The Log Pond
1.
They say it was guarded by elementals.
An unspeakable beast slept in its depths,
Stirring only at the height of the monsoon.
What remained of the jungle hid the pond
At the foot of the mountains, and few swidden
Farmers and the occasional hunter had seen it.
The river and streams that fed it
Had dried and left a gash in the earth,
A dark green wound that lay unheeded
And unhealed, festering with rumors.
They say all the treasures
Of the mountains had sunk
Into its depths, and all manner
Of things left in secret and in haste:
The stolen, the assassinated, the war loot,
The fund of revolutions discarded
By the disillusioned—in bullions and bars,
Shiny platters and goblets,
Jewel-encrusted trinkets, all crammed
Under the lid of a chest,
All kept under by crumbled
Rock face, boulder and mountain shoulder
Loosed from the grip of roots.
2.
But the old folk contend
More lay under the watery murk:
There rested in perpetual unease
The pelf of the centuries.
They scare children with the wailings
That emanated from it—birdcalls or signals,
They warned, from ghost soldiers
Changing guard in the middle of the night:
A Visayan brave in his loincloth, his hand
Gripping the pommel of kampilan sheathed at his hip,
Or a hooked-nosed Spaniard in his striped bloomer,
His leather cuirass gleaming in the moonlight.
Or the Tulisan and Cimarron—natives
Expelled from the under the Bell—
Whose wandering souls pass at midnight
Of All Souls’, gathering there for the councils
Of Dagohoy and Tamblot, for whom the old folk
Remind us to light candles on our window sills.
More recently it was an ashen-faced
Japanese straggler spotted by a wood gatherer,
Who returned to town wild-eyed, quaking
And empty-handed, unable to speak for two days,
And only at the prodding of the police.
The story gets more confused
As others claimed they saw an American marine,
And still others who insisted that strange lights
Could be seen across the dark water—
Campfires, it was whispered,
Of long-haired remnants from the battle of Jolo,
Or any of the rebel bands still on patrol.
1.
They say it was guarded by elementals.
An unspeakable beast slept in its depths,
Stirring only at the height of the monsoon.
What remained of the jungle hid the pond
At the foot of the mountains, and few swidden
Farmers and the occasional hunter had seen it.
The river and streams that fed it
Had dried and left a gash in the earth,
A dark green wound that lay unheeded
And unhealed, festering with rumors.
They say all the treasures
Of the mountains had sunk
Into its depths, and all manner
Of things left in secret and in haste:
The stolen, the assassinated, the war loot,
The fund of revolutions discarded
By the disillusioned—in bullions and bars,
Shiny platters and goblets,
Jewel-encrusted trinkets, all crammed
Under the lid of a chest,
All kept under by crumbled
Rock face, boulder and mountain shoulder
Loosed from the grip of roots.
2.
But the old folk contend
More lay under the watery murk:
There rested in perpetual unease
The pelf of the centuries.
They scare children with the wailings
That emanated from it—birdcalls or signals,
They warned, from ghost soldiers
Changing guard in the middle of the night:
A Visayan brave in his loincloth, his hand
Gripping the pommel of kampilan sheathed at his hip,
Or a hooked-nosed Spaniard in his striped bloomer,
His leather cuirass gleaming in the moonlight.
Or the Tulisan and Cimarron—natives
Expelled from the under the Bell—
Whose wandering souls pass at midnight
Of All Souls’, gathering there for the councils
Of Dagohoy and Tamblot, for whom the old folk
Remind us to light candles on our window sills.
More recently it was an ashen-faced
Japanese straggler spotted by a wood gatherer,
Who returned to town wild-eyed, quaking
And empty-handed, unable to speak for two days,
And only at the prodding of the police.
The story gets more confused
As others claimed they saw an American marine,
And still others who insisted that strange lights
Could be seen across the dark water—
Campfires, it was whispered,
Of long-haired remnants from the battle of Jolo,
Or any of the rebel bands still on patrol.
F.V. Coching, Lapulapu.
3.
