Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
An Batingaw Mar 2013
dahil wara katapusan an duon san mga mata
mabubuhay akong minamatay
san dating kaaway ko sa lawas na ini
sa lawas na ini naghambog an talawon
pinapagubtik an kaaluhan na nagpapamuda
muda na nagpupukaw saakon gurugab-i
kendi na nagpapahibi
mesias na naghahala-hala

magiging madalas an pagsid-ip niya sa bintana
para laen ko makita an liwanag
malaog siya sa kahon ko
laen para magkawat
kundi dagdagan an pagub-at
makasakat an pagbagsak
siya na ako
masurat tula.

~Written by Melton Balicano
(a bikol dialect)

since these eyes have been weighed down on unending
i shall live while being slain by an old foe in this body
this body where the craven had once boasted
surging chagrins that blaspheme
blasphemy that rouses this corpse in the dark
treats that shed tears
a messiah that taunts.

he shall constantly peep through the window
so that I see no light
he will break in my casket
not to thieve
but to burden further
the downfall shall rise
then he becomes me
penning a poem.

~a translation of Balicano's masterpiece
Glenn Sentes
An Batingaw Mar 2013
She saw the face of Judas in him.
The bearded kiss festered no truth
and the metallic breath
exhaled putrid faithfulness.
The trampled petals spoor no lusting stares,
redolent no more
even as the tongue creeps by the shoulders.

The razors have summoned from the stinking room!
A slit in the neck
could rhythmically go by the thrusts unnoticed
But the chorus of the beasts
as shrill as the gongs of hell
maiming vengeance yet
not in the loss of blood will you die.
Not in my hands.

His demonic pleasures went on as the voodoo doll
resurrected in the beat of my own gongs.
Keep stirring as this spindle rouses my anathema!
his chest hairs
pint of blood
vulture’s beak
stallion’s tails
bobcat’s eye
dead evergreen
Deborah’s tears.
Stir and stir and stir!
Murmur satan’s prayer
mana mana mana boo!
ruba ruba ruba hoo!
Count the sands of the transient hourglass
expiring ‘fore tic tac sound.
Now her man froze,
bulging eyes, blackened pulse!

‘tis freedom, Deborah!



© Glenn Sentes
An Batingaw Mar 2013
Look! Mingling with rain
a teardrop hesitates once
Ah! They didn’t see.

A bullfrog just teased
Bloating in its mockery
A bug flies in, snap!

It rolls by unseen
Not even her closest friend
noticed how it flows.

Kokak! Kokak! Jump.
Teasing and teasing kokak!
All the critters laugh.

© Glenn Sentes
An Batingaw Feb 2013
Who else in this inhumane edifice
can dance while the suspecting eyes stare
at his moistened armpit?
Pathetically unknowing music uplifts not just the soul but the intellect.

Who else got the fire in imparting?

or …

did theirs even start a single spark since then?

Who else brings out the best in these hopefuls?
It’s all the worse and worst that they see.

And you think San Pedro would be pleased
when you gloat you made all the priests, doctors, and engineers?

Woe to you who humiliate the chair by your indolent butts
while uttering kindergartenous blabbers you claim to be education!
Then you get all you want while tabula rasa remains tabula rasa.

And you
You  seated on the higher chairs!
Why don’t you trample down awhile
and put your cataracting sight to use
before it even brings you to the death of light.

Has anyone of you even heard what your god told to Pontius Pilate?
Ha! The you-have-no-power-over-me’s have always been impervious to you bigots!

And you say to your kin let me handle it.
When it is delayed and their impatience grows
you see they’ll leave.

Did you ever fret about deadlines
of bills, of matriculas, of debts?
What do you feed to your clan? Feeds?

Get Ripley’s here!

Oh how divine to utter all the Fs!

©Glenn L. Sentes
February 20, 2013
An Batingaw Jan 2013
Menaced by a triumphant chanting of lament
Entrancing the soul of Hades’ kin
Missed eruptions of the sensory nerves
Onomatopoeic of hollow gongs
Resonating, maimed through the indescribable facets of
Your  forgotten youth.
An Batingaw Jan 2013
My nightmare filled with streaks of saintly garb
rousing the flares of benevolence
and the strokes of compassionate ink
scribbled on to the snow-hued papyrus.

The fields of golden grains unmasked
the unpolluted ecstacy of childlike desires
Softly swaying as the hammock in the dew air
gently rupturing the laddery pride.
It waves its resilient trunk
then stoops to the god of snow.

And the windows to the soul will tire peeking
and paint instead ashen hopes
Reminiscent of pallid hermit
caressing colorless sands,
tranquilly hummed by the songs of a lone shell
under the unambiguous sky.

Compose your poems
now with the sallow ink
on a dustless, ethereal white sheet.
An Batingaw Jan 2013
When the eyes could no longer hold what’s brimming
and the fingers do nothing
but spread it on to what’s wrinkling.

When the voice is a strange thing
for the continuous vowels are worn out…shrieked at himself.

Then the narcissistic grin is all that gratifies the soul
which no one has ever come in contact with.
They speak of it when they’re broke
yet it’s broke too.

Escape is but a word.
You run,

To feed is luscious.
Just one night
when the god is asleep.

Let me feed.
Next page