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Pwe, Puwet, and Puwetics of an old man.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Birth …death. A cycle that repeats incessantly. In a thousand worlds, in countless galaxies. Birth …death. The two sides of a knife. The same side of life.
In our reaction to death, to dying, we see that which is true in the universe.
APRIL IN LOS ANGELES
by Eileen Tabios
[4/2/06, A.M.]
1)
Everything is a relationship.
My family relied on the doctor to cure my father.
The doctor caught my mother in a weak moment and got her to concede, "Yes, he's dying."
I arrived in Los Angeles to hear my mother report on how a doctor discussed the best ways for a man to die, rather than how to heal.
"Doctor," I said in a conversation I plan to have. "Your role is not to advice how a person best dies. Your role is to treat illness, hopefully cure it."
I heard his thought, He's dying.
I replied with my eyes, We're all dying. We're also all living.
The words I said: "What do you recommend for someone who wants to live, with a family who wants him to live?"
2)
Since I last saw her, Mama has sprouted snow on her head.
Mama, ever by Daddy's bedside.
3)
F. beats himself inside his mind for having chided Dad for not eating. Later, we would learn his throat was blocked by so much phlegm he could not swallow.
Tears firmly jailed by the mind.
I beat myself up because I don't want to be here -- where Dad has shrunk to "Daddy" cradled among plastic tubes delivering antibiotics, antibiotics, antibiotics ... and oxygen.
4)
I am glad to be here. He saw me enter his hospital room and his face was suddenly the sun. His arms entwined with plastic tubes reached forth to hug me. I am glad he felt my arms, suddenly trees surrounding him. He hugged me back but I only felt more air.
5)
Kaiser Permanente -- ever stupid with cost-cutting cruelty. One hospital forced my father to leave -- "he's fine; he just needs to go home."
On the way home, Daddy started to have trouble breathing and they turned the car to take him to another Kaiser hospital's Emergency Room.
He is still in the Emergency Room.
Once, the ER nurse asked my mother in sincere confusion, "Why did the other hospital discharge him?"
A new question added to the list of questions which will never have adequate answers: How could the other hospital have discharged him?
6)
My father is better treated at the second hospital.
People matter.
At this second hospital, there is an experienced nurse with the ability to dislodge the phlegm that had been blocking my father's throat for five weeks in the other hospital.
They kept the jar with the sucked out phlegm. Ugly. Yellow. And the last piece sucked out was solid. Ugly. Brown.
"Like a piece of paper," my cousin observed about its solidity.
I would not be able to breathe, too, or swallow with paper stuffed down my throat.
As if my poems remained trapped there as I gasp unsuccessfully to sing.
I would not be able to breathe if my body jailed my poems.
My father is ill and I think of poetry and and and all of that saddens me.
==============
[4/2/06, P.M.]
7)
The conversation unfolded as I imagined it.
I asked, "Doctor, I'd like an update."
The doctor -- this one with a better "bedside manner" than any other Kaiser doctor I've met -- replied, "He's dying. I don't know what update I can give."
8)
My father's youngest son -- my brother -- died unexpectedly less than six months ago. At one point this evening, not knowing where next to turn my mind, I turned to a cousin H. to say, "If my father is to die soon, it's too bad he couldn't have died before my brother. It must be difficult for a parent to witness the death of a child."
In response, H. said nothing.
Belatedly, I remember that H., with whom I'd lost touch over the years, has two children, one age 2 and the other age 5.
9)
Except.
Except that since I arrived by his bedside, his condition markedly improved. Within hours after my arrival, he improved enough to be taken out of the emergency room. The technician unplugging his various tubes in preparation for moving him said, "It's always good news to be transferred out of ER."
Always?
10)
Later, I joked to Dad about how his improved condition must be due to my arrival. Grandiosely, I emphasized, "It must be my presence!"
He turned his head slightly, pretending otherwise. But his lips smiled.
He had called me a few weeks ago in the midst of delirium caused by his medicines. Not knowing what else to do, Mom had put him on the phone. That's when he scared me shitless by announcing, "I've got a tumor coming out of my nose."
