by Prince Marlo Delicano Montadas
Paksiw and Recollections
peeks an old dear, her shriveled elbow resting
on her right leg, propped on the old, ragged
terracotta sofa, struggling to remember
the name of the specific way the boy eats
his food by hand, as rice forms
in his hands as though they were yema balls.
Out of the blue, in moments of stillness,
heightened by the colors of the fern
and leaves—green, juniper, and sage—in the panorama,
she feels like cleaning the area around her
as the fiesta approaches the calendars and the barangay,
yet she laments to the shoulders
that can no longer bear
the gravity of life. Thus, resurrected
in her mind is the image of her husband,
who plumped himself on the ground,
slashing the grass and clearing the earth—
the one who could help her
with such a task well. But grandfather is now gone,
to an eternal rest, one with the earth, and so
I gulped the last ball of rice with grief.
Prince Marlo Delicano Montadas: Wounds left by someone’s passing remain fresh and vulnerable, and each time they are nudged, the pain resurfaces—just as sharp as the moment the skin was first cut. Yet it is not the sting that lingers, but the emotions we either cling to or let slip away. Still, we strive in countless ways to close the wound, defying its reality and imperfection, though it never truly heals—they never do. I swallowed the last ball of rice as my grandmother yearned for him—my grandfather, whose life had been steered by Providence and who now rests within the natural order. There is no burden heavier than wistfulness, shrouded in the veil of another’s melancholy.
We Are Someone’s Torch
tormenting the worn-out roofs. I
chose to avoid the long procession
of workers and be drowned by the sea
of crowds, waiting for the orange fish
hooks to bring them into their homes.
I walked along the avenue
beneath the trees encompassing
the pavements, consistent with
its network of branches,
thinking I would be thumped by
a falling branch and collapse—or worse,
not die—but be known as the man
who got struck by a branch of a tree,
somehow afraid, somehow apprehensive…
But when I walked forward,
I passed by a student, a girl, a child,
and the tantrums of the monsoon is cooed,
with her short, unhurried steps,
going home, cradling the branches
I have some reservations about…
like one holding an infant. Firewood
to build a fire in their abuhan.
Prince Marlo Delicano Montadas: At times, in the midst of minor interludes, we indulge in absurd and irrational thoughts—a ceaseless passing of angels—processing, processing—until we arrive at a moment or encounter a person who leaves a profound imprint upon us. And so, the poem was written: apprehensive about being struck by the branches—or worse, meeting a graver fate—a girl passed before me, carrying the very branches I had feared, cradling them as one might an infant or a cherished pet from her school.
Published: Sunday 2 March 2025
Prince Marlo Delicano Montadas, an author, poet, and screenwriter from Butuan City, Philippines, graduated Magna Cum Laude with a Bachelor of Secondary Education in English from Father Saturnino Urios University. During his university years, he became a member of the Le Lumière Film Organisation and began writing screenplays, earning recognition as a finalist in the Three Shot Film Festival, where he competed alongside filmmakers from UP, DLS-CSB, UE, FEU, and other institutions. Since then, he has devoted himself to poetry, delving into themes of simplicity, existence, and the intricate relationship between life and his city. His work has been featured in San Anselmo Publications and Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine.