The Irony of Power

a poem by Roger B. Rueda You stand at the podium, your suit pressed, your tie neat, the weight of the room pressing back, all eyes trained on you, waiting for the doctrine you will preach. Your voice is measured, a slow, deliberate current, your words polished like stones worn smooth by repetition. They are the same words that have been spoken before— by men in suits, by hands that drew maps with no regard for the feet that walked them. You say the world must be fair. You say the strong must not prey on the weak, but the microphones tremble with the weight of your fleet, their engines still warm from another quiet conquest. You say peace, but the air is thick with salt, with tides that shift not by chance, but by the slow, steady push of iron and steel, of bodies unseen but never absent. The islands wait beneath you, their sand already disturbed, their borders slipping under the weight of hands that never belonged there. You say, major powers should not bully the weak, but the wind carries your words past fishing boats that no longer fish, past homes where mothers whisper to their children about what used to be theirs. You speak of fairness, but the maps have changed, their lines drawn in silence, their colors shifting in your favor. You speak of sovereignty, but the quiet is deceptive— not the quiet of peace, but the quiet of absence, of people moved, of footprints erased by the tide. You do not hear them. Or maybe you do, but you have learned that power is in the telling, that history belongs to the ones who write it, that resistance can be reduced to whispers if you are loud enough. It is easy to despise a thing when it is done to you. It is easy to call for justice when injustice no longer tips in your favor. You are not the first to stand in this room, to wear this suit, to look into these cameras and say the right words while doing the wrong things. You will not be the last. But power does not only weigh down the weak. It burdens the hands that wield it, too, and when the tides turn— as tides always do— when the maps are rewritten, when the next voice rises from the podium, steady, unshaken, with you in its crosshairs— perhaps then, you will understand the weight of your own lessons.

The Gospel of Deception

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

You walk into the room with the slow assurance

of a man who has already counted the seats,

the exits, the faces turned toward you.

Your smile is generous, wide enough

to stretch across a table set with fine china,

a handshake that lingers just long enough

to remind them—you know things.

You call yourself a servant of the people.

Yet you never arrive empty-handed.

A roasted pig, its skin crisp and gold,

laid before the mayor’s expectant hands.

A bottle of whiskey, older than the city’s roads,

uncorked in the office of the police chief.

A thick envelope, folded once, slipped

into the right drawer, unseen but expected.

You call them gifts, a gesture of goodwill,

an expression of pakikisama.

They call it gratitude. And in return,

your name rises from their lips, pressed

into the ink of a new project list.

A building here, a road there,

a budget swelled to fit the weight of your pockets.

You never ask. You never have to.

Because before the contracts are signed,

before the bids are placed, you let slip

a whisper, a carefully chosen reminder—

A phone call to a wife who does not know

her husband has a mistress. A quiet conversation

with an auditor whose books do not balance.

A friendly chat with a journalist, eager

for a scandal to print.

You do not need to threaten.

The world is already afraid of you.

At mass, you bow your head.

Your voice is steady when you pray,

your hands pressed together

like a child who has never known sin.

You kneel with the weight of a man

who carries only virtue.

They believe in you.

The congregation murmurs your name

with reverence, your advice sought after

by those who mistake cunning for wisdom.

Has God not blessed you?

Are you not rich?

Do you not live in a house larger

than the church you pray in?

The young men see you and nod in admiration.

Here is a man who understands the world.

A man who has learned that righteousness

is a costume, that honesty is for the weak,

that the universe rewards the cunning.

And so they follow.

They learn to bribe, to flatter, to promise

what they will never give. They learn

that to speak of goodness is enough,

that to sound righteous is the same

as being righteous. They learn

that corruption is not a flaw, but a tool.

And you watch them.

You watch as they kneel beside you in church,

as they bow their heads, as they mouth prayers

with lips that speak lies the moment

they leave the altar.

You smile, knowing you have shaped

the future.

Not with truth.

Not with honor.

But with the sweet, hollow gospel

of deception.

The Maker of Shadows

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

He wanted to be the best—
not just the best, but the only one.
He measured himself in ink,
black pools drying on white sheets,
each line a ladder rung,
each paragraph a wall built high
enough to block the sun of others.

