An Awful Harvest

I went a hike up to Wawa in Montalban and up the mountain roads. Here I was to go past the peaks of Mt Parawagan, Susong Dalaga and Mt Lagyo plus others. The road had been improved by engineers with trucks and plant equipment. I wanted to hike a big circle right back to the beginning. This was possible a few months ago but not now due to the building of the Pamitinan Dam. It will take four years to do this and flood a complete valley near the peaks. A guard told me no entry by the construction site. I talked to a head engineer and he told me more details. The dam will be eighty metres tall or deep more than the Kaliwa Dam of sixty four metres. These are big structures. Hikers wanted to hike from Wawa to Casili by the newly improved mountain roads but the dam construction stopped this. In time a new road will be built above the dam level replacing the old road. Even if the road is built in a year the dam will still be unfinished so still no entry.



I saw a sign saying beware of UXO Unexploded Ordnance. A local man told me about this, of how the military was looking for it and would defuse any found. His details matched much of what I’ve heard before, like finding shrapnel in the soil. The sign was for the road improvement and dam construction. Sleeping shells waited to knocked awake and ****.



The digger, bulldozer and plant drivers need to be paid danger money. No joke. The area they work on is a small part of a huge World War 2 battlefield. An awful harvest litters the land with unexploded ordnance being buried in the soil having not detonated. Mortars, shells, bombs and other things; these all need locating and safely defusing by the military.



People live in the area and many have found live or exploded shells. The live shells are complete and the spent ones are in varied sized pieces. On my hike up there I was given a piece of one five five millimetre shell from a local. This was in two parts, the biggest weighed many pounds. I estimate between one in four and six fired never exploded. On the stone mountains like Mt Lagyo the shells and bombs will explode on impact if the detonators are triggered. In soil covered peaks the shells can just dig in and don’t go off. The army went up to Mt Lagyo looking for unexploded ordnance. They found nothing.



The road that has been improved and widened would’ve yielded many unexploded munitions. I’m curious how many were found and wonder how many thousands still hide unfound. Sections of the trees/grass by the road are taped off. This is for safety of any munitions and also due to the steepness of the terrain.



The local people within the valley are being moved away and compensated for thus upheaval. Their valley will be inundated by what is now a small river in coming years. Any remaining homes and unfound munitions or Japanese tunnels will be underwater.



Every time I hike the area from Wawa to Mt Mataba to Timberland to Casili I read about or am told or shown evidence from the war and battles; that old actions from 1945 has outlived the people of that time be it locals or soldiers. History is not old and boring black and white photos. An rusty Arisaka rifle with working bolt or blasted shell fragments tell more than any story or photo ever could. Only fate and God knows the unnamed soldiers names now.



When the dam is built I wonder how many unfound unexploded ordnance and dead Japanese soldiers will be now forever unfound? I suspect many thousand Japanese soldiers are buried on those peaks. Remember, these hills are the first high ground above Manila. This was the start of the high ground battles that went on for hundreds of miles at several huge mountain ranges. It was Tier 1 fighting equal to anywhere involving hundreds of thousands of opposing troops, of which tens of thousands were killed.



Now the 1945 legacy is coming back to bite us. Not just buried shells on a dam construction site but the risk of them still exploding when not even found. This is due to corroding fuses. Buried bombs in Europe have self detonated several times. I’ve been told of two large unexploded warplane dropped bombs, one near Timberland and the other near Mt Parawagan. Both need to be found again and professionally defused. History is never boring; the lethal harvest is a testimony to their dastardly deeds.

The onion doesn't have layers
it has panels
nailed to its skin.

On occasions
he goes back to the warehouse
where he stores broken typewriters,
unfinished narratives of the campaign,
unexploded bombs.
sellotaped wires.

He audits his feelings
keeps them neatly arranged
on shelves and spreadsheets and

he examines them against the light
and is pleased with his investigations.

