Persephone

the beauty of spring is that we let go of winter's past hurts.

p e r s e p h o n e
The Literary Folio of The Oculus Publications
The Official English Publiction of
Ateneo de Zamboanga University Senior High School Unit

foreword
We hold on to people we wish would never leave. We grieve for times that
had already come to pass. We mourn when the promises we make – of love, of
remembering, of forever – shatter and crumble as we leave. We are a
wretched people with a wretched fate, to suffer and love, just to suffer again.
However, as much as the sorrows of winter pain us, we hold on. We keep
our chin up even when the tears sting our eyes and drip down. We dress our
wounds and walk, even if we whimper and stumble, towards the light of day.
Because we are a persistent people with a fate to defy, to love despite the
suffering.
Mourn and grieve then, for all the love you have lost. Your tears are the
rain from which new flowers will spring forth. When you hold your chest and
scream into the silent heavens, hear your own heartbeat. It is the applause of
all those who loved you, an ode to how many
hearts you have touched and how
many souls you have lifted.
We love and we want, but we can never keep. We love, so deeply and with
such conviction, that we struggle forth and continue on. They stole your stillbeating
heart – all your dreams and wishes – and buried it in the cold dead
soil. But, your warmth is much stronger than any winter snow. You may feel
empty now, but not for long.
After all, the strength of your sorrow is the echo of your love. That is the
myth of Persephone.
Nur-Qhadir Tahamid
Persephone, Literary Editor

"styx"
by Ayesha
"Does it not make you want
to love more?"

Table of Contents
mementos & odes
persephone
growth
the ardor we seek
a moment that changed me
my absolute triggers
echo
nemesis, to iphignia
mnemosyne
an ode from patroclus
bloom
the body: machine & vessel
searching for happiness
anthem of the heart
excitement
modern gladiator
conquer
an oracle for doubt
verdict
narcissus
[untitled]
garden of wisteria
i will claim you soon
growth ii
lead of faith
the exciting future ahead
manifest destiny
acceptance
long story short, i survived
happiness
at a loss
acquainting happiness
a wise spectator
the way of words
drench my heart
a beat, a beat, on repeat
acceptance
long story short, i survived
happiness
at a loss
acquainting happiness
a wise spectator
the way of words
drench my heart
a beat, a beat, on repeat
growth iii
knock-knock, it's change
through the eyes of an artist
a call from my dream
a prayer
the aftermath
a spring rainfall
caucasus: reflection on self love
recollections of
a dream
overcoming challenges
a step forward
motivation
what else can i do
perception
time once bound, unraveled
the love we hold for ourselves
twinkling star, my future's far
what matters most
identity in five acts
letters addressed to the fire

m e m e n t o s
a n d o d e s
p o e t r y a n d p r o s e

persephone
nero
sing, o muse, the song of persephone
find which hymn would fit her melody
her scream, her fear; her laugh, her joy -
find which verse would free her memory
you say she came to love her captor
the man who stole her from her mother
the snake who seduced, beguiled, coerced -
the spring girl, wrapped in embalming myrrh
sing, o muse, with your most wretched of wails!
can you capture her pain when her father sold her?
when her uncle smirked, when her mother lost her?
sing- no, scream!
yet, you say, the gods were just, were fair
but were they not lousy, arrogant men,
feasting on fawns for lust, for fame?
scream, do you not, for the death of a dame?
like arachne before me, i challenge your deity
i mourn your meek silence, your malign compliance
quiet, then-muse, your song is unworthy
her loss, her sorrow; her strength, so hollow
rise, o queen, brave lady persephone

