Tahimik ang Mesa

tula ni Roger B. Rueda

May tahimik
na kalupitan
ang pagkaabala—kung paanong
pinipiud tayo
ng sarili nating kalibutan,
tinatalikuran
ang pag-inog ng palibot.
Akala natin,
nagtatrabaho lang tayo,
nagsusuma ng maliliit na kadalag-an,
sumasabay sa agos
ng kabuhi. Tinititigan
ang mga baraha sa kamot:
mga plano, pagkabahala,
mga layuning paulit-ulit
na ibinabato,
parang bola ng labahan
na di matapos-tapos.
Samantala,
ang mga mahal natin—
nasa gilid lang—
ay umaabot.
Minsan para kumamay,
minsan para magpaalam.
At hindi natin
sila nakikita.
Ang pamilya, tulad
ng basag na pinggan
sa lababo ng madaling-araw,
ay hindi nagpaparamdam
kapag nawawala.
Tahimik silang
lumalayo.
Ang hapag,
na dati'y puno
ng kwento, tawa, sabay-sabay
na pag-abot sa sinigang,
ay unti-unting
nawalan ng tunog.
Tumanda ang ina,
naging mas tahimik
ang ama.
Ang kapatid,
hindi na bumabanggit
kahit ng mga simpleng kwento
ng kanyang araw.
May umalis
nang hindi na isinara
ang pinto.
At tayo,
nandito pa rin—
nakayuko,
naglalaro,
nakatuon,
naniniwalang
may oras pa.
Na may uulitin pa.
Na hindi pa tapos
ang hampang.
Hanggang sa isang araw,
parang pagputok
ng ilaw sa gabi—
na hindi mo agad napansin—
dumarating
ang pagkaunawa.
Wala na ang lahat.
Wala na ang pinggan,
ang baso,
ang kutsara’t tinidor.
Maluwag ang mesa.
Malamig ang upuan.
Tahimik ang palibot.
At ang lahat
ay nakahawak na
sa kani-kaniyang kutsara—
nakapili na,
nakahakbang na
palayo.
Tayo,
naghahanap pa rin
ng tamang pares,
ng perpektong set,
na hindi naman
talaga mahalaga.
Dahil ang tunay
na hampang
ay ang
pagtanaw.
Ang pag-angat
ng ulo.
At minsan,
sa oras
na gawin natin ito—
ulihi na
ang lahat.

Paspud Restawran

tula ni Roger B Rueda

Ginamit ko ang ATM kard—
ang plastik na may guhit ng aking pangungulila—
sa harap ng makinang
sumusuka ng salapi.
Hila ang hininga, sinilip ko
ang naiwang halaga:
tinatantya kung kasya
ang kahit isang gabi ng karangyaan.

Sa paspud restawran,
kung saan may neyon na ilaw
na parang luhang hindi humihinto sa pagkurap,
umorder ako ng hapunan:
espageti na pula’t malagkit,
parang alaala ng Pasko sa bahay
na hindi ko na inuuwian.

Isang pleyt ng pitsa pai,
kutsarang may langis,
hawak ng kamay kong sanay sa tipid
pero ngayon, dumadaya.
Isang lard sais na koka kola—
malamig sa palad,
bula ng asukal na sumabog
sa aking dila,
habang sa aking wokman,
isang gitara ang binibiyak
ng tinig ni Axl Rose.

Kumakain ako’t
tumatango sa saliw ng rak,
parang may lihim
na hindi kayang ipagtapat sa sinuman.

Pagkatapos,
lakad pabalik sa opisina—
kalansing ng bota sa simento,
kaluskos ng dyaket sa hangin,
bitbit ang katawan
na parang hindi na kanya.

Sa loob, naroon na naman
ang kompyuter na matagal nang naghihintay
na parang asong uhaw
sa init ng paggalaw ng daliri ko sa kibord.
Naroon ang mga peyperwork,
mga papel na tila bundok
na pilit kong inaakyat gabi-gabi
nang walang tanong kung bakit.