We stood in front of my grandmother’s
Old almirah, facing each other
The peacock feather and empty bags  
Of the square room fell silent all over again,
Like strangers we stood facing each other.

Then they all came, marched in, reflections,
Paraded in like martyrs of Brute’s History.
I knew them all, she knew them too
They came, touched us one by one,
Like strangers we stood facing each other.

She looked confused just like me
Watching life pass by, centuries reuniting
After a very long season break, nations-
Travelled, explorers stood upstairs watching,
Like strangers we stood facing each other.

Streets strapped the coffee cans and middle-
Aged hospitals swallowed wars. Married women
Bend over like animals and in months, unable
To breathe they gave birth to few number plates;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.

The city vomited battles, human heads
And dreams of muted foul slaves. Men and-
Their violent tradition screeched for blue number-
Plates, lean number plates, handsome number plates;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.

Unexploded bombs bounced happy homes,
My brothers, my kids, my mothers
Blew their windows and ran, ran away,
Ran afar without destination;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.

They were all dark, their land was darkness
Or were we all blind?
Like a watchman we preserved darkness,
The vapours that filled their glasses did not speak;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.

We are all reflections, ripples and mirrors
Of men-dead and living.
They all stood outside my almirah, million faces
Inside a mirror. She did recognize them;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.

She did nothing, an unusable empathy rolled in,
The hypocrite did not even cry.
In quiet hours she smelt pain, blood and
History flowing from confronting corners;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.

An insignificant obligation drowned her nerve,
They needed a home, candle flame, cotton and wool.
The land, their land has become unfamiliar
And they stood outside locked gates and laws;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.

They all smelt the same blood, the abused blood,
I tried to kiss them and they kissed me back with-
Their cold lips. I tried to touch them, they touched-
Me back with water in their eyes;
Like strangers we stood facing each other.

a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs*

my woman, she's a
snuggler and spooner.

burying herself on my,
no, in my
double barreled chest,
her blonde hair,
my field of gold.^

she landscapes my life,
paralyzing me with the
simplest of gestures.

she sleeps holding my thumbs.
locks me up.
locks me down.
so I cannot transcribe
the lines of poetry mindful,
landlines shut,
land-mines of verse
unexploded,
till these now,
hours later.

a few notes ago,
a few days ago,
heard an octet,
eight voices singing of
five letters, five vowels,
a  e  i  o  u.

you can hear what I heard too.

after you listen,
better understand
vowels are the butter of language.
the anointing oil of connectivity.
more than a line of code,
they are the keys to the code,
that make words and life musical.

I suppose we could mange without them if we had to.
spsz v cd mng wthot thm ff v hd t.

but not so well.

I suppose we could manage
without opposing thumbs.
learn to type with my nose,
paint with my toes.
but not so well.

here is how it comes all together.
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs,
never give them more than a
never thought, passing over, assumed.

oh yeah, on some tv show,
you can buy a vowel.

these glues are the things that
give me the chance to tell this:

this poem it is a bit about me.
this poem it is a bit about her.
this poem is really about you.

I could live without
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs.
but I could not live
without her landscaping my chest.

but
when I share this knowledge
with you friend, it becomes a
verified, realized, acknowledged truth.

So you see this poem is about
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs,
but really about you.

In fact, I am thinking,
that if I did not love the title
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs
so much,
would entitle it instead,
a wholesome democracy of love.*

you, a registered voter,
vote then with both all the
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs
at your disposal.

The factory gates are locked,
And there's no work today.
The line-up's getting longer,
And the soup kitchen's closed.
The cardboard box was recyclable
As a home above a vent;
My children have no clothes,
I hear my school's been closed.
Then I hear you call her ****
Because she won't sleep with you.
The lake's been closed, no swimming,
And the park soil is contaminated;
I think we're underestimated.
Clear the area
Before Gilligan removes the head,
Or Hawkeye looses his arms.
This is not a false alarm.

