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Writer's pictureThe Communicator

Who do you think of… when you write poetries?

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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