Later, Mom would explain that the "tumor" was the feeding tube inserted through his nose. But, first, he pleaded with me to talk to Dr. G -- the very useless Dr. G -- to take away the tumor. To ease his mind, I lied and said I would. That's when he broke my heart by saying so plaintively, like a child just melting in relief, "Thank you."
As if I had the power to make things better.
The painful, conflict-ridden relationship we had all my life and, despite the criticisms he'd levied, he still believes me to be a bigger person than I know myself to be.
As if I had the power to make things better for him.
11)
I left him nearly 30 years ago. I have finally returned.
Finally.
12)
Everything is a relationship.
13)
As if I could make things better.
No. Thank you, Dad.
14)
The adult ages into child. The parent becomes a baby. The only difference, I thought as the tossed-aside blanket revealed how thin and ravaged his body has become, is that all babies are beautiful.
It took three seconds for my mind to skid, turn a corner and conclude, His ravaged body is beautiful. The purple bruises and purple lines of collapsed veins caused from too many intravenous tubes. The folds of skin loosened as his inability to eat pares down muscles and fat. The brown age spots. The skeletal legs undermined by lack of exercise. A body that I suddenly realized his daughter can probably carry.
Would carry.
O, Fallen Angel.
In our reaction to death, to dying, we see that which is true in the universe.
APRIL IN LOS ANGELES
by Eileen Tabios
[4/2/06, A.M.]
1)
Everything is a relationship.
My family relied on the doctor to cure my father.
The doctor caught my mother in a weak moment and got her to concede, "Yes, he's dying."
I arrived in Los Angeles to hear my mother report on how a doctor discussed the best ways for a man to die, rather than how to heal.
"Doctor," I said in a conversation I plan to have. "Your role is not to advice how a person best dies. Your role is to treat illness, hopefully cure it."
I heard his thought, He's dying.
I replied with my eyes, We're all dying. We're also all living.
The words I said: "What do you recommend for someone who wants to live, with a family who wants him to live?"
2)
Since I last saw her, Mama has sprouted snow on her head.
Mama, ever by Daddy's bedside.
3)
F. beats himself inside his mind for having chided Dad for not eating. Later, we would learn his throat was blocked by so much phlegm he could not swallow.
Tears firmly jailed by the mind.
I beat myself up because I don't want to be here -- where Dad has shrunk to "Daddy" cradled among plastic tubes delivering antibiotics, antibiotics, antibiotics ... and oxygen.
4)
I am glad to be here. He saw me enter his hospital room and his face was suddenly the sun. His arms entwined with plastic tubes reached forth to hug me. I am glad he felt my arms, suddenly trees surrounding him. He hugged me back but I only felt more air.
5)
Kaiser Permanente -- ever stupid with cost-cutting cruelty. One hospital forced my father to leave -- "he's fine; he just needs to go home."
On the way home, Daddy started to have trouble breathing and they turned the car to take him to another Kaiser hospital's Emergency Room.
He is still in the Emergency Room.
Once, the ER nurse asked my mother in sincere confusion, "Why did the other hospital discharge him?"
A new question added to the list of questions which will never have adequate answers: How could the other hospital have discharged him?
6)
My father is better treated at the second hospital.
People matter.
At this second hospital, there is an experienced nurse with the ability to dislodge the phlegm that had been blocking my father's throat for five weeks in the other hospital.
They kept the jar with the sucked out phlegm. Ugly. Yellow. And the last piece sucked out was solid. Ugly. Brown.
"Like a piece of paper," my cousin observed about its solidity.
I would not be able to breathe, too, or swallow with paper stuffed down my throat.
As if my poems remained trapped there as I gasp unsuccessfully to sing.
I would not be able to breathe if my body jailed my poems.
My father is ill and I think of poetry and and and all of that saddens me.
==============
[4/2/06, P.M.]
7)
The conversation unfolded as I imagined it.
I asked, "Doctor, I'd like an update."
The doctor -- this one with a better "bedside manner" than any other Kaiser doctor I've met -- replied, "He's dying. I don't know what update I can give."
8)
My father's youngest son -- my brother -- died unexpectedly less than six months ago. At one point this evening, not knowing where next to turn my mind, I turned to a cousin H. to say, "If my father is to die soon, it's too bad he couldn't have died before my brother. It must be difficult for a parent to witness the death of a child."
In response, H. said nothing.
