original sadness

There is no difficult way to sadness.
This has always been our open secret
Despite our efforts to cruise and get lost
In this sea of distractions, in someone’s arms,
Or in someone else’s. One day, we would find
Ourselves rooted again on where we had just
Left off. I understand poetry both knows
And doesn’t know why. We, it remains,
Are the only ones who absolutely do.
We believe we do. But when all else fails,
We would search for it, search for words
That would reveal glimpses of paradise,
And we would think of all the comely things
We can say with and without seeing them.
Maybe I simply understood the honey in pain,
Its heirloom tang indelible like promises.

poem in slate 2013

I almost forgot about this until someone gave me the heads up. My poem “Poetry as a Lesson in History” is one of the literary works published in the Slate 2013 Planner.

As stated in their official website, “the Slate Planner exhibits more stunning visual creations by local and international artists, both well-known and yet to be discovered. Be inspired by the works Kitkat Pecson, The Creative Dork, Vincent Raphael Aseo, JR Bumanglag, and Singaporean artist, Eeshaun. Aside from visual pieces, 2013 also features stirring literary works from local talents.”

Wow. Stirring. That’s a catchy adjective. So visit your nearest bookstore and grab a copy now. (Um, actually, you don’t grab. You ought to buy one).

introvert, extrovert

Call it serendipitous, but the enumeration of differences (or the demands of each) between the two coming into the picture today is very timely. Bottom line: opposites. Pointing out the specifics of both is fun and perplexing (and maybe even draining). 

And it seems it is much more fun and more perplexing (and maybe even more draining) when you work out a thread to connect the two. I guess that is the purpose of the ritual of living: to work things out, no matter the opposites, no matter the differences. If one really wants it to.

[ visit source of images here ]

almost in there: likhaan 6

Apparently, the news came to me a little bit late. I didn’t make it in the final contents of University of the Philippines Institute of Creative Writing’s Likhaan Journal 6, but a poem from the collection I submitted for possible inclusion got a little bit of mentioning in its preface or introduction written by Gemino H. Abad, the literary journal’s editor:

‘”There are quite a number of remarkable poems that I personally would not hesitate to include in an update of A Habit of Shores should I venture again into those woods “lovely, dark and deep”; for instances, each one for wholeness perfectly chiseled—Jov Almero’s “palindrome”; Miro Capili’s “Monet’s Last Yellow”; F. Jordan Carnice’s “Relativities”; Albert B. Casuga’s “Graffiti: Five Lenten Poems”; Nolin Adrian de Pedro’s “caxton”; Vincent Dioquino’s “candescence”; Jan Brandon Dollente’s “When I say the sky opens its mouth”; Eva Gubat’s “A Telling of Loss”; Pauline Lacanilao’s “A Crowded Bus Stops Abruptly”; Christine V. Lao’s “Swatches”; R Torres Pandan’s “Remembering Our Future”; Trish Shishikura’s “The Manner of Living”; Jaime Oscar M. Salazar’s “Clinch”; Arlene Yandug’s “Aporia.”’ 

Familiar (and respected) names are all over the place. If one of the master poets mentions my work in a note such as this, then I think it is worth saying the simple citation is rewarding. Thank you.


[ click here to view the journal in PDF ]

original atonement

The sincerest of apologies
takes the form of genius.
Or distance void of caustic
depths. This has been the doctrine
I have committed to: Every strike
of error is certain, spot on,
and denies excuses one must fear
becoming the child who grew up deaf
because no one listened to him,
listened to the truth he believes.
Yet man is forever in service
to inconsistencies. For each day
there is so much to relearn,
to untangle what is once wrought
with conviction. The colorblind,
for one, can tell that this orange
has never been that orange until later.
Always, there will be that something
or someone that brings grief in poetry.
But let the dark define the splendor
of things. Everyone must be hard
to love. Otherwise, an orange
from the market is all we need.

spoliarium and the 31st national book awards

I just met Juan Luna. His famous work that is, the Spoliarium. And it is spelled as such, not the often-used “Spolarium.” Many years ago, the nearest I could get into seeing it were on television, history books, art magazines, and the internet. I’ve been based in Manila for three years and haven’t gaped at it in person until last November 17. It’s like—as how a friend’s friend put it—being in Paris and not seeing the Mona Lisa at the Louvre Museum in Paris. Really embarrassing for any art enthusiast.