The old folk give a knowing smile
And say: “They are all that. For they are
Neither remnants nor lost commands,
But revenants from the unfinished struggle
Of our race—against invader, wily merchant
And interloper, and all manner of pillage and rapine
Of woman, child, man, and the native shrine of trees.
“Forever these guards and vanguards of ancient
Armies, these minions and mercenaries, are reenacting
Their chases and ambushes, their bivouacs and marches,
Or they simply stand there unable to leave their posts,
Watching over sunk log and loot which,” and at this
The old folk wag their fingers, “when raised
Could wipe out, a hundredfold, the national debt.”
4.
Tonight, a light rain slants
Across the funnel glow
Of the streetlight outside my window.
I stare in the disquiet at the end
Of typhoon, my children
Sound asleep in their room.
The storm signals have been lifted
But I am almost afraid to watch the images
On television: woman, child and man in final embrace,
Being fished out of the mud left by the flood,
Streets torn and ripped as if the mountains
Had vomited their bowels upon them,
Shivering refugees lining up for soup
And relief, families asleep
On the floor of public buildings,
And streets, streams and seashores strewn
With an eternity of logs, as if a god
Cast them there in a game of matchsticks.
5.
I write this remembering
A friend who weeps in rage at the end
Of our endless bottles of beer,
Telling me the story
Of the log pond
In the fastnesses of Samar,
Of the cousin’s entire family lost
In the slush and debris
That descended on them one midnight,
Of how not only do we keep losing
The lives of kith and kindred,
But together with them
Keep burying in some log pond
Our pride, our anger,
Our memory of ourselves.
The memory of thousands remains buried
Under the mud in Ormoc,
But the unspeakable beast has awakened again:
In Marikina and Montalban,
In Dingalan, Infanta and Real,
Or wherever greed reigns.
(for Romy Bohol, who told me the log pond story, the poem’s seed;
and the late Jane Subang, who lost relatives in Ormoc)
December 6, 2004
(from Mostly in Monsoon Weather, UP Press, 2007)
And say: “They are all that. For they are
Neither remnants nor lost commands,
But revenants from the unfinished struggle
Of our race—against invader, wily merchant
And interloper, and all manner of pillage and rapine
Of woman, child, man, and the native shrine of trees.
“Forever these guards and vanguards of ancient
Armies, these minions and mercenaries, are reenacting
Their chases and ambushes, their bivouacs and marches,
Or they simply stand there unable to leave their posts,
Watching over sunk log and loot which,” and at this
The old folk wag their fingers, “when raised
Could wipe out, a hundredfold, the national debt.”
4.
Tonight, a light rain slants
Across the funnel glow
Of the streetlight outside my window.
I stare in the disquiet at the end
Of typhoon, my children
Sound asleep in their room.
The storm signals have been lifted
But I am almost afraid to watch the images
On television: woman, child and man in final embrace,
Being fished out of the mud left by the flood,
Streets torn and ripped as if the mountains
Had vomited their bowels upon them,
Shivering refugees lining up for soup
And relief, families asleep
On the floor of public buildings,
And streets, streams and seashores strewn
With an eternity of logs, as if a god
Cast them there in a game of matchsticks.
5.
I write this remembering
A friend who weeps in rage at the end
Of our endless bottles of beer,
Telling me the story
Of the log pond
In the fastnesses of Samar,
Of the cousin’s entire family lost
In the slush and debris
That descended on them one midnight,
Of how not only do we keep losing
The lives of kith and kindred,
But together with them
Keep burying in some log pond
Our pride, our anger,
Our memory of ourselves.
The memory of thousands remains buried
Under the mud in Ormoc,
But the unspeakable beast has awakened again:
In Marikina and Montalban,
In Dingalan, Infanta and Real,
Or wherever greed reigns.
(for Romy Bohol, who told me the log pond story, the poem’s seed;
and the late Jane Subang, who lost relatives in Ormoc)
December 6, 2004
(from Mostly in Monsoon Weather, UP Press, 2007)