"Between Mist and Memories"
by Azriel Jubilado

growth
Dasha Fernandez
“Be patient with me”, I have to say
I’m still finding myself, looking for a way.
Lost in emotions, having no motivation to get
through the day,
Feels like I‘m drowning, no one here left to stay.
“Do what you love”, I hear that all day
But what should I do, if I’ve given everything away?
It’s which I once loved, specifically in May
And in a few months, it will be my birthday
“What is my purpose?” you say
I questioned myself as I walked across and swayed.
These feelings I have yet to convey,
Will everything still be okay?
Now that I’m resetting a lifetime long overdue
“Stop thinking and start acting” for all I knew
So would anybody mind giving me a clue?
To help me get this all through

The Ardor We Seek
Beatrice Julian
Buried in a sea of gloom
Where the dullness once consumed
Every fiber of my being
Urging me to seek meaning
I was young then, that’s true
Though even then I knew
That in moving forward I must find
Desire to leave the past behind
To the vast empty void we must not cling
But to run is the brave thing
Now, unmoored from the depths of despair
The sun shone, a shiny glare
And now the street has been crossed
The meaning I pursued now sought
And what once was a sea of gloom
Now lay the fragments of my past’s tomb

A Moment That Changed Me
Jose Ojales
Taking a leap of faith comes with uncertainty and
doubt.
Either it is losing it all or making it count.
Making such decisions may not be wise,
Luckily for me, it did not lead to my demise.
It was a moment to be proud of myself.
Such a gamble that you may lose yourself.
However, it was such happiness.
It felt like I could not find it somewhere else.
The truth is, I went to online gaming.
At first, I was scared because of what my peers were
saying.
Claiming you will be affected mentally
And will have a poor performance in school
eventually.
I maintained enough balance towards school and
playing games,
I showed my peers the opposite of their claims.
Thinking about it, it may have ended up bad,
But because of the balance I put in, I am glad.
That moment was when I found my motivation.
Because of it, it filled back my determination.
I was determined to live my life to the fullest.
In a way, it made me lose my thoughts of being
distressed.

"The light of Day"
by Ayesha

"The Remembering"
by Aya Fetri Sali

My Absolute Triggers
Chelsy Balucan
Shaken by the waves of catastrophe
While pulling the trigger of rationality
Unbeknownst the intuitive fulcrum
Yet relying on which with enthusiasm
I ponder not on the winding road
Instead I subdue them with my optimistic mode
I carry the portmanteau of distress
While grasping it with my ultimate best
Fight the temptation of unworthy pleasures
For me to reap my deserved composures
I struggle the most on my traumatizing past
But I transform this nightmare to be my power at
last
However my shivering hands won’t stop trembling
Due to the trigger of my emotions arising
I compromise my mind to stay perfectly calm
Yet the barrier of fear impedes me to be warm
These emotions steal my moment of concentrating
Oh God! Pour to me your grace and optimism
I finally found the ultimate resolution
With heads up in solace and contemplation
I admire the prowess of logical reasoning
But I set aside the importance of my heart beating
With both of these working in coordination
I believe I can face my dark nights with my absolute
triggers of assassination

Echo
Cale Zaragoza
Infinite speed of growing
Only now a fraction of sorrow emitting
Abandoned the burdens troubling
Broken the shell of their withholding
Stranded looping in deep sorrow
Chased by a burden of placebo
Succumbing to my own fellow
Infinitely forgetting wherever I go
Time passing a second to shallow
Pain in the memory is now an echo
Infinite happiness against all my sorrows

nemesis, to iphignia
nero
come to me, take from me,
a justice no god can give you.
let their bones become the earth,
the soil, the mud, the dirt,
upon which you stomp your feet
as they had done onto you.
you, whose arms sought your mother,
you, whose death was ordained by fate,
you, whose flesh was lamb to slaughter,
you, the lost, the least, the lowly,
come to me, seek through me,
a vengeance all mortals shall fear.
let my blade become your own,
the truth, the pain, the stone,
from which you take what they stole,
as they had done onto you.
no more shall you mourn,
no more shall you weep.
come with me, child of war,
to a peace denied no more.

