A Constellation of Images

A Constellation of Images Download here: http://www.sendspace.com/file/s7uam5

Kanta ni Matilda

Kanta ni Matilda Ako si Matilda Nga nagapuyo sa Ata Tierra. Pamatii ninyo ining akon estorya Nga makapagluyloy sang inyo mga abaga. Isa ako ka maestra Sa pampubliko nga elementarya. Mahuyugon sa manok kag baraha Ang wala obra ko nga bana. Tungod kay ang akon anak nga dalaga Sa sunod nga tuig college na Kinahanglan ko ang madmu nga kwarta Kay narsing nga kurso ang iya ginapuntirya. Naglakat ako sa Hong Kong para magpamutsatsa Ang natup-an ko nga Intsik nga ama Pareho lang kadaku sa singkit sini nga mga mata ang iya kasingkasing kag konsensya. Wala pa gani ako sa isa ka bulan nga nagaobra Nangimon sa akon ining akon ama Kay kuno ginadolodogsing ko ang iya bana. “Indi ina matuod!” siling ko sa iya, Pero tapat pa gid gani nga nangakig siya Kag wala gid ako pangaman, mga amiga, Nabatyagan ko na lamang ang halok sa akon guya Sang mainit nga plantsa.

Batasan sang Taga-uma

Batasan sang Taga-uma Richard Alayon ‘Ne, pahilog preparar sang panyaga kaya may bisita kita. Barkada ko ini sia sang ako nagiskwela pa sang kantutuhan sa banwa. Sugua anay si Dyunyor nga mag-utang sang isa ka kaha nga serbesa ditdto sa tyanggi kag isa ka kabu nga mani. Patya na lang dayon inang manok nga galumlum kag lakti sang ubad sang saging nga rusing. Sige, P’re kaon pa kag indi maghuya-huya kay bwas na lang kami maaway sang akon asawa. Indi na pagproblemahi Ang akon ulumhan Kay ang binhi Ibayad ko na lang Sa gin-inum ta.

My brother's peculiar chicken

Philippine Literature My Brother's Peculiar Chicken (Alejandro R. Roces) My brother Kiko once had a very peculiar chicken. It was peculiar because no one could tell whether it was a rooster or a hen. My brother claimed it was a rooster. I claimed it was a hen. We almost got whipped because we argued too much. The whole question began early one morning. Kiko and I were driving the chickens from the cornfield. The corn had just been planted, and the chickens were scratching the seeds out for food. Suddenly we heard the rapid flapping of wings. We turned in the direction of the sound and saw two chickens fighting in the far end of the field. We could not see the birds clearly as they were lunging at each other in a whirlwind of feathers and dust. “Look at that rooster fight!” my brother said, pointing exactly at one of the chickens. “Why, if I had a rooster like that, I could get rich in the cockpits.” “Let’s go and catch it,” I suggested. “No, you stay here. I will go and catch it,” Kiko said. My brother slowly approached the battling chickens. They were so busy fighting that they did not notice him. When he got near them, he dived and caught one of them by the leg. It struggled and squawked. Kiko finally held it by both wings and it became still. I ran over where he was and took a good look at the chicken. “Why, it is a hen,” I said. “What is the matter with you?” my brother asked. “Is the heat making you sick?” “No. Look at its face. It has no comb or wattles.” “No comb and wattles! Who cares about its comb or wattles? Didn’t you see it in fight?” “Sure, I saw it in fight. But I still say it is a hen.” “Ahem! Did you ever see a hen with spurs on its legs like these? Or a hen with a tail like this?” “I don’t care about its spurs or tail. I tell you it is a hen. Why, look at it.” The argument went on in the fields the whole morning. At noon we went to eat lunch. We argued about it on the way home. When we arrived at our house Kiko tied the chicken to a peg. The chicken flapped its wings and then crowed. “There! Did you hear that?” my brother exclaimed triumphantly. “I suppose you are going to tell me now that hens crow and that carabaos fly.” “I don’t care if it crows or not,” I said. “That chicken is a hen.” We went into the house, and the discussion continued during lunch. “It is not a hen,” Kiko said. “It is a rooster.” “It is a hen,” I said. “It is not.” “It is.” “Now, now,” Mother interrupted, “how many times must Father tell you, boys, not to argue during lunch? What is the argument about this time?” We told Mother, and she went out look at the chicken. “That chicken,” she said, “is a binabae. It is a rooster that looks like a hen.” That should have ended the argument. But Father also went out to see the chicken, and he said, “Have you been drinking again?” Mother asked. “No,” Father answered. “Then what makes you say that that is a hen? Have you ever seen a hen with feathers like that?” “Listen. I have handled fighting cocks since I was a boy, and you cannot tell me that that thing is a rooster.” Before Kiko and I realized what had happened, Father and Mother were arguing about the chicken by themselves. Soon Mother was crying. She always cried when she argued with Father. “You know very well that that is a rooster,” she said. “You are just being mean and stubborn.” “I am sorry,” Father said. “But I know a hen when I see one.” “I know who can settle this question,” my brother said. “Who?” I asked. “The teniente del Barrio, chief of the village.” The chief was the oldest man in the village. That did not mean that he was the wisest, but anything always carried more weight if it is said by a man with gray hair. So my brother untied the chicken and we took it to the chief. “Is this a male or a female chicken?” Kiko asked. “That is a question that should concern only another chicken,” the chief replied. “My brother and I happen to have a special interest in this particular chicken. Please give us an answer. Just say yes or no. Is this a rooster?” “It does not look like any rooster I have ever seen,” the chief said. “Is it a hen, then?” I asked. “It does not look like any hen I have ever seen. No, that could not be a chicken. I have never seen like that. It must be a bird of some other kind.” “Oh, what’s the use!” Kiko said, and we walked away. “Well, what shall we do now?” I said. “I know that,” my brother said. “Let’s go to town and see Mr. Cruz. He would know.” Mr. Eduardo Cruz lived in a nearby town of Katubusan. He had studied poultry raising in the University of the Philippines. He owned and operated the largest poultry business in town. We took the chicken to his office. “Mr. Cruz,” Kiko said, “is this a hen or a rooster?” Mr. Cruz looked at the bird curiously and then said: “Hmmm. I don’t know. I couldn’t tell in one look. I have never run across a chicken like this before.” “Well, is there any way you can tell?” “Why, sure. Look at the feathers on its back. If the feathers are round, then it’s a hen. If they are pointed, it’s a rooster.” The three of us examined the feathers closely. It had both. “Hmmm. Very peculiar,” said Mr. Cruz. “Is there any other way you can tell?” “I could kill it and examined its insides.” “No. I do not want it killed,” my brother said. I took the rooster in my arms and we walked back to the barrio. Kiko was silent most of the way. Then he said: “I know how I can prove to you that this is a rooster.” “How?” I asked. “Would you agree that this is a rooster if I make it fight in the cockpit and it wins?” “If this hen of yours can beat a gamecock, I will believe anything,” I said. “All right,” he said. “We’ll take it to the cockpit this Sunday.” So that Sunday we took the chicken to the cockpit. Kiko looked around for a suitable opponent. He finally picked a red rooster. “Don’t match your hen against that red rooster.” I told him. “That red rooster is not a native chicken. It is from Texas.” “I don’t care where it came from,” my brother said. “My rooster will kill it.” “Don’t be a fool,” I said. “That red rooster is a killer. It has killed more chickens than the fox. There is no rooster in this town that can stand against it. Pick a lesser rooster.” My brother would not listen. The match was made and the birds were readied for the killing. Sharp steel gaffs were tied to their left legs. Everyone wanted to bet on the red gamecock. The fight was brief. Both birds were released in the centre of the arena. They circled around once and then faced each other. I expected our chicken to die of fright. Instead, a strange thing happened. A lovesick expression came into the red rooster’s eyes. Then it did a love dance. That was all our chicken needed. It rushed at the red rooster with its neck feathers flaring. In one lunge, it buried its spurs into its opponent’s chest. The fight was over. “Tiope! Tiope! Fixed fight!” the crowd shouted. Then a riot broke out. People tore bamboo benches apart and used them as clubs. My brother and I had to leave through the back way. I had the chicken under my arm. We ran toward the coconut groves and kept running till we lost the mob. As soon as we were safe, my brother said: “Do you believe it is a rooster now?” “Yes,” I answered. I was glad the whole argument was over. Just then the chicken began to quiver. It stood up in my arms and cackled with laughter. Something warm and round dropped into my hand. It was an egg. › Home

