Author: anmly_mpusod

Michael Carlo C. Villas translates Sunray Balasbas

SUDDENLY

Translated from Waray

The drought has come
and clouds drift
like cotton.

Where are they heading

and why do cicadas suddenly
whirr like Iday’s cry?

Where are you going?

Time,
raucous,
is in a hurry.

Skies grew dark
and, languidly
pelting on the roof,
heavy drops
of rain,
drip from the ceiling,
and in pans, rain
no one could have forestalled.

When the rain stopped,
we mopped the floor
hung the curtains back
and locked
the door.

Time,
raucuous,
is in a hurry,
distant.

Church bells toll
oratio imperata.

Sign of the cross.

Relief came delayed.
Ants came before
we even tasted the sardines.
The 3-in-1 coffee kapitan gave
has now cooled, awaiting
the rooster’s crow.

In your hurry,
your longing
dented
your face,

your hair brushed back
overly made,
dressed in your trousers,
and your favorite Ambel
shirt embroidered
with comely flowers.

Everything is ready,
we’re about to leave.

We rushed
to the street.
You are unknown here
except by rumors
and the snide gaze.

I could see Rawis from afar
as its shore
brims in your lips.
We wash ourselves and heal
upon returning,
holding your tear-streaked
baris* of clothes.

* A woven trunk made of rattan used for storing clothes

 

CARESS

Translated from Waray

I map out your features
as if running my fingers through a smooth blanket.

Never have I beheld the shape of your face
save the warmth coursing
through my palm
telling me of your beauty.

Nor have I seen the red
of your lips,
feeling them as though it were cotton.

Nor the flow and silk
of your hair
slippery as a scrubbed floor.

I trace in the air shape
of your face, hoping
to remember each angle,
my heart leaps

sensing your pulse
and my heartbeat.
We had no words
except the sound of our breathing
we closely listen to

at every touch, skin
of my palms
slowly burn,

my hands, that of the recluse
and prisoner of the dark.

I would have wanted to keep you
and stop time
from running,
unfinishing the rare
meetings of moon and sun,

afraid that love
would not find its way
in its path towards you.

I may climb a wall
and cry for help,
but none will hear me
save these hands—
true knowers.

And
very
slowly
bound my hands
to free you
find the origins
of fire:

remains of memory,
light of dark things.

 

Sunray Balasbas is an artist from Calbayog City, Samar. He paints and writes siday (poetry) in both traditional and contemporary forms. He currently teaches at the Calbayog City National High School, where he also serves as visual arts specialist. He is proud to be a scholar of Lamiraw, an organization of writers based in Calbayog.

Michael Carlo C. Villas teaches language and literature at the Department of Liberal Arts and Behavioral Sciences, Visayas State University. He has published in journals and anthologies notably, Our Memory of Water: Words After Haiyan (Ateneo de Naga University Press, 2016), Sustaining the Archipelago: Anthology of Philippine Ecopoetry (University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2017), and Reading the Regions: Teaching Philippine Literature from Multi-Perspectives (National Commission for Culture and the Arts, 2019). He co-edited the forthcoming anthology, Garab: Hinugpong hin mga Susumaton ha Waray (Garab: Anthology of Short Stories in Waray, Balangiga Press).

 

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Kristine Ong Muslim translates Vanessa Anne Joice T. Haro

EVEN IN THE ROOM

Translated from Filipino

the sea is unperturbed when you got there. No waves are stroking the stinging nettles that line that space. there’s only rustling in the mangroves, mingling with the gasping air. you are in my room. watch the branches float on water. the gradual closing of the door of my mouth. watch as you get kissed by a valley on the other island. the floor of my palm that lightly touches the navel of the night. the window that brings back your previous day. are you ready to shed light on the name you wrote on the sand? savor the brine using your sense of sight. restraint swims in your eyes as you dissolve the sand where the water gets murky. tell me this is not my room. this is our room. we are in our room. and this is all it takes to create waves everywhere.                                                             

 

BREAKWATER

Translated from Filipino

One night at the beach
You tried to pick up the stone you had cast and allowed
Your hands to lick the sand.
You parted the grains like you would the curtains every morning.
You parted them without knowing why.
But even then you proceeded to part them anyway

Both the sticking around and going away.
You were half in, half out with your indecision.

