Call Me [When It’s Over]
"You Said" included in Issue Call Me [When It's Over] by Call Me [Brackets]
Poetry
Midway by Angela Gabrielle Fabunan | harana poetry
There are few places worth committing
to memory – one: the New York skyline,
two: the traffic on EDSA, three: the horizon
in which we never meet: the sun, the sky,
the sliver of water between us. Tell me where you are
and I’ll tell you what you are; an immigrant in NYC
is a foreigner in Manila, neither one belonging. In
or Out – perhaps there’s a place we can call home,
but right now there’s just this, an in-between,
an in-articulate space for vignettes: where you left your shoes
the o
to memory – one: the New York skyline,
two: the traffic on EDSA, three: the horizon
in which we never meet: the sun, the sky,
the sliver of water between us. Tell me where you are
and I’ll tell you what you are; an immigrant in NYC
is a foreigner in Manila, neither one belonging. In
or Out – perhaps there’s a place we can call home,
but right now there’s just this, an in-between,
an in-articulate space for vignettes: where you left your shoes
the o
Call of Summer
A car passes by, its tires soft on the street
gliding through the pine-filled boardwalk,
hollow sounds meeting the ear as it wanders
through the air and lampposts glint with remembrance.
It is a summer night in a vacation city, and they are
whispering through the murmurs of an acacia
stretching its arms over the ballooning skirt of a girl
and the swish of a man’s shorts rubbing together,
passing by as the afternoon has passed. Moment to moment
they turn to each other as tires o
gliding through the pine-filled boardwalk,
hollow sounds meeting the ear as it wanders
through the air and lampposts glint with remembrance.
It is a summer night in a vacation city, and they are
whispering through the murmurs of an acacia
stretching its arms over the ballooning skirt of a girl
and the swish of a man’s shorts rubbing together,
passing by as the afternoon has passed. Moment to moment
they turn to each other as tires o
Destination by Angela Gabrielle Fabunan | harana poetry
There are only metaphors for becoming.
Only the sibuyas un-peeling its layers
events of blossoming, acts of uncovering, of nakedness.
There are no great metaphors for reversal.
Perhaps the process of drying plums
There’s nothing heroic about what you call maturing,
its simple truth, the inward turn, the change of color
In a crowd you keep your mouth sealed
in your heart, the act of kimkím –
You know that what you have gathered
will not measure up to this new movement
the migration of
Only the sibuyas un-peeling its layers
events of blossoming, acts of uncovering, of nakedness.
There are no great metaphors for reversal.
Perhaps the process of drying plums
There’s nothing heroic about what you call maturing,
its simple truth, the inward turn, the change of color
In a crowd you keep your mouth sealed
in your heart, the act of kimkím –
You know that what you have gathered
will not measure up to this new movement
the migration of
The Maria Magdalena By Angela Gabrielle Fabunan
The procession of backs turned is a sea of red
anonymous in the enormous crowd.
Turn to face me, tell me is this all the change
we will ever see, these coins, scattered at Your feet,
for Your penitencia, in this march, on our way to
Your crucifixion. I drop the coin, know
Nothing now, not even the things I write about
that I have seen. The likes of Peter will never honor
What I’ve written. In this world, what is texto
but the persuading chronicle of the Papa, while
We progress down t
anonymous in the enormous crowd.
Turn to face me, tell me is this all the change
we will ever see, these coins, scattered at Your feet,
for Your penitencia, in this march, on our way to
Your crucifixion. I drop the coin, know
Nothing now, not even the things I write about
that I have seen. The likes of Peter will never honor
What I’ve written. In this world, what is texto
but the persuading chronicle of the Papa, while
We progress down t
Migration Story & Other Poems. Eastlit August 2016. Asian Poetry.
it’s the land of milk and honey,
cows oozing milk, white dots
on the landscape, spots
on the green fertile grass
and the yellowing bees
seem to be doing fine too,
as we drive in upstate new york.