Dahil hindi rin naman makapaghintay

ang bukas—

UPNWW, UP Miag-ao 2002

with Leoncio Deriada, Rosario Cruz Lucero, Merlie Alunan, Gemino Abad & Virgilio Almario

A Mirror of Doubt

 a poem by Roger B. Rueda

You have always been skeptical—
not in the way rain doubts the sky,
but like a gambler who eyes the deck,
knowing the cards can’t be trusted
because his own sleeve is heavy with kings.

You watch him speak, weigh his words
like coins you are sure have been clipped.
A compliment is a trade, a kindness
a hook, a hand extended only
to pull you closer to his own design.

You call this wisdom. You wear it
like armor, convinced it shields
your ribs from the blade, but you never
question the weight of your own hand—
how often it has drawn the dagger first.

You tell white lies,
so you see his words as ash.
You smile for gain,
so you mistrust his joy.
You hold doors open
only when they lead
to your own fortune,
so you call his gesture
a trick of the light.

It is easier to doubt
than to face the raw sinew
of your own reflection—
to say aloud what you know:

That the fraud is not him,
but the shadow you cast.

Tonight, he sits across from you.
"You should apply," he says,
voice uncoiled, weightless.
"You’d be perfect for it."

You smirk. "Why tell me this?
Are you just paving the way
for yourself?"

His face folds into quiet.
"Not everyone is like you."

The words press into your chest,
slip under your ribs like a secret.
Not everyone is like you.

You laugh, but it curdles in your throat.
The room, suddenly too small.
The light, suddenly too clean.

Later, you stand in the mirror,
eye your own mouth forming
the words you never said out loud:

What if the lies, the barter,
the careful undoing of trust—
what if they were yours alone?
What if his hands were empty,
and yours the only ones
threaded with strings?

For the first time,
you are unsure.
For the first time,
the doubt does not
point outward—
but in.

The Wounded Serpent

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

He stands, the sharp hem of his suit
clean as a surgeon’s blade—
pressed against the rot beneath,
where the wounds gape, law-wrought,
as if the wisdom of verdicts could
become teeth, gnawing flesh from bone.

Each decree a bullet lodged in sinew,
each doctrine a knife slipped cleanly
between his ribs. He should be dying.
He should be undone.

each principle a gash,

each doctrine a knife slipped cleanly

between his ribs. He should be dying.

He should be undone.

Yet he speaks—slow, measured,
like the world has not
opened its maw to swallow him whole.
He stands where he should kneel,
lips pursed against pain, words
coiling like silk around a wound,
binding it closed in ribbons of lies.

"I have always served this country,"
he says, his tongue a surgeon’s hand,
his breath a scalpel cutting the truth
to fit his will. "I have acted
in the best interest of the people."

His wrist flicks, a gesture—
practiced, precise, an artist’s stroke
on a canvas of deceit.

Behind him, his sins stretch long—
a procession of ghosts whispering
their grievances in the hush of air.
The hands he has emptied of coin,
the mouths he has emptied of speech,
the stomachs he has emptied of bread.

To him, patriotism is a throne
carved from the bones of the hungry.
To him, duty is a golden sheath
hiding the rust of his blade.

He knows the eyes that bore into him,
like torches pressed against wax.
He knows they see him unravel,
his body unraveling like thread,
yet still, he stands.

Despite the ruin of his flesh—
a body crumbling under the weight
of its own falsehoods—he smiles,
because even as blood pools
in the quiet corners of his conscience,
there will always be those
who mistake a well-polished lie
for the gleam of righteousness.

Crisp as Childhood

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

The pan hisses as oil meets the salt-dried anchovies,

their edges curling like brittle leaves in heat,

their scent rising, thick as the tide on a noon-warmed shore.

The eggs follow, yolks breaking into the sizzle,

spreading gold through the pan, slipping into the cracks

where fish bones turn crisp, where hunger waits.

Tomatoes collapse in the heat, their skins splitting,

juice bleeding into the oil, into the salt,

into something sharp, something sweet, something old.

This is not just food. This is a small, bright miracle,

a childhood plated and steaming, a reunion of taste

first met when I was eight, when my grandmother stood

by the stove, her hands moving through the rhythm

of hunger and memory, stirring, waiting, knowing

just when to turn the anchovies before they burned.

She would crack eggs in a single motion, let the yolks

pool, let the tomatoes weep, let the house swell

with the scent of something so simple, so whole.