Gran said it isn’t safe
to walk about the bombsites

Janice said
as you walked with her

off of Meadow Row
towards the bombed out sites

of WW11
there might be

unexploded bombs
she added

holding on to your shirt sleeve
there are no

unexploded bombs here
you said

to reassure
you paused midway

and stared back
to where the coal wharf stood

and coalmen went about their work
loading trucks and horse drawn carts

how do you know?
she asked

her hand gripping
your shirt sleeve tight

don’t you trust me?
you said

turning your head
seeing her eyes wide

beneath her red beret
yes but maybe there could be

hidden beneath ground
you looked around

with hand above your brow
none I can see

you said
she released your sleeve

and touched your hand
her smooth skin

like soft silk
moved over yours

you mustn’t tell Gran
she said

she’s forbidden me
to go on sites

you sensed her pulse
tap along your palm

of course I won’t
you said

and walked across
the bricks and rubble

and weeds between
even here

amidst the bombed out ruins
a touch of green.

I stepped left when I should have stepped right.
It was a dance that ended my life.

In a little under a hundred years we've had so many wars.
Men, women and children sacrificed for someones cause.

And truly just what has been gained, versus what was lost?
Can we say that it was worth it, can we justify the cost?

In nineteen thirty nine we had the war to end all wars.
Since then there've been so many, like we've hardly even paused

And what is it we fight for? Do we fight for right or wrong?
Or do we fight to get resources that we feel to us belong?

Now sure there are some victims, of persecutions, genocides
but unless there's oil or riches there, the strongest close their eyes.

We forget that we're not perfect, but thanks to Gandhi and Dr King
We changed our stars from where you are, and now know everything.

I cannot help but wonder though, if they were alive today,
would they see us a failure, shake their heads and walk away?

In a little under a hundred years we've learned not much at all,
except in war lies profit, and to some it seems a ball.

Because if you have stuff we want, and wont do as we say,
then we just roll our armies in and blow you all away.

Or if you do things differently, even as we once did,
then we will "liberate" you, then sell you to the highest bid.

See we want you to be like us, cos were so freakin smart,
sure we got people starving but an unmade bed is art.

"My Bed" was bought by Charles Saatchi for £150,000 in 1999.
£150,000 would feed 3200 children in Ghana for a year.
£150,000 would provide over 6800 prosthetics for children who have lost limbs as a result of landmines or unexploded munitions.
In a little under a hundred years, it would seem we have learned nothing.

The world is unexploded,
but its waters are contaminated
with the chemicals of a war-plagued nation
which stain their tongues black and bleach their knuckles,
and combust into a strengthening desire for a legacy
of their homeland that now teeters.
Each belief grinds friction into the desert sand, refusing limitation.

Inevitable Invasion

No merciful maps or keys towards clarity were left
by their loyal armies;
nor were any heart-strong soldiers.
Through the forts of debris and shields of ash,
we could not find the killed or the injured,
only smell the salty decay of each victim.

He limped through the rippling mirage,
spitting eroding dirt and
flexing his bloodied weapons.
"I heard the victory anthem,"
he said.
"The enemies are dreaming."

When the heart
is in a state
of collapse, it
failsafes
to stone. It
Hardens, then
Breaks, it
Explodes,
but not
Into pieces,
Just inside,
It releases pain
Within.
Don’t
Be wary of explosion
Fear,
The unexploded.

the remaining trees bore witness
to the stares of men
seeking out death
so they could avoid it
the remaining trees grow strong
on the bodies of men
who found it
never to return home
to loved ones
ordinary jobs
ordinary lives

no one can come here
the land still poisoned
by the hate of those determined
to **** each other
with
lead, chlorine
mercury and arsenic
unexploded shells and grenades
can still **** 100 years on

it is quiet
nature is allowed the freedom
to grow
fill the void
that was once mud
trenches and shell holes
this really is no man's land
because we made it so

Cryptography prior to the modern age
was effectively synonymous with encryption,
the conversion of information from a readable state
to apparent nonsense.