My Own Theory of Devolution

My own theory of devolution by Jessica Zafra   You’ve heard of the theory of evolution; if you haven’t, there is a gap in your education. There was a major fuss when Darwin came out of with it in the last century. In this century, even evolution remained controversial in a little town in America, a teacher was put on trial for mentioning it to his students. Apparently, their mommies and daddies were not pleased to hear that they were distantly related to the apes. Mercifully, the apes were unable to express their opinion.   But let’s not go into that. In facts, let’s talk about the exact opposite of evolution that is devolution. If evolving means moving up to a “higher” life form, devolving means deteriorating to a “lower” life form     See, I have this theory about alcohol. The more you drink, the lower you go down the evolutionary ladder. When you start swigging the vodka (or the poison of your choice), you’re recognizably human. A few shots later, the change begins. Your vision blurs. The room appears to be spinning. Slowly, at first, then you feel like you’re inside a blender with some oranges and ice. Your face feels lopsided, and you ask your drinking companions if one side of your face is larger than the other. And when you have to go to the bathroom, walking upright makes you nauseous. You sort of slouch over with your arms down to your knees and do an ape-like shuffle… And that’s when you’ve gone APE. Monkey. Simian. You’ve just rejoined our distant relatives. But you don’t stop drinking, nonono. What, and be a spoilsport? You go on swilling the drink of depressed Russians, the stuff they imbibe because it takes so long to line up for Coke. Soon, you can’t even stay on your feet anymore. Your legs turn into vestigial appendages (meaning they’re there but you can’t use them). And if you have to travel to another part of the room, you crawl over. You slither on your hands and stomach. You even make a cursing noise that resembles hissing. Bingo. You’re in the REPTILE stage. If you’re normally the talkative, hyperverbal sort, you will find that imbibing alcohol not only loosens your tongue, but charges it electrically. First there is a noticeable rise in the volume of your voice. Soon you’ve got a built-in megaphone. Not only do you insult your friends in a voice that carries all the way to the next block, but you also reveal your darkest secrets to people you just met two hours ago. You stop talking and you start speechifying. You get pompous. Eventually you stop making sense. A sure sign that you’ve devolved to the POLITICIAN level, a stage closely related to reptiles particularly crocodiles (buwaya). It is here that you are at your most obnoxious. Fortunately the politician stage passes, although the duration varies from person to person. Some verbose types can go on for hours, in which case it is necessary to force feed them several kilos of polvoron (a very effective mouth sealant). On the other hand, you could tape everything they say, and make some bucks through good old honest blackmail. You keep on drinking, and the alcohol content of your blood continues to rise. Your brains are getting pickled. If you should insist upon driving yourself home, you will make things really easy for the mortuary people. They wouldn’t have to embalm you anymore, they can just stick you in a jar and put you under bright lights for your grieving relatives. You can’t even crawl anymore, so in your warped state of mind, you attempt to swim on the floor. This is either the Sammy the Sperm phase, in which you regress to the time you were racing several thousand other sperm cells to reach that egg, or the FISH phase, fish being lower down the food chain. Soon your body refuses to take any more pickling, and goes to sleep on you. You pass out on whatever surface you happen to be on. Hopefully you land on a surface that is not conducive to pneumonia. (This is why you must make sure friends are present when you drink. If you get smashed, you can be reasonably sure they won’t leave you on the street to get run over by a truck.). When you’ve lost consciousness, you’ve gone as far down the evolutionary ladder as you can. You’re not even a living organism anymore, you’re a ROCK. The next morning, the process of evolution starts up again. You wake up, and you ask. “How did I get here? Where am I? What’s my name?” Your mouth tastes like toxic waste, battery acid, or something that you forgot to put in the refrigerator that developed green spots. Your head is being bludgeoned at regular intervals with an invisible bag of shot.   You mouth vile things – you’re a politician. You crawl toward the bathroom – you’re a reptile. You stand on your legs to reach the sink – you’re a monkey. You throw up, and between heaves, you swear never to touch The Vodka from Hell again. You’re making resolutions you know you won’t keep – Congratulations, you’re human again.

