Ulan ang mibundak –
dili grasya
disgrasya.
Ang panganod
mihagba sa yuta.
Gadala og baha
luha
nga minglunop sa
siyudad.
Tanan minglutaw –
atop
haligi
balay
ang tagbalay.

Apan sa dili pa mosaka
ang luha pabalik sa mata
ang baha pabalik sa
inatay nga langit,
monaog ang tanang galutaw
motago ang lawm nga baha
ubos sa yuta
kuyog sa yangungo ug ang nalumos
nga paglaom.
Sila madugta. ilubong.
Ug tuod, mosaka ug balik ang tubig
magpabilin ang lapok
ug buak
nga pagdahom
ug usab –

modag-om.


Ang Biyahe han Tubig

Uran nabunok
dire grasya
disgrasya
An dampog

gin pusdak ha tuna.

nagdara hin baha
luha
nga na lunudhan
aton siyudad.

tanan lumutaw --
atop
harigi
balay
an tagbalay.
mintras dire pa nasaka
an luha bumalik ha mata
an baha bumalik ha
pistehanon nga langit
malusad an tanan nga nalutaw
matago an hilarum nga baha
ubos han tuna
upod an pagkalumo ngan an nalumos
nga pagla-um
 adi hira madunot. Ilubong

ngan tuod, masaka na balik an tubig
mapabilin an lapok

ngan an buka

nga paghingyap

 naliwat

 madalumdum

 

***

Kining maong balak para sa #RememberYolanda sinuwat ni Tara Prieto with Waray translation by Bem Cerilla. 

Mother,

i know you always tell me to smile. That i

always look better when i lift my head and stretch

my lips sidewards, curving up to the heavens.

You say the outstretched lips is like a prayer.

It will bring good things to me.

So if i could, i'd try

so hard to smile, mother.

But the truth is smiles are not magic prayers.

They cannot make our home rise

out of the rubble,

rebuild concrete tiles

from dust, debris, clay,

fallen trees.

cannot bring me back

my washed-out mattress

or our ruined kitchen, our tables

of sunday mornings with family, and roast fish,

and the beatles, and apo hiking

nostalgia that you'd play on a sunday.

i know you loved

those songs, grin and force me to sing

along whenever Sharon or maybe the Carpenters came on.

But a smile would not fix us, not even

our black waterworn radio

mother. The stormsurge sang too

great a song,it seems. 

With the waves, all the shelves where we kept

 the baby photo albums,and the ceramic cookie jars

with Anne's long letters, the family memos, notes, bills,

post-its, have gone downstream,

even the golden rolex lolo gave me.

Now I can’t tell the time.

So how do I know,

when this will all end, mother?

After the waves comes the sun that burns

through time, it hisses at all that's left

all the rocks and stones that were once home.

It does not stop.

It does not give way for a smile.

So of course under this sun

i cannot smile while i

pull you,

you, mother,

out of the pile of broken walls,

radios, and shattered ornament glass.

i cannot smile while I set you

down at the side

with others lining the battered street.

Look, you do not even smile at me.

So tell me mother,why should i?

Come, stretch your lips wide and tell me.


***
This poem for #RememberYolanda is written by Alsteine Diapana.

Not even able to think of a word to jot.

And that is how I always come at a dead end

I do not know how to write anymore.

I cannot write without worrying

If my words are too simple

Or byzantine.

I cannot write without the anxiety

Of writing something people already read

I don’t want to be a replica

A photocopy

A duplicate

A synonym for other works.

But then again if I write something novel

Something solely fresh and distinctive

I would believe that people would never notice its uniqueness

And instead see it as unintelligible and meaningless

As if I am the only one able to cognize

My own garbled words

Like an archaic language

Au fait s’io docresse fulio

I’m the solitary speaker.

I’m afraid of writing too much fiction

The unrealism of my metaphors

Like weaving rainbows and lacing them

As harnesses of unicorns

Who gave a blowjob to the side of the crescent moon’s smile

And got impregnated, giving birth to the constellations

In which I plucked the stars to make

Strings of diamonds I decorate in your hair as a crown

Cause you are my King who beheaded every maiden in the planet

Except for me because you liked kissing my neck.

But I also do not want to be too monotonous

By writing reality as it is

Like black and white

We live then we die.

Nothing noteworthy with that.

I also don’t know the left words to say.

And sometimes my mind shifts from thought to thought

I want to write a thesaurus on the synonyms of love

There’s passion, ardour, zeal, Denver

Fuck this, I’m going to scrawl the

Ten reasons why I hate long distance relationships

Now I have this reflection of the still ocean

Well, how about I pen a novel

On the catastrophic history of us.

I do not know how to write anymore.

At times I feel everything!

Too many thoughts, wisdom, ideas

Inspiration, concepts, designs

All at once I feel every emotion in the world

And it all becomes a vomit of sensation

Resulting from excitement.

But my frequent problem would be

Always having ink in the pen my fingers are embracing

But the inability for the pen to move across the paper

And write a word

Not even able to think of a word to jot.

And that is how I always come at a dead end

That I could write so breathlessly at the first stanza

But become impotent of finishing what 

***

This entry for Poetry is written by Zsatherlie Imasa.