He carried a pen like a sword,
but not the kind that defended truth.
His was the blade of revision,
a scalpel to carve
at the spine of reputations,
to excise the brilliance of better men,
leaving them pale, disjointed, forgotten.

He whispered half-truths
as though they were scripture,
recited them in dim-lit rooms
where voices curled like smoke,
where a single suggestion,
a raised brow,
could splinter admiration into doubt.

When he met greatness,
he did not kneel,
nor did he marvel.
He studied it like a blueprint,
found its load-bearing beams,
calculated its weakest joints,
and drove his words like nails
into the structure
until it swayed.

The real talent,
the real skill,
the real genius—
he saw it as a war.
And so, he did what war required:
he turned admiration into suspicion,
brilliance into arrogance,
virtue into hypocrisy.

He built his legend not on merit,
but on the bones of those
who might have stood beside him.
Their voices dimmed,
their names reduced to echoes,
while his own grew tall in their silence.

And oh, how he climbed.
Higher,
higher,
higher—
until the air thinned,
until the city below
became a blur of rooftops,
until there was no one left
to rival him,
no one left
to call him by his real name.

At the summit,
he stood in his own shadow,
the applause long since faded,
his fingers ink-stained and empty.

And then—
the silence.
Thick, waiting,
a question turned on its edge.

God sees.

Not the printed words,
but the ones unsaid.
Not the hands shaken,
but the hands pushed away.
Not the victories,
but the ruin they were built upon.

And now, in the hush
of his own making,
the question presses in,
thin as breath,
soft as the turning of a page:

Is this happiness?
Is this the life he fought for?

Or had he only written himself
into a kingdom of paper,
a fortress of dust,
where every line,
every word,
every conquest—
was nothing more
than the story of a man
who had slain his competition,
only to find he had murdered
his own soul in the process?

When What’s Cut Stays Cut

by Roger B. Rueda

They say wisdom is knowing when to cut something off and when to let it grow. But, as Alma Anonas-Carpio so poignantly writes in Sauce of Tears, there are some things that, once severed, will never return—no matter how many tears we shed over them.

This is the tragic, infuriating, and often absurd reality of life. One moment, we are crying over crooked bangs, demanding the return of what was lost, and the next, we realize that not everything is as easily replaced as hair. It grows back, yes, but not everything does. This is where life tricks us—giving us illusions of permanence when, in reality, everything is fragile.

The poem is deceptively simple. It starts with a child’s outrage over a disastrous haircut. A travesty! A blatant offense against aesthetics! And yet, the mother, in her maddening, all-knowing wisdom, simply declares, "What is cut stays cut." No negotiations. No appeals. Then, as mothers do, she softens—offering the assurance that hair will grow back. Because any mother worth her weight in wisdom knows the truth: some things heal with time, but others remain lost forever.

But the real pain is not in the bangs. It is in the things that no longer grow back. The absence of the mother—the one who offered those exasperated sighs, those warm hugs, those ice cream bribes—is a wound that will never heal. And so the child, now grown, is left with the echoes of comfort from a voice that is no longer there.

Anonas-Carpio gives us a masterclass in quiet devastation. There are no theatrics here, no grand proclamations of grief—just the cold, inescapable reality of loss. That, my dear readers, is the real tragedy. Some things, no matter how much we want them to, never grow back.

And that last line—acceptance is a dish served in a sauce of tears.

What a punch in the gut. This is no fairytale resolution. No “happily ever after.” Only the bitter taste of sorrow, swallowed down like a meal we never wanted, but must consume. This is life. This is the truth we spend years trying to avoid.

And so we return to the beginning—what is cut stays cut. The only thing left to do is swallow the grief and move forward. Maybe with a stiff drink. Maybe with a curse or two. But move forward we must, because the cruelest joke of all is that while the dead remain dead, the living must keep on living.

And we do.

Even if we no longer get ice cream after the crying.

