Darknesswater

a poem by Roger B Rueda

We were plunged into darknesswater.
The next day, cerulean skies.
Underneath, cobalt mire with sky in it.
In the clouds, the blue, so blue,
with its filth  out of sight,
sludge opening its ridges,
sludge slackening
the shatterproof suspicions,
to  clog up as if the whole thing
should be sky, turf ramparts
run, radices spread,
radices perished off, decolourised slurry,
and walls, slush,
and the brickwork filled with walls
that splits and raises, mud,
whole hillsides
of thin grey radices
visible,
all running downhill,
gleaming, waterlogged,
slipping their eased, interwoven
source, and the stems
were released,
and the verdant extensions
of root line, the moon’s
outmost transfigurations,
light’s green in-chatters with moon
now glazed-down forebodingly,
drawn down
over the newly-opened talus,
droopy, treacly,
as if the whole ecosphere
must run yet again,
scummy, sleek,
all the stubby rushing
of transformation now
crushed back
into one dark mottling, fusty,
all God's creatures  an abrupt maturing
over shock and then, in the flash, the realm.

Neighbours

a poem by Roger B Rueda

When I visit my neighbours, the mum is frying rice,

the older sister shredding Bisaya chicken 

for her wonderful salad. The father is sipping 

at his kape barako, taking his time 

and eating his lumpia roll made of leftover pancit,

small shrimps, and jackfruit, slowly,  inviting me 

in for a coffee. I am bringing them 

nice pancit-Molo soup

Mum has cooked, mixed in with

the cabbage and aubergine whose rotting quarters 

were scraped off. 

The brother is reading nursing

as the family has bought 

a new passenger jeepney, the couple 

having a mini-store across from our house.

Their pigs grunting at the backyard, 

the grandfather is cleaning 

the coops of their chickens, fresh eggs rolling.

Beggars

a poem by Roger B Rueda

I want to see them on the glossy paper
of the magazine.
Their shirts crumpled, untidy,
splashed with mud
seem pleasantly scented.
They don’t surround me,
begging for money,
their voices strangely calm.
I don’t feel a sudden tender pity
for them.
They are gazing at me
with a soft,
contented smile on their faces
discreetly concealed
by camera angles.
Their skin seems clear
and smooth,
their black hair like seaweeds
as they scavenge through garbage.
Flying raisins flew down on
their batchoy, fried chicken
inside paper boxes printed
with a happy bee mascot.
The journalist smiles
his elaborate charade
and hugs them
like a bit of a saint to put up with them.

Outing

an essay by Roger B Rueda

There is no uniform path to selfhood, and certainly no singular script to follow when it comes to identity, especially the kind that has long been punished, celebrated, co-opted, or misunderstood. To be gay in today’s world, in the Philippines or elsewhere, is no longer the revolutionary condition it once was—though the personal struggle remains as intimate, as labyrinthine, as ever. The act of coming out, still, is fraught with contradiction. One cannot force timing upon another’s becoming. That much must be said with care.

Outing, if we must name it thus, is not a blanket virtue. It cannot be imposed. It must arise from an internal readiness, a confluence of strength and circumstance, and most often, an exhaustion with secrecy. Some do it with fanfare. Others whisper it only to themselves. And then there are those who never do it at all.

Take, for instance, the figure of Piolo—handsome, beloved, a man whose very presence elicits a breathlessness from the crowd. His masculinity is both performance and promise. If he is, as some assume, gay, then his silence is neither a betrayal nor a sin. It is strategy, perhaps. Or maybe something softer—fear in a tuxedo. He is an icon not for his honesty, but for his image. He has become, willingly or not, the nation’s idea of manhood: well-spoken, gentle, smiling, devout. He is tolerated not because he is gay or straight but because he never forces us to choose. He remains ambiguous, and in that ambiguity, he becomes myth.

But myths, too, become prisons.

There is a sadness that comes with watching a man live so cleanly in the eyes of others while growing dusty inside his own skin. If Piolo is happier this way, then that is his right. And yet, what an ache it is to imagine that his happiness may be curated—that he has chosen the dim familiarity of the closet over the blinding light of truth.

