Maguindanao

that stupid war: rough study by ~yatoy on deviantART

Nin huli ta an buhay
yaon sa saiyang kamot,
paghona niya kaya niya
na tulos ining ratakon

asin bawion.
Siya na bako man kaglalang,
hinuhugot an hinangos
hale sa daghan

nin mga tawong
mawot sana man magkontra
sa kaputikan.

Sa likod nin lente,
saindang nahiling an balang
may ukit nin saindang ngaran.

Mamundo maging Burak

Mauran makusog,
dangan masaldang nin pwerte.
Mahayop an duros asin
haros mapugto an kugos

na nagtatao sakuya nin buhay.
Aking sadit na sana
an minatino sakuya
kun bako an putakti

na lantad akong hinahabasan;
minadulok sana pag may kaipuhan.

Sa poon, masakit. Ibinubuyangyang mo
an saimong sadiri, maray na sana
ta dae ka mapapasupog
pag dae ka tinitino.

Maray pa an politikong
puro ka-lapaan an imahe,
pinag-uulayan mantang huya ako,
nagpu-porbar na hapihapon

an saimong kipot na daghan
para haleon an kulog boot
asin mga kaanggotan,
pero duros sana an naghahadok.

Doorstep

Love, here I am.
The wounds have healed
and my callused feet
have now grown well.

I have grown tired
of seeking you, Love.
Oh those cold, restless nights
that I've spent in search of you.

Love, here I am.
Deliver yourself to me
for I have prepared
a cozy home for you.

And the sun,
has gone down again.
But I;ve heard not -
not a single knock on my door.

Love, here I am.
In the morning,
I hope, I could find you
waiting at my doorstep.

Photo Courtesy of Maryam Xelene del Pilar

Daydream

On the other end of the room
that promised the growth
of the human mind,
you sat down away from me

at the other corner,
thinking of something else.

How I want to unravel
the mystery beneath those buttons
and uncover you
like a never-before-read book,

with worlds waiting
for me to discover them.

How I want to peruse
the very features that lie in wait
for me to unwrap;
I will not wear them down

rather, hold them dearly.
I will trek each curve with passion

that keep the climbers hiking.
And your hair will live freely
between my fingers all the while
I'm kissing you.

Now, it's your turn to write something about this...(Guernica by Pablo Picasso)

Please e-mail me at these addresses:
unholy_gm@yahoo.com
irose103008@yahoo.com

The Breeze tells me, Loved One... by Antonio Machado

The breeze tells me, loved one,
of your pure white dress . . .
My eyes may not see you,
but my heart awaits.

The wind has brought me
your name in the morning;
the echo of your step
resounds on the hill . . .
My eyes may not see you
but my heart awaits.

In the somber towers
the bells are tolling . . .
My eyes may not see you
but my heart awaits.

The falling hammer
tells me of the black box;
and the place for the grave,
the sound of the spade . . .
My eyes may not see you
but my heart awaits.

Rokeby Venus (ekphrasis)

Painting by Diego Velázquez


I could only but wonder
what hands carved your ardent curves.
The young seraph hides its tower
upon seeing you.

How I wish you would at least
turn to look at me
or that Cupid
move the mirror to the left.

The mirror spells envy
to every other breathing woman
as you look at it.

How I sometimes wish
I were a god that could morph
into a mirror myself.

To A Cough

You who always bother and pester
my chest, lie somewhere
near my heart. You,
whom I can't

get rid of. But my persistence
in ousting you from my throat
deprives you of getting near
my heart. My friends tell me

that it is you I always utter.
The pain that accompany you
remains with me still.

You are a curse.
I ask you to leave me
but you insist in dwelling.

Frustration

You clog the veins of my pen
and cease its blood from flowing.
You are a monster - frightening
that whenever you draw near,

my hands lose the strength
and I get buried under the earth
with soil covering my feet
up to my mouth.

Seeing what there is in front of me
pains me and I push my mind
to think that it's not there -
human despair; all the horrors

gather around me while my usefulness -
my body shrinks to a pair of eyes.
What good is there then for having a mind
that can cut the dark,

if it is only the shadow
of what there is
that it could cut?
And the thereness lay before me.

To A Deaf and Blind Muse (A Un Sordo y Ciego Musa)

You, who cannot hear
my singing, then what use
is there for writing my songs
and heaving breaths?

You, who did not choose
that in the mornings,
you could not hear
the rooster crowing,
the birds singing
and my heart that vainly
tries to let its voice
reach your heart.

You, who was chosen
not to hear the evils -
the explosion of bombs
and the cries of the wounded.
I envy you for being pure
in soul - for having not heard me
cursing your fate
as you can never hear me.

It must have been hard -
I know for there are times
that I walk beneath hurricanes
but you. who never saw
how happy the world has been
for having captivated a muse
in your form.
And you never see the sun setting;

that with all its grandeur,
you may ask me how it felt.
I'd spell out in your palm
the heat that it gave me.
Oh lovely muse, be not afraid.
You may not know the singing of birds
or the setting of the sun,
but this I promise you:

That at the end of each day,
I'll grab your hand and open it.
I'll spell in your palm
how everything felt.
Love is not something to hear,
also not a figure to see.
But I will let the warmth
reach you.

I'll grab your hand
and place it on my chest.

Amnesia II

I used to run along
in the fields
together with the winds
that made me feel safe.

They blew my hair away
and I closed my eyes;
raised my arms and glided
through the gentle breeze.

My feet slid over the grass
and knocked off
the residing dew on the tips
of the blades.

There were those mornings
that I went to te fields.
I whistled to summon the winds
but they did not respond.

On a hot summer morning,
the blades of grass were dry
and the earth cracked
under every stepI make.

To My Friends (A Mi Amigos)

When I am but a heap of ashes,
do not weep over me
that your tears will fall on me
and will try to bind me.

You know how much I hate
the lack of freedom.
Throw the remains of my marrow
somewhere where light reaches it.

Plant a seed in me.
Nurture it so that one day,
a tree will spring from me.

So that when the heat wears you down,
you can come to me and know
that I never left you.

-dyankayben-
11/07/09

Cuando soy solamente un montón de cenizas,
no llore sobre mí
que sus rasgones caerán en mí
e intentarán atarme.

Usted sabe cuánto odio
la carencia de la libertad.
Lance los restos de mi tuétano
en alguna parte donde la luz la alcanza.

Plante una semilla en mí.
Consolídela de modo que un día,
un árbol suelte de mí.

De modo que cuando el calor le agota,
usted pueda venir a mí y saber
que nunca le dejé.

To A Hand

There was this hand
that was generous in spreading fear,
not love to its surroundings.
He held out his palm

while the back of his hand,
his fists are full of blisters and boils.
He handed me a shining apple
and told me to eat it.

I jumped in joy for being one
of the few blessed - not with frost
from his hands but fire

that seemed to warm my soul.
I bit the apple - smiling.
And it was my last.