KUNG MAMILI ANG DALAGA

KUNG MAMILI ANG DALAGA Nang may labinlimang Disyembre pa lamang ang dalagang aking naging kaibiga’y ganito ang laging kanyang bulay-bulay “Pagka’t ang ganda ko’y di pangkaraniwan ay pipili ako ng isang liligaw na bata, makisig, mabait, mayaman.” Nang dumalawampung taon ang dalaga at ang pinipili’y di pa rin makita’y ganito ang kanyang nagunita tila: “Hindi kailangan kundi man pustura o kaya ay hindi sagana sa k’walta kung bata’t mabait ay maaari na.” Nang magdalawampu’t lima at hindi rin yata sumisigid ang isda sa pai’y ganito ang kanyang parating dasalin: “Ang gulang? Hindi ko aalumanahin, may kabaitan lang na maituturing kahit matanda na’y puede na sa akin.” At nang tumatlumpu’t ni sinoman wari’y wala nang mabuyong sa kanya’y gumiri tahas na sinabing wa(ang pagkabali: “Ngayon kahit sino’y walang tangi-tangi huwag lang di mayrong sa aki’y bumati.”

Kutsu-kutsu

Kutsu-kutsu Siling nila, hambal kuno, Ambot basta kuno-kuno, Indi ako, ginsugid ko lang, May kulang, may sobra, Wala mahibal-an Basta may kutsu-kutso Nga may kamatu-oran, May kutsu-kutso man Nga patu-patu lang! Hutik diri, hutik didto, “Atun-aton lang ini, Indi ka manugid bisan kay sin-o” Amo ini masami ang pauna Sang isa ka kutsukutsera Sa iya nga pagpa-ambit Sang isa ka kutsu-kutso. “Huo, sige, masaligan mo ako” Ini naman ang pangako Sang isa ka gusto mag-ambit Nga kutsu-kutsero. Kag ila saluhan ang isa ka kutsu-kutso, Nangakig, nagyubit, nagkadlaw, naghagikhik, Kailinit, kailinit…kanamit, kanamit, Indi sila daluk kay sang nahibaluan nagapaambit, Kutsu-kutso lang ugaling nga indi man tul-id! Pagtalikod ni kutsu-kutsera, Nasugata ni kutsu-kutsero ang isa pa, “Dali diri, atun-aton lang ini, Indi ka manugid, ha?” “Aba, huo, ano ina? Masaligan mo ako” Kag sila liwat nag-ambitanay sang ila Kutsu-kutso…. Sa pihak nga bahin, si kutsu-kutsera nga nagtalikod, Nakasugata man sang isa niya ka kaupod, “Dali diri, atun-aton lang ini” “Sige, ikaw sa sakon makasalig gid” Kag ang kutsu-kutso nga ila sugid, Nagbuhin, nagdugang, naglapta, Daw kagaw nga sa hangin ginbuga!

My Father Goes To Court (Carlos Bulosan)