The 4.22 meters x 7.675 meters oil painting, housed in the National Museum of the Philippines, was Luna’s piece to the Madrid Art Exposition in 1884 which actually won him a gold medal. To say that it easily topped the said competition is an understatement. It depicts the aftermath of a gruesome spectacle in Rome that is a gladiatorial match. Spoliarium, according to the museum’s official site, refers to “the basement of the Roman Colosseum where the fallen and dying gladiators are dumped and devoid of their worldly possessions.”

 

The work is vast but the emotional force it contains is bigger, much more enormous than its canvas. Every wrinkle on every face, every wilted limb of each lifeless man constitutes to a story that transcends what it visually features: the frailty of human life, the impact of death, the everyday horror of what could happen next. Juan Luna’s Spoliarium—along with the museum’s other masterpieces by Fernando Amorsolo, Jose Joya, Cesar Legaspi, my favorites Ang Kiukok and Vicente Manansala, and many more— is proof that art remains one of man’s triumphant mementos that become richer, more profound, and more relevant in each passing time.

*

On the same day and in the same place, around five in the afternoon, I attended the 31st National Book Awards for the nomination of Ian Rosaless Casocot’s Beautiful Accidents in the Cirilo F. Bautista Prize for Short Fiction in English. (See full list here).

 

And, apparently, without prior knowledge, I could also be in the event for Under the Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry (edited by Khavn De La Cruz and Joel M. Toledo) nomination in the Manila Critics Circle Special Prize for a Book by an Independent Publisher. My longish piece “Stones” is one of the 150 poems featured in this collection.

 

Held in the venue’s magnificent old session hall, the whole affair felt like a night of overflowing champagne in the gilded age. Though both books lost in their respective categories, we had a sumptuous late dinner at Tao Yuan Restaurant in Malate we all felt like big winners. And in the end, our appetite was the bigger winner.

the amazingly extreme case of epic superlatives

Awesome? Epic? Great? Amazing? Super? Galing-galing? Sobra?

They all sound familiar, right? It is because they are the very same words we hear (and use) oftentimes, if not every day. And that reality is unsettling.

Why? I think our penchant for superlatives has just diminished our capability for precision, subtlety, and their unique varying gradients. Our critical mind’s supposedly surgical knives have become prehistoric stone tools.

How’s the food? Great. How’s your trip? Awesome. How’s the movie? Response these days usually falls under “epic” or “fail.” End of conversation. And please don’t get me started when it comes to books. I am a victim of my own complaint.

We’ve been there before (and still there, in fact) with “interesting” and “cute” labeled on things that range from puppies to the up-and-coming boy bands. Ambiguity abounds. In Sianne Ngai’s new book Our Aesthetic Categories: Zany, Cute, Interesting, as pointed out by Daily Beast reviewer Benjamin Lytal, “One of the big changes is this: we don’t use straightforward words of praise anymore.”

It seems we’ve simply embraced all the terms that sound bombastic, go beyond normal, on something bigger just to sound cool, just for the sake of it. Which is really an alarming practice.

Now imagine you’re a ballet dancer. Imagine you worked hard on stage as if it’s your last. Now, how does it feel when you ask a friend how’s your performance and you get an “It’s cool!” response? Fine? Maybe. But great? No. Definitely no. Maybe insult is what you’d be feeling. This is like appreciating the icing on the cake, never going beyond the surface.

But why do we do what we do? Why just eat the icing?

Maybe this is our communal protest against English professors who’ve made our college hell. Maybe we’ve simply adapted to the concept of “bigger is better” in our everyday language, conditioned alongside by empty blockbusters assailed by almost all forms of entertainment these days. Maybe, due to the increasing accessibility of information, we forgo the duty of finding the right ones and use what are at hand—which are usually not the best of finds. Maybe, strangely, we are running out of things to say.

This is not an inquiry on our aptitude in language or an evaluation on personal preference or judgment. This is simply raising awareness on respect to an item—may it be a television series, a short story, even a dish—and the people involved around it. Especially these people. Because when opinion is given, enrichment follows. Discussion flourishes, not songs from crickets and rolling tumbleweeds that trail after the end of an empty conversation.