 

 

                 

The Anting-Anting of Folly and Faith

by Roger B. Rueda

Hope is the only thing stronger than fear. But if you are going to hope, hope wisely. Because hope that is blind, like the misguided faith of men who wore their anting-anting into battle, is nothing more than a polished lie wrapped around the neck like a noose. And as history tells us, no matter how many magical pendants you wear, bullets are not polite enough to turn away.

This is the folly of the anting-anting, a myth that survived the massacre of its believers. The Filipino-American War saw its desperate warriors clutching these talismans, convinced of their divine protection, and yet their bodies fell in droves, riddled with bullets that cared nothing for superstitions. Their faith bled out with them, their amulets reduced to ornaments of the dead.

And yet, Wong Su Ann's poem, Anting-Anting, reminds us that faith—no matter how tragically misplaced—has never needed logic to exist. The poet speaks of a maid who asks, "Were these people wrong to hope?" A question so simple, yet it cleaves through the mind like a bolo through tall grass. It is the same question that has kept humanity staggering forward despite every war, every betrayal, and every heartbreak.

But hope is a treacherous thing. It does not discriminate between those who wield it wisely and those who are deceived by its glittering promises. It is the same hope that makes lovers believe in forever, even when their history is already buried under dust and forgotten letters. In the poem, a necklace—once a symbol of romance—is found hidden beneath photographs and love notes, relics of an affection that once felt invincible. Like the amulet, it was once worn with certainty, kissed into permanence by a lover's devotion. And yet, where is that promise now? Where is the protection, the permanence, the magic?

Herein lies the brutal truth: Neither love nor war will wait for our foolishness. Faith without reason is suicide, and sentimentality without pragmatism is the quickest path to heartbreak. The soldiers who marched into gunfire believing in their anting-anting? They are no different from the dreamers who think a necklace will keep love from fading. In both cases, misplaced hope led to the same conclusion—defeat.

Wong Su Ann does not tell us if the maid's question is answered. Perhaps because the answer is already evident: No, they were not wrong to hope. But they were wrong to mistake faith for armor, and sentiment for certainty. History punishes such errors with blood and regret.

So wear your anting-anting if you must. Keep your old love letters if you wish. But never mistake their presence for protection. Because in the end, war will claim its casualties, and love—like all fragile things—will crumble under the weight of reality. And no amulet, no promise, no hope will ever be enough to stop that.

 

Durian: Fruit Or Foreign Invasion?

by Roger B. Rueda

There are two types of people in this world: those who love durian and those who have working olfactory senses. If you belong to the latter, congratulations! You have been spared from the most diabolical culinary invention known to man. But if you belong to the former, then I must ask—where exactly does your allegiance lie? Earth? Or a secret alien colony plotting to overthrow the human race, one spiky fruit at a time?

 

Chris Mooney Singh, in his poem 13 Ways of Looking at a Durian, presents a theory so outrageous, so compelling, that it deserves serious national security consideration. Let’s break it down: the durian is not just a fruit—it is a weapon, a narcotic, a tool of intergalactic mind control, and possibly a Trojan horse for extraterrestrial invasion! And yet, we eat it. Some even worship it! What madness is this?

 

Ah, durian! That weaponized grenade masquerading as a tropical delicacy! It is said that the medieval Chinese used to catapult durians over fortress walls to terrorize their enemies. And why wouldn’t they? One whiff and the enemy would drop their swords and surrender—not out of fear, but from sheer nasal assault! The United Nations should classify this fruit as an unconventional weapon of mass destruction. Yet, here we are, treating it as an afternoon snack!

 

Science suggests that durian’s odor is a complex cocktail of sulfur, onions, rotting meat, and forgotten gym socks. A single durian has the ability to clear out an entire MRT train faster than a politician answering questions about unexplained wealth. In fact, Singapore, in its infinite wisdom, has banned durians from public transportation. Meanwhile, here in the Philippines, we freely allow durian to roam the streets, stinking up the atmosphere like an underperforming government agency.

 

But wait—there’s more! Singh proposes that durian eaters have telepathic powers. Well, that explains a lot! Have you ever spoken to a durian addict? Their eyes light up with an unnatural glow, their words become suspiciously poetic, and they exhibit a disturbing indifference to personal space as they shove a handful of that sticky flesh into their mouths. Coincidence? I think not!