When your callused hand failed to navigate by touch,
You resisted the urge to swallow whatever’s blocking your throat.

It was just me now,
Tonight,
At the beach.

The stone calmly let itself be carried away
Along with your breath.

 

Vanessa Anne Joice T. Haro, aside from writing poetry, specializes in implementing and leading gender-inclusive and trauma-informed projects and programs in state universities and private companies for years now.  Some of her poems were published in Lagda, UBOD, and Loch Raven Review. She was a fellow for poetry in the following national workshops: Palihang Rogelio Sicat (University of the Philippines, 2015); University of Santo Tomas National Writers Workshop (University of Santo Tomas, 2019); and Iligan National Writers Workshop (Mindanao State University, 2018). Haro is also a member of Gabriela Women’s Party, a collective working towards emancipating injustices.

Kristine Ong Muslim is the author of nine books of fiction and poetry, including The Drone Outside (Eibonvale Press, 2017), Black Arcadia (University of the Philippines Press, 2017), Meditations of a Beast (Cornerstone Press, 2016), Butterfly Dream (Snuggly Books, 2016), Age of Blight (Unnamed Press, 2016), and Lifeboat (University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2015). She co-edited the British Fantasy Award-winning anthology People of Colo(u)r Destroy Science Fiction! (2016), Ulirát: Best Contemporary Stories in Translation from the Philippines (Gaudy Boy, 2021), and several forthcoming anthologies. She is also the translator of numerous books by Filipino authors Mesándel Virtusio Arguelles, Marlon Hacla, and Rogelio Braga. Widely anthologized, Muslim’s short stories were published in Conjunctions, Literary Hub, and World Literature Today, and translated into six languages. She grew up and continues to live in a rural town in southern Philippines. 

 

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Tilde Acuña translates J. G. Dimaranan

HEALING CEREMONY

Translated from Filipino

This cold stone weighing like a dog
howls in our hearts
in a number of life cycles.
Walked throughout the afternoon
and through a million years,
bound tight on a leash,
brought in every journey.

But just like a dog, this weight
can also be a friend—
walking and soothing it
until the muttering stops
and the mad woofing lulls,
turning into simple tenderness.

By mastering the weight, this stone warms up,
something integral to internal healing.
Just like how heated stones are used
by the Chinese, the Indians, and the Egyptians
in their respective Healing Ceremonies
to melt cold-hardened muscles.

This is also how we heal the self:
From the cold stone that weighs like a dog
to a heart that is warm and light.

Only in trusting the process
of returning to the Origin
and accepting the Truth,
can the choleric dog break free 
in boundlessness.

 

AMIANAN MARCH

Translated from Filipino

At the end of this trip
the roads will connect,
all paths will meet,
traversed by natives,
workers, and farmers
of this land.

The gravel paved into concrete 
by capitalists will melt
in the intensity of the people’s march
sounding like rain.
The cement will liquefy
to tears, but of no-tears,
until it reverts back
to being earth again.

 

J. G. Dimaranan finished her B.A. in Language and Literature at the University of the Philippines Baguio in 2015 and graduated from Philippine High School for the Arts in 2009. She is the co-editor of the anthology Danas: Mga Pag-aakda ng Babae Ngayon (2017) and the author of the poetry collection IO (2020), both from Gantala Press. She recently released the children’s books Sayaw ng Pantaron (2021) and Ang Makapangyarihang Tungkod ni Lolo Jose (2022) with Southern Voices Printing Press. She lives at the foot of Mt. Banahaw with her partner and three kids.

Tilde Acuña (Arbeen Acuña), author of Oroboro at Iba Pang Abiso [Oroboro and other Notices] (University of the Philippines [UP] Press, 2020), teaches at the Department of Filipino and Philippine Literature – UP. His works of translation appeared in Pingkian: Journal for Emancipatory and Anti-Imperialist Education, and books published by Gaudy Boy, UP Press, Ateneo De Manila University Press, and Sentro ng Wikang Filipino. He co-edited Destination: SEA 2050 A.D. (Penguin Random House SEA, forthcoming 2022) and translated its komiks entries.