The truth, in this context, is never simple. It cannot be reduced to slogans or creeds. The Philippines has, in many ways, become more tolerant. Our youth are wiser, less shocked by difference. And yet, tolerance is not the same as celebration. It is still safer, still more profitable, still more comfortable, to be seen as straight.

A gay person who stays closeted today may be protecting themselves. Or they may be betraying themselves. Or both.

But the ones I cannot abide are those who use the closet not just as refuge, but as a weapon. The ones who glare at those who have dared to live authentically. The ones who sneer at younger gays while playing hetero for applause. The ones who deny their own nature and punish others for living theirs.

These men do not simply deny truth—they distort it. They create lives that are so performative they verge on the grotesque, caricatures of manhood built not on integrity but on fear. They are actors too long in a role. They have forgotten the line between pretense and identity.

One such man—I do not name him because names are rarely the point—has built his life on that very masquerade. He teaches, he leads, he speaks with a voice that is strained from repression. He sees a gay student and stiffens. He looks with contempt at the very image of what he once could have been. He has made his life a study in bitterness, weaponizing shame like an ideology. He despises not only others, but his own reflection.

And what of God, then? That vast and unnameable force we claim to mirror?

If God made humans in His image, then surely He made them with variance. With contradiction. With desire that runs in different directions, all equally luminous. Perhaps God is not gay, and not straight. Perhaps God simply is—and the rest is our projection, our longing to comprehend what refuses to be caged.

Love is a mirror. In its truest form, it reflects the divine. And when gay love is honest and brave, it becomes one of the clearest windows into that divine. To revile it is to reject beauty. To punish it is to blind oneself to complexity.

There is no virtue in pretending to be someone you are not. There is no wisdom in condemning those who have done the difficult, necessary thing of choosing truth. The gay man who hates himself cannot love others. The gay man who sneers at other gays is not righteous; he is lost. He is not Piolo. He is a ghost.

Coming out is not a headline. It is a reckoning. It is a quiet revolution in the bones. And sometimes, it is the only way to become real.

In the end, the closet is not just a place. It is a posture. And the tragedy is not in hiding—but in forgetting what it was you were trying to protect in the first place.

Some Hiligaynon Sentences

an essay by Roger B Rueda

There are many advantages of learning Hiligaynon sentences. The main advantage of learning Hiligaynon sentences is to sound more conversational and personal. Learning simple vocabulary is important, but if you don't understand how to implement it into sentences and conversations, it may not do you much good in most situations. Be sure to spend time learning Hiligaynon phrases/sentences. When you take the time to learn one of the phrases/sentences, be sure to practise with a native speaker or somebody with a higher level than you so that you can sound more natural when using the Hiligaynon sentences.

Nagpasugot sia nga maglukso sa parakayda para sa buhat sa kaluoy.
She's agreed to do a parachute jump for charity.

Ipaábat ko siá sa kay Aldrin.
I shall send Aldrin after him.

Nagbúswang na ang íya hubág kag nagágay ang nánà.
His boil burst and the pus flowed out.

Hawóthawót iníng mga tápì sa salúg.
These planks are not sufficient to cover the floor.

Pahibóka iníng mán-og, kay tanawón ta kon napatáy na ukón walâ pa.
Stir this snake that we may see whether it is dead or not.

Ginakahidlawán siá sang íya nga ilóy.
His mother longs for him.

Ang mánghud amó ang nahigugmaán gid sang íya amáy.
The youngest son is very much loved by his father.

Tadlungá ang hiláy nga halígi.
Straighten the leaning post.

Ang maáyo nga mga bátà amó ang himáyà sang mga ginikánan.
Good children are the glory of their parents.

Himuláti ang pagkúhà sináng búnga sa sináng matáas nga sangá sang páhò.
Try to get hold of that fruit on that high branch of the mango-tree.

Nagahinurungán gid ang íla sugilánon nga walâ silá makabatî sang panóktok sa ganháan.
Their conversation was so animated that they did not hear the knock at the door.

Ang kinitáan sang mga mamumugón mapúslan sang búg-os nga bánwa.
The earnings of the working population are of advantage to the whole commonwealth.

