The Writers' Guild Philippines

The Writers' Guild Philippines consists of Tumblr Writers from the different parts of the country grouping together as one to share their writings to everyone.

This blog is also designed to foster the friendship and/or camaraderie among the members of the guild.

This is our official TAG.



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Luha, pawis at dugo
Pumapatak, sa lupaing pinagkaloob
Pagpupumiglas ng damdaming dinahas
Init ng pagragasa, sa ikinubling hapis, ipaparanas

Matamis na tagumpay, na pilit dinarampi
Ipinagkakait, ng mga pusong mapang-api
Aking Inang Bayan, kahit ika’y iniluluhod
Dami ng buhangin, ang magtatanggol, at mag-bubuklod

Ang iyong paglipad, ay walang kasing tamis
Kasama ang mga anak, sa bagnos ng batis
Pagtingala sa langit, ay dausdos sa lupain
Matapos ang saglit, pag-aalipi’y muling dumating

Karamdamang nabuo, wari’y walang lunas
Dumi ng palamuti, ay sa ati’y ipinunas
Gayong mga apo, natuwa sa duming matamis
Pagtingala’t pagsamba, sa ibang kulay ng kutis

Ito pang magka-kaugat, iisa ang tinutubuan
Itinataga, ang kaisa-isang katotohanan
Tayo-tayo na nga lang, magkakadugo’t laman
Bakit tayo-tayo rin, ang naglolokohan!? 

bonfiresandsandcastles:

Come down now, here they come.
Hurry and pierce the drums.
Empty the beer mugs,
Begin the hi-fi decrepit scratch of the guitar’s feedback;
Make sure the dog’s tail wags.

(Pen. Pen, check.)

Bullets hang on the ceiling
Like golden stars sleeping.
Announce the return,
“Come down now, here they come!”
Bass descends: voices burn.

The bullets point downward.
Aiming at lovers, bards,
The jokers and thieves;
(The walls are darkened now, mind you.)
They cannot be relieved.

Inside the living room,
Corpses stuck on vacuum,
Some in washing machine.
A wisp of cigarette smoke fades on the foreground.
The cold cadavers grin.

It is all but a dream,
You sing your tepid hymn
And your dark eyes shut,
“This is just a poem. This is just a poem, you say to yourself.”
Pain succumbs in your gut.

Black Cadillacs® screech outside,
Like the crash of a renouncing tide.
Outside, “Shit!” a pedestrian cries,
The wind growls; ravens screaming to retire.
I apologize but the house is now on fire.

Rattle, rattle, Mr. Omnipotent Poet.
Eat your poetry, Mr. Omnipotent Poet.

“Teka… ano nga bang ginagawa ko dito?”
“Panaginip ba ito?”
“Saan ako nanggaling? Bukod sa sinapupunan ng nanay ko”
“Bakit pa sa earth? Mas cool sa Mars”
“Para saan at nabubuhay ako dito?!!!!”

          Sumasagi ba sa iyong isip ang mga tanong sa itaas? Hindi pwedeng hindi. Lahat tayo dumarating sa punto kung saan inaalam natin ang pinagmulan ng sarili o kung anuman. Kaya nga hinahanap ng kuting ang nanay nito at hinahanap ng mga nangungulila ang mga magulang nito. Mabusising hinahanap at inaaalam. Alam mo na nga ba?

          Tulad ng mga sinaunang tao, isipin mo, walang direktang nagturo sa kanila na magsalita, na pwede palang kainin ang prutas at gulay, na iniinom ang tubig, ang pakikipagtalik at paggawa ng facebook account. Ang mga tao ay may kakayahan na gawin ito at ginawa sila para din sa mga ito. Instinct ba. Alam mo rin ba kung bakit naghahanap ang mga tao ng sasambahin nila? Narinig mo na ba yung mga unang sibilisasyon? Halos lahat sila ay may kinikilalang dakilang nilalang at sinasamba nila ito. Bakit nga ba? Ang galing noh? Kusang naghahanap ang mga sarili natin, maiisip at maiisip ang mga tanong. Kaya nga kung anu-anong bagay nalang ang sinasamba dati eh, dahil sa alam natin sa sarili na may kulang. May kulang ang pagkatao natin na hinahanap-hanap nito.

          Saan nga ba tayo galing? Nagkaroon ng mga teorya ang siyensya na may dalawang sobrang laking planeta na nagbanggaan, nakabuo ng iba’t ibang planeta mula sa mga naglipana nitong parte. Mula sa mga parteng naging planeta, aksidenteng nagkahalo ang iba’t ibang maliliit na material at substansiya hanggang mabuo ang iba’t ibang bagay matapos ng ilang bilyon o maaring trilyong taon. Ebolusyon ang sagot sa lahat ng mga tanong. Dati naniniwala ako sa mga ito. Turo kasi ito ng guro ko sa siyensiya. Na nagmula daw sa unggoy ang lahi ng mga tao, minsan ko nang gustong paniwalaan ang teoryang ito nang makilala ko yung kaklase kong may pagkakahawig ang mga katangian sa unggoy. Buhay na patunay na sana siya.

