Book Recommendation: Night Sky with Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong If you’ve ever wanted a poetry collection that punches you in the chest, kisses your forehead, and then leaves you staring at the ceiling questioning your entire existence—this is the one. The Review Ocean Vuong doesn’t write poetry. He breathes fire onto the page, and you either walk away singed…
I woke up at 4 AM today, before my alarm, before the sun, before even the stray dogs outside remembered their duty to howl at nothing. The plan was simple: start the day writing poetry. This is a new routine I’ve been trying to establish, courtesy of Stafford Challenge, an earnest attempt at prioritizing creative work before the demands of…
Art as Necessity: Notes on Carl Phillips “Ambition” Sitting with Phillips’s “Ambition,” I see something like a dialogue across time and across difference. Assigned for my poetry class, the essay rises like the Gothic arches of a cathedral- each stone a study on what motivates us to create, what makes art not just appealing but essential as breath. I am…
At first glance, Lamberto Antonio’s “Pastol” feels like stepping into an Amorsolo painting. You know the ones – golden light, carabaos in rice fields, that idealized Filipino rural life we’ve all seen in museums.
Night Swimming by April Pagaling I practiced hurtlike how pearls are cultivated,methodically, with attention,this art of controlled wounding. I too became skilledin the art of turning trauma lustrous.This is how: first,you learn to treasure what hurts you,learn how beautiful things comefrom bodies in distress. But the ocean knows better.It knows the differencebetween cultivation and calcification,between keeping and containing.The pearls do…
The Witness by April Pagaling (in reply to “Wala Nang Tao sa Sta. Filomena”) You stand in the stubbled field,a scarecrow stripped of its purpose,shirt faded to the hue of stillborn harvests.January light knifes sideways,spilling shadows longer than your body, stretching beyond the moment of its making. I have witnessed this scene before.Escalante’s fencepost scarecrowdraped in a dead man’s shirt, arms splayed.Lupao’s…
Lesson on Flowers The flower openswithout violence. This is whatI learned in elementaryhow resistance livesin softness. I stand in the kitchen, watchingpetals drift into my teacup,thinking of mother’s handsfolding white sheets,how they will yellowwith time. Everything palebecomes something else. In dreams, I am notthis daughter who changeswithout permission. I amthe space between what shesaved and what she lost. She told…
The absence of connection burns differently than the absence of touch. A poem about loneliness and how two bodies can share a bed while their hearts inhabit separate countries.
Walking around in Sagada and finding this beautiful spider web. A meditation on grief and finding comfort in unexpected places and a reflection on rebuilding and survival.
The chill of January mornings in Marinduque and navigating the cold, thinking of unspoken young love. Discover how the Sea of Clouds intertwines with the warmth of a fleeting smile in this introspective poem.