from The Many Faces of Beauty & Fear
Rio Alma
Sa Sinagoga
Bago magpasabog, naisip ni Abu:
Bardo ito ng kanyang pagkamartir.
At marahil, muli niyang dinalisay
And katwirang matagal nang pinagnilay:
Isinilang siyang ito ang tungkulin.
Hindi siya nagpalalo o nainggit.
Di nag-imbot. Itinugma ang lunggati
Sa nagisna’t itinuro. Kasimputi
Ang kalulwa sa pulburang nasa dibdib.
Ngunit bakit nag-iinit ang sentido?
Bato. Basag na manyika. Intifada.
Amoy-baboy ang paligid! Berde dilaw.
Lumitaw ang mga anghel at demonyo.
Dilaw puti. Ang gatilyo’y nagbaga.
Dharma mata dharmata. O! Kamatayan…
Joel Toledo
Atonement
Where they are exactly, no one knows.
It is enough that they lie somewhere,
slicing the darkness with their sharp sounds.
Far off, in the cities, people are making do
with light and music and wakefulness.
Here, it is not so different. Only here,
the fireflies are satisfied with their nature,
their flickering envy of stars.
The same is true of the bullfrog,
announcing its presence by the pond,
and of the waiting owl, wide-eyed
and dark-winged and silent in the tree.
But the crickets, weak and ready
for the taking, are the boldest,
frantic with their nonlinear music
as if they want to be found, as if
each singular blade of grass contains a single note,
contributes to the grand monotone of the evening.
Troubled and sleepless, I step out to look for them,
flashlight in hand. But outside there is only
the unblemished night, alive with its occasions of light,
harsh sounds, and the unseen crickets, nearby
and far away, mocking the frog, the owl, me.
As if their chorus is both for death and deliverance,
or simply because the night would be too silent
without their sacrifice. Eventually, they would
be discovered. Maybe not tonight, and maybe not
by me. This is the call of both the wild
and the human: our constant search for sources,
answers. Then again, there is the question
of God, our natural need to be heard, forgiven,
as these crickets–-noisy but perhaps
full of prayer, perhaps already redeemed.
(1st Prize, 2006 Meritage Press Holiday Poetry Contest)
Stabat Mater
Basi sa retratong kua ni Adrian Remodo
Ini an babaying
hahalian nin talukbong na itum
na garo baga papahanguson giraray
nin huli sa pagkabuhay kan saiyang aki.
Ini an babaying sa bilog na taon
aadornohan ta, kokoronahan,
tatawan nin dakul na pangaran
sigun sa satuyang pangangaipuhan:
Lourdes, bulunga an lugad ko na kawsa kan sinturon
orog na idtong dai ko kaya pang sabihon.
Fatima, kuaha an sakuyang kapung’awan
sa sakuyang hawak na pinabayaan,
Rosario, ampona an gabos kong aki na naghali,
sinda na dai pa ngani aram kun pano an pagpuli.
Peñafrancia, dangoga an sakuyang agrangay
nin huli sa kapagtiosan, garo nadukotan nin salabay,
Remedios, parigona an pagtubod ko sa paglaom
na sa pagsakit maabot man giraray an sinarom.
Ngonyan, uya an babaying ini sa gilid
naghahalat kan saiyang giraray na pagsakat sa karo,
aadornohan ta man giraray nin mga burak
tatakudan kan platang pusong may pitong garod,
na ginusgos, pinakintab nin gaas asin algudon.
Tatalukban nin itum na panyo na hahalion
kan mga aking pinili tang magin anghel
na yaon ngonyan sa luwas nagraralamagan,
na kun madutaan kan saro, nagigin siring man
sa imahen, napundo, dai nahiro siring sa istatwa
ta bawal an maghangos, ta nagigin taya.
March 29, 2008
Stabat Mater
Based on the photograph by Adrian Remodo
She is the woman
whose black veil we will lift
as if to let her breathe again
because her son has come back to life.
She is the woman whom, during the whole year,
we dress up and adorn, we crown,
we give many names,
depending on what we need from her:
Lourdes, heal my gridle-wound,
especially the one I cannot utter,
Rosario, take under your wing my children who’ve left,
they don’t know their way back,
Peñafrancia, hear my anguish,
suffering has stuck to me like jellyfish,
Remedios, strengthen my hope
that pain has its own sunset.