My Father Goes To Court (Carlos Bulosan) When I was four, I lived with my mother and brothers and sisters in a small town on the island of Luzon. Father’s farm had been destroyed in 1918 by one of our sudden Philippine floods, so several years afterwards we all lived in the town though he preferred living in the country. We had as a next door neighbour a very rich man, whose sons and daughters seldom came out of the house. While we boys and girls played and sang in the sun, his children stayed inside and kept the windows closed. His house was so tall that his children could look in the window of our house and watched us played, or slept, or ate, when there was any food in the house to eat. Now, this rich man’s servants were always frying and cooking something good, and the aroma of the food was wafted down to us form the windows of the big house. We hung about and took all the wonderful smells of the food into our beings. Sometimes, in the morning, our whole family stood outside the windows of the rich man’s house and listened to the musical sizzling of thick strips of bacon or ham. I can remember one afternoon when our neighbour’s servants roasted three chickens. The chickens were young and tender and the fat that dripped into the burning coals gave off an enchanting odour. We watched the servants turn the beautiful birds and inhaled the heavenly spirit that drifted out to us. Some days the rich man appeared at a window and glowered down at us. He looked at us one by one, as though he were condemning us. We were all healthy because we went out in the sun and bathed in the cool water of the river that flowed from the mountains into the sea. Sometimes we wrestled with one another in the house before we went to play. We were always in the best of spirits and our laughter was contagious. Other neighbours who passed by our house often stopped in our yard and joined us in laughter. As time went on, the rich man’s children became thin and anaemic, while we grew even more robust and full of life. Our faces were bright and rosy, but theirs were pale and sad. The rich man started to cough at night; then he coughed day and night. His wife began coughing too. Then the children started to cough, one after the other. At night their coughing sounded like the barking of a herd of seals. We hung outside their windows and listened to them. We wondered what happened. We knew that they were not sick from the lack of nourishment because they were still always frying something delicious to eat. One day the rich man appeared at a window and stood there a long time. He looked at my sisters, who had grown fat in laughing, then at my brothers, whose arms and legs were like the molave, which is the sturdiest tree in the Philippines. He banged down the window and ran through his house, shutting all the windows. From that day on, the windows of our neighbour’s house were always closed. The children did not come out anymore. We could still hear the servants cooking in the kitchen, and no matter how tight the windows were shut, the aroma of the food came to us in the wind and drifted gratuitously into our house. One morning a policeman from the presidencia came to our house with a sealed paper. The rich man had filed a complaint against us. Father took me with him when he went to the town clerk and asked him what it was about. He told Father the man claimed that for years we had been stealing the spirit of his wealth and food. When the day came for us to appear in court, father brushed his old Army uniform and borrowed a pair of shoes from one of my brothers. We were the first to arrive. Father sat on a chair in the centre of the courtroom. Mother occupied a chair by the door. We children sat on a long bench by the wall. Father kept jumping up from his chair and stabbing the air with his arms, as though we were defending himself before an imaginary jury. The rich man arrived. He had grown old and feeble; his face was scarred with deep lines. With him was his young lawyer. Spectators came in and almost filled the chairs. The judge entered the room and sat on a high chair. We stood in a hurry and then sat down again. After the courtroom preliminaries, the judge looked at the Father. “Do you have a lawyer?” he asked. “I don’t need any lawyer, Judge,” he said. “Proceed,” said the judge. The rich man’s lawyer jumped up and pointed his finger at Father. “Do you or you do not agree that you have been stealing the spirit of the complaint’s wealth and food?” “I do not!” Father said. “Do you or do you not agree that while the complaint’s servants cooked and fried fat legs of lamb or young chicken breast you and your family hung outside his windows and inhaled the heavenly spirit of the food?” “I agree.” Father said. “Do you or do you not agree that while the complaint and his children grew sickly and tubercular you and your family became strong of limb and fair in complexion?” “I agree.” Father said. “How do you account for that?” Father got up and paced around, scratching his head thoughtfully. Then he said, “I would like to see the children of complaint, Judge.” “Bring in the children of the complaint.” They came in shyly. The spectators covered their mouths with their hands, they were so amazed to see the children so thin and pale. The children walked silently to a bench and sat down without looking up. They stared at the floor and moved their hands uneasily. Father could not say anything at first. He just stood by his chair and looked at them. Finally he said, “I should like to cross – examine the complaint.” “Proceed.” “Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your wealth and became a laughing family while yours became morose and sad?” Father said. “Yes.” “Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your food by hanging outside your windows when your servants cooked it?” Father said. “Yes.” “Then we are going to pay you right now,” Father said. He walked over to where we children were sitting on the bench and took my straw hat off my lap and began filling it up with centavo pieces that he took out of his pockets. He went to Mother, who added a fistful of silver coins. My brothers threw in their small change. “May I walk to the room across the hall and stay there for a few minutes, Judge?” Father said. “As you wish.” “Thank you,” father said. He strode into the other room with the hat in his hands. It was almost full of coins. The doors of both rooms were wide open. “Are you ready?” Father called. “Proceed.” The judge said. The sweet tinkle of the coins carried beautifully in the courtroom. The spectators turned their faces toward the sound with wonder. Father came back and stood before the complaint. “Did you hear it?” he asked. “Hear what?” the man asked. “The spirit of the money when I shook this hat?” he asked. “Yes.” “Then you are paid,” Father said. The rich man opened his mouth to speak and fell to the floor without a sound. The lawyer rushed to his aid. The judge pounded his gravel. “Case dismissed.” He said. Father strutted around the courtroom the judge even came down from his high chair to shake hands with him. “By the way,” he whispered, “I had an uncle who died laughing.” “You like to hear my family laugh, Judge?” Father asked? “Why not?” “Did you hear that children?” father said. My sisters started it. The rest of us followed them soon the spectators were laughing with us, holding their bellies and bending over the chairs. And the laughter of the judge was the loudest of all.