I sat at the kitchen table, feet not touching the floor,

watching the meal take shape, the air thick

with salt, with heat, with something I did not yet name.

Even now, when luncheon meat or pork adobo or fried chicken

sits on the table, I return to this dish—anchovies crisp

as childhood mornings, eggs soft as a voice calling me home.

The bright burst of tomato on my tongue, the salt

curling at the back of my throat, the warmth

of a past still alive in the oil-slicked pan.

I eat, and for a moment, I am back in that kitchen.

The scent of frying oil clings to my hands,

my grandmother hums under her breath,

the world is smaller, warmer, whole.

Each bite a step backward, into the quiet

of love, into a hunger that has never left.

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Rainwriting on the Earth

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

The first drops fall like whispers on the tin roof,

hesitant, as if testing the rust, slipping through the gaps

where old nails have loosened, where time has unstitched the seams.

The island has been too dry for too long—

grass turned to brittle thread, soil cracked like parched lips,

trees standing with their arms lifted, begging the sky.

The wind has been cruel, carrying heat in its teeth,

flinging dust against walls, against bare backs,

against restless nights where even sleep burns.

But now, the rain comes—soft at first,

like a child’s breath on a windowpane, then steady, then all at once,

its weight pressing the world back into itself.

It drowns the dust, darkens the sand,

makes a river of the road where footsteps vanish.

The air thickens with the scent of damp earth,

with the coolness that moves through the house

like a long-lost song, slipping through open windows,

past curtains stiff with heat, past the rim of a forgotten glass.

It settles on skin like a memory,

and suddenly, it is not just rain—it is childhood again,

bare feet on wet ground, puddles swallowed by small running steps.

It is the taste of rainwater caught in cupped hands,

the sound of laughter breaking through thunder,

the sky leaning in, heavy, close,

seen through the blur of a summer storm.

The island drinks deeply, its thirst momentarily quenched,

and so does the heart, opening like cracked earth

to the promise of green.

Because this rain is more than water; it is return,

it is remembrance. It is proof that even in the driest seasons,

the sky does not forget how to give.

The Turning Mechanism

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Life is a factory of trials,

a slow-moving belt where hands, warm or calloused,

reach for what is given—water or stone.

Some wake to the scent of morning,

to the hush of bread rising, the soft swell

of a child’s breath against their skin.

Some wake to hunger, to doors bolted shut,

to the weight of nights that bear no answers,

only the hard arithmetic of survival.

Here, love moves like a thread through linen,

pulling strangers into the shape of a family.

Here, love is a lamp in a hallway,

left burning for someone still finding their way home.

But the machine does not run on love alone.

In another room, the air is thick with iron,

words sharpened like cutlery, the cold press of rage

against a ribcage.

Some hoard light and call it power,

lock the doors and count their victories

in the ruin of others. Some burn bridges

and call the ashes justice.

The machine does not choose.

It only turns, rusted and relentless,

offering a thousand doors—each one a question,

each one an answer waiting to be made.

And always, the choice:

to close a fist, or to open it.

To build a wall, or to break it.

To love, or to leave love waiting.

The machine does not wait.

But you do.

A Letter of Apology

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

To those I have hurt—
like a glass knocked over in my hurry,
spilling more than I meant to,
shattering in places
I never thought to check—
I am sorry.
I am sorry for the times
I failed to understand,
for when I listened but did not hear,
like wind through curtains,
a passing thing,
weightless, insubstantial,
gone before it could settle.
For when I saw but did not truly look—
glancing over your grief
as if it were a street sign
I passed too quickly,
as if your silence was just
another shadow in the room.
I was careless with my words,
like a hand reaching too fast,
knocking the delicate off its shelf.
Reckless with my actions,
like a driver who assumes
the road will always clear for him.
I am sorry for my stubbornness,
for standing my ground
as if I were the only one
who deserved to stand there.
For the moments
I could not step aside,
could not give way,
could not let go—
even when my hands
ached from holding too tight.
I held onto my pride
like an old coat,
mistaking it for warmth
when it was only weight.
Mistaking it for armor
when it was only rust.
I am sorry for the times
I was too much—
a room filled with too many voices,
a radio blaring static.
And for the times I was too little—
a chair left empty,
a name unspoken,
a space you did not know
how to fill.
I am sorry for the tantrums,
for the sharp edge of my voice,
for the way I threw my anger
like a stone into still water,
rippling outward
long after I had forgotten
what made me throw it.
For the times
I let my emotions
crash through doors
instead of knocking,
for when I let my own storms
flood the rooms we shared.
I was foolish.
I was selfish.
I was human—
but in the way a fire is,
devouring all before it
realizes it is alone.
If I could gather the things I broke,
if I could take back the things I said,
if I could mend what I have damaged,
I would.
But time does not run backward,
and apologies are not erasers,
only offerings.
So this is mine—
a small thing, perhaps.
But honest.
And I hope,
in some way,
enough.