 

Consider this: wherever durians thrive, UFO sightings increase. Coincidence? Hardly! Perhaps these “extraterrestrials” aren’t here for diplomacy, interstellar research, or Miss Universe—perhaps they’re just here for durian! Who's to say durian isn’t a narcotic fruit planted by visitors from a far-off galaxy to prepare humanity for some kind of cosmic mind-control experiment? Look at the signs: obsession, addiction, and a blatant disregard for public safety. The pieces fit!

 

Ah, but let us now turn our attention to the vendors—those mysterious operators stationed in the heart of every marketplace, dealing in what can only be described as extraterrestrial exports. Have you observed their unshakable confidence? The sly curve of their lips, as if privy to some cosmic secret? Are they, perhaps, the chosen emissaries of an intergalactic durian syndicate? And worse—have we, in our blissful ignorance, become willing accomplices in this silent invasion, our stomachs serving as the very Trojan horses of planetary conquest?

 

Behold, dear citizens, the terrifying reality: durian addiction is not merely a personal choice—it is a planetary crisis! Should the day come when all durians suddenly float in mid-air, know that the invasion has begun. You have been warned!

 

So next time you reach for a durian, pause. Consider your duty to humanity. Remember your responsibility to the human race. The choice is yours. Just don’t come crying when the mother ship arrives and you realize you’re nothing but a pawn in the great Durian Conspiracy.

 

The Comma is a Green Monster, and I Love It

by Roger B. Rueda

If the comma were a color, Peter Solis Nery bets it would be green. What a lovely thought. Green is growth, vitality, life! But let's not be deceived. If the comma were a living thing, it would be a shape-shifting beast—one that nurtures, confuses, saves, and sometimes, mercilessly slaughters meaning.

The comma is the grammar world’s necessary evil. It is the traffic light of language, dictating when ideas must halt, hesitate, or proceed with caution. It can turn a harmless sentence into an outrageous scandal. Case in point: "Let's eat, Grandma!" versus "Let's eat Grandma!" One little squiggle stands between a family dinner and a cannibalistic crime scene.

Now, if Peter Solis Nery paints the comma as green, I say it’s the sneaky kind of green—the jungle foliage under which a tiger waits to pounce. It's the financial green that decides whether a legal contract holds or folds. It’s the treacherous green of envy, when one writer nails a sentence while another drowns in a sea of run-ons.

To be fair, Nery's vision of the comma is more generous. He sees it as the emblem of expansion, like rolling hills and the Sierra Madre mountain range. Quite poetic! But I say the comma is also a bureaucrat, making us wade through its labyrinthine rules. Oxford or no Oxford? Before “and” or after? Use it too much, and you’re an overzealous Victorian. Use it too little, and you’re a reckless anarchist.

Ah, the comma—both a scoundrel and a savior! Like a seasoned politician, it deceives when mishandled but restores order when placed with precision. Like a cunning lawyer, it can twist meanings or deliver clarity with a flick of its tail. And like a poet worth their salt, it makes words waltz, tango, or drop to their knees in dramatic pause. One misplaced comma can topple governments, rewrite scripture, or turn a passionate love letter into a legal notice. So use it wisely—lest you find yourself in grammatical purgatory! It is the ultimate power trip in punctuation—small but mighty, subtle but seismic.

So yes, let’s call the comma green. Green like the money spent on legal disputes over misplaced commas. Green like the envy of those who can’t master its use. Green like the monster it becomes when it refuses to behave.

And for that, dear comma, I salute you.

***

If the Comma Were a Color

a poem for children by Peter Solis Nery

 

If the comma were a color,

I bet it would be green

Like growing grass,

Or sprouting leaves,

Or rolling hills,

Or the Sierra Madre Mountain range,

Because commas

Make sentences grow,

And grow,

And grow

The Superior Surmullet: A Fish with Attitude

by Roger B. Rueda

Let’s get one thing straight—not all fish are created equal. Some are overrated, some are forgettable, and then there is the surmullet—the rock star of the sea, the alpha of shallow waters, and the undeniable king of the dinner table. If you have never tasted this glorious fish, then I must ask—what are you doing with your life? You are depriving yourself of one of the simplest yet most profound joys known to humankind. This is not just seafood. This is a revelation.

