
Now I am 18 and I still have a lot to write
Because I have loved you for three different years now.
But there are moments when my brain turns blank
As my thoughts are fueled by the gas of rage
Coming from the people who wronged my name.
But before I burn them with my metaphors,
I keep reminding myself of your soulful eyes
And how calm it can be despite of anger.
And I have a lot of pictures with frames
Scattered throughout my room full of gifts
That could inspire my writings on paper.
But the instax films hidden inside my drawer
What made me want to write again and again
About how much I love you constantly.
Sometimes my ears keep hearing their questions
About the reasons why I chose to stay.
And I know all the answers to it.
It is how my eyes close with your song
Until the moon replaces the sun above us.
And your curly hair. And your wide smile.
And the way your hands touched my shoulder
Whenever my whole body is filled with anxiety.
And my favorite moments of us in the dark
Where the shape of our silhouette covers the screen
Combined with our controlled laughter
So my mother and your sister when hear us.
These are all the reasons I stayed.
And now I am here writing a poetry about you again like it’s easy.
For whom shall I…
by Mizuki
For whom shall I ponder thoughts of wisdom
The blunder to block thy boredom
Must I conceive words with ease
Or cleave the world of its sleaze
To think, to dream, is one’s jubilee
The brink of gleam is my cup of tea
When the rays of flair embellish a rhyme
One who plays to relish the time
For whom shall I write this piece?
In the midst of delight and shining peace
Train of ponder seized eleganza
As it is I, who shall yander thy stanza
The Man I Think Of
by Aki
I think of you whenever
my heart begs me to think nothing at all
Was it a heartbreak?
Emptiness would never have to break
Nor fall apart for it has nothing
from the very beginning.
So, was it a heartbreak?
No, I’ll be reduced to a pathetic liar if I say so.
It transcends words, of which puts everything to shame.
It isn’t just hurt. I wasn’t hurt.
Obliterated, tortured, torn apart, burned, dehumanized –
They speak most of it.
Heartbreak is an ugly representation.
The word felt like a decaying corpse.
It tastes metal on my own tongue.
It’s a bitter lie, stinking of disgust and contempt.
It was no heartbreak.
Instead, it was the feeling of lost, dear father.
I couldn’t find my way home (you burned it down).
I couldn’t seek a path through the fog (you took away my sight).
My voice was broken (you fed me fuels).
I wish I’d never been born at all.
At least, never to you, father;
to the one I think whenever the poems reopen old scars.
S
ni Denielle Radz G. Santos
Patawad kung pangit ang aking pagsulat,
Ang natatanging ninanais lamang ay mahayag at maiulat.
Ang masidhing pag-ibig na sa kanya ko lamang nadarama -
Kahit minsa'y di nakikita, kahit minsa'y nagsusuplada.
Aking sinisinta,
Ikaw ang langit na marikit, palaging pagmamasdan -
Maaliwalas man ang ulap o bumubuhos ang ulan.
Ang kalawakan sa taas na masigasig kong titignan,
Tirik man ang araw, o wala'ng mga bitwin at ang buwan.
Ikaw ang himig ng galak na nagdadala ng kasiyahan,
At ang yakap ng katahimikan na naghahatid kapayapaan.
Sayong yapos tamatagos sa puso ang pag-asa;
Sayong hagkan namumulat ang isip sa paglaya.
Kapag kasama ka nag-aabot ang langit sa lupa -
‘Pagkat pag nakikita kang natutuwa, lumulutang ang diwa.
Ikaw ang namumukadkad na bulaklak sadyang nakahahalina;
Ang prutas na masaganang napupuno ng sustansya.
Ikaw ang pintura ako ang pader, palagi mo 'kong pinipintahan.
Ikaw ang pluma ako yung papel, binibigyan mo 'kong kahalagahan.
Di mo man alam, ‘di man masyadong mabanggit kadalasan,
Ngunit pag-ibig sayo'y nakatatak sa kaluluwa't isipan.
Nakikita kita...
Sa bawat bagay na nababalot ng kariktan at kamulatan,
sa bawat naaaninag na kulay na nagbibigay buhay.
Naririnig kita...
Sa bawat dumadagundong na ingay na aking napakikinggan,
sa bawat musikang tumatawid sa tainga at isipan.
Nadarama kita...
Sa bawat sinag ng araw at sipol ng gabi,
ikaw ang marilag na lingap na ramdam lagi sa tabi.
Kaya't taimtim na dinedeklara, nang buong isip at kaluluwa, na...
Sa daigdig na binabalot at pinatatakbo ng konsumerismo't kapitalismo,
ako ang iyong masugid na parokiyano na di ka ituturing na produkto.