mnemosyne
elio eliott
if the goddess of memory could drink water from the lethe,
i would long be rid of these old haunts,
bathed in the river's dullness,
soak ceramic skin into oblivion,
but contrary to the lyre's song,
i couldn't, i remain, i remember,
the tides will crash on your ships,
be gone and a kiss from thanatos' lips,
but i remain, living a thousand lives all at once,
remembering a thousand elegies written from a hundred hands,
the poets would write with the gifts i bestow,
they wrote about achilles and patroclus,
about aphrodite, hercules, and narcissus,
but none was ever written for the one who remembers,
i remember, i remain,
but no poet has ever written about how i fall for the lives you live,
the man you loved, i loved him too,
the woman you grieve for, i remember them too,
i am just a mere passerby in my den,
standing still like dry air with your memories around in jars,
i have never been anything else;
never the mist, or never like the rain,
free, beautiful, and soaking through clothes down to skin—
contrary to the lyre's song,
i like to believe he thought of me that way,
after all, this facade is the closest i get to being read,
to being understood.

"Sorrows of the Maiden"
by Ayesha

an ode from patroclus
elio eliott
the waves barrel with the whirling wind,
in grief, you held my bloody red limbs,
“all the king's horses, all the king's men,”
achilles they'd never take a hint,
this love, cold as my hand's lifeless glint,
"achilles, time for goodbye," i said,
there's no sun to paint gold on your head,
the lifetime spent in this barren land,
hearts like a tumultuous marching band,
"don't." i say, as you raze the treacherous end,
the skies dim, you mark my killer's death,
apollo's child sends you your last breath,
an arrow piercing right through your heel,
the foreseen happens by the fate's will,
"patroclus!" I can not hear your call,
achilles where art thou, the sun now falls,
there's no halls to deck,
we left burned shipwrecks,
my soul waits your goodbyes,
each day as the sunlight dies,
where you left me, achilles,
i wait for your cries.

bloom
Stacey Oricco R. Rebollos
may it be
the harness of
the wind
the shade of
sunlight or
the sound of
raindrops
i find myself
blooming
towards the
bees

The Body: Machine & Vessel
Lily
they say,
you are what you eat
so what does that say about me
who has been hungry all her life
a cannibal is a monster
but if you devour yourself, then a pity
too weak to love a body of your own
but too powerful for holding the broken
in once piece
my fingertips are descendants from an
angel’s kiss
frighteningly soft; a sin to break from
but they’re also metal claws that dig deep
into my skin
like a child who hasn’t been held by its
mother - asking for more, and more, and
more
i break in sweat
exhale and inhale
just to get rid of more parts of me
just so that i have less of myself to carry
on most days, i say hello to it
on others, indifferent
but one day it’ll say hello again
but this time as a stranger, whose
familiarity is the only thing i find
solace into conversing
they say,
we are what we eat
and i am myself,
all the dead parts i have eaten
to appease the other to
keep on living
breaking my bread, wine to wine
the crucifixion / body on the cross
and myself with the spear
bleeding it to its final breath
why does love and hate
sound the same to me
and in the wake of my hunger
taste just as sweet
how could i love something
that’s a walking contradiction
too much chaos to be kind
yet too intricate to be a mistake
my body is both a vessel
and a machine
my mother tongue translated
— still mine yet so foreign

"Peaceful Endings"
by Azriel Jubilado

Searching for happiness
Yellowpwgredsdsd
A splendor of radiance, the mirthful smile may express your
joy. Series of laughter echo through the ceilings, befitting a
happy chapter. The feeling of respite and happiness surges
through my body with no qualms. But, if misery would
embrace me, what would I have become?
Pieces of scrambled puzzles, all scattered in front of me.
Instructions are vague, what should I do to remove the
melancholy inside of me. What is missing, what is this lock
that is closed in-front of me. I need to find the key, the key
is the only way so I shall seek.
My surroundings are vast, everything seems majestic and
wild. The trees were tall and blessed with fruits that were
delicious and ripe. Animals that seem tranquil, lacked the
feral impression it had. Rivers that flow quietly, and the
cacophony birds that sing to their nature about.
Everything awed me, that even I could not resist dropping
my jaw. Dumbfounded, my senses relieved in the natural joy.
Catharsis hasn’t felt this way for a long time, even I pity.
But I must return to the route back, so I may be saved from
such misery.

