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.