Sa bawat tagpo at takbo, sa bawat simoy at silakbo -
Dinadalangin kang makapiling sa bawat ikot ng mundo.
(Ang piyesa na ito ay sinulat ko para sa aming 16th Monthsary. Ninais ko kasing mailahad sa kanya, na bukod sa mahal na mahal ko siya, eh kung paano niya binago yung pagtingin ko sa mundo. Kung kaya, mas pipiliin kong makasama siya palagi sa buhay na ito. Matagal na akong hindi nasulat dahil wala akong oras at ideya masyado - pero habang ginagawa ko ito, siya ang rason at ang ritmo.)
Estranghero sa Entablado
ni yelowrites
Sabi nila lahat ng literatura ay may dahilan
Sa bawat salitang naisusulat ay may nilalamang kahulugan
Ang bawat ideya ay may tinutukoy na panauhan
At ang bawat tula ay may tinatagong kagandahan
Sa likod ng mabubulaklak na salita
Para kanino ito nakatalaga?
Sinong tauhan ang nasa likod ng mga obra
Na siyang nagbigay insipirasyon sa lumikha
Mula sa malawak na silid na napupuno ng musika't hiyawan
Isa ako sa milyong taong nakikisigaw ng kanilang pangalan
Pitong bituin na nagtatanghal sa entablado
Mga estranghero na siyang naging inspirasyon ko
Isang grupong napupuno ng pangarap
Ang nagtulak sakin upang makabuo ng istorya't mga tula
7Dream kung sila'y tawagin ng karamihan
Isang grupong inspirasyo'y nagmula rin sa kanilang mga tagahanga
Ang bawat salitang naisusulat sa pahina
Sila ang tauhang nasa isip ng may katha
Kay sayang isipin na sa likod ng kanilang mga musika
Ay mayroong panibagong tinig na nalilikha
Mga tula na naglalaman ng mga kwento
Na nabuo sa tulong ng mga estrangherong ito
Kaya sa bawat obra na naipapakita
Isang grupo ang nagbigay rason upang ito'y mailathala
Sabi nila malalim ang kahulugan ng bawat literatura
Tulad ng mga salitang nabubuo sa isang tula
Insipirasyon ang kalakasan ng may katha sa pagbuo ng mga kwento
Na pinaramdan ng mga estrangherong nagtatanghal sa entablado
PEN FROM THE SHADOWS
by Jezra Go
A man, that myself never have seen but felt
his heart
A man, that myself have never talked to but
knew his thoughts from the start
I write songs and poems to
describe his emotions 'til his tears bled dry
How heart broken he was when his lover got
married to another guy;
How happy he was to find the love of his life;
How his hand was quivering when he pointed
himself the knife;
How melancholic he felt when he lost
someone dear close to him.
I write how I would treat a lady if I were to be
blessed with one,
gentle and thoughtful to whom I'd make a
long swim
I write in a perspective of a man whose love
have just begun
that somehow he resembled a piece of mine,
too,
a woman in the shadows, hoping I'd find a
man that would never make me feel blue
NAMELESS
by Fharinne
To whom do I talk?
To whom do I write?
Whose door is it to knock?
Who is it that I like?
Is it you that I met at the park?
Or is it you that I met in the dark?
Is it you that Ieft a mark?
Or is it you that gave me spark?
They ask me who is it?
It's not important, isn't it?
Little did they know it's the opposite
I just can't, c'est la vie, I skip.
"Anonymous" this is how they call
For me it's nameless after all
You who did not fall
And you, who is not "just you" at all.
Nameless, let's leave it like that
Just how you left me in the past.
How would you, nameless, react
If it's not just you that made my heart latched.
my notepad muse
by jaydee
no matter what happens
i will always remember you.
those gorgeous eyes
rare sweet flirty replies
your soulful taste in music
so catchy and harmonic
those k-drama suggestions
a revelation and gateway
your efforts on translations
such cuteness in every say.
i don’t usually write notes
but these pages becomes a vessel
where all of my adorations
is craftily engraved
in these sheets i seldomly use
honey, you’re my notepad muse
mula sa’kin, para sa’yo
ni louise
sa tuwing makikita mo ako, maisip mo sana ang bawat liham at tula na isinulat ko
para sa iyo. dahil iyan ang magsisilbing tanda para maalala mo ang mga salitang
ito—iniibig kita.
pinapahalagahan ko kung paano mo ibahagi sa akin ang parte ng pagkatao mo.