I narrow deeper into my objective, finding the key all around. I
grew immersed in the ardent fields, where golden grains were
surrounded. My lips curled into a grin all by itself, the view was
astonishing as it seemed. But pressured by the puzzle, must I
continue stressing over the key that was lost.
As time finally passed, I found the key.
It was time for me to pack my things, and get away from here.
My eyes glazed down on the lock, before I grasped it tightly. But
before I opened it, there was a moment of respite.
Ruminating about the wonders I had encountered in this place,
Did I ever feel sadness, or was it my ignorance that was felt? In a
place that sealed me from reality, had showed me my place. For
once, the most genuine smile had the sweetest taste. I dropped
the keys, and left the door untouched.
For I have settled in a place, where my desires want.

Anthem of the Heart
Chelsy Balucan
Listening to the mellifluous cadence of beating notes
I wonder what they have for me to take note
Bewildered by the contradiction of my heart and mind Due to
the pressures inflicted by this society of mine
I tried to explore the massive ocean of possibilities
Until I find my love through my friends and camaraderies.
Not an inch of certainty did I find myself perfectly suited There
are even times when I feel incapable and bigoted A cascade of
criticism has flowed in my being
Weak enough to be fragile and don’t know what I’m doing
Pausing and reflecting to what my heart is singing
To the songs that I find worth listening.
My incremental adjustments made me realize
That without others I’m totally demoralized
I can no longer improve for greater heights
If I leave them in the abyss of the starry night
Seeing myself sympathize and capable of helping
In my desire whose intentions are pure and sanguine.
I cannot deny that I had a myriad of failures
But I thanked them for molding me on dealing with chicanery
vultures I am proud as I know that I have grown stronger
To fight against the tragedies which are a lot bigger
I pledge that I will remain humble and confident
As I move forward into the future in my heart’s content

"The Lethe"
by Ayesha

Excitement
Marcus Blase
Remnants of the old
Lie deeply within your soul
Longing for a change
In a world oh so strange
The exhilaration of drifting away
From a past that brought nothing but dismay
Is the best feat we may encounter
It gives us insight, it makes us stronger
The notion of change
Brings forth ineffable emotions for days
Like unorthodox shades of tangerine swirling
Slowly synchronizing with the hues of longing
We will face the future with a past we had outgrew
Bidding our former selves adieu
Learning that change may take a while
Facing new exploits with an enamored smile

Modern Gladiator
Eurcher
The long, unperturbed mister,
staring at the hands of Master Time
he contemplates on his moves, for error awaits
the power of a single flaw, a fracture in the world of no rhyme.
Without reason or logic, he chips in like a corporate slave
in a workaholic coffin, buried in a grave of unstamped papers,
What is your purpose? Why are you doing this?
Struggle, work, try, persevere, study, train, practice, fight like
nothing and no one hampers
Is life worth toiling for? For long years, long months, long
days, and long hours,
yes, your goal is valid but to what extent?
A low probability to succeed, let alone even be satisfied about
it,
will you work until your moral is bent?
Negativity! Like friction, goes against your stride.
Like resistance, burns up a speeding meteor.
But despite everything, you’re still here.
You rise up, rise up, and soar.
Knowing what the apex offers, you still climb despite the
harsh terrain.
You accept the hardships, the uncertainty, and climb its
treacherous land.
Fight me more, test me more, make me shine like a diamond.
My goal is in sight, waiting to be held by my outstretched
hand.

