Literary

TO FIX the disorderly parking habits of bikers in the University, the Office of the Vice Rector for Finance has decided to provide parking slots for motorcycles and bikes inside the campus.

In a memorandum last April 29, Fr. Manuel Roux O.P., vice rector for finance, designated spaces in front of the St. Martin de Porres and St. Raymund de Peñafort buildings and the Botanical Garden as parking slots for “in-bound” bicycles and motorcycles.

The back of the Benavides Building and UST Grandstand, and two portions of the space beside Roque Ruaño Drive were also reserved for bicycles and motorcycles.

Parking spaces for bicycles are open to students, employees, and visitors but motorcycles need to secure a sticker from the Office of Student Affairs. This is the same sticker issued to car owners in the University.

THE FIRST thing I became aware of as soon as I woke up was the strange sensation of aching on my head. The next thing that I became aware of, which was after I opened my eyes and took a better look at my surroundings, was the awful gut feeling that I was going to be in trouble.

“Mr. Wiggles!” I cried out as soon as I saw my beloved teddy bear sitting next to my bed. I quickly pulled him to a tight hug. “Mr. Wiggles, I think we’re in big trouble now! What could we possibly be doing in auntie’s house? Oh dear, Mr. Wiggles, what should we do? Chances are that auntie would’ve called daddy already! And that would not only mean that I would be in for lots of scolding, but would also mean me getting sent home!”

But I can’t go back now! I still hadn’t found Dy! After I’ve gone so far, I can’t end my fairytale adventure with a happily ever after! I nudged my little companion again as I sat back on the bed and recalled what happened to me hours ago.

You and your daughter are lying in bed. Your little girl has been holding your finger for the better part of the past 20 minutes. You kiss her forehead as you hum a lullaby. She opens her eyes and, from that moment, you decide to call her Hope. You place her down the mattress beside you. You will think it through tomorrow. You just need to be her mother for tonight.

It was not long ago, on a night like this, when you were the daughter making your parents proud.

As your father shook the principal’s hand, you glanced at the audience and smiled, saw your family up on their feet clapping. Your father put the medal on you, his face beaming with pride. You could hear the photographer yelling at you to stop and pose, but you ignored her, knowing that your cousin, Julie, had taken a lot of pictures already. She just got married to Ricardo, a banker from Spain, and they were back in the country in search of a baby to adopt.

ULTRAVIOLINS (UP Press, 2008) is one gamut of mind-benders that let loose the imagination of its readers, giving testament to the eternal creative unrest of Cinemanila International Film Festival Award recipient Khavn Dela Cruz.

From the vulnerable adulterer to the desperate amnesic, Ultraviolins gives unconventional yet appealing descriptions and narrations of Filipino living, with an accompanying host of translations from Filipino writers such as Pearlsha Abubakr, Juaniyo Arcellena, Daryl Valenzuela, Angelo R. Lecuesta and many others.

Plumage now dull and flaked;
body of bones shattered
by storms dared, by the crushing
of other trudging feet.

The weary one crawls, on earth
lined with spite, to where it will finally lie—
a dark, deep hole of jagged stones
and countless taunting shadows.

The body, in weary sleep, rests supine
and soundless to the cruelty, refusing
to stay cold as the flames
that within take hold

For it will know no defeat,
Only the sweetness of victory—
that surrender is nothing
but disgraceful musing.

Fires again fill the once deserted pit
and from the ashes spring forth
a body restored to youth alive
with the color of the sun.

THE ENDS have met.

The lines have crossed

and the curves are now bent

into perfect contours.

Rough drafts then, faced

the sternness of an eraser.

Uneven strokes were leveled,

monotonous lines broken.

Once void of ‘images,’

the paper bore solid lines

of base and structure

lasting four years

or more.

Pencils down.

Smears of lead etched

on the parchment-scape

of some master plan.

As echoes of trying years

sing for me this future

up-and-coming;

waltzing in this fraction

of a moment I grace—

The ballroom of victory.

Notes split and strike high, beam

at tasseled hats parading the sky.

Laughter-pose: trapped inaudible

in photographs untouched

by time. I take center stage

resounding the query:

“Why the hoopla:

for goodbye, or hello?”

Edilyn Ruth U. Yu

As I enter the morgue, my heart is crushed

between denial and belief. Something in me

speaks that you are not him, the corpse,

though this means searching countless hours more

in the catalogue of the nameless dead.

The door swings shut behind me, ominous

and final, and when my eyes fall flat on the skin,

bleached by the river, I withdraw

and almost faint. Who is this person blunt

and shapeless in this disinfected light, I ask.

ONCE again, Palanca winner Ramil Digal Gulle uncovers his poetic self and roots in his second book of poems titled Tracks Without Giants (UST Publishing House, 2001, 94 pp.) Dedicated to the Thomasian Writers’ Guild (TWG), the campus writers group to which Gulle credits his accomplishments as a writer, his latest work includes fond recollections of his old days with TWG and as a Psychology major at the UST College of Science, his marriage, his first Palanca in 1996, among others.

It was still dark when Nina was gently nudged awake by her younger sister, Gella.

“Ate, wake up. It’s time to go.”

“Hmmm?” Nina asked sleepily, rubbing her tired eyes. She rolled carefully to her side, facing her sister. “6 a.m. already?”

“No, it’s 3 a.m. Mama said, we should leave a little earlier, so we can avoid the Manila traffic.”

A little earlier?

“Come on, I’ll help you up,” Gella said, taking Nina’s hands and carefully easing her to sit.