Now, let’s talk about the surmullet. Like people, it comes in different varieties—some mild and forgettable, others bold and unapologetic. Some fish are timid, their flavors so delicate they practically apologize for existing. Then there are the real stars—the ones that leave an impression, hitting your taste buds with the force of a perfectly crafted argument, one that lingers long after the last bite. But let’s not beat around the bush—the reddish surmullet, when cooked, is the undisputed champion. And if you want to enjoy it the way the Ilonggos do, you must have it as Pinamalhan.

Varieties: Not All Surmullets Are Worthy

Now, before you start thinking, "Fish is fish, right?"—stop. That kind of thinking is precisely why some people live a flavorless life. Surmullet, like people, varies in character.

The Pale Pretenders  are the lighter-colored surmullets that, while still delicious, do not quite have the same richness as their more vibrantly-hued relatives. Their taste is mild, almost too polite—like they’re afraid to offend your palate. Best for frying or grilling but nothing revolutionary.

The Golden Middle Ground  have a bit more personality, a slight nuttiness in their flesh that makes them ideal for simple steaming or sautéing. They can hold their own in a good stew, but still, they do not scream excellence.

The Reddish Surmullet, The True Conqueror, is the one that separates the seafood novices from the connoisseurs. When cooked, its flesh turns from delicate pink to a deep, rich white, with a depth of flavor that makes lesser fish bow down in shame. Its meat is firm yet succulent, absorbing seasonings like a sponge and delivering a taste so exquisite it should come with a warning label: May cause intense cravings and sudden bouts of culinary enlightenment.

Why Pinamalhan Is The Best Way To Cook It

For those unfamiliar with Ilonggo cuisine, Pinamalhan is not just another dish—it is a way of life. It is what happens when logic meets tradition, when practicality meets brilliance.

Pinamalhan is essentially paksiw without the unnecessary water. It is slow-cooked in vinegar until the fish absorbs every ounce of flavor, its oils mixing with the tang of the vinegar and the heat of native spices. The result? A dish so bold, so unapologetically rich, that even the most skeptical eater will be converted.

And the reddish surmullet? It was born for this dish. The meat, already flavorful, becomes infused with the sharpness of the vinegar, the umami of garlic, and the depth of soy sauce (if you’re feeling fancy). The skin crisps ever so slightly, locking in moisture, ensuring that every bite is a perfect balance of tang, salt, and natural fish sweetness. It does not just feed you—it makes you re-evaluate every mediocre fish dish you have ever had.

Final Thoughts: Elevate Your Seafood Standards

So the next time you go to the market and see surmullet, do not settle for the pale, indecisive ones. Seek out the reddish champion—the one that knows it is superior. And do not, under any circumstances, disrespect it by steaming or frying it into oblivion. Cook it as Pinamalhan, the Ilonggo way, and let your taste buds experience what real fish should taste like.

Because in a world full of bland, forgettable meals, you deserve better. You deserve the surmullet.

Women Who Write, Women Who Refuse To Be Tamed

by Roger B. Rueda

Let us dispense with the nonsense right away: Women are not fragile, delicate creatures who need rescuing. They are not here to smile sweetly, nod politely, and fade into the wallpaper while the world makes decisions for them. They do not need anyone’s permission to speak, and they certainly do not need validation to exist.

In literature, as in life, women have been raising hell for centuries. They have used ink as a sword, pages as battlegrounds, and words as ammunition. Consider Merlie Alunan—her poetry does not whisper; it slices, exposing wounds and wisdom in equal measure. Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo is a literary trailblazer, proving that women can—and will—write their own journeys, whether the world likes it or not.

Christine Godinez-Ortega ensures that history does not slip through our fingers, demanding that we remember who we are and where we came from. Zenaida French and Alma Anonas-Carpio—no sugar, no fluff, just words that hit you like a slap you absolutely deserve. Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta wields poetry with the precision of a sniper; read her work and prepare to be both mesmerized and mortally wounded.