You see, an empty praise is the lowest form of flattery. One might say it is flattery, no less. But it is the lowest, no less. I say just judge it. Judge everything with thought. So, what’s your say then?

how to start the day without meaning

For some time, your mornings begin at two every
Afternoon, at the crack of a second when everyone
Else has yawned, slowly edging back to cycles.

It is never complicated, you say, not like ecru
For bathroom tiles, emerald for eyes green
And hazelled. Still, each waking is different,

You say, wherein one night sympathy and alibi
Are two separate things, and in another will
And blindness are all but the same. I could not

Oppose to this, to what makes things swell, swish
Leap, and be meaningful. There is convenience
In knowing by increments, the way a leitmotiv

Bloom to its proud, final sparkle. It will take time.
Though our beds speak of stillness now, the sky bluer
At this hour by your window you say, there is only

Too much this world can bear for solitude. Because
As shadows tire of waiting and as clocks hum on,
Together, with brightest of meanings, that day will end.

original madness

If you are one to fall into madness,
Hold on to the many ways of mending
Fragility, like how one makes sense
With beautiful chaos: impressionism,
Sunflowers at night, the drunkard
And the gurgle in his throat that is his opus.

Maybe, just maybe, the trouble is not
Only the seeing but also the reading:
A ship is a whale ahead of its time,
A glance is always a message to be cracked.
We are our own makers of mischief,
And sooner or later, casualties.

Then the air will throb with meaning.
Though no one will ever be as wise as stars
Or hold love captive that could shy them
Away from us, a little dent in logic
Is the nearest we could get. To be free,
To laugh like fields of anemones.

original pardon

Yet here we are again,
out of the house of our
undoing: tragedies, doubts,

ardent fumes of curses
reeking off our mouths.
Each of us claims a virtue

like no other, like furtive
oysters birthing pearls,
varying in shades and sizes.

Eventually, this has to be
done. It seems there’s no use
jumping to conclusions now

(i.e. believing gold is ripe in
reverence, grey is the hue
of our whispers in bed).

Come to think of it, forgive.
Earth can never be too vast,
alone, and globular for our liking,

zebra’s hide too insipid. Let us
argue no more, the quiet word
remains the wisest sometimes.

Just take for example the mute
unlocking stresses of streets, of
names of all people he knew.

Signs are everywhere if we
allow ourselves to see them:
You might see a clear sky today,

I might see a promise tomorrow.
Days and nights will be cold
only if our hands are held apart.


[ this is for you and you alone ]

could this law bring us back to the dark ages?

Republic Act No. 10175 or the Cybercrime Prevention Act (in short, the Cybercrime Law) has brought ripples into the consciousness of many Filipinos. It is effective today, and it is no laughing matter. It entails some of the highest degrees of iron-fisted ruling which seems shocking and desperate especially in this time and age.

 

Now that nothing is really safe—more than ever—in the realms of the internet, here are some questions that, up to this point, remain drilling a migraine of enigma into my head. There are plenty more from where these came from but these would enough:

 

• Will journalism be a thing of the past because it will be subject to scrutiny (and possible penalty) for covering critical understanding of current affairs?
• Will opinion, freedom of speech or even the right to information be a thing of the past?
• Is Senator Sotto, one of the supporters of the law, even aware that it includes plagiarism as a crime, too?
• Will Senator Sotto be penalized for committing such crime if ever, by a twist of fate, the higher echelons of the government finally realize some of his deeds are “unlawful?”
• Has there been a scintilla of proper thinking put into this law?
• Has there been a scintilla of attempt at making sense in this muddle called the Philippine government?
• How could this law be made into possibility with all its vagueness?
• Is this simply a maneuver to distract us from the real deal which is, among many other things, the RH Bill?
• Could we never, once and for all, point at a criminal when see or know one at the risk being called libelous and thus holding us liable for a crime for telling the truth?
• Could users of social media (e.g. Facebook, Twitter, Blogger) better shut down their accounts right now?
• Could the Cybercrime Law be the glossy, digitized, 21st century version of the Martial Law?
• Could this be the end of this blog after posting these questions?

the phantoms of a saturday

Two Saturdays ago, last September 22, I got to see Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical, “The Phantom of the Opera,” with my mother and sisters at the Main Theatre of the Cultural Center of the Philippines. It was something that I have expected—elaborate production, arresting acts, melodies indelible you would hum them again and again after the show. Even the famous chandelier did not fail to make an impression.