This woman now sits in a corner,
waiting to be put on the carriage,
where we will bedeck her with flowers,
pin on her breast the heart pierced by seven spears,
that we have rubbed shiny with cotton dipped in kerosene.
Then we will veil her in black, which the children
we have chosen to be angels will lift,
who are now playing tag in the yard, any of whom
when tagged will stop, stand still like a statue,
like the woman’s image: it is forbidden
of her to even breathe, or she’s it.
Sa Sinagoga
Bago magpasabog, naisip ni Abu:
Bardo ito ng kanyang pagkamartir.
At marahil, muli niyang dinalisay
And katwirang matagal nang pinagnilay:
Isinilang siyang ito ang tungkulin.
Hindi siya nagpalalo o nainggit.
Di nag-imbot. Itinugma ang lunggati
Sa nagisna’t itinuro. Kasimputi
Ang kalulwa sa pulburang nasa dibdib.
Ngunit bakit nag-iinit ang sentido?
Bato. Basag na manyika. Intifada.
Amoy-baboy ang paligid! Berde dilaw.
Lumitaw ang mga anghel at demonyo.
Dilaw puti. Ang gatilyo’y nagbaga.
Dharma mata dharmata. O! Kamatayan…
24 Steptember 2003
At the Synagogue
Before exploding, Abu thought:
This was the Bardo of his martyrdom.
Once more, perhaps, he distilled the righteous
Purpose long dwelling in his mind:
He was born for this. Never arrogant
Nor envious, never selfish, he sought
For every dream the rhyme and reason with all
He was taught. Pure and white was his soul,
Like the gunpowder on his chest.
But why was he seething?
Rubble. A broken doll. Intifada.
Everywhere the stink of pigs! Green yellow.
Angels and demons appeared.
Yellow white. The trigger is red hot.
Dharma mata dharmata. O! Death…
(Translation by Marne L. Kilates)
At the Synagogue
Before exploding, Abu thought:
This was the Bardo of his martyrdom.
Once more, perhaps, he distilled the righteous
Purpose long dwelling in his mind:
He was born for this. Never arrogant
Nor envious, never selfish, he sought
For every dream the rhyme and reason with all
He was taught. Pure and white was his soul,
Like the gunpowder on his chest.
But why was he seething?
Rubble. A broken doll. Intifada.
Everywhere the stink of pigs! Green yellow.
Angels and demons appeared.
Yellow white. The trigger is red hot.
Dharma mata dharmata. O! Death…
(Translation by Marne L. Kilates)
Joel Toledo
Atonement
Where they are exactly, no one knows.
It is enough that they lie somewhere,
slicing the darkness with their sharp sounds.
Far off, in the cities, people are making do
with light and music and wakefulness.
Here, it is not so different. Only here,
the fireflies are satisfied with their nature,
their flickering envy of stars.
The same is true of the bullfrog,
announcing its presence by the pond,
and of the waiting owl, wide-eyed
and dark-winged and silent in the tree.
But the crickets, weak and ready
for the taking, are the boldest,
frantic with their nonlinear music
as if they want to be found, as if
each singular blade of grass contains a single note,
contributes to the grand monotone of the evening.
Troubled and sleepless, I step out to look for them,
flashlight in hand. But outside there is only
the unblemished night, alive with its occasions of light,
harsh sounds, and the unseen crickets, nearby
and far away, mocking the frog, the owl, me.
As if their chorus is both for death and deliverance,
or simply because the night would be too silent
without their sacrifice. Eventually, they would
be discovered. Maybe not tonight, and maybe not
by me. This is the call of both the wild
and the human: our constant search for sources,
answers. Then again, there is the question
of God, our natural need to be heard, forgiven,
as these crickets–-noisy but perhaps
full of prayer, perhaps already redeemed.
(1st Prize, 2006 Meritage Press Holiday Poetry Contest)
Sid Gomez Hildawa
Poet's Easter Morning at the Beach
The sun shedding its cloudy shroud;
The grey mountain rising up to green;
The shore reclaiming its former shape;
The early swimmer surfacing to air;
The crab scurrying out of its burrow;
The hermit abandoning its shell;
The driftwood touching land;
The poet at the threshold of wakefulness,
for a time losing all words for all things,
forgetting all names and all meanings,
and it doesn’t have to be a Sunday.