Belatedly, I remember that H., with whom I'd lost touch over the years, has two children, one age 2 and the other age 5.
9)
Except.
Except that since I arrived by his bedside, his condition markedly improved. Within hours after my arrival, he improved enough to be taken out of the emergency room. The technician unplugging his various tubes in preparation for moving him said, "It's always good news to be transferred out of ER."
Always?
10)
Later, I joked to Dad about how his improved condition must be due to my arrival. Grandiosely, I emphasized, "It must be my presence!"
He turned his head slightly, pretending otherwise. But his lips smiled.
He had called me a few weeks ago in the midst of delirium caused by his medicines. Not knowing what else to do, Mom had put him on the phone. That's when he scared me shitless by announcing, "I've got a tumor coming out of my nose."
Later, Mom would explain that the "tumor" was the feeding tube inserted through his nose. But, first, he pleaded with me to talk to Dr. G -- the very useless Dr. G -- to take away the tumor. To ease his mind, I lied and said I would. That's when he broke my heart by saying so plaintively, like a child just melting in relief, "Thank you."
As if I had the power to make things better.
The painful, conflict-ridden relationship we had all my life and, despite the criticisms he'd levied, he still believes me to be a bigger person than I know myself to be.
As if I had the power to make things better for him.
11)
I left him nearly 30 years ago. I have finally returned.
Finally.
12)
Everything is a relationship.
13)
As if I could make things better.
No. Thank you, Dad.
14)
The adult ages into child. The parent becomes a baby. The only difference, I thought as the tossed-aside blanket revealed how thin and ravaged his body has become, is that all babies are beautiful.
It took three seconds for my mind to skid, turn a corner and conclude, His ravaged body is beautiful. The purple bruises and purple lines of collapsed veins caused from too many intravenous tubes. The folds of skin loosened as his inability to eat pares down muscles and fat. The brown age spots. The skeletal legs undermined by lack of exercise. A body that I suddenly realized his daughter can probably carry.
Would carry.
O, Fallen Angel.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Kabalyero
What does kabalyero mean?
At any rate, she speaks of love and killing and incest. What else do you need? She joins the list of writers.
What does kabalyero mean?
At any rate, she speaks of love and killing and incest. What else do you need? She joins the list of writers.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Monday, August 30, 2004
From My Eyes
My knees hurt from having to kneel
waiting to hand one offering after another
beads of sweat in my blood
wondering whether or not it was enough.
in the end it was not jewelry but my words
just as it was in the beginning.
My knees hurt from having to kneel
waiting to hand one offering after another
beads of sweat in my blood
wondering whether or not it was enough.
in the end it was not jewelry but my words
just as it was in the beginning.
Sunday, May 23, 2004
Asian American Poetry: The Next Generation
Edited by Victoria M. Chang
Foreword by Marilyn Chin
Filipino American poets featured
Rick Barot
Nick Carbo
Antonio Jocson
Aimee Nezhukumatathil
Oliver de la Paz
Jon Pineda
Marisa de los Santos
This exciting anthology of work by up-and-coming writers is the first to profile a new generation of Asian American poets. Building on the legacy of now-canonized poets, such as Li-Young Lee, Cathy Song, and Garrett Hongo, who were the first to achieve widespread recognition in the American literary community, this new generation also strikes off in bold new directions. Asian American Poetry: The Next Generation gathers for the first time a broad cross section of the very best work of these young poets, much of which has never before been published or has appeared only in hard-to-find journals and first books of poetry.
The poems collected in Asian American Poetry: The Next Generation lay a groundwork for readers while at the same time expanding the scope of American literature. Featured poets, all under the age of forty, include Timothy Liu, Adrienne Su, Nick Carbo, Sue Kwock Kim, Rick Barot, Brenda Shaughnessy, Mong-Lan, as well as less familiar names. Their backgrounds combine many ethnicities and their perspectives and concerns broaden the boundaries of Asian American poetry. Some continue with styles and topics closely related to those of their predecessors while others break conventional patterns and challenge readers with new subject matter, fresh language, and powerful new voices.
A foreword by Marilyn Chin puts the book in context of both Asian American national identity and history, and makes the important distinctions between generations clear. Asian American Poetry: The Next Generation opens the door on a dynamic, developing part of the poetic world, making it finally accessible to students, scholars, and poetry fans alike.