Conquer
Emilio Mosquisa II
Obstacles are part of the journey,
Quite difficult may seem.
But, if we believe in ourselves,
Our hard work won’t be naught.
Let’s take a step outside,
Our routine comfort zone,
This will carve a path,
Where our future will look bright.
We eventually confront,
Our inner brick wall.
Our own choice is to break it,
Or give up and fall.
You have to be the one,
Who stands till the end.
And face the next one too,
With the presence of courage.
There are hundreds of challenges
Waiting for you.
So don't give up,
And break it like you always do.

"She"
by Ayesha

"I wonder how many
versions of me have I asked
others to love?"

"Spark of Life"
by Azriel Jubilado

“New Beginnings”
by Aya Fetri Sali

“Right Where You Left Me”
by Aya Fetri Sali

“Rebirth”
by Azriel Jubilado

“Desiderium”
by Aya Fetri Sali

"Fields of Asphodel"
by Ayesha

a prayer
nero
we were never a tragedy, my love.
do not mind the tears on my face,
or the way my heart beats to your name.
ours was not a sorrowful song.
we were never a tragedy, my love.
do not think this is our shallow goodbye -
no, it is a promise to meet again.
ours was not a grief to depart.
we were never, ever, a tragedy, my love.
tragedies are about things that went wrong,
about men who had flaws and sins to atone -
but all we did was breathe and burn.
even if we were a moment too short for forever,
take solace and strength in the knowledge that:
your name on my lips is my sincerest prayer.

the aftermath;
(nepenthe untold)
elio elliot
i feel like,
my heart still longs to linger on your fingertips,
i never believed the heart can twist you in the
most unexpected ways possible,
but at that moment—when you leaned your head on my
shoulder at that small shabby bus, i knew.
we have drifted apart,
i always felt that you knew,
but this is all new to me,
the once vivid picture of you in your satin clothes,
jewelries, pants that caged your thighs, neat soft hair,
and your skin midas gold in the sunset—is fleeting even when
i never thought it could.
in my reeling,
i wrote a poem about slicing your skin in half,
i wanted to write my anger but even in madness,
i knew you well,
who knew i would address this message to you after oblivion?
i guess the vial wasn't enough and the medicine was weak,
you impaled us both but why am i the only one maimed?
we sailed on; drifted away...
your long hair does not know my hands,
the tight look on your face does not know my smile,
i almost don't know your soul at all...
but that couldn't be true.
i just miss you.

a spring rainfall
elio elliot
i could feel something shift,
a slow caress on these impaled hands,
a slow riveting movement,
a stomach-churning, eye-dwindling happenstance,
my veins pulse blood that flutter—
like seagulls on salt waters,
sun bathed in your gaze,
your sharp shapes and your indentations,
why do you fit the rythmn of my proses?
he was written in warm summers,
you grow into me like ivy in spring,
are none of these to your will?
will this spring remain in this beauty?
when the onslaught of your rainfall,
falls on this hill?

Caucasus: Reflections on Self-Love
Lily
i tried writing a love poem.
long story told short, i failed.
love hasn’t visited me during these cold months and i’m afraid it will never come up
to my doorstep ever again.
because the last time it did, i grabbed it by the collars and dragged its soft body
across our watered-down garden.
i took its own heart out and proceeded to beat it to the dust until it resembled mine.
i don’t know if love is capable of bleeding, but I made sure it was dead. died there in
the seasons of my porch window until it gave out its last breath. once it was bruised
enough for all the world to pity, i left it out there to rot - to be eaten by mosquitoes
or vultures or memory: a second death.
i washed my hands. twice. thrice. until my fingertips have been purified enough to
be called bare. i look outside, a final recognition of what i had done, but love was
gone. there were no traces of trauma on the muddied graves, nor did I see my
footprints. as if it never happened. as if the grief was imagined.
how can you be guilty for something you didn’t do? a bodiless crime, with no
witness, no victim, no perpetrator. but you feel like your head is burning. you
remember what you saw. you still have the wounds to prove where the knife had
been placed. the blood on your lips is the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted.
have you ever loved yourself enough to feel hurt by it?
the bedroom walls are loud, it’s getting smaller by the minute. you look to your left
and then suddenly, you saw love. it wasn’t tied up. it wasn’t broken. it wasn’t dead. it
was trapped in the concave mirror - two living creatures staring back at each
other’s abyss. your pain doesn’t look sad. it’s not miserable, nor can be forgotten.
your pain is not some disheveled thing you can throw and pity. it breathes. it has
your eyes. the same bare hands. same ebony hair. same toes that curl up at the
sound of familiar footsteps. your pain is there in the reflection. your pain looks just
like you, and you have never felt more alive and unwanted in the moments you
embrace it.
i tried writing a love poem, but i think the dead can no longer come back to life. i
think i have long departed with it and now, it’s time to go. i think there’s nothing
more tragic than killing someone from the inside. i think i already died, and this
life is the never-ending punishment i have to relive over and over again.
the doorbell rings, and i can no longer write love poems.

