p oetry planet - wpm2011.org oetry planet spring 2015 ... poet-editor of the famous mathrubhumi ......

Ayyapa PanikerBasir Ashang, Joy Harjo, Dinah Roma

Juan Manuel Roca

Alejandro Murguía

Ataol Behramoglu

Roque DaltonFernando Rendon

KING NEZAHUALCÓYOTL

POETRYPLANET

Spring 2015 - #02

A World Poetry Movement Edition

Roque Dalton

WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ

Poetry Planet #02Spring 2015E-edition of World Poetry Movementwww.wpm2011.orgEditor: Dinos Siotis, Athens, Greece - [email protected] by Nektarios Lambropoulos, Patras, Greece - [email protected]

Satellite composition of the whole Earth's surface. - NASA

FERNANDO RENDóNJUAN MANUEL ROCA

KING NEZAHUALCÓYOTL

ROQUE DALTON

ALEJANDRO MURGUIAJOY HARJO


EDITOLooking at this map of the world,

we see a combination of earth,water, ice, desert and space. Some

of us try to find the place we live, othersjust have glimpses of countries they ’vevisited. At World Poetry Movement, wecan see something beyond that: peoplefrom all over the world writing and read-ing poetry in many languages. With wordsand images. Some practice poetry. Withvoices and movements. With spirit in

place. This map isn’t another geographytool but a guide for the reader and poetrylover. Every place asks for a poet’s name.Poetry Planet will give some names inevery issue. Reading is always a voyage todifferent places and time zones. Let ustravel together in poetry. Poetically. Andin every other way. Because, as GabrielaMistral put it, “what the soul is for thebody, is the poet for his people”. And be-cause we want to be ahead of the news.

Ayyappa Paniker

BASIR ASHANGATAOL BEHRAMOGLU

Dinah Roma


INDIA

Ayyappa Paniker,Malayalam Poets (1930-2006)by K Satchidanandan


As a poet Paniker was the veryembodiment of the spirit ofModernism in Malayalam.

His‘Kurukshetram(1960) was the screamof a mind torn by the contradictions ofour time. Arjuna here is not the characterin Mahabharata who is assuaged andguided into battle by the eloquence of Kr-ishna, but the lonely, inconsolable humanbeing who inherits the central dilemmasof his age- of hubris and of the hatred, vi-olence, poverty, estrangement from na-ture and the war that it breeds. He doesnot trust the truths of religion or ideologyany more as both have led to senselessbloodshed. He finds that the bodhi andthe cross are redundant if only we will justbecome human and rise on our ownnavels. ‘Kurukshetram’ was a break-through in terms of form and structuretoo. The poet mixed meters, took free-doms with them , coined new expressionsand created fresh, often sur-real, imageslike the ripe corpses waiting to wake up incradles. The poem had also a sprinklingof black humour and irony like when thepoet asks, do the world banks hold thekey to truth ,or,who will cook and servethe new Veda, does it need to be friedwith mustard? Kurukshetram’ fascinatedthe readres of my generation who werewaiting for something new, free from thecliches of romantic poetry while it an-gered the champions of the status quowho rejected it as unpoetic gibberish.Thepoet-editor of the famous MathrubhumiWeekly returned the manuscript to thenaughty youngster and it was then pickedup by C. N. Sreekantan Nair, a modernplaywright who at that time used to editthe weekly Desabandhu. ‘Kurukshetram’was followed by many others , each differ-

ent from the other. ‘Mrityupooja’(TheHymn to Death), ‘Kudumbapuranam’(The Family Saga), ‘Pakalukal, Rathrikal’(‘Days,Nights)‘Passage to America’,‘Gopikadandakam’ , Ivide Jeevitam(Here, life) and ‘Gotrayanam’ are perhapshis most outstanding works. In the longpoem ‘Gotrayanam’ Paniker returns tohis racial roots and recreates history inthe form of a journey while ‘Days, Nights’and ‘The Passage to America’ are se-quence poems that deal with the manycontradictions of life in the U. S. where ,at Indiana, Paniker had spent some yearspursuing his postdoctoral research.‘Kudumbapuranam’ deals, with his char-acteristic irony ,with the history of his ownfamily in Kuttanad in Kerala. ‘Ivide Jeevi-tam’(Here, Life) is a gathering of his ex-periences during his tour to Russia andEast Europe in a sequence of poems, oneof his favourite forms, used in all histravel poems.His dark satires during theyears of the Emergency in India revealedthe conscientious objector in Panikerwhile his sarcastic poems on power andcorrruption as well as his series of ‘Car-toon Poems’ and ‘The Tales of the Ma-harajah’ used irony as a weapon to fightevil and as a new tool to comprehend thetragi-comic human condition.He went onrenewing himself all through his poeticcareer that resulted in the astounding for-mal variety of his poetry. He tried San-skrit metres, the metre of the kathakaliverse and of the tullal verse, various Dra-vidian metres, free verse patterns andprose of different kinds and tones. Therange of his verbal resources and culturalregisters was equally astounding. He liber-ated the art of poetry from its orthodoxconfines giving the posterity a range of


formal possibilities and plenty of experi-mental space.