 

In this age of increasingly improving stereoscopy and high definition, the theater remains to be a stubborn art form. Though it maintains a narrative that could be both bizarre and recognizable, its telling resists the comfortable conventions of other fields of entertainment. It aims to amaze us with larger-than-life characters, impress us with excess, sometimes offer us as the audience a winking message (breaking the fourth wall) while at the same time ground us to the basic core of many stories—the human condition. Thus the theater is always unique in every experience.

 

If you seek entertainment at its purest, the theater wouldn’t disappoint. Nothing is more life-like and demanding of its gorgeous rawness than a performance on stage. (Note: the musical is extended until October 14 in the Philippines).

 

 

*

 

“It’s just a number.”

Such was the response I got from a question on how it felt like to be 26, also, two Saturdays ago, just hours before the celebrant’s birthday party. If it weren’t for a philosophy that I had clung on years ago, that numbers do not really matter, I would instantly be perplexed or insulted by this answer.

 

 

But the thing was, at the present moment, the answer stung the way how one is perplexed and insulted. It was refreshing to be dowsed (again) in this wave of optimism. Because, strangely, a year after college, I could always remember my age on application forms, registration cards, raffle tickets, and whatnots compared to years past wherein I had to do some mental backtracking or ask someone when faced with an imposing “AGE: ____.”

 

Now, age is like a phantom hiding in plain sight, always at the ready to sneer and ridicule when reminded of its actuality. Who do you want yourself to be? What have you done? What are you doing? Where are you going? Why just now? How?

 

The questions just keep on rolling. And the article “What Savings Rate You Need When Starting at Age 15, 25, 35 and 50” in TIME magazine last week was more of a downer than a booster. In an attempt to remain composed by the celebrant’s quick answer, I repeated his words. Yes. It’s just a number. As if it’s a mantra that could change lifetimes once uttered.
 

 

*

A few hours after the birthday party’s friendly ruckus and merrymaking, the phantom of ambiguity fled away. Around three in the morning the following day, some things were made clear. And for the following days, the goal is to make them clearer. It is the best way to go.

familiar portrait

“Jo detaches herself. When she’s very stressed, she’ll detach herself and only trust one person, and that’s herself. So everyone gets blocked out and she becomes more and more stressed and less and less able to accept any help.”

- Neil Murray on Joanne Kathleen Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series

[ read more here ]

original desire

It is said that we learn
Not by what we are taught
But by what we have caught.
As if faith, love, and hope
Are pigeons in the air
We could slingshot
From a good distance:
Here’s a bird for you,
Reveal its splendid grace.
Truth be told, I ache
For your guidance:
Take these hands with you,
Take them to wherever
You want, on you, with me,
Where fractures of morning slip
Through canopies of mangoes.
Or green jacquard curtains.
On your birthday, I wish you
Flashes of wisdom, silver
In coming, cyan in vibrance.
I also wish for rain
Of shooting stars, for there
Couldn’t be more grand
Than a spectacle
Born to give birth
To desires. Now feel this, feel
Our longings shake the eaves
Of our sanity. Let us come
And go, let us make this
Happen like sunrise.

a recollection borne out of a weekend at the beach and other instances

September 14, 05:21pm
Grey clouds in the sky seemed to burst anytime soon, traffic on all major roads building up. But there was no stopping this. I finally arrived at point of destination, with a packed bag, with anticipation to see you and all. Messages and calls were unanswered. Anticipation waned with every passing minute that moved like turtle. I waited a little bit more.

September 14, 09:40pm
Our glasses were half-empty, the buckets of ice and beer perspiring as if human, as if tense under the faint yellow lights that illumined our faces. We were both good at hesitation. You had histories better left unheard but you spilled a few anyway, spilled some words. I listened, gathered them, embraced them. Accidents do happen, but they won’t be as frequent as we fear them to be if we know where to go, how all of this will go. And then you sang a Coldplay song.

September 15, 06:30am
The clouds relieved itself all over the metro since yesterday. Despite the rains that flooded once again the streets of Manila, as if this country couldn’t get enough of rain, there was no stopping this. This day was a promise of good things to come. The 22nd birthday of Mars must be held at the beach. Matabungkay, Batangas was our last resort, and I wished it wouldn’t be our last trip together.