Balangingi

IKAW

Ikaw

 

Ikaw ang bigay ng Maykapal
Tugon sa aking dasal
Upang sa lahat ng panahon
Bawat pagkakataon
Ang ibigin ko’y ikaw
Ikaw ang tanglaw sa ‘king mundo
Kabiyak nitong puso ko
Wala ni kahati mang saglit
Na sa iyo’y may papalit
Ngayon at kailanma’y ikaw
Ang lahat ng aking galaw
Ang sanhi ay ikaw
Kung may bukas mang hinaharap
Dahil may isang ikaw
Kulang ang magpakailanpaman
Upang bawat sandali ay
Upang mulit-muli ay
Ang ibigin ay ikaw

Bonsai

Bonsai
All that I love
I fold over once
And once again
And keep in a box
Or a slit in a hollow post
Or in my shoe.

All that I love?
Why, yes, but for the moment ---
And for all time, both.
Something that folds and keeps easy,
Son’s note or Dad’s one gaudy tie,
A roto picture of a young queen,
A blue Indian shawl, even
A money bill.

It’s utter sublimation
A feat, this heart’s control
Moment to moment
To scale all love down
To a cupped hand’s size,

Till seashells are broken pieces
From God’s own bright teeth.
And life and love are real
Things you can run and
Breathless hand over
To the merest child.

- Edith L. Tiempo

Dandansoy

Dandansoy


Dandansoy, bayaan ta icao
Pauli aco sa Payao
Ugaling con icao hidlauon
Ang Payao imo lang lantauon.

Dandansoy, con imo apason
Bisan tubig di magbalon
Ugaling con icao uhauon
Sa dalan magbobonbobon.

Convento, diin ang cura?
Municipio, diin justicia?
Yari si dansoy maqueja.
Maqueja sa paghigugma

Ang panyo mo cag panyo co
Dala diri cay tambijon co
Ugaling con magcasilo
Bana ta icao,asawa mo aco.

The Sadness Collector (Merlinda Bobis)

The Sadness Collector (Merlinda Bobis)

And she will not stop eating, another pot, another plate, another mouthful of sadness, and she will grow bigger and bigger, and she will burst.

On the bed, six – year – old Rica braces herself, waiting for the dreaded explosion –

Nothing. No big bang. Because she’s been a good girl. Her tears are not even a mouthful tonight. And maybe their neighbours in the run – down apartment have been careful, too. From every pot and plate, they must have scraped off their leftover sighs and hidden them somewhere unreachable. So Big Lady can’t get to them. So she can be saved from bursting.

Every night, no big bang really, but Rica listens anyway.

The house is quiet again. She breathes easier, lifting the sheets slowly from her face – a brow just unfurrowing, but eyes still wary and a mouth forming the old silent question – are you really there? She turns on the lamp. It’s girlie kitsch like the rest of the decor, from the dancing lady wallpaper to the row of Barbie dolls on a roseate plastic table. The tiny room is all pink bravado, hoping to compensate for the warped ceiling and stained floor. Even the unhinged window flaunts a family of pink paper rabbits.

Are you there?

Her father says she never shows herself to anyone. Big Lady only comes when you’re asleep to eat your sadness. She goes from house to house and eats the sadness of everyone, so she gets too fat. But there’s a lot of sadness in many houses, it just keeps on growing each day, so she can’t stop eating, and she can’t stop growing too.

Are you really that bid? How do you wear your hair?

Dios ko, if she eats all our mess, Rica, she might grow too fat and burst, so be a good girl and save her by not being sad – hoy, stop whimpering, I said, and go to bed. Her father is not always patient with his storytelling.

All quiet now. She’s gone.

Since Rica was three, when her father told her about Big Lady just after her mother left for Paris, she was always listening intently to all the night – noises from the kitchen. No, that sound is not the scurrying of mice – she’s actually checking the plates now, lifting the lid off the rice pot, peeking into cups for sadness, both overt and unspoken. To Rica, it always tastes salty, like tears, even her father’s funny look each time she asks him to read her again the letters from Paris.

She has three boxes of them, one for each year, though the third box is not even half – full. All of them tied with Paris ribbons. The first year, her mother sent all colours of the rainbow for her long, unruly hair, maybe because her father did not know how to make it more graceful. He must have written her long letters, asking about how to pull the mass of curls away from the face and tie them neatly the way he gathered, into some semblance of order, his own nightly longings.

It took some time for him to perfect the art of making a pony – tail. Then he discovered a trick unknown to even the best hairdressers. Instead of twisting the bunch of hair to make sure it does not come undone before it’s tied, one can rotate the whole body. Rica simply had to turn around in place, while her father held the gathered hair above her head. Just like dancing, really.

She never forgets, talaga naman, the aunties whisper among themselves these days. A remarkable child. She was only a little thing then, but she noticed all, didn’t she, never missed anything, committed even details to memory. A very smart kid, but too serious, a sad kid.

They must have guessed that, recently, she has cheated on her promise to behave and save Big Lady. But only on nights when her father comes home late and drunk, and refuses to read the old letters from Paris – indeed, she has been a very good girl. She’s six and grown up now, so, even if his refusal has multiplied beyond her ten fingers, she always makes sure that her nightly tears remained small and few. Like tonight, when she hoped her father would come home early, as he promised again. Earlier, Rica watched TV to forget, to make sure the tears won’t amount to a mouthful. She hates waiting. Big Lady hates that, too, because then she’ll have to clean up till the early hours of the morning.

