si manay eva

dai pa ngani naga-tukturaok an mga manok sa sanga kan bayawas, papagkutan nya na an gasira pasiring sa manatong
baku ta kaipuhan na makiumbasan sa tik tak kan relo
pero kaipuhan na magsalod asin magtipon ki tubig
para sa paggaro-garo sa maghapon
asin paglaba
maski ngani dai pa nagkakaratorog an namok
(madiklom pa baga asin sa mga oras na inio
quinze minutos bago mag alas-2 nin aga
aram kan mga namok na si manay eva
mapasiring sa manatong
dara an gasira
balde
planggana
na pano kan labahan
bareta ki mr. clean
clorox
tabo
brush
asin dakul na
pasensya

2 tula hale kay Wislawa

1. A few words on the soul

We have a soul at times.
No one's got it non-stop,
for keeps.
Day after day,
year after year
may pass without it.
Sometimes
it will settle for awhilw
only in childhood's fears and raptures.
Sometimes only in astonishment
that we are old.
It rarely lends a hand
in uphill tasks,
like moving furniture,
or lifting luggage,
or going miles in shoes that pinch.
It usually steps out
whenever meat needs chopping
or forms have to be filled.
For every thousand conversations
it participates in one,
if even that,
since it prefers silence.
Just when our body goes from ache to pain,
it slips off-duty.
It's picky:
it doesn't like seeing us in crowds,
our hustling for a dubious advantage
and creaky machinations make it sick.
Joy and sorrow
aren't two different feelings for it.
It attends us
only when the two are joined.
We can count on it
when we're sure nothing
and curious about everything.
Among the material objects
it favors clocks with pendulums
and mirrors, which keep on working
even when no one is looking.
It own't say where it comes from
or when it's taking off again,
though it's clearly expecting such questions.
We need it
but apparently
it needs us
for some reason too.

2. A note

Life is the only way
to get covered in leaves,
catch your breath on the sand,
rise on wings;
to be a dog,
or stroke its warm fur;
to tell pain
from everything it's not;
to squeeze inside events,
dawdle in views,
to seek the least of all possible mistakes.
An extraordinary chance
to remember for a moment
a conversation held
with the lamp switched off;
and if only once
to stumble on a stone,
end up soaked in one downpour or another,
mislay your keys in the grass;
and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes;
and to keep on not knowing
something important.

(Wislawa Symborska was born in Kornik in Western Poland on 2 July 1923. She was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1996. The two poems above were from her collection Chwila/Moment translated by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak)

Manito, manita

Krismas na naman. Panahon kan manito, manita. Sa eskwelahan syempre pati si Ma'am buda si Sir kaintra. Maswertehon ka kun an makakua saimong manito o manita si Ma'am o si Sir ta syempre mas magayon an regalo an makukua mo. Samantalang kun si Ma'am o si Sir an manita o manito mo dakulang problema ta ano man kayang regalo an mababakal mo sa 20 pesos na pambakal hale ki mama o papa mo.

2 tula hale kay Neftali

1. TONIGHT I CAN WRITE...

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.Write, for example, 'The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.Tonight I can write the saddest lines.I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.How could one not have loved her great still eyes.Tonight I can write the saddest lines.To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.What does it matter that my love could not keep her.The night is starry and she is not with me.This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.The same night whitening the same trees.We, of that time, are no longer the same.I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.Love is so short, forgetting is so long.Because through nights like this one I held her in my armsmy soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.Though this be the last pain that she makes me sufferand these the last verses that I write for her.

2. LOVE

What's wrong with you, with us, what's happening to us? Ah our love is a harsh cord that binds us wounding us and if we want to leave our wound, to separate, it makes a new knot for us and condemns us to drain our blood and burn together. What's wrong with you? I look at you and I find nothing in you but two eyes like all eyes, a mouth lost among a thousand mouths that I have kissed, more beautiful, a body just like those that have slipped beneath my body without leaving any memory. And how empty you went through the world like a wheat-colored jar without air, without sound, without substance! I vainly sought in you depth for my arms that dig, without cease, beneath the earth: beneath your skin, beneath your eyes, nothing, beneath your double breast scarcely raised a current of crystalline order that does not know why it flows singing. Why, why, why, my love, why?

(Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), whose real name is Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto, was born on 12 July, 1904, in the town of Parral in Chile. His father was a railway employee and his mother, who died shortly after his birth, a teacher. Some years later his father, who had then moved to the town of Temuco, remarried doña Trinidad Candia Malverde. The poet spent his childhood and youth in Temuco, where he also got to know Gabriela Mistral, head of the girls' secondary school, who took a liking to him. At the early age of thirteen he began to contribute some articles to the daily "La Mañana", among them, Entusiasmo y Perseverancia - his first publication - and his first poem. In 1920, he became a contributor to the literary journal "Selva Austral" under the pen name of Pablo Neruda, which he adopted in memory of the Czechoslovak poet Jan Neruda (1834-1891).)