                Wikipedia: Cryptography

Berryman, Bishop, Plath, Sexton, et al
(whose verse preserves badly in alcohol)
distilled tepid poems full half-throttle:
Not-so-wild turkeys, jiggling their wattle.

I strive in vain to uncover meaning
though such dry fields are barely worth gleaning;
pompous hackademics of brave new verse
have shown, through their scrawling, it can get worse;
wordsmiths of dullness for grad students' gain,
grant scholars trading in pleasure for pain
with each odd word choice or wretched refrain.

Berryman, Bishop, Lowell, Sexton and Plath
prepare me for rest in their tepid bath
as I try to read them—but fall asleep
the book upon my breast, my boredom deep.
A soporific tried and true, such dreck.
(Amazing they could even cash a check.)

Did madness excuse them to make a fuss,
force meaningful discourse to languish thus
in obfuscation and cryptography
submerged in rarefied verbosity?
What frumpy muse, nose in her thesaurus
hoped to, this scholarly way, implore us
while putting on airs un-deliriously
to study such silly screeds seriously?

Berryman, Bishop, Plath, Sexton, and Lowell
lured me with poetry into their hole.
Lord, how these clowns made a good thing boring;
they should have set earthbound souls to soaring.
but turned it into a master’s thesis,
fracturing verse to erudite pieces.

Berryman, overrated mass of sheer
vocabulary overload, unclear,
seems more to justify modernist doubt
than to show what real poetry’s about.

Bishop, cryptic identity-monger
(America’s Vassar-girl no longer)
wrote vaguely accessible verse, sometimes…
and some of her poetry even rhymes!

Plath, prima donna, boring semantics
failing to compensate for her antics
blathering bitterness, head in oven
might have been happier joining a coven.

Sexton, pill-headed prophetess unchained
half poetess of half-sense, half-brained
departed with zest,  from her own garage.
(We’re still decoding her cryptic barrage).

Lowell, left quaking in his unstoned grave
more interesting—but still a verbose knave…

These self-absorbed nerds, when not at their shrink
checked out in adultery, pills and drink.
Such sad celebrants of depraved excess,
no vanguard at all, are more a regress
to endless jaded pointlessness and dope,
their abstract verbiage void of all hope.

Who canonized these unexploded shells,
these duds, these fizzling scribes of milquetoast hells…
must we hail and applaud such labored lines?
Instead, make them pay some posthumous fines!
They withered awhile, these funereal blooms;
let REAL poets turn over in their tombs;
call spades on what my ringing ***** exhumes.

Cream of lyric America. I yawn.
It’s late now. White moonlight exalts the lawn.
The world sleeps on, lulled to death by dull verse
May their ghosts, fully exorcised, disperse…

Page 31.

Voices from the dead
reverberate to
hang off walls within my head and
I am being led down darkened streets,
the chatter scatters everywhere,my brains explode,
I'm loaded,locked in casket town,
on the top floor going down. but then
I smell fresh aubergine and realise
a dream is underway, I know
sunrise never lies to me,not surprisingly
the voices of the dead reinvent themselves,
become the racket on the radio
that lays beside my bed,
unlocked
unloaded
unexploded
I am still
the bomb.

The bombs that didn't explode on the battlefield weren't malfunctioning, but their inert consciousness saw that destructive power alone couldn't bring peace to ignorant humans.


Let us ***** a memorial to unexploded war bombs.

I thought you would burst
from unexploded laughter
when my ten-year-old self
knocked at your door
in my Sunday best
fresh-picked dandelions
in my grimy hands
as permission was granted
to court your daughter

Thirty years later, you made
the grievous error
of asking your daughter
if she wanted to attend
my mother's wake
the mother who always said
I would marry that daughter

Today that daughter
prepares her pilgrimage
to home and bedside
a journey I can't take
because we are fellow travelers
and you boarded the express

Our lives have always been twisted;
yes, literally and figuratively
between friend and family
I pray you safe and quiet passage
and will let you know
how the kids and grandkids are doing
when I catch you on the second shift

This is the odyssey in
the unsettling of a night
and
it's flight or fight.