"It's time to go"
by Ayesha

Anonymous

"The Garden of Persephone"
by Ayesha

"Fathomless Void"
by Azriel Jubilado

identity in five acts:
of fruits, favorites and fervors
Lily
i. when i was in fourth grade, our english teacher invited us to do an activity that will
help us get to know our truest selves. this is easy, i thought, having the full confidence
of knowing myself as how an eight year-old should. this activity compelled us to list
down our likes, our favorites and our fears. i like it when people are kind. i fear when
they’re not. my favorite color is yellow. i imagine my younger self having a play date
with those questions, not having to think twice over what to put.
ii. if the test would be given now, then i’m not sure whether i could have the heart to
finish it. being seventeen has completely pushed me to detach from my body and look
at it as if it was a stranger. i trail my hands over non-existent curves and choose a
personality for the day, hiding the others in each bathroom drawer. i don’t know who
i am in a room full of people. i’d like to think that when my eyes scatter to find
someone familiar, i would catch to see my reflection. but the drinks have overtaken
my body and now i’m just lying on the cold floor with only the heat on my cheeks
keeping me company. the world stops to share a prayer. to devote pity to this poor
creature who kills her own shadow.
iii. i’ve known the truth as its teeth lay bare before me. people are not just what they
like or their favorite color or what they fear the most. people are the songs they
choose to play on their train rides home. people are the scars that they don’t conceal.
people are all the stars in the night sky. people are the things they wish they could be,
and all the people they want to be with. people are broken dreams. people are what
they tell their pillows at night. or the things they tell to themselves. people are habits.
people are the pictures they will never delete. people are the pages they have
bookmarked, and the movies they watch over and over again. people are so much
more than what they say they are, and the world hasn’t given them a fair chance to
feel loved to express it.
iv. i wonder at what age did i start to drift away from myself. to have all these
questions be thrown at me but all i could give where half-baked second guesses. when
was the exact moment that i feared of what i’ve become. to be the monster of my own
reality. i have been opaque for so long, clarity hasn’t visited me in years. i wonder how
many versions of me have i asked others to love. i don’t know you enough to love you, they
would say. i haven’t known myself for a long time now too, and i haven’t had the
courage to start again.

v. understanding yourself is a labor of love. i’ve plowed and planted a garden to
where to let myself grow. to be someone worth knowing. to be someone worth
remembering. today, i’m still unripe fruit that nobody wants to harvest. it isn’t
your time. you haven’t fully matured. so i’ll continue to plow, and plant and
plead in this garden i built for myself. until i become bruised fruit: still
deserving of a home. until i can fill out these pages with words that are mine.
and hopefully (hopefully) when all these words are combined into lines and all
the lines are made to complete stanzas, they would be in the shape of someone i
could recognize, that i would love - someone that my eight-year-old self would
be happy to have written about. i like it when people are kind. i’m fine when
they’re not. my favorite color is purple, and i love when the sky hits my face just
right. courage is the coffee i take to continue this labor of love. today is a good
day to be me.