Philippine English: A Lingua Franca or a Lingua Fracta?

by Roger B. Rueda, PhD

Let us not kid ourselves. If English is the language of the learned, then Philippine English is the language of the undaunted. It defies grammar, bulldozes syntax, and mangles pronunciation—all with the confidence of a student who forgot to study but still raises their hand in class.

Now, I have no problem with linguistic evolution. After all, language is a living, breathing entity—unlike some politicians I know, who, despite being politically alive, are intellectually comatose. But when English in the Philippines starts resembling a linguistic crime scene, complete with the butchering of tenses and the massacre of idioms, we must draw the line.

A Nation of English Speakers—Sort Of

Ah, yes, we Filipinos pride ourselves on our English proficiency. We wear it like a badge of honor, proudly declaring, “We are the third-largest English-speaking country in the world!”—never mind that some of us pronounce "video" as beydyow and "aircon" as if it were a life form.

We are so creative with our English that we have gifted the world with uniquely Filipino expressions—so unique, in fact, that only Filipinos understand them. For instance:

“Let’s eat first.” As opposed to what? Eating second? Eating last? “Fill up this form.” Are we inflating it like a balloon? No, dear reader, we fill out a form, unless the form is an empty swimming pool. “Can you repeat again?” Ah, yes, because once is never enough. “The traffic is so traffic!” Ladies and gentlemen, this is redundancy squared.

And then there is the greatest linguistic crime of them all: “For a while, sir.” This is our version of “Please hold,” usually uttered by customer service agents who then proceed to disappear into another dimension, never to return.

Survival of the Linguistically Fittest

To make matters worse, we have an elite breed of English speakers in our midst—the kind who insist on "British English" or "American English" as if they are choosing between tea and coffee. These are the people who say, “Oh, I only use British spelling”, yet pronounce schedule with an American accent.

Meanwhile, our local institutions have fully embraced their own linguistic inventions:

“Masteral” degree. This word does not exist in any English-speaking country, but in the Philippines, it is a proud academic milestone. “Bedspace” and “bedspacer.” Because apparently, in this country, we do not rent rooms—we rent the air above the bed. “Aircon.” In any English-speaking nation, this is an adjective—air-conditioned. But in the Philippines, we have transformed it into a noun, a verb, and possibly, a way of life.

English, But Make It Filipino

And let us not forget our national pastime: inventing words and pretending they belong in the dictionary.

“Traffic” – In English, this is a noun (There is heavy traffic). In the Philippines, it is an adjective, a noun, and possibly a state of mind (It’s so traffic!). “Topnotcher” – A word Filipinos love, but which confuses the world. In the West, they have toppers, high scorers, valedictorians—but no topnotchers. “Colorum” – Originally Latin, but in the Philippines, it now refers to illegal public vehicles. Because why should Latin remain dead when we can repurpose it?

Of course, the greatest crime of all is the phrase "I cannot cope up." This monstrosity has no place in any civil society. You cope with something—you do not cope up unless you are trying to reach a high shelf.

A Plea for Sanity

Do not misunderstand me. Philippine English is a marvel, a linguistic cocktail of creativity and resilience. But if we are to claim global competence, we must at least attempt linguistic coherence.

So the next time you hear someone say, "I am good in English," please, for the love of Oxford, remind them—you are good at English, not in it. Unless, of course, they are physically standing inside an English textbook.

Let us speak English, not invent it.