Why Paris? Why three years – and even more? Aba, this is getting too much now. The aunties never agree with her mother’s decision to work there, on a fake visa, as a domestic helper – ay naku, taking care of other people’s children, while, across the ocean, her own baby cries herself to sleep? Talaga naman! She wants to earn good money and build us a house. Remember, I only work in a factory... Her father had always defended his wife, until recently, when all talk about her return was shelved. It seems she must extend her stay, because her employer might help her to become “legal.” Then she can come home for a visit and go back there to work some more –

The lid clatters off the pot. Beneath her room, the kitchen is stirring again. Rica sits up on the bed – the big one has returned? But she made sure the pot and plates were clean, even the cups, before she went to bed. She turns off the lamp to listen in the dark. Expectant ears, hungry for the phone’s overseas beep. Her mother used to call each month and write her postcards, also long love letters, even if she couldn’t read yet. With happy snaps, of course. Earlier this year, she sent one of herself and the new baby of her employer.

Cutlery noise. Does she also check them? This has never happened before, her coming back after a lean meal. Perhaps, she’s licking a spoon for any trace of saltiness, searching between the prongs of a fork. Unknown to Rica, Big Lady is wise, an old hand in this business. She senses that there’s more to a mouthful of sadness than meets the tongue. A whisper of salt, even the smallest nudge to the palate, can betray a century of hidden grief. Perhaps, she understands that, for all its practice, humanity can never conceal the daily act of futility at the dinner table. As we feed continually, we also acknowledge the perennial nature of our hunger. Each time we bring food to our mouths, the gut – emptiness that we attempt to fill inevitably contaminates our cutlery, plates, cups, glasses, our whole table. It is this residual contamination, our individual portions of grief, that she eats, so we do not die from them – but what if we don’t eat? Then we can claim self – sufficiency, a fullness from birth, perhaps. Then we won’t betray our hunger.

But Rica was not philosophical at four years old, when she had to be cajoled, tricked, ordered, then scolded severely before she finished her meal, if she touched it at all. Rica understood her occasional hunger strikes quite simply. She knew that these dinner quarrels with her father, and sometimes her aunties, ensured dire consequences. Each following day, she always made stick drawings of Big Lady with an ever – increasing girth, as she was sure the lady had had a big meal the night before.

Mouth curved downward, she’s sad like her meals. No, she wears a smile, she’s happy because she’s always full. Sharp eyes, they can see in the dark, light – bulb eyes, and big teeth for chewing forever. She can hardly walk, because her belly’s so heavy, she’s pregnant with leftovers. No, she doesn’t walk, she flies like a giant cloud and she’s not heavy at all, she only looks heavy. And she doesn’t want us to be sad, so she eats all our tears and sighs. But she can’t starve, can she? Of course, she likes sadness, it’s food.

Fascination, fear and a kinship drawn from trying to save each other. Big Lady saves Rica from sadness; Rica saves Big Lady from bursting by not being sad. An ambivalent relationship, confusing, but certainly a source of comfort. And always Big Lady as object of attention. Those days when Rica drew stick – drawings of her, she made sure the big one was always adorned with pretty baubles and make – up. She even drew her with a Paris ribbon to tighten her belly. Then she added a chic hat to complete the picture.

Crimson velvet with a black satin bow. Quite a change from all the girlie kitsch – that her mother had dredged from Paris’ unfashionable side of town? The day it arrived in the mail, Rica was about to turn six. A perfect Parisienne winter hat for a tiny head in the tropics. It came with a bank – draft for her party.

She did not try it on, it looked strange, so different from the Barbies and pink paper rabbits. This latest gift was unlike her mother, something was missing. Rica turned it inside out, searching – on TV, Magic Man can easily pull a rabbit or a dove out of his hat, just like that, always. But this tale was not part of her father’s repertoire. He told her not to be silly when she asked him to be Magic Man and pull out Paris – but can she eat as far as Paris? Can she fly from here to there overnight? Are their rice pots also full of sad leftovers? How salty?

Nowadays, her father makes sure he comes home late each night, so he won’t have to answer the questions, especially about the baby in the photograph. So he need not to improvise further on his three – year – old tall tale.

There it is again, the cutlery clunking against a plate – or scraping the bottom of a cup? She’s searching for the hidden mouthfuls and platefuls and potfuls. Cupboards are opened. No, nothing there, big one, nothing – Rica’s eyes are glued shut. The sheets rise and fall with her breathing. She wants to leave the bed, sneak into the kitchen and check out this most unusual return and thoroughness.

That’s the rice pot being overturned –

Her breaths make and unmake a hillock on the streets –

A plate shatters on the floor –

Back to a foetal curl, knees almost brushing chin –

Another plate crushes –

She screams –

The pot is hurled against the wall –

She keeps screaming as she ruins out of the room, down to the kitchen –

And the cutlery, glasses, cups, more plates –

Big Lady’s angry, Big Lady’s hungry, Big Lady’s turning the house upside down –

Breaking it everywhere –

Her throat is weaving sound, as if it were all that it never knew –

“SHUT UP – !”

Big Lady wants to break all to get to the heart of the matter, where it’s the saltiest. In the vein of a plate, within the aluminium bottom of a pot, in the copper fold of a spoon, deep in the curve of a cup’s handle –

Ropes and ropes of scream –

“I SAID, SHUT UP!”

Her cheek stings. She collapses on the floor before his feet.

“I didn’t mean to, Dios ko po, I never meant to –“

Her dazed eyes make out the broken plates, the dented pot, the shards of cups, glasses, the cutlery everywhere –

He’s hiccupping drunkenly all over her –

“I didn’t mean to, Rica, I love you, baby, I’ll never let you go –“ His voice is hoarse with anger and remorse.

