Where Poetry Stands

By Noel Galon de Leon

This June, I’ve made a firm commitment to myself: to write a poem every single day. It’s something I’ve done before. Last month, for instance, I wrote daily poems themed around flowers and memories. It felt appropriate, as May in the Philippines is a time filled with blossoms and traditions like Flores de Mayo, where beauty and nostalgia naturally bloom. But this month, I want to shift my focus away from metaphorical petals and toward something much closer to the heart. I want to write poems that reflect the lives and struggles of the queer community, which I myself am a part of. I want to contribute, in whatever humble way I can, to the growing narrative of LGBTQIA+ voices, especially those that remain unheard.

Unlike the more familiar themes I’ve explored before, this time I want to write about queer lives that are rarely talked about. I want to shed light on transliterature—stories of queer and trans people living in diaspora, far from the comforts of home, culture, and language. I want to explore the lives of those in the margins: the working-class gay men abroad, the trans women navigating hostile environments, the queer people who have had to flee in order to live honestly, only to find themselves in even more dangerous places.

I remember reading a novel last year written by a trans author based in the Middle East. The story lingered with me long after I finished it. It was not just because of the elegance of the prose, but because of the sorrow it captured. It laid bare the brutal reality for many queer people living abroad. Despite progressive discussions and even some protective laws, discrimination continues to fester, unchallenged and unrelenting. Safety is never guaranteed.

That novel reminded me that the struggles we face in the Philippines are not isolated. They echo across borders. And yet, even in my own hometown of Iloilo, LGBTQIA+ individuals continue to suffer in silence. Discrimination is present in our schools, in our churches, and, perhaps most painfully, in our own families. Queer children are still taught to hide, to shrink themselves, to apologize for existing. We raise generations not with love and understanding, but with fear. That, to me, is a kind of quiet violence.

Then, just yesterday, I came across a news story that pierced through my feed like a blade. Henson Latoza Lebuna, a trans woman who had gone missing for several days, was found dead. Her body was decomposing in a patch of tall grass near a river in Calinog, Iloilo. The reports were chilling. Some speculated it was a hate crime. Others suggested it might have stemmed from a dispute over money. The truth remains unclear as investigations continue and CCTV footage is still being reviewed.

What is clear, however, is that another queer life has been taken. Another soul lost to senseless violence. These tragedies are not isolated cases. All across the country and across the world, LGBTQIA+ individuals are still targets of brutality, especially in rural areas far from the protections of visibility and advocacy. Some local government units show gestures of support, but these gestures mean little when blood is still being shed in silence.

The stories we read in poems, novels, and essays about queer lives are not simply fiction. They are mirrors of real, ongoing suffering. These are not distant tales. They are the lives of people we know, people we love, people who could easily be us. And so, I find myself returning to the page, not just to write, but to remember, to resist, and to reach out.

I have decided to dedicate this entire month, Pride Month, to writing poems that center on the lives, the pains, the joys, and the struggles of gay and trans people. I do this not as an act of celebration alone, but as an act of resistance. Poetry, for me, has always been more than a craft. It is a weapon. A prayer. A protest. A small fire in the dark.

To be a poet in these times is to bear witness. It is to tell the stories that institutions erase and that headlines forget. I believe that poetry must not only strive to be beautiful; it must also be useful. It must carry weight. It must dare to challenge the systems that thrive on silence and violence. Now, more than ever, poetry can do just that. In the age of social media, a few lines can travel far and find someone who needs them most.

After reading about what happened to Henson Latoza Lebuna, I wrote a poem for her. It was the only thing I knew how to do in that moment of grief and rage. I hope it reaches her family, or at the very least, someone who knew her. I hope it helps us remember her not as a statistic, but as a full and breathing person who deserved joy, safety, and love. Her death is not hers alone. It is part of a pattern, a global one, that we must all work to break.

This is why Pride Month matters. It is not just a celebration of glitter, parades, and victories. It is a moment of reckoning. Pride began as a protest, and it remains a protest. It is a space where we can gather not only to affirm our identities but also to amplify our voices against oppression. It is a time to ask hard questions, to mourn our dead, and to fight for the living. Let us not forget the pain behind the pride.

Let us remember those like Henson Latoza Lebuna, whose lives were stolen before they could fully bloom. Let us continue writing, speaking, and fighting for a world where no one has to live in fear simply for being who they are.

So this month, I write with purpose. For Henson. For every queer and trans person holding on. For every young person afraid to come out. For those lost to violence, and those still trying to survive it.

Justice for Henson Latoza Lebuna, a Trans Woman from Calinog, Iloilo

Not even your beauty could shield you
from the cruelty of a world that kills.
They said you were agi,
so they ended your life,
without fear,
without mercy,
and left you
in the grasslands of Calinog, Iloilo,
by the river that witnessed
the stillness of that night.

In the news,
they blamed your violent end
on a dispute,
a paid grudge.
Mirisi, some said on Facebook,
as if your identity
were reason enough
to sentence you to death.

While DYRI RMN Iloilo broadcast the story,
vile rumors spread like wildfire,
rooted in hate, in fear, in ignorance.
And in the noise of a world that couldn’t care less,
the dignity of your name
was slowly erased.

I saw your mother
weeping, though her eyes were dry.
Perhaps her tears
had long run out—
spent on nights with no answers,
on mornings still clinging to hope.
Until they found you,
already decaying by the riverside,
held by the silence
that perhaps was the first to truly understand you.

She prayed,
not only to the God of heaven
but also to the gods of this earth:
the law, the people, the state.
She begged that someone, anyone
would listen,
would act,
would be held accountable,
even if it’s already too late.

The police say
they’re piecing together CCTV footage,
like chasing the shadow
of a violent night.

But remember this, Henson:
Even if the skies remain silent
and the taguangkan sang duta stays cold,
time will never conceal
the stench of truth trying to escape.

Justice will come.
If not tomorrow,
then the day after.
And when that day arrives,
they will no longer escape
the weight of your name.

***

Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.