Letters Addressed to the Fire
Letters Addressed to the Fire
Dumbledumb
I’ve imagined writing this letter a million times.
Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to say.
I should have written this when I was still choking on words unsaid. Maybe the ink I
spill will wash down the lump in my throat. I should have said these things when the pain
was still fresh and the clacking of the keyboard would have been a welcome distraction
from all the noise in my head.
But I can’t live on should haves, so for the last time, we’ll pretend all over again.
Forest Fires
If this is the last letter I’ll ever write, I’ll not ask the questions simmering at the back
of my throat. The what ifs and whys and why nots threaten to boil over. But some
questions don’t need to be answered.
Your words might burn deeper this time. I don’t think I have enough strength in me
to stop, drop and roll for the second time. Still, a fire I can’t put out keeps on asking,
pleading, demanding for answers.
“Why didn’t you just tell me it was too much?” it challenges.
“Why did you run to her when I was here?” it interrogates.
“Why didn’t you show up when you said you would?” it presses.
Every now and then forest fires flare up inside of me, sparking fever dreams on cold
nights. They singe my skin with quick fire questions that I don’t have the answers to. My
insides burn bright but it doesn’t light my way.
The flames are tempered by counter questions of what for? I would allow the fires to
engulf me and what for? It will not undo the hurt I felt and the hurt I caused. Answers are
not balms for second-degree burns.
Still though, I find myself wondering what happened to the person I loved. Did I
turn him to ashes, too?
Earthquakes
If this is the last message I’ll ever send, I’ll not get mad, I swear. I’ve planted enough
seeds of betrayal in soil rich in pain, watered by tears. It has grown fruits of revenge. And
like Eve, I am tempted to take a bite as you watch quietly. The serpent whispers that it
tastes like justice, but I know that it’s rotten to the core.
Some days, I keep my ears to the ground, listening to the temptations from right
down the roots. Sometimes, the same ground is pulled under me and I find myself buried
alive. Other times, I can hear the rumbling of earthquakes and close my eyes, waiting for
the aftermath to be over.

“How come it feels like I’m the only one hurting?” it asks.
“Make him feel the same thing you’re feeling,” it demands.
“Your anger deserves to be heard,” it reasons.
I keep my feet under the same soil I planted my resentment in, in the
hopes that I, too, will grow stronger, bloom better, bear fruits sweeter. Still,
the ground shakes and I teeter, afraid of being uprooted.
I hold myself steady with questions of what for? They keep me grounded
until my anger settles into tiny tremors.
Still though, I still wonder what would have happened if you knew all the
things I never said. Would revenge undo betrayal?
Monsoons
If this is the last conversation I’ll ever have, I’ll not beg you to stay. I’ve
swallowed more than my fair share of pride all these years and I’m choking.
I’m tired and there’s no other way but to cough up every part of you in me.
Every inhale I take feels like knives in my lungs, tastes like smoke on my
tongue. Every exhale is a burden I can’t put down. I have to get off my knees
if I ever want to breathe free from you again.
Some days, monsoons appear out of nowhere and I struggle not to be
blown straight to you. There’s hurricanes in my brain, tangling each thought,
each emotion, each memory together faster than I can keep up.
“Why can’t we be right for each other?” it bargains.
“Where is the future we promised to build together?” it wonders.
“Why can’t we go back?” it pleads.
You’re not here but your grip around my heart wakes me up gasping.
We disappeared into thin air and I don’t go looking. Not anymore, anyway.
When the air feels too tight, too dry, around me, I hold my breath around
what for?
Still though, I whisper your name in the wind hoping it will carry my
voice to you. When you hear my name, do you think of me, too?
Tsunamis
If this is the last call I’ll ever make, I’ll not cry, I promise. You’ve always
drowned in my tears no matter how shallow the puddles I create. I brought
with me rains of sorrow and you weren’t ready for the floods.

