When I Go
by: Merlie M. Alunan
Everything I’ll leave behind of course—
clothes, books, the blue stone I bought
from the gap-toothed gypsy in La Paz,
bottles of perfume languishing unused
for years in dim closets where I’ve kept them,
the basil bush in its corner in the garden
where the sun is sure to find it everyday,
old wine vinegar scented with tarragon,
jars of jams, pickles and conserves—
how long, you think, will they last you?
Who will replenish them? Oh, but really,
should I care about any of these at all?
About the photos, can’t wash them white
or bleed the colors till they faint.
Time will oblige. They’ll breathe on their own
in the dark for a while, keep you company
some gray morning as you sip jasmine tea,
waiting for the cloud to clear. You might try
in that quiet time to gather in your mind
places, faces, words, perhaps my name
inscribed in the rusting empty mailbox.
As you sit in the watery light, a whiff of song
might float by, you might say to yourself,
“That one, I know that one, it reminds me of—”
and stop, your tongue unable to shape it,
the syllables crumbling, murdered by memory.
Then have I truly gone, my love.
Silence has closed over the space I have been,
even grief would not keep it.
Finder Loser
by: Ophelia Dimalanta
More than half of my life
I spend searching for lost
objects ( papers, receipts,
old letters, pills and whatever
else) and causes and the rest,
losing and finding, and losing
them again, found or otherwise;
losing what I have in good
measure, finding what
I can’t almost have-
One perpetual lifetime probe,
Forever rummaging through
Bureaus and drawers and pages
Of my life’s past disarray…
I spend searching for lost
objects ( papers, receipts,
old letters, pills and whatever
else) and causes and the rest,
losing and finding, and losing
them again, found or otherwise;
losing what I have in good
measure, finding what
I can’t almost have-
One perpetual lifetime probe,
Forever rummaging through
Bureaus and drawers and pages
Of my life’s past disarray…
And so when I finally go
keep vault unlidded for I
shall surely sit up and look
around to pursue this search,
holding on to dear life,
or to dear death, does it matter-
they are one in the proper
time but not till then,
I shall go on seeking out
lost faces and faiths in the
cold, collecting, calculating
crowd, sadly aware that later
but an unbreath away
I shall lose them all again;
as I was won’t, losing all
in this final irretrievable
lose of my death time
or perhaps, possibly, yes,
death will be kinder and oh, yes
allow me at last this
flowing final find.
keep vault unlidded for I
shall surely sit up and look
around to pursue this search,
holding on to dear life,
or to dear death, does it matter-
they are one in the proper
time but not till then,
I shall go on seeking out
lost faces and faiths in the
cold, collecting, calculating
crowd, sadly aware that later
but an unbreath away
I shall lose them all again;
as I was won’t, losing all
in this final irretrievable
lose of my death time
or perhaps, possibly, yes,
death will be kinder and oh, yes
allow me at last this
flowing final find.
When the Heart Flies from Its Place
by: Eric Gamalinda
The names are the first to go,
then the dates of births and deaths.
It’s as if everything moves on another,
esoteric level, here among the gravestones
where the elements collude so we don’t realize
how we succumb to forgetting. The milkweed unfolds
its damascened leaves and monarch caterpillars
devour them scrupulously, and out of this simple act
something marvelous is already happening,
the promise of a massive and silent migration.
Order is natural progression: a century from now
the sugar maples planted by the pioneers
will still be growing, too ancient to remember
everyone who’s seen them here. This once
was a church, where now two benches meet
in mute conviviality, and this a pound for stray sheep;
one village will be mowed over by another,
one more road will cut through the forest here.
A tractor roars to say the conquest is complete:
we tame the land until it accepts
our habits, our fear of need. When I hear these sounds,
says Stansik, age five, my heart flies from its place.
Just eight months in the country, he is learning
the landscape of language where there is no
fixed geography, and everything
still evokes another memory: cowdung is
smell of village, a pond is primal, rippling
with translucent newts. The stones
say little of these former lives, just that
they once were valiantly loved;
you can almost hear them calling the roll:
Thompson, Merritt, Thayer, each a perfect
solitude, a stilled comet. Stansik again:
Why are there no blacks in Massachusetts?
And: You are not black but gray. Pretty soon he’ll forget
his Russian, the language he is slowly
inventing, the man from whom his mother
had to run away. I wonder if he will remember
this summer, and how the heart feels
when it flies for no reason other than
—what was it? I didn’t know, I had never learned
the word for it, and to this day I walk
the unspeakable territories.
then the dates of births and deaths.
It’s as if everything moves on another,
esoteric level, here among the gravestones
where the elements collude so we don’t realize
how we succumb to forgetting. The milkweed unfolds
its damascened leaves and monarch caterpillars
devour them scrupulously, and out of this simple act
something marvelous is already happening,
the promise of a massive and silent migration.
Order is natural progression: a century from now
the sugar maples planted by the pioneers
will still be growing, too ancient to remember
everyone who’s seen them here. This once
was a church, where now two benches meet
in mute conviviality, and this a pound for stray sheep;
one village will be mowed over by another,
one more road will cut through the forest here.
A tractor roars to say the conquest is complete:
we tame the land until it accepts
our habits, our fear of need. When I hear these sounds,
says Stansik, age five, my heart flies from its place.
Just eight months in the country, he is learning
the landscape of language where there is no
fixed geography, and everything
still evokes another memory: cowdung is
smell of village, a pond is primal, rippling
with translucent newts. The stones
say little of these former lives, just that
they once were valiantly loved;
you can almost hear them calling the roll:
Thompson, Merritt, Thayer, each a perfect
solitude, a stilled comet. Stansik again:
Why are there no blacks in Massachusetts?
And: You are not black but gray. Pretty soon he’ll forget
his Russian, the language he is slowly
inventing, the man from whom his mother
had to run away. I wonder if he will remember
this summer, and how the heart feels
when it flies for no reason other than
—what was it? I didn’t know, I had never learned
the word for it, and to this day I walk
the unspeakable territories.
'Sa Aking Mga Kabatà'
by: Dr. Jose Rizal
Kapagka ang baya'y sadyáng umiibig
Sa kanyáng salitáng kaloob ng langit,
Sanlang kalayaan nasa ring masapit
Katulad ng ibong nasa himpapawid.
Pagka't ang salita'y isang kahatulan
Sa bayan, sa nayo't mga kaharián,
At ang isáng tao'y katulad, kabagay
Ng alin mang likha noong kalayaán.
Ang hindi magmahal sa kanyang salitâ
Mahigit sa hayop at malansáng isdâ,
Kayâ ang marapat pagyamaning kusà
Na tulad sa ináng tunay na nagpalà.
Ang wikang Tagalog tulad din sa Latin
Sa Inglés, Kastilà at salitang anghel,
Sapagka't ang Poong maalam tumingín
Ang siyang naggawad, nagbigay sa atin.
Ang salita nati'y huwad din sa iba
Na may alfabeto at sariling letra,
Na kaya nawalá'y dinatnan ng sigwâ
Ang lunday sa lawà noóng dakong una.
Sa kanyáng salitáng kaloob ng langit,
Sanlang kalayaan nasa ring masapit
Katulad ng ibong nasa himpapawid.
Pagka't ang salita'y isang kahatulan
Sa bayan, sa nayo't mga kaharián,
At ang isáng tao'y katulad, kabagay
Ng alin mang likha noong kalayaán.
Ang hindi magmahal sa kanyang salitâ
Mahigit sa hayop at malansáng isdâ,
Kayâ ang marapat pagyamaning kusà
Na tulad sa ináng tunay na nagpalà.
Ang wikang Tagalog tulad din sa Latin
Sa Inglés, Kastilà at salitang anghel,
Sapagka't ang Poong maalam tumingín
Ang siyang naggawad, nagbigay sa atin.
Ang salita nati'y huwad din sa iba
Na may alfabeto at sariling letra,
Na kaya nawalá'y dinatnan ng sigwâ
Ang lunday sa lawà noóng dakong una.
Love Makes The World Go Round
by: Simeon Dumdum Jr.
He was wild.
In her sixth month, he had the map of the world
tattoed on her belly.
And then, without saying goodbye,
He left for America.
In her last trimester,
Her belly grew into a tight and shiny globe
The Northern Hemisphere stretched around
The North Pole of her navel.
She would rub the northern slope of her abdomen
And feel the kick of the fetus
Between the United States and Canada.
And then she would wonder
In which of these countries
He would be now.
Since then she'd had five men
In as many years---
And five children.
This was to keep her hands holding the globe
Of her belly.
This was her only way of feeling the world---
And of going
To America.
My favorite poem among the five, is the first one "When I Go" because we all know that all the things we have and see today are just temporary. We cannot die with those things. So we should live our life worth living because we all know that death is coming. But that doesn't mean that our journey ends there. Death means the entrance of eternity with GOD who really last forever. The love of GOD is eternal.
Biography of Merlie Alunan
Merlie M. Alunan (born December 14, 1943, in Dingle, Iloilo) is a Filipina poet.She graduated in Silliman University with an MA in Creative Writing in 1974. She teaches at the Creative Writing Center, University of the Philippines Visayas Tacloban College. She lives in Tacloban City.
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