 

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Amado Anthony G. Mendoza III translates Ansherina May D. Jazul

SOCIAL DISTANCING IN OUR PLACE

Translated from Filipino

How do we establish distance
If the houses here cling onto each other
when cable wires are clustered,
corrugated roofs pile onto each other,
and electric posts stand as if in tight queue. 

When entering our home,
the dining table quickly meets the eye,
beside the wooden chair,
the corners give way to the sink and the toilet
there is no breathing room
between our belongings.

We are crowded inside
Mom, Dad, my Kuya, my Ate
we have to contort our bodies
in order to fit on the mat and the kulambo.

When going out
what meets the footsteps is the door
of the adjacent house.

They too are crowded inside,
that’s why we retreat outside
to do our laundry, to wash dishes,
to play, and to get some fresh air.

How do we establish distance
if we have the face of another?

 

THE VACANT BEDS

Translated from Filipino

We scoured the entire city
in search for a hospital that would admit us. 
There seems to be a procession at the entrance,
queuing with you are children and the elderly who,
like you, are also catching their breaths.
Their kin praying in concert,
their prayers fighting over a piece of space
who no one knows when will be in the offing.
A few already broke off from the line
and chose to head to their respective homes.
Just like you.

And at last, after days of waiting,
a bed is already waiting for you
Waiting for you are the newly changed
pillows and blankets,
your room already spotless.

But how can sound sleep
on a vacant bed 
come for a lifeless body?

 

Ansherina May D. Jazul has a BA in Filipinology and a Certificate in Literature and Creative Writing in Filipino from the Polytechnic University of the Philippines. She was a fellow of Linangan sa Imahen, Retorika at Anyo (LIRA) 2014, Cavite Young Writers Association (CYWA) 2018, 2nd Polytechnic University of the Philippines National Multi-Genre Workshop 2019, University of the Philippines Writers Club 2019, Virgin Labfest Writing Program 2020, and University of Santo Tomas National Writers Workshop 2020. Some of her works are published in Liwayway Magazine, a Gantala Press anthology, and Ani 40, Literary Journal of Cultural Center of the Philippines. She is one of the moderators of Lapis ArtCom. A member of the Cavite Young Writers Association, Jazul teaches Filipino and works as a scriptwriter, proofreader, and textbook author.

Amado Anthony G. Mendoza III is the author of  the novel, Aklat ng mga Naiwan [Book of the Damned] (Balangiga Press, 2018), co-editor and co-translator of Wiji Thukul’s Balada ng Bala [The Ballad of a Bullet], and translator of Mga Himutok sa Palikuran (Ateneo de Naga University Press, 2021), the Filipino-language edition of Eka Kurniawan’s collection of stories. He teaches courses on Southeast Asian literature and creative writing at the Department of Filipino and Philippine Literature in the University of the Philippines Diliman. Mendoza is also a co-editor of Ulirát: Best Contemporary Stories in Translation from the Philippines (Gaudy Boy, 2021) and several other upcoming anthologies.

 

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Umang Kalra

SURVEILLANCE STATE POEM

someday we will die        digitally
& biologically         too & nobody
will be left        to hurt from our
absence:        do we call this
the         end-times        or some-
thing        less        extravagant?
where will you be        when it’s
my turn        to decompose? will
you feast        on me again        the
way        you have done        in this
life? will you make friends        with
the maggots         & the wires        that
will live        in my lungs from now on. 
where will we put        all our heart
emojis        & what of        surveillance?
are the ones        who watch us a special
kind/breed/thing/        /sort of object? 
will they become earth also? or is there
somewhere else they must         die? what
of this apocalypse: the waterfalls are waiting
to murder us. some of us        are waiting
to let them.

 

Umang Kalra is a writer from India and the founding EIC of VIBE. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Strange Horizons, Wax Nine, Lucy Writers’ Platform, and elsewhere. They are a two-time Best of the Net Anthology finalist and a Pushcart nominee. Read more at umkalra.persona.co.

 

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Ros Seamark

Burning Haibun #1: First Episode Psychosis Pentecost

after torrin a. greathouse

i confess a childish faith in the high desert. it’s there, in that smoking, highway-slashed
floodplain that i learned to speak, and to breathe. the first time the dam broke, i was too young to
know to be afraid of my own mind. a vision: on the long walk back from the riverbed to the
mirage-veiled parking lot, under walnut trees, through incomprehensible dog-day heat, along a
shade-drenched, heron-studded trail, i, in a neon green t-shirt, cast my ten-year-old shadow; i
could not be shut off. smashed vessels, opened valves meant nothing to me: my blood gushing
from my face was cooler than the air. when a soft, scorching breeze stuck my soaked & staining
clothes to sunburned skin, i was glad for the damage. drought was the staff of the prophet who
struck me like a stone, summoning streams; summer, the god in the bell that first set my world
singing. off the bus up from the river basin, up the steps to my mother’s house, a doorbell, and
another kind of breakage. i pad down the hall and into the bathroom, press bare feet to cool white
tile, watch the grout-gridded pattern blur as i let my clothes pool on the floor. the plumbing hits a
pitch like a fever as i crank the faucet open— a cold shower to wash off the sun of the day. i feel
good, i keep the lights off. my ears ring, i stare at each of my fingers individually, run my tongue
out and pant like a kit fox, let sweat-stiff drifting tendrils of my long girlish hair make a catfish
of me. i know i am a creature made of creatures; the mirror can never show me what is real. and
suddenly— something catches fire: the clatter of the pipes to my left congeals into a nocturne,
actual and holy as the water. there is no imagination here, no choice, just music, as involuntary as
the television buzzing in the background and for years it visits me and i know no fear. i am so
young, so undimmable; i always feel like god and i don’t even notice; why should this cloudburst
register as something wrong?

//

i confess, i am a bd child oe ’s thin = floodplain that k,mind. a vi
naage-veiled pardeh incomprehensible dl, i, in a neon t-shirt,fds
cast my ten-year-old off. smashed vessels, nothing te: fjdsfdfjdsd
my blood guace was cooen a soft, scoked & staining ned skwasd
glad for tphet me like a stone, summoning streams; summer, the
rld singing. tp from the river bas, up eps to me, a dother kind off
breakage. i pad down the hall and into the batto cool white tile,df
watch the grout-gridded pattern blur as i let my clothes pool onff
the floor. the plumbing hits a pitch like a fever as i crank the faudf
cet open— a cold shower to wash off the sun of the day. i feel g4o
od, i keep the lights off. my ears ring, i stare at each of my fingerd
, run my tongue out and paendrils of my i know i am a creaturejfjf
made of creatures; the mirror can never show me what is real. An
d fire: thy left congeals into nocturd holy as the watfear. i am so y

//

i am a bastard child of sert. it’s tht-shirt, cast my be shut off. smashed vessels, open
meajkj blood gushinstaining. d singing. off ts up from the rivch the grouhe floor.gggj
h like a fever as i c— a cold sho tongue out and pe. of s; jkjkjkljfdslfire: the clatter of t

 

Ros Seamark is a queer poet & translator from Central California. You can read more of their work in Sugar House Review, Poetry Online, and Fairy Piece Mag.

 

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Wylde Parsley

here is a queer coming-of-age novel without a coming out scene

I would let her 
destroy me, no doubt 
I’m a hapless 
dyke and she’s got 
lemon rind laughter 
that makes me shudder 
through my born-again 
baptist sunday-serious self 
she’s got sacrilege 
written like jolly rancher stains 
around her lips it’s 
like, the flesh is weak 
and willing, giddy 
little stolen sugar packet 
swig from a syrup bottle 
aged like an impatient sigh 
and dripping condescension 
for those who just 
don’t get that she’s 
only and exclusively 
the manic part of manic 
pixie dream girl not half 
as trapped in another life 
I failed driver’s ed 
in order to take it with her 
and we crashed the car together 
and of course it didn’t 
go up in flames like we 
wanted so there’s no use pretending 
we didn’t douse it in lighter fluid 
while licking butterscotch 
ice cream from our sooty fingers

 

Wylde Parsley is sometimes a writer and always a cryptid enthusiast. Their work has appeared or is upcoming in Birdcoat Quarterly, New Flash Fiction Review, Vagabond City Lit, Rio Grande Review, Every Day Fiction, and various other publications. He can be found on Twitter at @emjparsley.