but back in zambales country
our cows are one brown, unifying color
and they are starving, their horns
honed to the one tree, leaves withered.
there is no grass under their feet—
there is only ashen dirt, where
the sun hits the fiercest, noontime.
memory of balasiw:
low ba
cows oozing milk, white dots
on the landscape, spots
on the green fertile grass
and the yellowing bees
seem to be doing fine too,
as we drive in upstate new york.
but back in zambales country
our cows are one brown, unifying color
and they are starving, their horns
honed to the one tree, leaves withered.
there is no grass under their feet—
there is only ashen dirt, where
the sun hits the fiercest, noontime.
memory of balasiw:
low ba
Cha: An Asian Literary Journal - Snow
I was there once, in the winter of my youth.
You were paper planes on the water,
hooded eyelids like opaque windows
forever young in the stairwell of the café,
I was in the scent of your laundry
spinning in your mind as it spun in the drier
And then we had breakfast.
And the snow fell all around us.
The snake still drapes its body lazily
as if we had been easy prey.
We never did ask why we were chosen
only that in the winter of our youth,
we felt compelled to drink from
You were paper planes on the water,
hooded eyelids like opaque windows
forever young in the stairwell of the café,
I was in the scent of your laundry
spinning in your mind as it spun in the drier
And then we had breakfast.
And the snow fell all around us.
The snake still drapes its body lazily
as if we had been easy prey.
We never did ask why we were chosen
only that in the winter of our youth,
we felt compelled to drink from
from Homecoming of Age - Asymptote
[n. ashes]The Zambales countryside has your imprint—abóthe eruption of Pinatubo, covering all the pineand coconut trees with the scent of ash. In this god-forsaken landscape, we gather to a siesta, shiftingour bodies on the papag, bamboo beds that hurtyour bones as much as words do. Tell your motherhow much you love her—in this scene of lahar—abó, mud and water that took her mango groves. Tellyour father, you are here to bear witness to this crimescene of, not seafoam but abó, far as the eyes ca
Catastrophes of Home
Mornings, you walked to your newspaper nook
and I gathered flowers in a vase. We met
at the table, awake and facing the porcelain cats.
I watered the orchids in their clay pots, careful
not to spill beyond the brim. The cacti doused
with measured water, the bonsai with sunlight.
Meanwhile, you hunted for car keys in drawers
that you kept open for hours, as I haunted
the wind seeping through the curtains.
The painting trembled on its frames. The trash
teetered over the edge. The mic
and I gathered flowers in a vase. We met
at the table, awake and facing the porcelain cats.
I watered the orchids in their clay pots, careful
not to spill beyond the brim. The cacti doused
with measured water, the bonsai with sunlight.
Meanwhile, you hunted for car keys in drawers
that you kept open for hours, as I haunted
the wind seeping through the curtains.
The painting trembled on its frames. The trash
teetered over the edge. The mic
Fair Game | Fishouse
I only ever wanted to say mahal in parting, but you could never have
understood how much of an expense love was to me. I only half understand
my mother tongue, only carry half its baggage. Which country is Mother?
Which country caverns me? It only takes language to assimilate—our accent
differing from town to town. Please make your voice heard so they can
understand you. As an exile I have absorbed both my countries; each a nation
of difference. Not the land I love but its people. I am an
understood how much of an expense love was to me. I only half understand
my mother tongue, only carry half its baggage. Which country is Mother?
Which country caverns me? It only takes language to assimilate—our accent
differing from town to town. Please make your voice heard so they can
understand you. As an exile I have absorbed both my countries; each a nation
of difference. Not the land I love but its people. I am an
Issue 21: the bright days were very bright
Shards of rain batter the window as I write this. The wind howls; the clouds are white sheets. Wherever you are this winter, I hope comfort sits with you, nearby. This month we offer hands straightened in prayer, four thick walls, and sea-less pirates.