Ma south road kami

Kun mapa-Legazpi ka hale sa Manila tulo an pwede mong pagpilian: mag- eroplano, mag-PNR, o mag-south road.
Nasa Pasay o Cubao an terminal kan mga awtong south road. Syempre makapamili ka: Pantranco o JB Line. Kun mayaman-yaman JB Line an pipilion: mas diit an pigpupunduhan bako arog kan Pantranco na kada banwa igwang istasyon na pighahapitan.
Syempre kun mayaman yaman JB Line na may aircon an pipilion: mas malipot mas komportable an byahe (maski ngani pigtatarakigan na sosyal baya).
Syempre pag mayam-yaman daing balon na pinatos sa dahon kan batag. Sa pigpupunduhan na istasyon igwang restawran duman na sana makakan.
Hmmmmmm tagalog syempre an gamit: dai nanggad mag Bicol maririsa na promdi. Mas sosyal kun ingles.

(Sa ngunyan mas midbid an Pantranco bilang Philtranco; an JB Line sarado na - nalugi. Dai na ki south road, an PNR hanggan Guinobatan na sana. Pinakasosyal an pag eroplano)

Nagkaduwang Tula hale kay Edna St. Vincent Millay

Primerong tula
The Leaf and the Tree

When will you learn, myself, to be
a dying leaf on a living tree?
Budding, swelling, growing strong,
Wearing green, but not for long,
Drawing sustenance from air,
That other leaves, and you not there,
May bud, and at the autumn's call
Wearing russet, ready to fall?
Has not this trunk a deed to do
Unguessed by small and tremulous you?
Shall not these branches in the end
To wisdom and the truth ascend?
And the great lightning plunging by
Look sidewise with a golden eye
To glimpse a tree so tall and proud
It sheds its leaves upon a cloud?
Here, I think, is the heart's grief:
The tree, no mightier than the leaf,
Makes firm its root and spreads it crown
And stands; but in the end comes down.
That airy top no boy could climb
Is trodden in a little time
By cattle on their way to drink.
The fluttering thoughts a leaf can think,
That hears the wind and waits its turn,
Have taught it all a tree can learn.
Time can make soft that iron wood.
The tallest trunk that ever stood,
In time, without a dream to keep,
Crawls in beside the root to sleep.

Panduwang tula

'Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare'

Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare.
Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace,
And lay them prone upon the earth and cease
To ponder on themselves, the while they stare
At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere
In shapes of shifting lineage; let geese
Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release
From dusty bondage into luminous air.
O blinding hour, O holy, terrible day,
When first the shaft into his vision shone
Of light anatomized! Euclid alone
Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they
Who, though once only and then but far away,
Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.

(I added here a link for you reader. I invite you to know intimately one of my favorite writers. Go on don't be shy. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edna_St._Vincent_Millay)

kaligayahan

sapagkat kahapon ng umaga nakakita tayo ng isang pares ng tandang at inahin habang nanginginain ng mga tirang butil ng palay sa pilapil
matapos tapunan tayo ng mga kapipiranggot na sulyap ng kanilang mga berdeng mata para bang sinasabi na gumising na kayo at tanghali na-at sabay balik sa kanilang pagtuka
itong umaga habang pilit nyang tinutukso ang pluma upang manganak ng mga tayutay ako naman ay hinihipan ang mainit na kape upang
gisingin ang diwa na pilit iwinawaksi ang mga alaala ng lumipas na magdamag
at dahil sa init ng kape, kumawala agad ang ulirat:
ang pluma ay naglakbay sa malawak at malasutlang papel
nanganak ng mga salita
mga alaala ng bawat dantay ng kamay sa kapwa kamay
ng labi sa kapwa labi
ng mga mata na pilit inaaninag ang kailaliman ng diwa ng minamahal

From The Prophet

Then said Almitra, Speak to us of Love.
And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:
When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assings you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, Then is it better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather "I am in the heart of God."
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love,
And bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake up at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

(The Prophet, a book of poetry and illustrated with the poet's own mystical drawing are known and loved by innumerable people who find in them an expression of the deepest impulses of man's heart and mind. Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931) has been described as a poet, a philosopher, and an artist, was born in Lebanon. His poetry has been translated into many languages.)

pyestang gadan

nobyembre 1
pyesta kan mga gadan
aldaw kan pagdalaw sa sementeryo
syempre kaipuhan linigan an pantyon
magdara ki balde, tabak, trapo
dai paglingawan an kandila
burak
dai mawawara syempre an mga kaunon
hmmmmmmm
maski bawal syempre yaon man an beer
asin gin
karaoke?
nata dai