"The poems in this vibrant, varied collection address so many subjects in such a range of voices that it all but destroys monolithic notions of Asian American identity, culture, and issues."
-- Guiyou Huang, author of The Columbia Guide to Asian American Literature
"A new generation of Asian American poets has indeed risen and needs to be acknowledged and celebrated--something this book does brilliantly. Victoria Chang has done a great deal of digging, allowing the reader of this collection to experience again and again the excitement of discovering a vibrant new poetic voice."
-- Jim Daniels, author of City Pool and coeditor of American Poetry: The Next Generation.
Illinois Univ. Press
232 pages. 6 x 9 inches.
Cloth, ISBN 0-252-02905-4. $45.00
Paper, ISBN 0-252-07174-3. $20.00
Poetry / Asian-American Studies / Literature, American
Edited by Victoria M. Chang
Foreword by Marilyn Chin
Filipino American poets featured
Rick Barot
Nick Carbo
Antonio Jocson
Aimee Nezhukumatathil
Oliver de la Paz
Jon Pineda
Marisa de los Santos
This exciting anthology of work by up-and-coming writers is the first to profile a new generation of Asian American poets. Building on the legacy of now-canonized poets, such as Li-Young Lee, Cathy Song, and Garrett Hongo, who were the first to achieve widespread recognition in the American literary community, this new generation also strikes off in bold new directions. Asian American Poetry: The Next Generation gathers for the first time a broad cross section of the very best work of these young poets, much of which has never before been published or has appeared only in hard-to-find journals and first books of poetry.
The poems collected in Asian American Poetry: The Next Generation lay a groundwork for readers while at the same time expanding the scope of American literature. Featured poets, all under the age of forty, include Timothy Liu, Adrienne Su, Nick Carbo, Sue Kwock Kim, Rick Barot, Brenda Shaughnessy, Mong-Lan, as well as less familiar names. Their backgrounds combine many ethnicities and their perspectives and concerns broaden the boundaries of Asian American poetry. Some continue with styles and topics closely related to those of their predecessors while others break conventional patterns and challenge readers with new subject matter, fresh language, and powerful new voices.
A foreword by Marilyn Chin puts the book in context of both Asian American national identity and history, and makes the important distinctions between generations clear. Asian American Poetry: The Next Generation opens the door on a dynamic, developing part of the poetic world, making it finally accessible to students, scholars, and poetry fans alike.
"The poems in this vibrant, varied collection address so many subjects in such a range of voices that it all but destroys monolithic notions of Asian American identity, culture, and issues."
-- Guiyou Huang, author of The Columbia Guide to Asian American Literature
"A new generation of Asian American poets has indeed risen and needs to be acknowledged and celebrated--something this book does brilliantly. Victoria Chang has done a great deal of digging, allowing the reader of this collection to experience again and again the excitement of discovering a vibrant new poetic voice."
-- Jim Daniels, author of City Pool and coeditor of American Poetry: The Next Generation.
Illinois Univ. Press
232 pages. 6 x 9 inches.
Cloth, ISBN 0-252-02905-4. $45.00
Paper, ISBN 0-252-07174-3. $20.00
Poetry / Asian-American Studies / Literature, American
Sunday, May 02, 2004
Assignment for March 2004: Flipping the situation.
This is the poem that I forced to birth. It was a difficult assignment from Rollie Guess who my inspiration is: George W. Bush!!! He stammered, he yawed, he sank into oblivion when asked about the US soldiers who were taking photos of tortured Iraqis posed in the nude. Talk about having an idiot in the White House. We got one!
A Filipino-American Soldier in Afghanistan
(First days of the Gulf War II)
Barbarians! The whole lot of them.
Living in filth so that they can
humiliate and murder people.
Barbarians! They deserve to die!
A special place in hell awaits all these
who would be the bringers of jihad.
They will burn in the fires of damnation.
(December 2003 of Gulf War II)
Barbarians! They separate me from
my wife and children. If it were not them
I would be at home fixing my children's
Christmas presents. I will kill them for that!
I am doing God's work by bringing civilization
to the Middle East. I will sanctify
this land with the power of America
just like Spain civilized the Philippines.