Julia Travers is a writer, artist and teacher in Virginia, U.S.A. She grew up near the Chesapeake Bay and lives in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She writes poetry, fiction, essays and news. Her creative works are published with Short
Julia Travers is a writer, artist and teacher in Virginia, U.S.A. She grew up near the Chesapeake Bay and lives in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She writes poetry, fiction, essays and news. Her creative works are published with Short
Impossible Task
I’m not as old as the painters would have it I’m ageless in this age of monsters.
Poetry by Angela Gabrielle Fabunan
Mirror’s Water and Iha
Issue 43 (September 2018): Special Feature “Young Voices”
It is said that the young don’t really know what sorrow is, that they fashion imaginary worries to needlessly wear their hearts out; that they do not know how fortunate they are to be young and to be able to afford to be a bit foolish. I was once young, and I suppose I too was guilty of these things.
But, truth be told, I cannot remember precisely my thoughts and moods. I wish I had recorded more diligently every important ‘theatrical event’ of my youth: first love, first sexual encounter, firs
But, truth be told, I cannot remember precisely my thoughts and moods. I wish I had recorded more diligently every important ‘theatrical event’ of my youth: first love, first sexual encounter, firs
Angela Gabrielle Fabunan — Ghost City Press
To support a fiction, that death is
undead and sorrow not saddened,
that the Dolorosa did not cry.
When my mother meets a stranger,
she feeds them, so as not to rouse
suspicion. He did the same.
When I left my mother’s house,
I did die. A part of me left my girlhood,
came back a shattered piece of that girl,
the hymen breaking into a child
I would wear there.
But the pleasure was real. All the rest, fictitious.
When I came back to my mother’s house,
after the pleas of
undead and sorrow not saddened,
that the Dolorosa did not cry.
When my mother meets a stranger,
she feeds them, so as not to rouse
suspicion. He did the same.
When I left my mother’s house,
I did die. A part of me left my girlhood,
came back a shattered piece of that girl,
the hymen breaking into a child
I would wear there.
But the pleasure was real. All the rest, fictitious.
When I came back to my mother’s house,
after the pleas of
Knot
a beautiful gesture, saying both go and hello:
one knuckle, a faint bristle of a hand
negligible, really, you probably didn’t feel it
but my heart somersaulted, knuckle to knuckle,
like a butterfly fluttering on a ledge, for a moment
it was nothing
one accidental, completely unexpected
touch
waiting to be awakened, here and now, weight
of two lifetimes placed from my hand to yours
a whole fulfillment
to feel for a second what it was to be so close
to you. Perhaps you will
one knuckle, a faint bristle of a hand
negligible, really, you probably didn’t feel it
but my heart somersaulted, knuckle to knuckle,
like a butterfly fluttering on a ledge, for a moment
it was nothing
one accidental, completely unexpected
touch
waiting to be awakened, here and now, weight
of two lifetimes placed from my hand to yours
a whole fulfillment
to feel for a second what it was to be so close
to you. Perhaps you will
5 Poems by Angela Gabrielle Fabunan
That First Rain Fervently trying to return to the start of rainy season,
when gestures rotted in the air, when words acquired the cruelty
of stone, when all the tears fell along the mountainside
of my face, the water emptied from the sky
and the stars hid away my opinion of you. I am trying to remember that first rainfall
that made me forget everything good.
I am trying to remember that first rainfall
because then, there was nothing good.
Because when you talk now, all pointed eyes,
wit
when gestures rotted in the air, when words acquired the cruelty
of stone, when all the tears fell along the mountainside
of my face, the water emptied from the sky
and the stars hid away my opinion of you. I am trying to remember that first rainfall
that made me forget everything good.
I am trying to remember that first rainfall
because then, there was nothing good.
Because when you talk now, all pointed eyes,
wit
Wartime Ghazal By Angela Gabrielle Fabunan
Illusion, the thought that you could go on
as you did in peacetime—in your house
watching the news without notice
complacently not knowing that
this is a time of war.
Who knows what war is
when you’re not affected, yet
at your doorstep, on your streets,
in your homes and in your cities,
it comes knocking: this is a time of war.