          Aksidente tayo, Oo aksidente lang daw tayo. Na nabuo mula sa iba’t ibang reaksyon sa buong kalawakan. Maniniwala sana akong aksidente tayo kung ang pwet ko ay nasa ulo o ang mukha ko ay may paa at amoy paa. Pero hindi. Lahat ng parte ng katawan ko ay may pakinabang at may mga dahilan sa bawat lugar kung saan ito nakatalaga. Kamay sa panghawak, paa sa panglakad,mata sa pangkita at kung anu-ano pa.  Konektado rin sa atin ang lahat ng mga nanggyayari at pwedeng mangyari sa mundo. Katulad ng paghinga sa hangin, mga natural na pagkain(prutas at gulay) at lahat ng pangunahin nating pangangailangan ay nandito sa lupa. May nagdisenyo ng lahat ng ito. Hindi tayo aksidente. Ang mga may karapatan lang magsabing aksidente sila ng kalawakan ay ang mga alien, pwet ang ulo at mga naniniwalang nagmula sila sa unggoy.

          Interesante ring isipin na may mga tao paring walang pinaniniwalaan. Bumabase sa siyensya. Naniniwalang ang tao ay binubuo lamang ng enerhiya. Walang espirito o kaluluwa. Kaya kapag namatay raw ang isang tao, ang enerhiya nito ay magbabago lamang ng anyo at porma na umaayon at pinagbabasehan ang Law of Conservation of Energy. Kaya pwede ka raw maging kung anu-ano dito sa mundo sa oras na nilagutan ka na ng hininga. Pwedeng bulalak, halaman o anumang bagay na binubuo ng enerhiya, kapag sinuwerte ka, pwede ka pa uli maging tao! Pero hindi parin ako naniniwala dito. Mas gusto ko pang paniwalaang mabubuhay akong muli at hindi na muling babalik pa sa mundong ito. Na may pupuntahan akong perpektong lugar. Kung saan, pangakong isa iyong paraiso. Na walang snatcher, mandurukot, politiko, patayan at iba pang naiisip mong masama.

          H’wag kang manghusga nang hindi mo inaalam. H’wag kang magsalita ng tapos hangga’t hindi mo hinahayaang maranasan. H’wag kang maghanap sa maling lugar at tumanggap ng impormasiyon hangga’t hindi lubusang pinag-aaralan. Itanong mo uli sa sarili mo …

          “Sino ba talaga ako? At ano ang ginagawa ko dito? Para saan ba ako?”

          Simulan mo uli. Hindi pa huli ang lahat. Alam kong alam mo kung saan dapat magsimulang maghanap ng pinagmulan. Likas sa taong maguluhan at malito sa umpisa. Pinanganak tayong bulag sa loob ng katauhan at mabubuhay nang habambuhay na may bakante sa puso hangga’t hindi mo siya tinatanggap sa iyong buhay.

          “Hindi dahil hindi mo kayang intindihin ay kasinungalingan. At hindi lahat ng kayang mong intindihin ay katotohanan.” – Bob Ong, Ang Paboritong Libro Ni Hudas.

 

muffledepistle:

When I was five, i used to write about dreams and ambitions. Fictions and fairytale that I thought was the reality of life. But I was wrong. I draw life in colors of vivid red, blue and green and happiness and hope in bright yellow, baby pink and sometimes in turquoise. Draw a picture of me in a stick with my love ones, we all have big smiles in our faces.

As I entered teenage years, everything suddenly changes. Dream and ambitions turned into battle - battle to get the goal. I struggle painting the canvass with violets and purples, shades of gray and neon orange to spice up everything. I draw them in 3D collections with emotions in their eyes; the sadness, happiness and every bit of emotions I once saw in them are precisely embedded in the illustration.

Here comes my little boy, the treasure in our family. Finally! Ill be a father. The little dreams I have in mind, the blurry pictures I used to see is getting clear, more vivid and accurate. I see colors of joy in the skyline, I see the hues of love and passion. And now I have a buddy who’ll help me finish the painting I have started.

Flashes of gold silver and bronze, I am a champion, indeed. I see my glorious years came to past, and now I’m here with you, sitting beside the shoreline waiting for the sun to set as we drink the coffee made by our son. This is a beautiful scenario of love. Family. Life. And self. Sprinkle some pixie dust and viola, it’s a magic!

(via muffledepistle-deactivated20140)

mapagharaya:

Sumulat ka gamit ang bulalakaw sa gabing tila walang talang maaninaw. Napawi ang takot na aking nadarama sa pagpatak ng oras na yaon. Marahil sa kakarampot na tanglaw na gumuhit sa himpapawid ay nakaramdam ako ng init. Naramdaman kong hindi ako nag-iisa at may natitira pang pag-asa. Napawing bahagya ang aking pagkabalisa at lahat ng poot at lumbay na dumungis sa aking gunita ay unti-unting kumawala. At sa’king paglanghap, nadama ko sa aking baga ang malamig na hanging bumubulusok papaikot. Anaki’y muli akong nabuhay, muli akong nagising sa mahabang pagkakahimbing. Nagdala ito ng kakaibang sensasyon sa aking katawan. Bago. Nangingiti akong mistulang hibang. Nakatingala sa langit habang pilit inaabot ang himpapawid. Unti-unting namuo muli ang mga ala-alang naglaho na. Ang imahe mo. Ang larawan ng mga nasirang pangarap. Ang repleksyon ng hinaharap. Lahat ay nanumbalik.