 

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leena aboutaleb

LOOK: 7odood Briefs!

KUWAIT 

Look, The Soldier Says, Bored, Gun Sleeping Mid-Air. My Father Holding Our Papers
At The Window Like A Bargain, A Begging 
LOOK, My Mother Says, Banishing Her Accent Between Documents 
You Are Here To Keep Us Safe, My Father Agrees, 
Nodding, Of Course, Don’t Want A Repeat Of 

One Uncle Keeps Getting Kidnapped. His Sister Sends Him 
U.S. Car Parts For Work. We Pay Ransoms On The Way To School, 
My Head Pressed Against Heated Glass. I Don’t Look When They Argue. 
He Is An Hour Or Two Away. Everyone But My Father Is Palestinian Here. 

WASHINGTON 

The Guard Glares, Infuriated By My Blase Answers 
Liar, He Says, Give Me A Better Answer. Bitch Spitting On His Teeth. 

Because I Wanted To Be. The Others Laugh 
Passport Boxed & Sealed—LOOK  

LIMBO 

My Father Is Still Holding Our Passports On The Window 
Convincing Soldiers No Threat, LOOK, Our Kids Only Want To Play 
In The Sea. My Father Is Egyptian, Therefore He Has A Sea. 

CAIRO 

I Love My City, My Country, Baladi, Watani—Isn’t That The Truth? I Grin At The Camera [Qasr El-Nile], Men Shout, The Rifles Aim At My Head In Traffic, So West Bank! I Cheer. I Pull My Breasts Out In Sinai—No, Akeed, I Am 
Egyptian Just Like You. 

LEBANON 

Your Arab Papers. 
I Don’t Have Any. 
ISMIK— 
Sorry, I Smile In All-English, Politely Aware An Egyptian Needs $2,000 USD To Enter
A Warlord-Eaten Country. A Palestinian Is Banned. Civil War Tensions, You Know? I Don’t Have Arab Papers. 

THE BORDER 

Did You Take Any Pictures? Palestinians Are Not Allowed Here 
My Mother, Legally, Is Jordanian. Her ID Is In Her Hand. The Soldier 
Refuses. Your Name—Your Name—Is Palestinian. 

PALESTINE 

They Thought I Stole My Uncle’s Car—My First Cigarette, Bloody, 
A Nice Threat, He Laughs, Teeth Too-Sharp. 
What Is The Use In Being Palestinian? 

Be Careful, He Insists A Year Later, They’re Idiots. They’ll Kill. 
I Know, Albe. I Know The Way You Know. The Way We All Know. 
It’s All A Cliche. A Myth None Of Us Wanted To Be A Part Of. 

It’s Okay, I Tell Him, The World Is Ending Anyways. Let Me Live. 
You Keep Watching Me Swallow Brutality As If There’s A World In It. 
I Don’t Want To Die. I Didn’t Come From Ramallah To Die Here. 

It’s 3AM, Why Are They Still Shooting? 

LIMBO 

Do You Know Where You Are? 
No. 
You Are Three Steps from Jericho. How Did You Get So Close? 
Where Is The Crossing? 
No Photos. 
The Moon, At Least. Please.

 