While editing Kerala Kavita Panikeralso kept writing and translating and edit-ing many serieof books.The four volumesof Medieval Indian Literature he editedfor the Sahitya Akademi is an exemplarycollection while he also edited the Com-plete Works of Shakespeare and a seriesof 1 20 world classics in Malayalam trans-lation. He was nominating editor forKatha, Delhi and consulting editor forThe Journal of South Asian Literature,Michigan (of which two issues were en-tirely devoted to Malayalm writing )be-sides many other literary publications.Paniker also edited a series of mono-graphs in English on the English Writersof Kerala.His books on ThakazhiSivasankarapillai , V. K. Krishna Menon,Vallathol and Sardar K. M. Paniker, hisshort works like A Short History ofMalayalam Literature,Indian Renaissanceand Indian English Literature ,his literaryarticlescollected in three volumes, hisbooks on Indian poetics, especially theone on the principle of antassannivesamthat Paniker distinguishes from intertextu-ality- all these are monuments to his stu-pendous scholarship and profound graspof the different traditions of literature andpoetics. His collections of poetry in Eng-lish translation, The Poems of Ayyappapaniker, Days, Nights and I can’t helpBlossoming that bring together poems se-lected from his four volumes in Malay-alam besides the last published collection,Pathumanippookkal, are a good introduc-tion to his poetry for the non- Malayalireaders.His students remember him as a

committed teacher and a wonderful com-municator, always abreast of the develop-ments in world literature and literarytheory. His translations of the poems ofMayakovsky , poems from Cuba, RajaRao’s Cat and Shakespeare and JeanToomer’s Sugar cane are great examplesof translation of poetry and prose.Ayyappa Paniker was also an excellentspeaker, clear-headed, cogent in his argu-ments, lyrical in his expressiveness and al-ways witty and original in his insights intoauthors, texts and issues.He was also in-terested in theatre, both classical andmodern and was an inspiration behindMargi, an organisation to promotekathakali and classical arts. He also en-couraged New Drama in Malayalam , es-pecially its pioneers like G. Sankara Pillaiand Kavalam Narayana Paniker and was achief force behind the Nataka Kalari- amodern theatre workshop- established byC. N. Sreekantan Nair, another majorplaywright.He wrote articles not onlyabout poetry, but on fiction, theatre, cin-ema , acting and aesthetics too, many ofwhich are yet to be collected.This is alsotrue about his essays in English still lyingscattered in various journals across theworld. Paniker never went after awardsand recognitions, yet he won most of themajor Indian awards for literature, includ-ing the Sahitya Akademi Award, BhilwaraAward from the Bharatiya Bhashaparishad, Gangadhar Meher Award,Kabir Samman and Saraswati Samman,not to speak of the many poetry awardshe won in Kerala.He accepted them withhumility, the sole exception being theVayalar Award, the most popular award

INDIA


for literature in Kerala which he refused,probably as it came to him too late.Hewas never tempted by power of any kindand politely refused an invitation to bethe Vice Chancellor of a University inKerala.His works have been translatedinto all the major languges of India be-sides several forein languages like Frenchand Spanish.

Ayyappa Paniker was one of India’sbest cultural ambassadors to the worldoutside as he knew not only the new, butthe classical as well. He was all for themodern, but had deep appreciation forthe tradition, especially its elements thatwould inspire new invention in art and lit-erature.With his loss, India has lost aunique genius, an integrated human beingequally at home and equally creative indiverse fields of art and knowledge.

PANIKER ON POETRY

All creation carries a seed of mystery.The creation of poetry is also a mysteri-ous process. Even the poet may not knowits secret. What happens in each poem isa divine birth where human and superhu-man powers come together unexpectedlyyet inevitably as if predetermined in someunknown fashion. By the time the poet'senergy or vitality gets transformed into thepoem, the same radiating energy kills apart of the poet. The birth of a poem is amemorial to that destruction, that partialdeath. It is doubtful whether this creativepower can ever be analyzed and under-stood by the destructive acts of simplereason. Those who have known that

power do not need analysis; those whohave not known its force have no use forit. The best method is to know creationthrough creation. All good poems are theresult of a divine union so that each poemis obscure, yet each will have a dim haloaround it To reveal the sources of the in-spiration of poetry is even more difficultthan writing a poem; what the poet can dois only to speak about his state of mind orthe circumstances of his life when hewrote a poem.....

....Whatever claims a poet may make,no poet can do beyond the limits of hisgenius. Even trying to do the best withinone's ability is no child's play. It is alsowrong to assume that poetry for a poet iscircumscribed or defined by a singlepoem. It goes on bubbling, surging andoverflowing into the next poem. There isan often invisible relationship betweenone poem and another. Only the poetwill be anxious about the poems not yetwritten, the reader is ignorant of it. Canwe say that each poem is but one incarna-tion of poetic creativity? If so how manyincarnations does poetry have!