Who could care about new shoes, now
that lives are at stake, never forget,
know your enemy, know who you are
in this time of war.
What brought us here, wher
as you did in peacetime—in your house
watching the news without notice
complacently not knowing that
this is a time of war.
Who knows what war is
when you’re not affected, yet
at your doorstep, on your streets,
in your homes and in your cities,
it comes knocking: this is a time of war.
Who could care about new shoes, now
that lives are at stake, never forget,
know your enemy, know who you are
in this time of war.
What brought us here, wher
Angela Gabrielle Fabunan – I am not a silent poet
Who knew the word shutdown would cause such chaos?
After all, we shutdown the computer every day,
shut the cell off, shut the door, have a seat,
turn down the lights, we should be accustomed to it.
Because for governments who shut some people out
and shuts down most, this is not an anomaly—
what more can we expect from those who don’t know
the difference between the shutter of a gun and #trigger.
We shudder in the grasp of the twittering elite
who refuse to flick open their count
After all, we shutdown the computer every day,
shut the cell off, shut the door, have a seat,
turn down the lights, we should be accustomed to it.
Because for governments who shut some people out
and shuts down most, this is not an anomaly—
what more can we expect from those who don’t know
the difference between the shutter of a gun and #trigger.
We shudder in the grasp of the twittering elite
who refuse to flick open their count
‘Speak’ by Angela Gabrielle Fabunan | New Asian Writing
I saw the reflection of you in my morning cup
looking like me. Oh Narcissus, our love of peering
at ourselves is only an illusion. Do not be afraid
of the edges nor the ripples in the water, it gives us
character. At least we don’t have to say anything,
if only to look, to see you, traverse the waves.
We were on the grass collecting
our trash and we floated on
but you might as well be dead
by the time the first avowal is made.
like the breeze through the grass,
in which we are the amb
looking like me. Oh Narcissus, our love of peering
at ourselves is only an illusion. Do not be afraid
of the edges nor the ripples in the water, it gives us
character. At least we don’t have to say anything,
if only to look, to see you, traverse the waves.
We were on the grass collecting
our trash and we floated on
but you might as well be dead
by the time the first avowal is made.
like the breeze through the grass,
in which we are the amb
The Siren’s Song
We are no myth, we are not
merely fish, not simply women.
What you should keep in mind:
When you argue over our shoal,
when you trash our bay, is that
we are no myth, we are not
Yours to erase, just because
you’re in pursuit of prey.
What you should keep in mind
Is we’re not in it for your bodies,
but for bodies of water, us guardians,
we are no myth, we are not
Modest folk, we siren how
you’ve despoiled and sacked our homes.
What you should keep in mind
is that our sea is not you
merely fish, not simply women.
What you should keep in mind:
When you argue over our shoal,
when you trash our bay, is that
we are no myth, we are not
Yours to erase, just because
you’re in pursuit of prey.
What you should keep in mind
Is we’re not in it for your bodies,
but for bodies of water, us guardians,
we are no myth, we are not
Modest folk, we siren how
you’ve despoiled and sacked our homes.
What you should keep in mind
is that our sea is not you
Downpour | Contrary Magazine
created from your image, i think
of down pillows and soft bed sheets
wet with the mist of rain from the spill
over from windows, the illumined light
of adolescence before it fulfills itself
in adulthood, an ideal, the grace of body
at the same time the iron grills
of the gates of the mind, the human
mingling with the divine, haloed in light bulbs,
on my skin your unwritten words:
hindi mo alam na ikaw ang hiwaga ng umaga—
the secret that will turn and turn, turning
the ex
of down pillows and soft bed sheets
wet with the mist of rain from the spill
over from windows, the illumined light
of adolescence before it fulfills itself
in adulthood, an ideal, the grace of body
at the same time the iron grills
of the gates of the mind, the human
mingling with the divine, haloed in light bulbs,
on my skin your unwritten words:
hindi mo alam na ikaw ang hiwaga ng umaga—
the secret that will turn and turn, turning
the ex