September 15, 08:30am
We remember a lot. Old jokes, old stories, old friends with common quirks, common pratfalls of uncommon men. We were in for a long ride, approximately three hours on the road, 120 kilometers or so. We downed two or three bottles of liquor inside the van. Except for the excessive drinks and drugs, we were like characters in a Jack Kerouac novel, like we were having the time of our lives.

September 15, 10:10am
You spilled some words. And I listened, gathered them. But this time I couldn’t embrace them. They felt loaded, and there was an echo in them I was not ready to hear, especially in the company of other people. These words were jagged, hard as nails, potent as poison to the mind of a cynic. And I am one of those raised with the mind of one. I have always been good at jumping to conclusions. For instance: I believe the shell of a turtle is a lonely place.

September 15, 02:50pm
Silence had always been my default weapon of choice. And you mimicked me, and it worked for you so well. My heart did a slow clap not out of admiration but in fear of an encore.

September 15, 07:30pm
It was a day of good things to come, but like practicing poetry, like organizing major events, like copywriting, like gracing the television screen with charm, like being there for each other, blowing things out of proportion must be one of our hidden talents. It shouldn’t have started that way, more so ended that way, but things became uncontrollable. Accidents do happen. Above the din of karaoke music, I continued breaking every pack of ice on the wall as if it was therapy.

September 15, 10:35pm
When push comes to shove, we know the right words to say. It has always been that easy. We could have a whole arsenal of reasons why we do what we do, but that night they were not enough. “[E]asy is not always right./ Not even enough. To ignore complexity/ is to question the generosity of the sky.//”

September 16, 02:40am
The winds and rain were howling with us, crying at the night as long and convoluted as the events taking place: emptying a bottle of whiskey, repeating a Coldplay song, breaking an umbrella, scarring and bruising our skin. A few feet away from this picture, there was a rain-drenched person by the gate, there was a person tear-drenched in bed. And then there was silence.

September 16, 10:15am
An apology was dropped and a grunt was its response. It could have a multitude of meanings, and I prefer the bright, positive ones. Outside, chips were strewn all over the place, bottles crowded on a table, glasses tipped on their sides like fishes out of water, gasping for air. This must be the aftermath of a storm we were not prepared of. And for a rest house close to the beach, we ironically ran out of water.

September 16, 03:40pm
We remember a lot. And like masters of theater breaking the fourth wall, we laughed at the disasters both natural and unnatural. We always tend to believe or show no storm could weather our spirits, but deep inside I think otherwise. This is one of the many errors I’ve grown accustomed to: Don’t believe it, think otherwise. I thought it was the best moment to think otherwise.

September 16, 08:25pm
We finally reached the city. I have always been good at jumping to conclusions: Manila was not spared with a minute of dryness the other day. I was right. Some parts of Makati were waist-deep in flood water, and possibly neck-high in frustration. We changed routes to avoid sinking deeper into unnecessary anxieties.

September 17, 01:30am
“There is no such thing as friends; we’re just together.” You heard this already, I told you a few days ago, but I had the feeling it made you all the more fretful after hearing it yourself from a friend. You just smiled like you always do. It had always been your default weapon of choice. And I mimicked you, but it didn’t work that well. Somewhere in the last remaining spots of green in the city, a turtle slipped back in its shell, the hard rain pounding on its back.

September 17, 08:45pm
We were both good at hesitation. We never really say what we truly want to say. And this is one way of learning poetry: Listen.

September 17, 10:20pm
“You’re lucky to have them,” you said, “as your friends.” I said yes. It’s true. But in my head I thought I am more than that. I am blessed. But I remain unsure if they do, too. We have fears and questions becoming stranger by the minute. This is one of the errors I’ve grown accustomed to.

original doubt

You’re neither the devil I would fear
Nor quite the angel I would praise
With songs cosmic and booming.
But during days when the sun
Prides its teeth too much, I envy
The natural order of chance.
Not like grocery lists, not like
Chips on the finest China.

But something in the league
Of nautilus shells or the promise
Of zygotes. Especially, I envy
The perfect mirage of you
In a picture frame. All smiles,
All in rich disaccord to the times:
In a faraway country, maybe famine.
Maybe the crumbling of a wall.