 

The Betrayal of Merit

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Summa Cum Laude is a crown,

polished by long nights under library lamps,

its weight pressing against a skull

filled with theories, equations, words

that blur into the dawn.

A distinction, a bright flare against

the ordinary—gold ink on paper,

a name called into a microphone,

applause rolling like waves, then fading

into the tide of forgotten honors.

It is an honor—so they say—

stitched onto résumés, printed on

certificates framed in glass,

displayed in houses where dust

settles just the same.

A mark of excellence, the pinnacle

of scholarly pursuit. But is it always?

Sometimes, it is a stroke of luck,

a decimal rounding in one’s favor,

a professor who sees promise

where another sees only effort.

Sometimes, it is just a matter

of chance, a dance of circumstances—

a schedule without distractions,

a semester without grief,

a mind unburdened by hunger

or homesickness, or love

that comes at the wrong time.

The brightest minds do not always

wear the medal; sometimes,

the medal finds its way

to those who slip through

the cracks of expectation,

who fall upward into the light.

A fraction of a point, a forgiving professor,

an exam taken on the right day,

when the brain was a river

instead of a drought—

luck, disguised as merit.

And so, the act betrays

the taxonomy of brilliance,

makes it a construct,

a shifting thing,

a phantom in a borrowed robe.

Not being a Summa Cum Laude

is not a disgrace, nor is it

a mark of mediocrity.

It is a label, too—

just one less spoken,

one less gilded in the mouths

of parents at dinner tables.

Sometimes, it is the product

of a single misstep—

a question misread,

a deadline missed

by the width of a second,

a flu that turned a final exam

into a fever dream.

Some walk in the shadows

of the ordinary, but others—

just as luminous, just as relentless—

are merely misplaced

by time and chance,

by a professor who saw

what was written

but not what was meant,

by a moment that slipped

between fingers reaching

for something grander.

Their brilliance does not dull

in the absence of a title;

instead, it flares defiantly,

like a match struck in the dark,

a fire that burns outside the margins

of certificates, diplomas, programs.

And so, the act betrays

the taxonomy of the ordinary,

for some rise beyond the weight

of distinctions, become something

uncatalogued, unmeasured, undeniable.

The world, then, is a potpourri

of contradictions—

where the summa falls

and the silent ascend,

where brilliance is neither

the name on the program

nor the tassel turned

but the thing that endures,

long after the last

clap has faded.

What Remains in the End

    a poem by Roger B. Rueda

You sit in your chair, wrapped

in silk that once meant power,

now just fabric over bones

too brittle to carry your name.

Your hands, shaking,

trace the edges of ledgers,

the ink fading like faces

you no longer bother to recall.

The house smells of incense,

burning slow, curling into prayers

you mouth but do not mean.

The medicine stings, metallic,

a last attempt at holding on.

You pray, yes. You pray

for salvation, for a heaven

that will not count the debts,

that will not ask where the bodies lie.

But you do not pray

for the daughter who left,

who will not return to empty hands.

You do not pray

for the friends turned to dust,

for the clerks who worked

your fortune into their hunger.

You speak of wisdom,

as if it has ever touched you.

Of righteousness,

as if you have ever followed it.

Of God’s will,

as if you have ever bowed

to anything but your own.

Your mind is a battlefield

where no one fights back.

Your enemies are ghosts,

but still, you sharpen your teeth.

You call their names in silence,

chew on revenge

as if it were bread.

Even now, with the world dimming,

with death pressing close,

you do not wonder

if kindness might have kept

your hands warm, if love

might have been

the better inheritance.

You do not see

that the maid pours your tea

without looking, that the nurse

checks your pulse

as if counting coins.

You do not see

that when you speak,

the room holds its breath,

not out of reverence,

but to let your voice pass.

You are dying,

but not of sickness.

You are dying of hunger—

not for food, not for breath,

but for more. More time.

More power. More proof

that your name will outlive

the silence you have built.

And when you are gone,

the house will sigh in relief.

The ledgers will curl at the edges,

turning to dust between fingers

that do not care for your sums.

The world will not pause.

The doors will be left open,

the wind slipping through,

taking only what it needs.

All reactions:

3Gabriel Ceralvo Delariarte and 2 others

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