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when a writer dies maybe the silence grows just that bit longer   or darkness fattens one globule more as it turns in its sleep, eyes closed yet tearing   up in happiness moist smile lifting just enough to show just a crack, of sharky teeth   i dream of that some of the time: think each corpse, mentor or friend, is...

  They say you slipped away In the glorious morning sun. Yet even the quietest leave-taking Is beyond you who are now purest light.   All that you held Barely contained Burst forth in fire Consuming all tears.   Each word crafted Shines forth brighter than stars. Each image holds itself aloft With no effort at all:   Masterfully...

  *My humble tribute to Poet and National Artist for Literature Cirilo F. Bautista   nothing comes easy nothing by way of gain or loss, neither in this life nor the next, or that belligerent other; all comes with a price silence, to some, weeping to others; what a scary thought to be...

  Exile By: Cirilo F. Bautista I want to write about life and deathlessness and the sea, the rampage and calm and full flow of blood and bread   on cutting board, each in its own time to be tallied against the conscious duties of government full of its   own importance,...

What to make of him, I do not know really. Maybe, he is all that I do not think and none that I do. Maybe not. Or who knows? He is broad of forehead and with small, round eyes that are at once bold...

I can’t recall exactly when and where I first met Cirilo, but it must have been in the late 1970s, likely at a Palanca awards night or some literary gathering, infrequent as that was in those days. Much earlier, I had been so...