Bukas—naghihintay sa akin ang bukas.

kallandian:

As I place myself on a grassy field under the stars, I give myself a remedy. Thinking of something and my mind was serene as of the moment. It creates a temporary escape from veracity. I imagine of a happy thought, and it made me fly for a while. From the moment we create memories up to the last part wherein you need to go and find thyself to the arms of another. Again, tears start to fall. I was carried away. This is not the way of having a relaxation… This is not a cure for saving me from a hard day’s work.

Therapy, you were never a friend to me. Every time I took a visit whenever I want to reminisce and wherever I needed the most. And now, your choking me on your misery.

louieblogs:

This if for all the people who had suffered long enough before they were able to move on; for all the times wasted, for all the bland moments starring to the abyss of despair, for every second of longing and waiting, for all the wounds of the past, for enduring it all and for arising from the fall; for all the learning from every sore and lesion, from every tear of sorrow and for getting back to mend; for every broken dream, for forgetting the feeling of happiness and for fostering oneself with glaring hopes to better.

lakambinibini:

sinuyo ng hangin ang mga kamay
pihikan na pakiramdam tinatangay
rinig ang alon, sumusulong ang apak
kahel na lumalapat sa dagat ay payak
mga ibong umakap sa munting sinag
higit pa sa isa, sa langit pumapagpag

kinakain na ng dagat ang hugis ng barko
ungol nito sa tabing-dagat wari papalayo
nakapikit na, malaya ang aking katawan
dito, kalmado ako, palutang-lutang
madilim na asul na ang aking naapuhap
puting tuldok sa takipsilim kumakalat
wala na ang araw na sumandal sa ulap
wala na, kaluluwa ko rin nagsiwalat

atsueshi:

Before I get married, I’ll make sure I have a house built already. And I will make sure my house has a specific round room three storeys high as my library. So that if I don’t get married, I’ll marry my books instead. Or if I do get married, and my husband and I have terrible fights, I’ll have a place for myself where I could meditate —- I’ll read books, and then realize how trifling and silly our bickering was, and then grab pen and paper and write down a thousand synonyms for “sorry” in a post-it. I’ll put it on his nightstand, on top of a book I’ll suggest him to read. When he’s away for long stretches of time, I’ll spend my nights on affairs with books, instead of men, and he’ll think I love my books more than I love him. Which in some cases might be true, but then not true because books will become our sanctuary. So even if I don’t get to marry a bibliophile, I’ll make sure the man I marry will be one by the time we reach our first wedding anniversary, aptly labeled “Paper Anniversary”, and then we’ll make love not just with bodies but with words.

And my children? I will not allow them to read books from computers or portable eBook contraptions or holograms. They will feel the rough surface of the pages, smell the vanilla and the dust that make the books so damn seductive to their mother, and find that if there is one thing that she understands about them and their feelings, it’s the mutual love for the ink that swirls around stretches of cream and white, the ink that paints pictures with words that live and throb and yearn for a mind to show its images to - that of a ship sailing a million seas, or of a love so true it is almost always false. They will live a life guided by the wisdom of writers from ages past. In their grief, they will find that there is consolation in chocolates, rain, and a good book. In their happiness, they will find pen and paper and share such joy in ways only the written word can. And all the while, they will write the stories of their own lives, while I, their grammar-Nazi mother, will constantly proofread their works and their father will be the one who always reads it no matter what.

And if one day I wake up in the middle of the night and hear my teenage son’s pen scratching furiously, along with his defeated sighs and the sounds of paper crumpling then thunking dully against the edge of a trash bin, and I sneak a peek and I see him trying to write a letter to his girlfriend right after a fight, trying to write the way Darcy did to Elizabeth in Austen’s Pride and Prejudice…

- Or if I go to bed and find my eldest daughter’s manuscript waiting for me on my bedside table, waiting for commentary and massive proofreading…

- Or I wake up to his voice in my ear, greeting me a good morning, reciting lines from books we had read together before…

- then I have been blessed more than I completely deserve.

And if I don’t get married at all, and everything I wrote here become no more than hopes and dreams of a future whose flight got cancelled for good, then I’ll write a book and create a world in which they will happen, and then I’ll die blessed and happy and contented all the same.

mattsjustaroundthecorner:

We’re walking slowly
on heartstrings 
soon to fall upon blank space

and how I wish I could run,
keep my bearings steady
to somehow learn
not to look down

I counted the pastel
finishes along the clouds
and as colorful as they were
I could not marvel at their vibrance 
as well as I could

when you were there three beats away
in vibration, careful and afraid
of every step— your toes curled,
your hair furrowed
with every whisper of wind 
and soon one of us
will be alone 

suspended in regret,
italicized in thought

and the other survives
without a scar in check
from the long fall.