These couldn’t be chance. So
How come when you say it’s real,
When you say you believe me,
I hear instead the tired music
Of lost harps, feel the spindly legs
Of a kid tremble with its first shot
At judgment? I am a practitioner
Of questions eluded by answers.

True, it remains a wonder to me
How all of this starts with these:
Your message on my phone, your voice
In my ear, the textures and shapes
Of things I come to yearn clasped
In my hands. But you see, doubt
Is delirium undistilled, adoration
At its peak. Hear me until it’s gone.

stranger in the rain

Yesterday evening, on my way home along the lengthy stretch of Frontera Drive in Pasig City, I chanced upon a man in his late 20s. His Gap sweater, cargo shorts, sneakers, everything of him were all drenched under the heavy downpour. He asked for a favor; he found out he had lost his iPhone and wallet upon stepping off a jeepney. He needed money. “My name’s Mark,” he said, stuttering a bit. He repeated his name a second or third time as if I did not hear him. He must be cold. “I’m Jordan,” I said, as I handed to him a twenty peso bill. I was not sure if it was a tear in his eye or rain. He just walked away with shoulders hunched.

62nd carlos palanca memorial awards for literature winners

Here’s that list again. And in it a sprinkling of exceptional people I’m lucky to have met with at Dumaguete, Iligan, and Bacolod: Joshua “Tokwa” Lim So, Erick Aguilar, Charmaine “Shane” Carreon, Ian Rosales Casocot, and Jesus Insilada. Congratulations, bullfrogs.

Following the pleasantries and formalities of the awarding ceremonies at The Rigodon Ballroom of The Peninsula Manila last September 1, Ian and his former students (or rabid supporters) went out to have some drinks at the Buddha Bar and (a little bit more) at Republiq. Because, apparently, someone felt “jaded.”

*

FILIPINO DIVISION

Dulang Pampelikula
1st – Rodolfo Vera (Death March)
2nd – Richard S. Legaspi (Primera Bella)
3rd – Mia A. Buenaventura (Ang Bulag na Musikero)

Dulang Ganap ang Haba
1st – Vincent M. Tañada (Ang Bangkay)
2nd – Luciano Sonny O. Valencia (Ang Penitensiya ni Tiyo Renato)
3rd – Allan B. Lopez (Melodrama Negra)

Tokwa and his Golden Medalyon

Dulang May Isang Yugto
1st – Joshua Lim So (Joe Cool: Aplikante)
2nd – Renerio R. Concepcion (Kumandong Nakaiswat)
3rd – Erick D. Aguilar (Terminal)

Ang Sasambahing Hipon, Erick

Tula
1st – Enrique S. Villasis (Crocopedia)
2nd – Kristian Sendon Cordero (Pagsalat sa Pilat)
3rd – Alvin C. Ursua (Kumpuni)

Tulang Pambata
1st – John Enrico C. Torralba (Gusto Ko Nang Lumaki)
2nd – Peter Solis Nery (Sa Mundo ng mga Kulisap)
3rd – Nely T. Azada (Sampung Tula Para sa mga Bata)

Maikling Kuwento
1st – Mark Benedict F. Lim (Banaag)
2nd – Honorio Bartolome de Dios (Ang Tawo sa Puso ni Teresa)
3rd – Mar Anthony Simon dela Cruz (Darleng)

Maikling Kuwentong Pambata
1st – Will P. Ortiz (Ang Tatlong Bubwit at Bangkang Marikit)
2nd – Bernadette V. Neri (Atang sa Kaluluwa nina Apong Salawal at Apong Saya)
3rd – Luz B. Maranan (Ang Pangat, ang Lupang Ninuno, at ang Ilog)

Sanaysay
1st – Niles Jordan Breis (Go-See, Kraw Gen, Intro: Sa Daigdig ng Promo)
2nd – Elyrah L. Salanga-Torralba (Utang Ina)
3rd – Jing Panganiban Mendoza (Redempsiyon)

Kabataan Sanaysay
1st – Jan Francis B. Asis (Sa Ingit ng Pinto)
2nd – Gerome E. De Villa (Sa Aking Pagbuklat sa mga Makabagong Pahina)
3rd – Jueliand Peter A. Perez (Madyik Bisikleta)

ENGLISH DIVISION

Full-length Play
1st – Robert Arlo B. De Guzman (Practical Aim)
2nd – Jorshinelle Taleon-Sonza (The Passion of Andres)
3rd – Jose Ma. D. Manalo (Manilatown)