Nagakúbay ang mga baláy sa siníng báryo sa toó kag sa walá sang dálan.
The houses in this village form rows (are in rows) to right and left of the road.

Indì ka magkúghad.
Don’t hawk (spit) with unseemly efforts.

Nagkúpus na ang hubág mo?
Has your swelling (boil) gone down?

Indì akó magbakál sing mahál sang ímo mga páhò, kay madámù sa íla ang kuyapíd.
I won’t pay a high price for your mangoes, because many of them are shrunk (or below normal size).

Naglabád siá sa ákon baláy nga dáw hángin.
He passed by my house like the wind.

Ladladí akó sing baníg.
Spread a sleeping mat for me.

Laghapí akó sing bulúng.
Try to find or get some medicine for me.

Indì mo pagpalagpokón ang tápì.
Don’t slam the board down.

Naglampingásan na ang madámù nga mga táo, kay walâ silá pagtóo kag walâ pagsapák sang mga sógò sang Díos.
Many men have become very wicked, because they have no faith and pay no heed to God’s commandments.

Ang mga lanúbò sing panuigón.
Those of tender years.

Ginlaukán níla nga duhá ang baláding nga tubâ kag nagkalahubúg (nagkabalúng) silá.
Both of them took large draughts of toddy from the pail and got drunk.

Lidgirí akó sing napúlò ka bílog nga maís.
Shell me ten corn-cobs.

Indì mo paglingásan ang bátà.
Don’t be so distracted as to forget the baby (your charge).

Nagalininggóhot gid lang ang mga táo sa atubángan sang simbáhan sa ádlaw sang piésta.
The people are moving about in crowds (or jostling each other) in front of the church on the day of the feast.

Iníng lánsang índì makasíbò; dálhi akó sing dakû.
This nail won’t do; bring me a large one.

Nagsigábung ang bató sa pagtupâ sa busáy.
The stone landed at the bottom of the precipice with a loud thump (or crash).

Ginasikâsikâ gid lámang ang mga ímol sang madámù nga mga manggaránon.
Many rich people turn away in disgust from the poor (or treat the poor with contempt).

Magsinalayó kamó sing matárung.
Live together honestly.

Writing 3 & 4 December

a poem by Roger B Rueda

My hand limp, or my thoughts.
The words sluggish,
or my heart of hearts.
The squash lianas,
some mammoth upright green
leaves cupped
towards the fog-veiled sun
no longer hide
the under-story, thinning
yellowing.
A few army ants moving back.
Lupines
in their protected corner
a patch near the warm brick
of the house
still purple as prayer,
salmon as a day.
A bee hovers as if in tune,
then flies on.
I pull out the shrivelled flower heads,
my thumb and forefinger, ooh,
how sticky
with the sweet-scented residue
of bloom.
Without washing it away,
can I break and scramble
eggs for elevenses,
spread toast thick
with guava jam?
I do not get up, do not move
drink in these moments
when words satisfy like grubs.

First Light

a poem by Roger B Rueda

However virtuous the light is,
all have sleep
in its discernments.
Nature seems held
in what wants to bounce
or sigh.
Reveries grow reedy,
see-through, as the sun goes
through with a fine-tooth comb
into a new day.
There is labour to do.
Lushness
must change the sun
into saccharinity;
every cell must generate another
of its kind; insects
and their kin
must search for drops of dew,
drink them before they fade
into thin air. Breakfast becomes
the first order of the day.
Those who browse
and those who search
move amongst those who draw in
minerals to meet their needs.
All are in danger.
After some time
there should be fewer mouths
to suckle — but it won’t come about
that way. Life will come
from loss
and the living
will replace those
the world lost in less
than a season.
And just now — it all holds its fire to begin.

December

a poem by Roger B Rueda

December comes with its green palette.
The wind
is all over delightful.
I can hear it
sprinkle through
the trees calling them
to new magic.
I’ve been out dancing
in this wind since dawn.
It called my name.
It was full of names.
The bushes know.
Even the mulches
and thirsty twigs have sensed it.