I belong in the ocean where storms are nothing more than small blips on
the radar. I belong in the open sea where harsh waves crash against each other.
I create tsunamis that could drown me if I let it. I’ve learned to thread through
the unknown, to dive deep and not need air. I’ve touched the ocean floor, rock
bottom, and kicked my way up to the surface.
Some days, I let myself sink, too tired to swim, and too tired to fight. I let
the floodgates open and let water fill my lungs.
“Why do I always have to save myself?” I cry.
“Why won’t you help me?” I weep.
“Why aren’t you here?” I scream.
The ocean is beautiful and terrifying in equal measures. Painful with
sorrow and salty with tears shed. I muddle through murky waters only lighted
by what for?
Still though, I keep my head above water hoping we meet on the shore
where my waves are nothing more than a gentle touch on your feet.
I’ve imagined writing this letter a million times. Now that it’s done, it
still feels like it’s not enough. I’ve been crossing out words, pressing delete
more than usual.
I don’t know why I bother. I don’t know why I’m still trying to trace the
roots of our fallout. It wouldn’t make us bloom again.
There are still a lot of things to say.
But what for?
Still though, I offer this eulogy for the funeral of our dead love. I will
plant wild flowers around our tombstone in the hopes of burying all the guilt,
resentment, hurt, betrayal beneath beauty and fragrance. The next time I
come visit, it will not look the same.
Hopefully, so will we.

the air smells like trampled grass,
the shells of your past selves left as
footnotes on your journals,
the anecdotes that hold your impurities,
fear not for you are anew,
rebirthed, reinvented,
go forth chilren of persephone,
you are free.

the editorial board
T H E O C U L U S P U B L I C A T I O N S
S . Y . 2 0 2 1 - 2 0 2 2

M e e t t h e D e m i g o d s w h o
w e n t o n t h e q u e s t t o t e l l t h e
t a l e o f P e r s e p h o n e .
J o n O w e n L e p i t e n
F o l i o H e a d C o n c e p t A r t i s t
N u r - Q h a d i r T a h a m i d
L i t e r a r y E d i t o r
L e a n n e K e l s e y S e b a s t i a n
L i t e r a r y E d i t o r
A y a F e t r i S a l i
C a r t o o n i s t
A z r i e l D e n i s e J u b i l a d o
C a r t o o n i s t
A i y e e s h a A b a h
P h o t o j o r u n a l i s t
Francis Duane Ramon Cabato
L a y o u t A r t i s t
C h r i s G a b r i e l L e e
L a y o u t A r t i s t

writers
Aradnas, Rafael Rico Miguel
Balucan, Chelsy
De Leon, David Isidore
De Leon, Derreck
Franje, Erick Ryan
Fernandez, Dasha Anica
Julian, Beatrice
Jimenez, Yzabella Beatrice
Lepiten, Jon Owen
Mandi, Penelope Maria
Matias, Ashton Stephonie
Mosquisa, Emilio II
Ojales, Jose Vivencio
Patricio, Hannah Nicole
Parame, Vince Anthony
Ramirez, Realle
Rasul, James Patrick
Rebaya, Odessa Julienne
Rebollos, Stacey Orrico
Remolta, Marcus Blase
Tahamid, Nur Qhadir
Zaragoza, Cale Kristoffer

the oculus publications
All Rights Reserved 2022.
About the cover
We love at a particular height and we break at a certain low. Reinvention is intrinsic to us
humans, we may never know it, but we were always capable of doing so. We tell you the tale
of Persephone through a series of odes and elegies from demigods who searched for spring.
The cover simply shows you the elements of the spring Goddesses’ story. The myth of her
love with Hades has told us different sides of the story. This is where the cover takes us to
when spring finally comes. The vines that pull us together or maybe pull us down, rise
along with our growth. Our darkest days bloom like ivies in spring. After all that, does it not
want to make you love more?