(May 2004 of Gulf War II)
Barbarian! I killed a whole village yesterday
with the simple push of a button.
While the world trade center took four thousand
I have taken four thousand myself.
I will meet in hell the jihad warriors
whom I despised so much.
I am in hell.
This is the poem that I forced to birth. It was a difficult assignment from Rollie Guess who my inspiration is: George W. Bush!!! He stammered, he yawed, he sank into oblivion when asked about the US soldiers who were taking photos of tortured Iraqis posed in the nude. Talk about having an idiot in the White House. We got one!
A Filipino-American Soldier in Afghanistan
(First days of the Gulf War II)
Barbarians! The whole lot of them.
Living in filth so that they can
humiliate and murder people.
Barbarians! They deserve to die!
A special place in hell awaits all these
who would be the bringers of jihad.
They will burn in the fires of damnation.
(December 2003 of Gulf War II)
Barbarians! They separate me from
my wife and children. If it were not them
I would be at home fixing my children's
Christmas presents. I will kill them for that!
I am doing God's work by bringing civilization
to the Middle East. I will sanctify
this land with the power of America
just like Spain civilized the Philippines.
(May 2004 of Gulf War II)
Barbarian! I killed a whole village yesterday
with the simple push of a button.
While the world trade center took four thousand
I have taken four thousand myself.
I will meet in hell the jihad warriors
whom I despised so much.
I am in hell.
Sunday, March 14, 2004
A list of Pin@y Writings
NOVELS
Apostol, Gina. Bibliolepsy. U.P., 1997.
Babst, Arlene. Xeniteia. National, 1982.
Batacan, F.H. Smaller and Smaller Circles. U.P., 2002.
Brainard, Cecilia. Song of Yvonne. New Day, 1991. [The Day the Rainbow Goddess Wept, Plume, 1995]
Casper, Linda Ty. Awaiting Trespass. New Day, 1989.
__________. Dread Empire. Heinemann, 1982.
__________. Dream Eden. Ateneo, 1997.
__________. Fortress in a Plaza. New Day, 1985.
__________. The Hazards of Distance. New Day, 1981.
__________. The Peninsulars. Bookmark, 1964.
__________. A Small Party in the Garden. New Day, 1988.
__________. The Stranded Whale. Ateneo, 2002.
__________. Ten Thousand Seeds. Ateneo, 1987.
__________. Wings of Stone. New Day, 1990.
Chai. Arlene. The Last Time I Saw Mother. Fawcett Columbine, 1997.
__________. Eating Fire and Drinking Water. Review. 1998.
Castillo, Erwin. The Firewalkers. [Anvil, 1992]; U.P., 2003.
Dalisay, Jose. Killing Time in a Warm Place. Anvil, 1992.
Daroy, E. Vallado. Hazards of Memory. New Day, 1992.
Enriquez, Antonio. The Living in the Dead. Giraffe, 1994.
__________. Subanons. U.P. 1998.
__________. Surveyors of Liguasan Marsh. [Univ. of Queensland, 1981] A. Ruby/ARE, 1991.
Enriquez, Mig Alvarez. Devil Flower. National. 1977.
__________. House of Images. New Day, 1993.
Galang, Zoilo. A Child of Sorrow. [1921] PECO, 1924.
Gamalinda, Eric. Confessions of a Volcano. Anvil, 1990.
__________. The Empire of Memory. Anvil, 1992.
__________. My Sad Republic. U.P. 2000.
__________. Planet Waves. New Day, 1989.
Garrido, Wilfredo. Stolia. New Day, 1983.
Gil, Lakshmi. The Third Infinitive. Tsar, 1993.
Gonzalez, NVM. The Bamboo Dancers. Benipayo, 1960.
__________. A Season of Grace. Benipayo, 1956.
__________. Winds of April. U.P., 1998.
Groyon, Vicente. Sky Over Dimas. DLSU, 2003.
Hagedorn, Jessica. Dogeaters. Pantheon, 1990.
__________. Gangster of Love. Houghton Mifflin, 1996.
Hidalgo, Cristina Pantoja. Recuerdo. U.P., 1996.
__________. A Book of Dreams. U.P., 2001.
Holthe, Tess Uriza. When the Elephants Dance. Crown, 2002.