The sun shedding its cloudy shroud;
The grey mountain rising up to green;
The shore reclaiming its former shape;
The early swimmer surfacing to air;
The crab scurrying out of its burrow;
The hermit abandoning its shell;
The driftwood touching land;
The poet at the threshold of wakefulness,
for a time losing all words for all things,
forgetting all names and all meanings,
and it doesn’t have to be a Sunday.
Kristian S. Cordero 
Stabat Mater
Basi sa retratong kua ni Adrian Remodo
Ini an babaying
hahalian nin talukbong na itum
na garo baga papahanguson giraray
nin huli sa pagkabuhay kan saiyang aki.
Ini an babaying sa bilog na taon
aadornohan ta, kokoronahan,
tatawan nin dakul na pangaran
sigun sa satuyang pangangaipuhan:
Lourdes, bulunga an lugad ko na kawsa kan sinturon
orog na idtong dai ko kaya pang sabihon.
Fatima, kuaha an sakuyang kapung’awan
sa sakuyang hawak na pinabayaan,
Rosario, ampona an gabos kong aki na naghali,
sinda na dai pa ngani aram kun pano an pagpuli.
Peñafrancia, dangoga an sakuyang agrangay
nin huli sa kapagtiosan, garo nadukotan nin salabay,
Remedios, parigona an pagtubod ko sa paglaom
na sa pagsakit maabot man giraray an sinarom.
Ngonyan, uya an babaying ini sa gilid
naghahalat kan saiyang giraray na pagsakat sa karo,
aadornohan ta man giraray nin mga burak
tatakudan kan platang pusong may pitong garod,
na ginusgos, pinakintab nin gaas asin algudon.
Tatalukban nin itum na panyo na hahalion
kan mga aking pinili tang magin anghel
na yaon ngonyan sa luwas nagraralamagan,
na kun madutaan kan saro, nagigin siring man
sa imahen, napundo, dai nahiro siring sa istatwa
ta bawal an maghangos, ta nagigin taya.
March 29, 2008
Stabat Mater
Based on the photograph by Adrian Remodo
She is the woman
whose black veil we will lift
as if to let her breathe again
because her son has come back to life.
She is the woman whom, during the whole year,
we dress up and adorn, we crown,
we give many names,
depending on what we need from her:
Lourdes, heal my gridle-wound,
especially the one I cannot utter,
Rosario, take under your wing my children who’ve left,
they don’t know their way back,
Peñafrancia, hear my anguish,
suffering has stuck to me like jellyfish,
Remedios, strengthen my hope
that pain has its own sunset.
This woman now sits in a corner,
waiting to be put on the carriage,
where we will bedeck her with flowers,
pin on her breast the heart pierced by seven spears,
that we have rubbed shiny with cotton dipped in kerosene.
Then we will veil her in black, which the children
we have chosen to be angels will lift,
who are now playing tag in the yard, any of whom
when tagged will stop, stand still like a statue,
like the woman’s image: it is forbidden
of her to even breathe, or she’s it.
(tr. MLK)
Jose F. Lacaba
“Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte”
It seems the French have Sunday afternoons
Static, and under certain moods I find it
Enviable, to recline on the grass away from
Urban banter, pipe in mouth, or to sit
Silent in the shade, with umbrella in the sun,
Gazing at placid boats afloat without
The hurry of a destination. A trombone
Plays, but like lovers walking makes no shout,
Its music floats almost unnoticed, except
By a girl skipping alone, among people
Strolling nobly: she makes no trouble, left
“Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte”
It seems the French have Sunday afternoons
Static, and under certain moods I find it
Enviable, to recline on the grass away from
Urban banter, pipe in mouth, or to sit
Silent in the shade, with umbrella in the sun,
Gazing at placid boats afloat without
The hurry of a destination. A trombone
Plays, but like lovers walking makes no shout,
Its music floats almost unnoticed, except
By a girl skipping alone, among people
Strolling nobly: she makes no trouble, left
To herself. No one, I am sure, will ogle
Though the ladies are supple for all to see.
A dog will not even bother to bark at a monkey.
Though the ladies are supple for all to see.
A dog will not even bother to bark at a monkey.
