Literary

THE ACHIEVEMENTS of Paz M. Latorena, one of the foremost writers of the first generation of Filipino English writers, in both literary writing and education, were remembered in a day-long conference and festival at UST last February 11.

The academic homage was organized by the UST Department of Humanities, Faculty of Arts and Letters, UST Literary Society and the Varsitarian to mark the death centenary of the literary pioneer and pedagogue.

THE WORLD opens

into and out of my narrow eyes:

a ballasted ball of dust.

Gray skies circle above

my head, spinning

me faster than I

spin through it,

summing my time

with age—number

upon number—even better

than my own deliberation

of my sins.

I trace the sky’s

patterns, probing for

signs of its gazillion

age. All the same though

in the morning, it is young.

Umaambon na lamang,

sa lilim ng mga ulap,

tila espongha ang mga puno,

sagad sa hangganan

Ang mga patak ng ulan

ay sasalain ng mga dahon

marahil puro at pino na ito,

samakatwid ay dalisay.

Sila ay huli na,

Iwinasiwas ng hangin,

luntiang talulot,

sa luoy na sampaga.

LITERATURES marginalized from the Philippine canon were the focus of the 51st Philippine PEN (Poets and Playwrights, Essayists and Novelists) annual conference held last December 5 and 6 at the Cultural Center of the Philippines. The congress was supported by the Varsitarian and featured UST Rector Fr. Rolando V. de la Rosa, O.P., who delivered the important annual Jose Rizal Lecture.

MINUS the stage, plays can also be appreciated. This is what Stage Presence: The Philippine PEN Anthology of Drama (UST Publishing House, 2008), a compilation of plays touching on issues about the family, cultural beliefs and identity, romance and politics, written by seasoned and budding playwrights, proves.

BOTH, a new face and an old

gaze, hold a special pod.

Capsules to be filled

with tastes of memories—

never touching the brim—

all from some first glimpse.

Some seem sweet

so easy on the tongue

others scream

bitterness

from inside.

The delectable ones

I had in the past

took their toll and left

a sought-after taste.

Only a few were a quench

for my thirst. Most were

I long to walk in cold layers of snow with my fur boots on, but it is quite impossible now. All I can see are the leafless trees of Los Angeles. I guess you can’t expect snow to fall in California.

Bows of green and red are all around and cheerful songs simply float in the air without touching my spirits. For eight years without celebrating Christmas, I have forgotten the feeling that went with the month.

I would not have said yes had he not asked.

But I had been eyeing him for months, and took to detail all of him—the blue eyes, blond hair, lightly-tanned skin. And I had cursed myself and reminded myself constantly of all that I was?black eyes, black hair, muddy skin.

And for the first time I found myself strangled with infatuation, and had not cringed when Jolina’s Puppy Love suddenly played in my head.

I won’t forget the first time I saw him.

I.

Where I was born, trees do not shed dresses for white blankets
and birds do not flock south. Instead of a seasonal crystalline,
we get solid sheets of water all year round.

I think of there, where I don’t need cover with yards of cloth
just to keep myself warm, where the sun beats on a metropolis that,
gray and hopeless as it looks, refuses to be beat.

When they heard

the monotone—

simple—bitrate sounds,

they came to

our streets at the nights

of October and November,

but seldom

in December. They swarmed

like flies to the light

and with the same

lightning speed

they took flight—

burning out

like their deflated

pockets, with enough

left for the ride

home. At midnight, they see

tall faces in the skyline