mula sa mga kuwento at sikreto, ang ating pagkakaiba ay siyang niyayakap ko.
dumilim man ang mundo, at maging blanko man ang papel na hawak
ko—sigurado akong liliwanag at mapupunan pa rin ito—dahil nandiyan ka.
nandiyan ka para ibigay ang sarili mo, at nandito ako para alagaan ito at ibalik sa iyo nang buo.
hindi ako manunulat. pero sa mga simpleng bagay na napapansin ko sa iyo, at sa
mga maliliit na bagay kung ituring mo—natututo akong gumamit ng mga letra,
makabuo lamang ng mga pangungusap—maipakilala lang kita sa buong mundo.
kaya sa tuwing maririnig mo ang pangalan ko, maisip mo sana ang palagi kong sinasabi sayo—ikaw lamang, aking paraluman.
ikaw ang laman ng bawat pahina sa aking libro.
mula sa akin,
para sa iyo.
Mirror Through Words: I Can See Myself Now
by James Justin A. Capistrano
As I gazed through my letterbox,
a bunch of pieces were found.
pieces made from heart and soul,
pieces made to love above all.
A familiar people found in those papers,
meant to express love through words and glitters.
While scattering those creations,
it seems that there is a missing person.
The heart that bleeds those words,
has not beaten to recognize its own.
I picked up my pen and paper,
as I realized I deserve a space between my letters.
With every stroke of pen I do,
I hope it leaves an ink that reflects my existence through and through.
The hand that has been making stories about others,
Is now making a wave to fill himself some colors.
When we look at the stars to think of someone to write about,
I hope we see a horizon of ourselves.
A constellation of inspiring stories within us,
to be the someone our poems are orbiting within.
All this time,
my letterbox only knows other people’s existence.
A fragment of mine is nowhere to be found.
I am ready to replace it now.
With papers that scream my name,
with works that mirror my spirit,
with poetries that shine my presence,
And when someone asks me,
who do you think of when writing poetries?
I will give them a big smile,
and say, you are looking at him right now.
maybe, if
by mindeulle
lover, i hope this letter finds its way to you.
i have loved you since you were barely
an idea; before learning such
word, love, exists—secretly, even
without knowing you. when you are not
in my sight, i feel you seeping through
the cracks of these walls; through the gentle
embrace of the wind on one summer
night—as if i were in between your
arms while we roam around the city
on a bicycle. you are close to me
and i hear you breathe: we are alive.
i think of you from time to time. i steal
glances when you are right in front of me.
strangely enough, my heart starts to miss
you. when my eyes are open and they look
for your figure among the busy crowd;
even when they are closed, i see your face
that i have already studied countless
times before. and yet i still look for you. each
second you cross my mind, the more i try to
hide the affection that i have because you
are someone i cannot be with even if i
wanted to. this letter is my confession
to you—we are fated to just meet this way.
there is no end to this profound emptiness
that i feel every night and keeps me awake.
on some days, i relive our past encounters
and sit in the living room with much despair. i
have been thinking of you a lot lately. over
and over i ponder if there is a place for
me in your mind like how you reside in mine. so
now i am writing this in hopes of reaching out
to your heart. although i would not ask you to let
me in. this is my last act of love—let us see
each other again in the next life. and if we
do, i will gladly take your hand in a heartbeat,
my beloved, without any hesitation.
Life of a Heartbeat
by Juli Flare
Life started with a pulse.
As saplings grew from the earth below,
Fledgelings whose wings ready to be one with the winds;
There’s a heart that remembers the memories before.
Sunrise till the stars glimmer across the starry night,
Flickering proud and present.
Life’s beat held strong and steady.
Greeting another light of dawn like an old pal.
Others thought that they could overcome all.
While flew grimly knew better.
With a shaky hold of my short missive,
Of a letter about a heartbeat that skipped their usual rhythm.
In a meadow elsewhere,
A sunflower let go of their last petal.
Inside the cold, pale walls that is built by old and crisp greens,
Cries of grief echoes of an uphill battle lost.
A strong pillar that falls apart at the seams.
In an in-between worlds,
Of corporeal and spiritual realm.
A new butterfly is formed,
And welcomed among their midst.
Many weeks forward,
Of a routine need of reconstruction.
I saw a deep, dark blue wherever my hand touches;
From the poems to stories I wrote,
To the songs I listen to that reminds me of her.
As I, who gazes at the sky of a windy morn many months forward,
As the clouds and sun envelopes me in a cool hearth,
And of the floras wrapped in nostalgia as my reminder,
Shall feel life’s embrace of presence in my person;
And a ghostly push to keep on moving forward.
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