Elsa Martinez-Coscolluela reminds us that the past is never really gone—it lingers, waiting to be confronted. Marby Villaceran proves that some of the fiercest battles are fought in the quiet spaces, where women refuse to back down. Socorro Villanueva writes with the sharp understanding that women’s struggles are woven into the fabric of daily life, and those struggles are no less revolutionary.

And then there’s Rosario Cruz Lucero, whose stories serve as both mirror and machete—reflecting reality while cutting through the nonsense. Joi Barrios? She does not just write poetry—she writes manifestos, battle cries, and fiery declarations of war against oppression and ignorance.

Rowena Torrevillas masterfully blends poetry, fiction, and essays, proving that language is a weapon best wielded by those who refuse to look away. Jessica Zafra has turned sarcasm and social commentary into a literary art form—sharp, biting, and utterly fearless. Nikki Alfar refuses to be boxed into traditional storytelling, proving that women can conquer even the realms of speculative fiction.

Rica Bolipata-Santos writes with the rare combination of humor and depth, dissecting the intimate battles of modern life. Ma. Luisa Aguilar-Carino ensures that literature remains a space where the complexities of identity, history, and culture are interrogated with brutal honesty. Lakambini Sitoy crafts narratives that unsettle, challenge, and ultimately, demand a reckoning.

Dulce Maria Deriada continues the literary legacy of her father, Leoncio Deriada, but on her own terms—shaping narratives that push the boundaries of regional literature and asserting the vital role of women’s voices in storytelling. Cyan Abad-Jugo has taken young adult and speculative fiction to new heights, proving that women’s stories belong not only in history books but also in the boundless realms of imagination.

These women are not just writers. They are warriors. They do not sit around waiting for permission to speak—they seize it. They do not write to please delicate sensibilities—they write to shake the foundations of complacency. Their words are not lullabies to soothe the world into ignorance; they are battle cries, war drums, and relentless calls to action.

They are warriors because every word they put to paper is an act of defiance. They have been told—by society, by history, by those who prefer women to be silent—that their stories do not matter. And yet, they write. They write through rejection, through censorship, through the mind-numbing idiocy of those who think women’s voices should be polite, pretty, and unthreatening.

They are warriors because they refuse to be erased. They drag the untold stories of women into the light and demand that the world look—really look—at the truth. They refuse to let history forget, refuse to let ignorance reign, refuse to be sidelined by those who underestimate them.

They write not because it is easy, but because it is necessary. They are warriors because they know that words can break chains, topple tyrants, and outlast even the most stubborn fools. And so, they will keep writing, keep fighting, and keep proving—over and over again—that no one, absolutely no one, can silence a woman with something to say.

This Women’s Month, spare me the patronizing speeches and empty gestures. You want to honor women? Read their work. Learn their names. Teach their stories. Support their fight. Because if history has shown us anything, it is that women who write do not just tell stories. They shake foundations. They topple empires. And they will never, ever be tamed.

A Tale of the Drowned: The Ghosts We Carry

by Roger B. Rueda

Some stories are like cockroaches—resilient, persistent, and impossible to kill. They burrow into the national psyche, scratching at the walls of memory, refusing to be swept away. Merlie M. Alunan’s A Story for Rainy Nights is not just a ghost story for the gullible or a fireside yarn for the bored. It is a brutal collision of folklore, history, and grief—wrapped in the poetic equivalent of a fist slamming on the table, demanding to be heard. This is not mere entertainment. This is a reckoning.

Alunan’s poem does what every great piece of literature must: it unsettles. It provokes. It forces the reader to confront a tragedy so great that, in true Filipino fashion, we have mythologized it, transforming loss into lore, fact into fable. Why? Because the truth is too painful, too incomprehensible, to be swallowed whole. It must be broken down into digestible fragments—barnacles on a drowned man’s neck, an infant wrapped in kelp, eyes glowing with plankton’s eerie light.