One-act Play
1st – No winner
2nd – Joachim Emilio B. Antonio (The Dust in Your Place)
3rd – Patrick John R. Valencia (In Bed with My Mother)

Fellow Bisaya, Shane

Poetry
1st – Carlomar Arcangel Daoana (The Elegant Ghost)
2nd – Charmaine L. Carreon (The Yonic Lover)
3rd – Jason Leo G. Asistores (Waiting and Other Poems)

Poetry for Children
1st – Peter Solis Nery (Punctuation)
2nd – Anca Bautista (Magic Is and Nine Other Magical Poems)
3rd – Raymundo T.Pandan, Jr. (The Ocelot and Other Poems)

With teacher and nth time winner, Ian

Short Story
1st – Rebecca E. Khan (In Transit)
2nd – Ian Rosales Casocot (It Always Breaks My Heart a Little to See You Go)
3rd – Lystra Aranal (Bright Lights)

Short Story for Children
1st – Grace D. Chong (The White Shoes)
2nd – Raymund M. Garlitos (Lauan, The Seed that Wanted to Fly)
3rd – Aleli Dew B. Ayroso (Mister World and His Magical Box)

Essay
1st – Hammed Q. Bolotaolo (Of Legends)
2nd – Martin V. Villanueva (Dao)
3rd – Irwin Allen B. Rivera (Patterns)

Kabataan Essay
1st – Katrina Bonillo (Chapter One: DOWNLOADING)
2nd – Sari Katharyn Molintas (Being Bookish)
3rd – Jhesset Thrina O. Enano (What We Are Losing)

REGIONAL DIVISION

Short Story – Cebuano
1st – Noel P. Tuazon (Duhiraw)
2nd – Richel G. Dorotan (Ang Tulo Ka Mayor sa Hinablayan)
3rd – Rev. Fr. Rey B. Araneta, CM (Abog sa Flyover)

Mr. Two in a Row, Jes

Short Story – Hiligaynon
1st – Alice Tan Gonzales (Lanton)
2nd – Dr. Jesus C. Insilada (Panubok sa Pula Nga Pulos)
3rd – Alain Russ Dimzon (Binukot)

Short Story – Iluko
1st – Danilo B Antalan (Dagiti Sala Ti Panawen)
2nd – Fernando Sanchez (Babato)
3rd – Sherma E. Benosa (Dagiti “No La Koma“ ni Monika)

HALL OF FAME AWARDEE FOR 2012
Peter Solis Nery

First Prize Winning Works
1998 – “Lirio,” Short Story – Hiligaynon
2007 – “Candido,” Short Story – Hiligaynon
2008 – “The Passion of Jovita Fuentes,” Full-length Play
2011 – “Donato Bugtot,” Short Story – Hiligaynon
2012 – “Punctuation,” Poetry for Children

[ list lifted from this site ]

ain't strong enough

At 1:40 this morning, I think I felt some kind of heart attack. I woke up suddenly with my left chest throbbing, the little fist of a muscle within tight as if gripped by a mighty, calloused hand. A slight movement would bring an excruciating wave of pain all over me, so I remained still in bed like a paraplegic. It lasted for a few minutes, three or four or longer, as I breathed in and out deeply. The sharp ache, the pain eventually passed away. Then I wished all pain would pass away that easily, that quickly.

I think it is time to visit the doctor again who, last year, said to me, “Your heart is strong.” I knew I was right. This heart never had been, never was.

original tragedy

Clearly, it is not sin that we inherit
From Adam and Eve but tragedy.
Tragedy of silence, tragedy of a fall
That seems delicate, endless, oceanesque.
One August night, by the table limned
With warm lights piercing through
The amber of beer bottles, I confessed
To some friends I haven’t seen
That old movie they extolled rabidly
Like a little spate of storms.
“Prepare to be in love,” declared one
Who believed that the fate
Of constellations never die
Once tattooed on our skin.
But I have always been in love.
In fact, sometimes I think you are,
And would remain, that old news
I’d want to hear all over again.
I have to be honest. We all should.
And I have to be silent, too. We all have
That singular tragedy we are too willing
To take. So I’ll save the sad lines for later.
For now I just need an affectionate cat,
I just need to set the table tonight.
And finally, this time, not with you.