“She came back, Papa –“

“She can’t take you away from me –“

“She’s here again –“

“Just because she’s ‘legal’ now –“

“She might burst, Papa –“

“That whore - !” His hands curl into fists on her back.

Big Lady knows, has always known. This feast will last her a lifetime, if she does not burst tonight.

The Mats by Francisco Arcellana

The Mats
By Francisco Arcellana

For the Angeles family, Mr. Angeles'; homecoming from his periodic inspection trips was always an occasion for celebration. But his homecoming--from a trip to the South--was fated to be more memorable than, say, of the others.

He had written from Mariveles: "I have just met a marvelous matweaver--a real artist--and I shall have a surprise for you. I asked him to weave a sleeping-mat for every one of the family. He is using many different colors and for each mat the dominant color is that of our respective birthstones. I am sure that the children will be very pleased. I know you will be. I can hardly wait to show them to you."

Nana Emilia read the letter that morning, and again and again every time she had a chance to leave the kitchen. In the evening when all the children were home from school she asked her oldest son, José, to read the letter at dinner table. The children became very much excited about the mats, and talked about them until late into the night. This she wrote her husband when she labored over a reply to him. For days after that, mats continued to be the chief topic of conversation among the children.

Finally, from Lopez, Mr. Angeles wrote again: "I am taking the Bicol Express tomorrow. I have the mats with me, and they are beautiful. God willing, I shall be home to join you at dinner."

The letter was read aloud during the noon meal. Talk about the mats flared up again like wildfire.

"I like the feel of mats," Antonio, the third child, said. "I like the smell of new mats."

"Oh, but these mats are different," interposed Susanna, the fifth child. "They have our names woven into them, and in our ascribed colors, too."

The children knew what they were talking about: they knew just what a decorative mat was like; it was not anything new or strange in their experience. That was why they were so excited about the matter. They had such a mat in the house, one they seldom used, a mat older than any one of them.

This mat had been given to Nana Emilia by her mother when she and Mr. Angeles were married, and it had been with them ever since. It had served on the wedding night, and had not since been used except on special occasions.

It was a very beautiful mat, not really meant to be ordinarily used. It had green leaf borders, and a lot of gigantic red roses woven into it. In the middle, running the whole length of the mat, was the lettering: Emilia y Jaime Recuerdo

The letters were in gold.

Nana Emilia always kept that mat in her trunk. When any one of the family was taken ill, the mat was brought out and the patient slept on it, had it all to himself. Every one of the children had some time in their lives slept on it; not a few had slept on it more than once.

Most of the time the mat was kept in Nana Emilia's trunk, and when it was taken out and spread on the floor the children were always around to watch. At first there had been only Nana Emilia to see the mat spread. Then a child--a girl--watched with them. The number of watchers increased as more children came.

The mat did not seem to age. It seemed to Nana Emilia always as new as when it had been laid on the nuptial bed. To the children it seemed as new as the first time it was spread before them. The folds and creases always new and fresh. The smell was always the smell of a new mat. Watching the intricate design was an endless joy. The children's pleasure at the golden letters even before they could work out the meaning was boundless. Somehow they were always pleasantly shocked by the sight of the mat: so delicate and so consummate the artistry of its weave.

Now, taking out that mat to spread had become a kind of ritual. The process had become associated with illness in the family. Illness, even serious illness, had not been infrequent. There had been deaths...

In the evening Mr. Angeles was with his family. He had brought the usual things home with him. There was a lot of fruits, as always (his itinerary carried him through the fruit-growing provinces): pineapples, lanzones, chicos, atis, santol, sandia, guyabano, avocado, according to the season. He had also brought home a jar of preserved sweets from Lopez.

Putting away the fruit, sampling them, was as usual accomplished with animation and lively talk. Dinner was a long affair. Mr. Angeles was full of stories about his trip but would interrupt his tales with: "I could not sleep nights thinking of the young ones. They should never be allowed to play in the streets. And you older ones should not stay out too late at night."

The stories petered out and dinner was over. Putting away the dishes and wiping the dishes and wiping the table clean did not at all seem tedious. Yet Nana and the children, although they did not show it, were all on edge about the mats.

Finally, after a long time over his cigar, Mr. Angeles rose from his seat at the head of the table and crossed the room to the corner where his luggage had been piled. From the heap he disengaged a ponderous bundle.

Taking it under one arm, he walked to the middle of the room where the light was brightest. He dropped the bundle and, bending over and balancing himself on his toes, he strained at the cord that bound it. It was strong, it would not break, it would not give way. He tried working at the knots. His fingers were clumsy, they had begun shaking.

He raised his head, breathing heavily, to ask for the scissors. Alfonso, his youngest boy, was to one side of him with the scissors ready.

Nana Emilia and her eldest girl who had long returned from the kitchen were watching the proceedings quietly.

One swift movement with the scissors, snip! and the bundle was loose.

Turning to Nana Emilia, Mr. Angeles joyfully cried: "These are the mats, Miling." Mr. Angeles picked up the topmost mat in the bundle.

"This, I believe, is yours, Miling."

Nana Emilia stepped forward to the light, wiping her still moist hands against the folds of her skirt, and with a strange young shyness received the mat. The children watched the spectacle silently and then broke into delighted, though a little self-conscious, laughter. Nana Emilia unfolded the mat without a word. It was a beautiful mat: to her mind, even more beautiful than the one she received from her mother on her wedding. There was a name in the very center of it: EMILIA. The letters were large, done in green. Flowers--cadena-de-amor--were woven in and out among the letters. The border was a long winding twig of cadena-de-amor.