Ilio, Dominador. Guerrilla Memoirs. 1993.
Infante, Eddie. Affairs. New Day, 1984.
Javellana, Stevan. Without Seeing the Dawn. (1947) Phoenix, 1976.
Joaquin, Nick. Cave and Shadows. [National, 1983] Anvil, 2003.
__________. The Woman Who Had Two Navels. Regal, 1961.
Jose, F. Sionil. Ermita. Solidaridad, 1988.
__________. Gagamba. Solidaridad, 1991.
__________. Mass. Solidaridad, 1979.
__________. My Brother, My Executioner. New Day, 1979.
__________. Po-On. Solidaridad, 1984.
__________. The Pretenders. Solidaridad, 1962.
__________. Tree. Solidaridad, 1978.
__________. Two Filipino Women. Solidaridad, 1981.
__________. Viajero. Solidaridad, 1993.
Kalaw, Maximo. The Filipino Rebel. [1927] Filipiniana, 1964.
Laya, Juan, His Native Soil. [1940] Kayumanggi, 1972.
__________. This Barangay Inang Wika, 1950.
Lim, Paulino. Tiger Orchids on Mount Mayon. New Day, 1990.
__________. Requiem for a Dying Priest. New Day. 1996.
Linmark, Rinehart Zamora. Rolling the R’s. Kaya, 1995.
Madrid, Renato. Devil Wings. Ateneo, 1997.
__________. Mass for the Death of an Enemy. Ateneo, 2001.
Miraflor, Norma. Island of Wives. Mediamasters, 1994.
Moore, Lina Espina. The Honey, the Locusts. New Day, 1992.
__________. Heart of the Lotus. Solidaridad, 1970.
__________. A Lion in the House. New Day, 1980.
Nakpil, Carmen Guerrero. The Rice Conspiracy. Vessel, 1990.
Nolledo, Wilfredo. But for the Lovers. [Dutton, 1970] Dalkey, 1994.
Ong, Charlson. Embarrassment of Riches. U.P., 2000.
Ong, Hau. Fixer Chao. Farrar-Strauss, 2000.
Polotan, Kerima. The Hand of the Enemy. [Regal, 1961] U.P., 1998.
Realuyo, Bino. The Umbrella Country. Ballantine, 1999.
Reyes, Gracianus. Death in the Cordilleras. New Day, 1988.
__________. The Uncommitted. New Day, 1986.
Rosca, Ninotchka. State of War. [Norton] Phil. Edition, National, 1988.
__________. Twice Blessed. [Norton] Phil. Edition, IWS, St. Scholastica/ Gabriela, 1988.
Salanga, Alfrredo (and Romulo Sandoval). The Birthing of Hannibal Valdez (in two languages). New Day, 1984.
Santos, Bienvenido. The Man Who (Thought He) Looked Like Robert Taylor. New Day, 1983.
__________. The Praying Man. New Day, 1982.
__________. Villa Magdalena. New Day, 1965.
__________. The Volcano. New Day, 1965.
__________. What the Hell For You Left your Heart in San Francisco? New Day, 1987.
Sering, Tara F.T. “Getting Better,” Reconnaissance. U.P., 2003.
Skinner, Michele. Mango Seasons. Anvil, 1996.
Talag, Michele. The Sanchezes of Old Manila. National, 1978.
Tiempo, Edith. The Alien Corn. New Day, 1992.
__________. A Blade of Fern. [Heinemann, 1978] Giraffe, 1998.
__________. The Builder. Anvil, 2003.
__________. His Native Coast. [New Day, 1979.] U.P., 2000.
__________. One, Tilting Leaves. Giraffe, 1995.
Tiempo, Edilberto. The Cracked Mirror. New Day, 1984.
__________. More than Conquerors. 1964.
__________. The Standard Bearer. New Day, 1985.
__________. To Be Free. New Day, 1972.
__________. Watch in the Night. Archipelago, 1953.
Uranza, Azucena Grau. Bamboo in the Wind. Vera-Reyes, 1990.
__________. A Passing Season. New Day. 2002.
Yuson, Alfred. Great Philippine Jungle Energy Café. [Adriana, 1988] U.P., 1996.
__________. Voyeurs and Savages. Anvil. 1998.
NOVELS
Apostol, Gina. Bibliolepsy. U.P., 1997.