elegy (i); the grave

After and with lines from Diana Khoi Nguyen 

I wake in the morning, buried falling asleep to your corpse body long gone imagine the way baba wa mama akh what have you done ya habeebi syrian wails stealing her throat yousef ya albi shu had her head split on the wall to come with you how selfless a mother’s love, so loving for you to never be alone grab a scythe, make justice. I have spent a decade nightmaring your grave wa I will spend the rest of my life dreaming of a brother eternally twenty-five tell me how dates taste there, how sweet your soil, how warm the cloth I wake up in your grave do you feel the coffee I make us, the tea, the bateekh, what about the salt on my skin? never meant to die that night I know there’s a dagger in my throat til I die for you if your brother dies is killed kills himself is alive you will see your brother the prophecy intones so you follow me into my dreams. I see you, habeebi, for months the closest since we were children with shrapnel you begin to own the shadows you become mazes wa corridors I wake up in a mess of tears is it cold underneath? is death warm? please, turn, look at me, face me I want to see our eyes one last time look at what you have done let me die with you please let me see our eyes once more please let me see your face once more I wake up in our old home you are with our dead, laughing, cigarette still fil eedak wa you ask me to laugh with you how can I ever say no we are both dead I wake up in your grave on my luckiest days you died and became celestial time is your hands, our fates threads you witness I want to die you told baba the morning of fortune teller inta did jinn whisper, did you laugh in relief? if your death was not gentle, I will kill the Angels with my hands I swear by my heart, on my eyes did you smile when I put soil on your grave I fought my way past men for you I refused to leave you I held you blue for hours I kissed your eyelashes please turn to look at me I am begging for one more second I want to see our eyes one more time please look at me tell me how I am to live wa die how am I made to wake up in death tell me how can I love without craving face open to show them what you left behind a desperate sister tell me what you have done I want to see you with our eyes yousef look you were alive once and I am dead now yousef I am glad you are dead yousef I will laugh with you forever I will stay in this grave with you til time ends please don’t be lonely anymore yousef I am glad you are dead I am dead I am glad you are dead I stay alive I am dead I am glad you are dead I keep myself alive in stolen time I eat the flowers how mama trained us fedayeen I find the sea to you yousef 

ya yousef, I am happy you are

 

leena aboutaleb is an Egyptian and Palestinian writer, primarily searching for fruiting trees to sleep under. She can be virtually located @na5leh on Twitter.

 

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Brian Francis

There Weren’t Many Asking How

the boy with fast hands grows into a man
with crooked fingers  I crumble  petals
adorn amber feet   almost out of grasp
superstition       our precious metal 
prove us    the path   ascension unsettles
lesser men     our language     these crude tools
there weren’t enough lessons on        the levels
we climb     to remain completely unmoved
the spirit catches     midflight and confused
flailing    the speech in (or with) a chewed tongue
bawling through the expanse    does it amuse
you    an exchange on the wrong rung     who with
what poor service     cautious of self    I ask
to what current       could I be conduit

 

Bacchanal

After Rio Cortez

I sink     my teeth into whatever
bucks in the distance     flocks 
circling   dirtied dusk blankets
the field growing too wild 

for a scarecrow looking 
like they can be picked 
& carried    right off 
this too small island      a knot 

not yet loose     livestock made
reversible   under night’s watch   I count
grains in the heap     wait 
consider naming each     let them fall 

between fingers then upturn     my hand
call what is left 
our constellation     black canvas palm
against stretched flesh   Jasmine wants 

to dance but a Jumbie ain’t got no feet
to race to river’s edge    a vanishing act
a too broad smile    slips & cracks
in corners

 

Brian Francis is a Cave Canem fellow from New York City. He has a BA in Creative Nonfiction from the University of Pittsburgh and an MFA in Poetry from NYU. He lives and teaches English Language Arts to middle school students in his native Harlem, USA.

 

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Olúwatamílọ́re Ọ̀shọ́

Abọ́sẹ̀dé

Abọ́sẹ̀dé is a journey back to self.

There are names we forget to hold in warm embrace.
In my grandfather’s mouth, Abọ́sẹ̀dé was 
a sweet song told in the language of my forefathers.

Language that crafts
stories into names:
Abọ́sẹ̀dé; she who is born on the eve of a new week.
Language that speaks of origin and distant lands, origin that I struggle

to identify with. I search for these origins in stories and legends
told in the deep tongue of my ancestors.

I want my tongue to dance with theirs to the juju beats of our land.
We sweeten the union/ every utterance a moan of allegiance.

I beg my tongue to carry the pride in the accented pronunciation of Abọ́sẹ̀dé,
to flow into rhythm with the high tilt of the letter ọ́ and the low hum of the letter é.

But my tongue’s first love spits out these tones in jealousy. This foreign bride brings
her accent of colonization and twists ọ́ into o and é into e.

In his life, Grandfather called me Abọ́sẹ̀dé. His old wizened voice whispered
this name in prayers,

prayers to guide me back home.

 

Olúwatamílọ́re Ọ̀shọ́ (Frontier XVII) is an emerging poet from Lagos, Nigeria. Her writings negotiate sensuality, familial dynamics, and identity. She tweets @Tamiilore_O.

 

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