The children stood about the spreading mat. The air was punctuated by their breathless exclamations of delight.

"It is beautiful, Jaime; it is beautiful!" Nana Emilia's voice broke, and she could not say any more.

"And this, I know, is my own," said Mr. Angeles of the next mat in the bundle. The mat was rather simply decorated, the design almost austere, and the only colors used were purple and gold. The letters of the name Jaime were in purple.

"And this, for your, Marcelina."

Marcelina was the oldest child. She had always thought her name too long; it had been one of her worries with regard to the mat. "How on earth are they going to weave all of the letters of my name into my mat?" she had asked of almost everyone in the family. Now it delighted her to see her whole name spelled out on the mat, even if the letters were a little small. Besides, there was a device above her name which pleased Marcelina very much. It was in the form of a lyre, finely done in three colors. Marcelina was a student of music and was quite a proficient pianist.

"And this is for you, José."

José was the second child. He was a medical student already in the third year of medical school. Over his name the symbol of Aesculapius was woven into the mat.

"You are not to use this mat until the year of your internship," Mr. Angeles was saying.

"This is yours, Antonia."

"And this is yours, Juan."

"And this is yours, Jesus."

Mat after mat was unfolded. On each of the children's mats there was somehow an appropriate device.

At least all the children had been shown their individual mats. The air was filled with their excited talk, and through it all Mr. Angeles was saying over and over again in his deep voice:

"You are not to use these mats until you go to the University."

Then Nana Emilia noticed bewilderingly that there were some more mats remaining to be unfolded.

"But Jaime," Nana Emilia said, wondering, with evident repudiation, "there are some more mats."

Only Mr. Angeles seemed to have heard Nana Emilia's words. He suddenly stopped talking, as if he had been jerked away from a pleasant fantasy. A puzzled, reminiscent look came into his eyes, superseding the deep and quiet delight that had been briefly there, and when he spoke his voice was different.

"Yes, Emilia," said Mr. Angeles, "There are three more mats to unfold. The others who aren't here..."

Nana Emilia caught her breath; there was a swift constriction in her throat; her face paled and she could not say anything.

The self-centered talk of the children also died. There was a silence as Mr. Angeles picked up the first of the remaining mats and began slowly unfolding it.

The mat was almost as austere in design as Mr. Angeles' own, and it had a name. There was no symbol or device above the name; only a blank space, emptiness.

The children knew the name. But somehow the name, the letters spelling the name, seemed strange to them.

Then Nana Emilia found her voice.

"You know, Jaime, you didn't have to," Nana Emilia said, her voice hurt and surely frightened.

Mr. Angeles held his tears back; there was something swift and savage in the movement.

"Do you think I'd forgotten? Do you think I had forgotten them? Do you think I could forget them?

"This is for you, Josefina!

"And this is for you, Victoria!

"And this is for you, Concepcion."

Mr. Angeles called the names rather than uttered them.

"Don't, Jaime, please don't," was all that Nana Emilia managed to say.

"Is it fair to forget them? Would it be just to disregard them?" Mr. Angeles demanded rather than asked.

His voice had risen shrill, almost hysterical; it was also stern and sad, and somehow vindictive. Mr. Angeles had spoken almost as if he were a stranger.

Also, he had spoken as if from a deep, grudgingly-silent, long-bewildered sorrow.

The children heard the words exploding in the silence. They wanted to turn away and not see the face of their father. But they could neither move nor look away; his eyes held them, his voice held them where they were. They seemed rooted to the spot.

Nana Emilia shivered once or twice, bowed her head, gripped her clasped hands between her thighs.

There was a terrible hush. The remaining mats were unfolded in silence. The names which were with infinite slowness revealed, seemed strange and stranger still; the colors not bright but deathly dull; the separate letters, spelling out the names of the dead among them, did not seem to glow or shine with a festive sheen as did the other living names.

Bringing the Dolls by Merlie Alunan

Bringing the Dolls 

Merlie Alunan

Two dolls in rags and tatters,
one missing an arm and a leg,
the other blind in one eye—I grabbed them from her arms,
“No,” I said, “they cannot come.”
Each tight baggage
I had packed
only for the barest need:
no room for sentiment or memory
to clutter with loose ends
my stern resolve. I reasoned,
even a child must learn
she cannot take what must be left behind.
And so the boat turned seaward,
a smart wind blowing dry
the stealthy tears I could not wipe.
Then I saw—rags, tatters and all—
there among the neat trim packs,
the dolls I ruled to leave behind.
Her silence should have warned me
she knew her burdens
as I knew mine:
her clean white years unlived—
and paid my price.
She battened on a truth
she knew I too must own:
when what’s at stake
is loyalty or love,
hers are the true rights.
Her own faiths she must keep, not I.

Breaking Through

BREAKING THROUGH

Myrna Pena Reyes 

 

Haltingly I undo the knots 

around your parcel that came this morning.

A small box should require little labor,

but you’ve always been thorough, 

tying things tight and well. 

the twine lengthens, 

curls beside the box.

 I see your fingers pull,

 snapping the knots into place 

(once your belt slapped sharply against my skin) 

You hoped the package would hold its shape 

across 10,000 miles of ocean. 

It’s not a bride’s superstition 

that leaves the scissors in the drawer.

 Unraveling what you’ve done with love 

I practice more than patience 

a kind of thoroughness 

I couldn’t see before. 

 

I shall not let it pass. 

My father, 

this undoing is what binds us.