Run and we lose,
fight and we
might die.

So we try and we do.

Who?

There's sparkle of stars overhead and
I never got used to them,
underfoot is where
I
put my faith,
terra firma and
I'm the fast learner,
keep my feet on the ground.

I look around and see unexploded ordinance,
I don't see the romance in the dancing of death
only the stink of its breath and the rot.

And now
with a reason to a life and to live
I will not give an inch.

Pinch me if I dream aloud,
this anonymous face wants to
blend in with the crowd
and I will.

Nightmares share with me
the unsettling night,
this odyssey.

I expect nothing less, but
want a lot more.

We ain’t sending Christmas cards any more!
We’ve done the list and that’s it!
Oh no!…There’s another one just dropped through the door.
You approach it gingerly like an unexploded bomb
Cautiously wondering “who the eff is it from?”

“Oh no! It’s someone who’s not on the list… the *******!”
Or, an older relative who doesn’t ‘do’ computers....
“We don’t do computers!”...
And so it bounces off them this ‘losers’ two pronged attack.
like getting one in the post and not sending one back!
But we definitely ain’t sending cards any more!

Can’t they just send an e-card, maybe one of those Jacqui whats-her-name jobbies...
with floating fairies, sleigh bell sound effects and ****** labradors too.
Or bang off a picture of Santa on FaceBook, Twitter, SnapChat, Instagram…surely that will do.
Oh no they’ve got to go the whole nine yards.
Even if they buy ****** Poundland Cards
there’s still the cost of a ****** stamp! That’s extortionate too!
No… Sorry… actually not sorry...
We ain’t buying OR sending cards any more!

We’ll donate to charity instead - that’ll be us…
It’ll be cheaper and a lot less fuss.
Sponsor a neglected reindeer, maybe a redundant elf
Or yeh…better still - rescue a pup.
One that WAS just for Christmas then just got chucked.
For me this Christmas mail-out is over - the game's definitely up!
Or really… if all else fails…we’ll just buy next year’s supply
in bulk from the January sales!

Honest ahm distracted
almost  enough
to be sick

only if
we fail
our venture

fade fade fade
in this sunlight
find my shadow

blow on it
to not
explode

all clambers up
sniffs the wind
scents you

The witch-hunt starts
for an unexploded bomb.

A racist slur becomes mute
for posterity.

The words start migrating―
coming out of their skin and colors.

A dead man walks into
a coal pit for exoneration.

Breathless, I become privy
to mass suicides of the flying moths.

You become a child, hiding
behind a tree, watching
a tiger maul a striped ariel.

Hard to believe
must try harder.

Sat in the same seat
going to the same place
watching commuters race
to get on the train

Monday, again?

As Mondays go
this one started slow
no doubt due
to
the Hadron Collider.

Expect the unexploded.

Cashing in on the fashion
she's wearing a kaftan
which is looking worn out.

Her
with a finger to her forehead,
try to commune with the dead?
or perhaps scratching a spot.


I'm dressed in black
mourning the passing
of a weekend.

It's back to
knit one, pearl one
and we end up with
the timebomb.

This is your Captain speaking,
' the ship is leaking '

' expect the unexploded ' js
the gun is primed
the bullets loaded
shoot at will.

The sipping point has arrived
I am increased and resupplied
in this fortification so languid
and dark and insinuating

Poured into this dress curved
hard by this   unexploded  mine
ther e is no predicate to this awareness
sipping against when

my imagination detonates'sss
again things i've been leave the stage
unattractively so everyo ne knows
I want them to think it was