And so the tale mutates, whispered in caldohan corners, carried from one tricycle driver to another, taking on the grotesque dimensions of our own unresolved grief. This is how we make sense of devastation—we dress it up in the supernatural, give it flesh and form so we can wrap our arms around it and call it ours. But beneath the embellishments, the bones of truth remain: 2,000 lives swallowed by the sea, families shattered, a tragedy so massive that even now, decades later, we cannot bear to let it slip into the abyss of forgotten history.

It is not the dead who haunt us, but our own failure to hold anyone accountable. Where were the safety measures? The proper regulations? The lifeboats that could have spared even a fraction of those who perished? No amount of folklore can erase the shameful reality that the M/V Doña Paz tragedy was not just an accident—it was negligence on a catastrophic scale. And yet, where is the justice? Where are the lessons learned? The tragedy itself may have been swallowed by waves, but the repercussions continue to ripple, much like the ghosts Alunan so vividly resurrects.

Rainy nights will always bring stories, and our history—bloody, painful, and unresolved—will always be fertile ground for myth-making. But let us not forget: ghosts do not seek revenge. They seek recognition. They demand remembrance. And, if we are brave enough, they compel us to change.

***

A STORY FOR RAINY NIGHTS
by Merlie M. Alunan
 
On nights when rain pours as if
the very gate of heaven is open,
nothing to stop a shivering earth
from death by drowning,
people in my village tell the story— 
 
An empty house in Delgado Street,
a tricycle stops by the locked gate.
A man alights, his wife cuddling an infant
close to her chest, the boy of five or six
Agripping her skirt with bony fingers.
“Delgado,” says the man, the one word
that brought them to this unlit house
on this lonely street in our village.
Not a sound from them throughout the ride.
Now the man digs into his pockets for fare
and comes up with a few clamshells,
holds out like coins to the driver.
“Wait here,” says the man,“I’ll get the fare,”
and goes into the unlit house, everyone
following him, but the house never lights up
and the man never returns.
Seized by a strange suspicion,
the driver flees, fast as he can, terrified,
pursued by the reek of fish in the wind. 
 
This story goes the rounds of Cardo’s motorshop,
Tentay’s caldohan, or wherever it is that drivers go
to pass the slow time of day, or when rain forces them
to seek shelter—the story growing with every telling: 
 
barnacles on the man’s neck, his hands, his ears
the woman’s hair stringy like seaweeds
the infant in her arms swaddled in kelp
—and did he have fishtail instead of feet—
the boy’s flourescent stare, as though
each eyes were wells of plankton—
was that a starfish dangling from his neck
seasnakes wriggling in and out of his pockets 
 
The house in Delgado waits empty and dark
as on the day, ten, eleven years ago
when the M/V Dona Paz with 2000 humans
on its decks, became grub for the sea.
Of that time, the old women in my village
remember coffins on the dockside,
stench in the air, in almost every street, a wake,
funerals winding daily down the streets. 
 
No driver in our village has made a claim
to a role in the telling of this tale, yet the story
moves like a feckless wind blowing
breath to breath, growing hair,
hand, fist, feet with every telling, and claws
to grip us cold. We cower in the dark,
grateful of the dry bed, the earth under us,
the body we hold against the tyranny of rain
pelting our fragile shelter—a mere habit
of those who breathe air and walk on land,
you might say, but still, always, the sea
grumbling grumbling grumbling sleeplessly— 
 
somedaywecome
somedaywecome
somedaysomedaysomeday.... 

 

The Cold Calculus of Science: When Man Becomes His Own Horror

by Roger B. Rueda

The scientific mind is an insatiable beast, always gnawing at the fringes of the unknown, clawing through the barriers of morality in pursuit of knowledge. It is said that curiosity killed the cat, but in this case, curiosity has dissected the cat, frozen it, and displayed its remains in a temperature-controlled chamber for academic scrutiny. In Zenaida French’s Notes on a Theme of Horror by Science, we are confronted with the grotesque aftermath of this pursuit—the bodies of a man and a woman, frozen, sliced laterally with a power saw, and put on display like grotesque cuts of prime rib in a supermarket freezer.

This is science at its most macabre: detached, methodical, and chillingly efficient. It is the price of progress, we are told. But at what cost to our humanity? The anatomical dissection of human remains is no longer the realm of grave-robbing anatomists but of cold-blooded laboratories where even God, it seems, has turned His face away in disgust.

