Photo courtesy of
Manilamarket.Com
Luisa A. Igloria
Street Food
On days that are too hot, nothing will satisfy
except more heat. I'd take you downstairs
to the street where little blobs of tar
melting in the cracks of pavement are no
mirage, to the corner where men in greasy
pantaloons are tending makeshift grills—
we'll take our pick of skewered fishballs
dipped in sweet and sour sauce. Walkmans are crisp
chicken heads all in a row, Adidas their gummy
feet bathed in savory spice. Of course
there are things that look a little tamer—fat
fingers of bananas halved lengthwise, sizzled in oil
and dusted with powdered sugar; slivered mangoes
swimming in cool brine, sliced jicama like ivory
keys sprung from a grand piano. Who could resist
the little cones of dipping salt sprinkled with chili
flakes, glass jars where peppercorns and bell
pepper squares bob in a ferment of coconut
vinegar? Beads of sweat film on your nose,
your chin, as you pull with your teeth and smack
with your lips the smoky barbecues.
As if on cue, the peddler of drinks
rolls into view: "Sa malamig!"—clanking a ladle,
swirling an aquarium of pink and green
tapioca pearls. After this feast, in the cooling
dusk we'll stroll the plaza where, under fire
trees, pigeons' breasts are shaded the purple of ripe
star-apples, and vendors call out one more offering—
pristine ovals housing tender duck embryos, kept
warm in cheesecloth-lined pails made of tin.
The Potato Eaters, Van Gogh
Kristian Cordero
Pagkakan nin Patatas
‘Amongst this confusion I was dismayed
by a meal poor people had in a weird hut
under a dim lamp. He called it The Potato-Eaters.
It was ugly in a splendid way loaded
with an alarming activity.’
Emile Bernard on Vincent Van Gogh’s Potato-Eaters
Nagluwas sinda sa kadikloman.
Mayong rebolusyon na pig-iisip
kundi idto sanang gutom na namamatian—
mga tulak na nag-aagrangay,
mata na garo naghihingagdan na gasera
huli sa kulog sa laog na minalagbas
sa salming kan McDonalds.
Yaon sinda duman naghahalat
asin nagbabantay sa marigmat
na sikyu na sinabihan sindang
mga sindikato, mga palugi sa negosyo.
Kun igwang matada na pirang pidaso
nin French fries, nanambitan sinda
na mahiling, kaherakan asin iluwas
dangan iturol sainda na garo baga
nag-abot nin sweldo pagkatapos
kan paghalat asin pagtilam-tilam.
Rakdag asin tada an saindang piyesta.
Sa kagutoman o sa dikit na kabasugan,
na nagpara kan haldat, makaraw
nindang pighihiling an sukbit na badil
an sunod nindang aagawon, kukuanon.
Alagad, marayo na lang sinda, makakan
kan malumyang patatas na sasabihon
ninda na garo sana man inasinan na kamote.
Dangan, kakanon sinda giraray nin takot,
na dai ninda aram kun saen hali:
pagkatakot sa palibot, sa natudan na gutom
asin sa pag-udo, pagsunggo nin dugo
na garo ketsup na daing hamis, daing harang.
Eating Potatoes
They come out of the dark,
no revolution in their minds
but just hunger—
their guts moaning,
eyes guttering like kerosene lamps
from the inner pain that now pierces
through the McDonald’s glass.
They wait there, looking out
for the alert security guard who had called them
a thieving syndicate, bad for business.
Ah, if there were just some leftover
French fries, they pray, and he’d
espy them and take pity,
and hand them the slivers like wages
they’ve been anticipating, mouths watering.
Crumbs and remains are their feast.
In their hunger, or meager satisfaction
that would soothe their guts,
they’d eye with mischief the holstered gun
as their next target.
But they’d just step back and away,
Feast on the limp strips of potato
Which they’d say tasted no better
than fried salted camote.
Then, their fear would eat them back,
from where they do not know;
their fear of everything around them,
the hunger and the moving of bowels
they’ve been used to, the nosebleed
flowing like tasteless, bite-less ketchup.
(translation: MLK)
NOTE:
Camote. Sweet potato.
The Huntress by Bencab
Marne L. Kilates
The Huntress by Bencab
Dusk in the azotea, swain whistling
From the shadows, for she couldn’t
See him without chaperone,
These seem what the whole languid
Posture of her betrays: far from the huntress
With her escopeta, the sash gripping
Her waist like a bandolier of shots,
Unlikely accoutrements she could never
Use against the fawn at her feet,
Much less guard against the advances
Of timid young men, frightened as she was
Of the father that dominated her household,
Gentry stalwart, upholder of the status quo,
Owner of the wood that stretched just beyond
The walls surrounding the bahay na bato,
Where she grew up with novenas and scapulars,
And family dinners with the cura parroco.
But what makes her dream so blithely
Of danger in the moor where she leans
In provocative whimsy against
The twisted bole of a dead tree?
Whose incarnation was it she fancied
Herself to be: In her delicate barò and saya,
The crinkly panuelo hung from her
Shoulders like a Capuchin cowl pulled back
To reveal her fragile half-smile—
In pique for a thwarted tryst,
As she hurried back and found this tree
To rest her dainty feet and shins
All wrapped in leggings against
Thorn and amorseco clinging to her saya
From secret paths of cimarron and insurrecto?
Was she protector of the hunt
Or hunter herself, the Makiling goddess haunted
By the young man crying her name
Before the fusillade of Mausers,
Or Sinukuan handing out retribution
For the violators of her sacred wood?
Tones and deepening tones of brown
And indigo, the vermilion sunsets
Of our race, our pleasant masks
Of tenderness and constant ease, leave us
Such pained beauty hankering for memory.
(June 1, 2008)
NOTES:
Azotea. Balcony.
Escopeta. Shotgun.
Bahay na bato. Stone house, in Spanish colonial Philippines, of the antillian type.
Cura parroco. Parish priest.
Barò and saya. Blouse and skirt, the Filipina costume.
Panuelo. Kerchief or scarf or sorts.
Amorseco. Clinging burr (Chrysopogon aciculatus Retz.), literally, dried love.
Cimarron. Wild buffalo, term used by colonists to refer to "unpacified" natives who usually stayed outside the colonial girdle.
Insurrecto. Rebel, used interchangeably with cimarron.