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| Photo by Elyana Faye Batungbacal |
In honor of Women’s Month coming to an end, the UST-CASA Chronicle Literary Team would like to offer our voices and talents to all women everywhere. May you be celebrated every second of every day.
The gospel in which I abide
by Elyana Faye Batungbacal
It shouldn't be so hard
to write about a woman
What is woman
but a muse
to use
to venerate
It shouldn't be so hard
when I am a woman
What am I
but a sacrilege
to ravish
to desecrate
My body is the altar
in which
life and death
comes
together
And where religion starts
and disbelief
ends
to
the psalms
engraved
in her palms
and
a hundred testaments
in offertory
to the divinity
and depravity
What is a woman
if not a god
To you
by Ella Ferrer
To you, whose cries once brought joy to Father
Born as his first, he was wrapped around your finger
Until the nurse enveloped you in pink polyester
His lips pursed into a line, for you were a daughter.
To you, who yearned to have her hair run wild
Whose face scrunched up when Mother pulled too tight
“Girls must be prim and proper,” her voice drained of life.
Her snide comments and remarks, you wanted to chide.
To you, who found sheer bliss in hoops and balls
Who have always preferred robots over dolls
Became smaller and weaker, out of fear.
“That’s not for girls!” They wickedly sneered.
To you, who washed the dishes every night
Polishing the plates till they were perfectly white
As you wonder why life suddenly took a turn
And why your husband left you with burns
To you, who have endured the pain long enough
Who hid your scars with countless huffs and puffs
Ought to realize that you are not merely a wife or a bride
You are a woman whose life is worthy of pride.
12:00pm
by Gabriele Ann Nicolas
Illuminate me;
That was a wedding vow more than a throwaway comment
More than a statement in front of whichever
More than a condemnation
Of the inherently bad
We shall exist together
You were a light
even before you wanted to burn
Back when
There weren't any whispers
Of my infidelity
towards us,
towards our space in the sky
I apologize,
for I thought
existing away from you
was a normal day-to-day
I didn't think
that the tightness around my ring finger
wouldn't feel the same
around my neck
For after the wolves
started to howl in longing
and you started to want
more than just sunsets
I beamed;
Unknowingly
you made me shine
just not as bright as you
and maybe that's not so bad
Because the glare of the heat
on a sunny afternoon
is nothing
compared to the comfort
of the moonlight.
Maybe you shouldn't try so hard.
Trying harder
would never hurt me
for I am a reflection
of only the best parts of you;
but you still hurt
Nonetheless,
I forgive
for I know
that tomorrow cannot come
without us.
for once who she was
by Apollo Kenji Llanes
Content warning: This poem contains depictions of domestic abuse. Reader's discretion is advised.
Let me be your woman
A femme fatale to lay with you at night
A servant for a lifetime as long as our vows declared
Submissive, never disagrees, voice high but not mighty
Your display and trophy of true success
Like the said prophecy of patriarchy tells
The very pinnacle of femininity in your life
Whom you strike your belt on when the food is burnt
Sorrowful goddess lowered her worth for a brute
I can be your woman
Depends on you if you want to be my man
But be the father of our children, they are at no fault
Tell no soul about your affair, silently loathe the other
Poor beauty made in pure silk and white light, only to be regarded as a source of legacy
Multiply or be considered useless, unworthy, and ugly
Raise the hem of your skirt when he tells you to, never your voice
But the closest thing to a man’s heart is a knife
Either the one in your kitchen or your sharpened mind
All the plans you’ve gathered, silently rebutting
Let them bleed and realize the wasted opportunity
A divine being clad in ordinary clothes, ready to sacrifice her very position
And now, you’ve lost the very woman who once offered you eternity
What a shame.
Small White Little Rocks
by David Nigel C. Cortes
There was a boy
That I ate ice creams with, explored with
A roller coaster ride, a tumultuous one
He said those three words on the first date
My model, a sculpted work
Comparable to the Venus de Milo
Asked me when she can see me
She misses our disco nights, our fancy dates
My twin in another life, a painting
Comparable to High Renaissance art
Asked me if I can come to her home
She was crying on a Tuesday night
My first love, a wonder
Comparable to the Giza pyramid complex
Asked me when I was free
She only watches complex movies with me
There was a boy
It’s been difficult to talk about
He told me, he wishes to be alone
To live life, to know himself
There’s been nothing to talk about
Aside from the dashed dreams
And the broken promises
How can I express my hurt if he did nothing
If I did nothing
A huge hole in my heart
Has yet to be mended
But my model, my twin, my first love
Has worked together to heal that wound
My model, a human
Comparable to the other women in her life
Went to my home
We ate Nutella, yanked each other’s limbs to NewJeans
She’d come back every Friday
Help me find back the joy
In ice creams, Japanese pop, poetry
My twin in another life, a human
Comparable to her girl friends
Went to my home
We talked together, hugged each other
She’d come back when she was free
Most of it on Monday afternoons
Held me while I cried and mourned
My first love, a human
Comparable to the women in her family
Arrived every eight o’clock in the evening
Sat with me at home
We’d order in, watch movies I loved as a child
Hugged me silently
And I would feel empowered
I would go on
To be there for my model, my twin, my first love
And they would welcome me
With a hug, with a reassurance
And we would live life
Treat me like a rose—not
by Lei Janine C. De Guzman
Not all women are roses
That have thorns
But that doesn't mean they’re free to be picked and plucked
Not all women are roses
That bask towards the sunlight
Some bloom in the shade, and that’s alright
Not all women are roses
Flush pink, fiery red, or pure white
Rather, blossom into various hues and form
Not all women are roses
But they still deserve to be loved
To be cared for
Not all women are roses
Let them grow
On their own space and pace
And watch them
Be beautiful on their own
Female Gaze
by Gabrielle Angeli Busto
I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you pretty
When your eyes are captivating mirrors of emotions
And the texture of your skin is proof that the versions
Of you paved the way for the woman standing in front of me
When your tinted lips curve up into a genuine smile
Or when you talk with passion, gentleness, authority
When your words are water and sun that makes flowers bloom
But at the same time can be a sword that cuts deep
I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you pretty
When your rage is a fiery fire
So powerful and never a joke
Can leave the world shook
When your softness and empathy are your strength
Proving to everyone that these are never weaknesses
The ability to resonate with fellow women
As if there is an invisible string in womanhood tying us together
I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you pretty
Because you are a quilt work of stories, of survival, of a lifelong fight
I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you pretty
When you are so much more.