From Rational Inquiry to Ritual Sacrifice

It is one thing to conduct medical research for the betterment of humankind. It is quite another to dehumanize the subject in the process. The frozen carcasses in French’s essay do not merely represent the triumph of scientific inquiry; they expose the moral rot that festers beneath the microscope.

Here, man is no longer the divine creation, half-angel and half-devil, but a mere biological specimen—an object to be studied, cataloged, and eventually discarded. The promise of enlightenment through science has, instead, led to a perverse form of ritual sacrifice, where knowledge is extracted at the expense of dignity. This is not the Promethean fire that advances civilization. This is the cannibalistic self-destruction of a species that seeks to know itself by tearing itself apart.

The Poverty of Man’s Curiosity

French paints a bleak picture: a world where science has stripped man of his soul, reducing him to a series of bloodless cross-sections, a skeleton in a jar, an empty shell of matter. We once believed ourselves to be divinely ordained, separate from the beasts, destined for greatness. And yet, in our desperate search for meaning, we have only found our kinship with all things mortal and mundane.

Is this the peak of human achievement? To freeze our own dead, carve them up like holiday roast, and peer into their inner workings only to confirm that, at our core, we are nothing but organized meat? If so, then God, as French suggests, has long since abandoned this horror show, fleeing to some distant corner of the universe where man’s arrogance cannot follow.

The Faustian Bargain of Science

Mankind, in its mad dash for progress, struts around like a peacock, oblivious to the sinkhole it’s stomping into. We throw ourselves victory parties for every gadget, every discovery, every breakthrough—congratulating ourselves as if we’ve outwitted the universe. But let’s not kid ourselves. Knowledge without wisdom is like giving a bazooka to a toddler—disaster is not a matter of if, but when. What good is intelligence when it is used to strip away the very essence of what makes us human?

We are not merely organisms to be dissected, nor are we divine beings immune to decay. We exist in the tension between the two—a precarious balance between beast and god. The horror is not in the frozen remains behind the glass. The horror is in the fact that we placed them there in the first place.

Science, when divorced from ethics, becomes nothing more than a power saw in the hands of a madman. And if we continue down this path, we may soon find that, in the grand autopsy of human civilization, we were the cause of our own demise.

Here’s the poem—read it alone, savor it, or wrestle with it. No hand-holding required.

Notes on a Theme of Horror by Science
a poem by Zenaida B. French

'To get the specimens, they
froze the bodies of a man and a woman
killed in an accident and cut the bodies
laterally with a power saw.' 
~ Ripley’s Believe It or Not 

The frozen carcasses float
in liquid behind the barrier of glass:
bones, muscle, head, jaw, teeth -
bizarre conglomeration of merciless
Science and blood- thirsty Art, they
look like sections of meat in
the meat section of the supermart.
Is this the quintessence of dust,
half- angel and half- devil, who
walks with his head in the clouds
even as his feet dig deep into the
muck? He is quintessence of
nothing but his own capacity for horror,
mock- hero who slashes his own belly
so he can lay his entrails
on the table, to examine inch
for inch the length of his humanity, and
coming down to the center of his
being, the core of his beastliness
and godhood, discovers there
the link to which the human line
attaches in the downward slide that
is the heritage of Man.

The examination proves there is
no soul in man, not where you can
see into the atoms of his bones,
muscle, eye, teeth and all the parts
that make a man a man. Quintessence
of existence, his secret parts only
affirm his union with the rest of
God’s creations - and God’s mortality.

For what God is there in the bloodless
slice of eye peering out of
sliced cheek through the frozen glass?
You only see the hollow cells
conjoined by a sinister collusion
of chemistry and magic manmade
and undivine. You only see the
poverty of man’s jaded curiosity, his
celebrated creativity turning ‘round
to gobble up its naked tail.
No doubt God saw this gory exhibition
of ingenious inhumanity and fled,
appalled, taking with Him to far-
flung corners of His universe all
the human brilliance and whatever
spark divine.

-The Diliman Review, Vol. 33, no. 6, [Nov. - Dec. 1985]

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