Babst, Arlene. Xeniteia. National, 1982.
Batacan, F.H. Smaller and Smaller Circles. U.P., 2002.
Brainard, Cecilia. Song of Yvonne. New Day, 1991. [The Day the Rainbow Goddess Wept, Plume, 1995]
Casper, Linda Ty. Awaiting Trespass. New Day, 1989.
__________. Dread Empire. Heinemann, 1982.
__________. Dream Eden. Ateneo, 1997.
__________. Fortress in a Plaza. New Day, 1985.
__________. The Hazards of Distance. New Day, 1981.
__________. The Peninsulars. Bookmark, 1964.
__________. A Small Party in the Garden. New Day, 1988.
__________. The Stranded Whale. Ateneo, 2002.
__________. Ten Thousand Seeds. Ateneo, 1987.
__________. Wings of Stone. New Day, 1990.
Chai. Arlene. The Last Time I Saw Mother. Fawcett Columbine, 1997.
__________. Eating Fire and Drinking Water. Review. 1998.
Castillo, Erwin. The Firewalkers. [Anvil, 1992]; U.P., 2003.
Dalisay, Jose. Killing Time in a Warm Place. Anvil, 1992.
Daroy, E. Vallado. Hazards of Memory. New Day, 1992.
Enriquez, Antonio. The Living in the Dead. Giraffe, 1994.
__________. Subanons. U.P. 1998.
__________. Surveyors of Liguasan Marsh. [Univ. of Queensland, 1981] A. Ruby/ARE, 1991.
Enriquez, Mig Alvarez. Devil Flower. National. 1977.
__________. House of Images. New Day, 1993.
Galang, Zoilo. A Child of Sorrow. [1921] PECO, 1924.
Gamalinda, Eric. Confessions of a Volcano. Anvil, 1990.
__________. The Empire of Memory. Anvil, 1992.
__________. My Sad Republic. U.P. 2000.
__________. Planet Waves. New Day, 1989.
Garrido, Wilfredo. Stolia. New Day, 1983.
Gil, Lakshmi. The Third Infinitive. Tsar, 1993.
Gonzalez, NVM. The Bamboo Dancers. Benipayo, 1960.
__________. A Season of Grace. Benipayo, 1956.
__________. Winds of April. U.P., 1998.
Groyon, Vicente. Sky Over Dimas. DLSU, 2003.
Hagedorn, Jessica. Dogeaters. Pantheon, 1990.
__________. Gangster of Love. Houghton Mifflin, 1996.
Hidalgo, Cristina Pantoja. Recuerdo. U.P., 1996.
__________. A Book of Dreams. U.P., 2001.
Holthe, Tess Uriza. When the Elephants Dance. Crown, 2002.
Ilio, Dominador. Guerrilla Memoirs. 1993.
Infante, Eddie. Affairs. New Day, 1984.
Javellana, Stevan. Without Seeing the Dawn. (1947) Phoenix, 1976.
Joaquin, Nick. Cave and Shadows. [National, 1983] Anvil, 2003.
__________. The Woman Who Had Two Navels. Regal, 1961.
Jose, F. Sionil. Ermita. Solidaridad, 1988.
__________. Gagamba. Solidaridad, 1991.
__________. Mass. Solidaridad, 1979.
__________. My Brother, My Executioner. New Day, 1979.
__________. Po-On. Solidaridad, 1984.
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I have little tolerance for people like me
Yes, I keep seeing triple L's out there. Triple Losers. Jesus. I'm one of them.
Yes, I keep seeing triple L's out there. Triple Losers. Jesus. I'm one of them.
for the SO
i am in love with a woman
who wields a sword as if
she was breastfeeding her child.
her stare reveals the many spirits
communing within her flesh.
they celebrate their lives
through her halad.
every strike a breath
every parry a laughter.
desire played a role in my life once
but now the heart skips,
flutters at the thought of her smile.
i am in love with a woman
who wields a sword as if
she was breastfeeding her child.
her stare reveals the many spirits
communing within her flesh.
they celebrate their lives
through her halad.
every strike a breath
every parry a laughter.
desire played a role in my life once
but now the heart skips,
flutters at the thought of her smile.