She's A Lot of Things, But Mine
by Lorie Ann H. Joven
She's a beauty that my eyes always see
An angel who I adore helplessly
A soul that intoxicates me
And a dream that holds me in captivity
She's a companion who's there constantly
When my mind is filled with uncertainty
She's an amalgamation of solace and serenity,
A paradise I long for incessantly
She's the joy that engulfs my being,
A reminder that life is worth living,
For her smile is enough to keep me going,
Even when life seems to have no meaning
However, she's also my tear,
Because despite being so near,
I could never call her 'my dear'
For she's already in a love so sincere
But this much is fine,
I wouldn't dare cross the line,
For this has already been predetermined by the divine,
That she's the love, I could never call 'mine'
in the minute silence, I dream of her // and she speaks to me in all the ways that matter
by Samantha Sopeña
The Mother asks,
what do you pray for, sweet girl?
Tension-free, suspicion-bare walks on the streets.
Retribution for male-influenced, man-made injustices.
A voice so loud it commands that you hear me and listen.
Or perhaps just a day for a quiet existence, maybe.
Comfort, for the hurt that’s been caused to me.
Peace, amidst violence and brutality we’re forced to accept.
Justice. Justice. Equality? Justice.
I could pray for a lot more other things,
but I don’t think I really pray anymore.
The Maiden asks,
what do you ache for, dear girl?
Kisses born from reverent devotion.
Touches seeking to map the inner linings of my soul.
Kind, patient eyes that just understand without demands.
A breath of admiration from every word he associates me with.
Honesty, for when it came to both the little and important things.
Fidelity, in every thought, word, and action that mattered.
Respect. Attention. Care. Love.
I ache for so much more;
for something real and deep and profound,
but I don’t dare voice it out loud anymore.
Lastly, quietly, the Crone asks,
what do you wish for, precious girl?
A disruption in the space-time continuum.
A coalition of worlds, of multiverses alongside ours.
A second, a minute, a moment, really;
anything that would allow me the chance
to go back before I took my girlhood for granted.
I took my girlhood for granted,
all pink and glossy and glittered and childlike.
All the things that were supposed to be mine in being.
I took the time for granted, and oh, how I regret it.
When my being was dainty, loud, polite, and carefree,
when it wasn’t tied down to shame, to weakness, to inferiority.
And now I see how I’ve grown up,
the woman that I am today,
and all I can think of is oh, how I regret it,
to have taken the time for granted—
the time when being a girl, a woman,
wasn’t so forcibly disadvantaged.
In the quiet of the night, between pillows and underneath sheets
I cry to them, and they hear me loud and clear.
They listen as I pour my desperation to their taste,
and when I fall into a tired, pained sleep, they whisper.
my dear, sweet, innocent girl.
my precious, forsaken, impressionable girl.
you are enough. you are worthy.
you are a woman now, and a woman that you are.
you are enough.
you are worthy.
i wish not to yield; let me scream ‘til i choke
by Sandra Eunice C. Fagerstrom
Content warning: This poem contains mentions of profanity. Reader's discretion is advised.
Glass, stone, metal
Nothing but jagged edges
And unsoft to the touch
Sharp enough to prick, to bleed
And yet at someone’s ire
The sharpness yields
Each crevice whittled away, withered
Or so they say
As the youth eventually fades and corrodes
My apparent expiration draws near
Nothing but bones and ash
Or so they say
I can’t be stone, I’m not allowed to
They call me frigid, they call me bitch
Smile more, smile
Smile, dammit
Lest your stone-stricken face
Be carved upon by forced
Rust, rusting, rusted
But forcibly polished
They give their tips of beauty and grace
Whether it be from kindness or pity
I’m not really sure
Do I want to know?
Ungrateful, is what they call me
A waste of a pretty face
But it’s not your face that’s carved upon and rusted
Isn’t it? No, it’s not
Casting piteous and judgmental glances my way
You innately wish for something more, something better
Kicking and screaming, I yell at the top of my lungs
But a stifling hand clasps over my mouth
And still, I scream, until my vocal cords rip
They treat me like an outcast, like some sort of taboo
But I am nothing but human; humane maybe not, but still I breathe
And before I go under, I scream out in anger