Kurukshetram (Part three and partfive)

Tell me, Sanjaya, what my sons andthe sons of Pandu did,

when they gathered on the sacred fieldof Kurukshetra

eager for battleThe Bhagavad Gita

Therewhere the horizon dips,hurled out of the bowels of the steam-

INDIA


ing Void,awake 0 star trembling in the cerulean

blue!Quicken the flow of blood and the

beat of the pulse.0 star in love with life,cast your gaze on the earth beneath,sweep your glance on this stagewhere we ply our mortal lot!Do you not hear the mute voice of our

grief?Let drops of light fall from your eyes

like tears!See uscaught in the labyrinth of our daily

grind:this crowded marketwhere we plunge and push and out-

smartto gain each our endthis is the world as we style it.And here they come,come to buy and come to sell;themselves they buy end themselves

they sell,in human souls they deal!The eyes suck and sipthe tears that spurt;the nerves drink up the coursing

blood;and it is the bones thateat the marrow here,while the skin preys on the bones.The roots turn carnivoreas they prey on the flowerswhile the earth in bloomclutches and tears at the roots.Look, look at this earthly spherewhere we walk our wonted ways.On the patterned floor

sanctified by ritualistic lore,down the cool gleams of vestal lampstrickles the voice of human grief:Give us our happiness, oh Lord!Give us our happiness,

These acute geometrical spike-likespires

of church and mosque and templethat rise against the skytoss and tear in gleethe heart of the mortals that throng

this earth.And the hordes of the devoutdeftly tear the eyes out of their socketsand fix in their stead the lenses of

faith.Across the figure of the crossgleams the keen and angry lookof the blind fanatic, chanting the

gospel.The order of faithissues in a sterile flood, boiling hot,in these centres of the devout.In the theatre that is cleansedLife like a surgeon works.Here the priestly orderlike aproned doctors move;end these nuns and sisters,these youthful nurses,trail the doctors true.As though all wakeful sinswould be wiped off soonat the foot of the cross,the course of mortal lifeinches along in agony:Hail, Mary!Full of grace...Blessed art thou among women!


When the sun at break of daysheds his gentle golden rayson the world beneath,with their double braid of lovely hairand smiling faces framed in shawls,the little girls run fast.Before the hour of darknesscomes eveninglike a drowsy river:even so,the girls glide along,clad in their flowing skirts.And here are the mothers going bywho in the strength and purityof their passion of maternitybring to the brooding soulthe fervour and warmth of the sun at

noon.Here like sombre clouds of darknessthat spread over the earth at midnighthobble and stagger grey and withered

crones.Here where the passionate soulspulsate in their bodiesend lusty youth tear pastand even death steps asidebefore this onrush of the mortal

stream,why is the quiet voice of griefcontinually swelling by?Inside the church of faith,inside the fortified wall,in their black robesthe priestly order stand;And like souls in tormenttremble, dwindle, and wast

V

In the uncertain course of this world

where we together rise and set,these tents and these tombsbed us a little whilein this fugitive sphere.The time we spent infriendly camaraderieis the sum of happinessgained; this much I know;this, after all, is all that life means.Dearest,although you be a star,I greet in you the very seatthat holds the warmth and fervourof my affection and love.To me you have bequeathedstrange and visionary dreams never

thought of,made me speak a language I never

learned,granted me an heir by a grace I barely

touched.O star, you burn in the high heavens,so my blood drip and the world

awaken to life!We throb and pulsewith the rhythm of life,and driven to each other’s arms,by the force of desire and lovewe create anew this joy.At the twilight time of my lifethat is full like the sounding sea,when that rhythm and that joymake themselves feltand the flames of a burning raptureleap across all Time and Space,when that hour is come,will these varied sphereshearken to the harmonywe have together evoked?When I sow my thought in you,

INDIA


putting the holy seed within,the living light shall grow and ripento a smile through youin the fullness of timewhen we are gone.Children of goodwillshall once again walk this earthand cherish visions of sweetness;bright and new-fledged starsshall light the heavens above,when we and the world for us are an-

nulledand beneath this then different sky,the curtain drawn on the stage of time,the adventure of human endeavourshall bring delights still undreamt of.Today we know each other,today we converge.Under the vast, expanding skies,out of smouldering bowels of timein the intense heat of the earth’s inte-

rior,the roots break their shells,and sprout into suckling birds,the message of my eyesand the compassion of your rays unite,and your love buds into blossom into

fruit into seed.At the timewhen this spectral world,all through the seven spheres,was lost in slumberand riven by nightmaresand lay insensate,when, shouldering the load of human

pain,I waged the battle of the spirit at

Wardha,When, on my mission of peace, I trod

thestreets of Noakhali,what had you to say

on good and evil?When the subtle dialectics of the intel-

lectlay quiescent,breathed there a mortalwho could cook this vedic lore?And do we have to fry it with mustard?All that philosophywith its varied schools of thoughtcould dois, I think,to arrest a splintered gleamof the primal cause, thatsustains whatever we feel and perceive.Schools of speculation dazzle the eye;they cannot trap the bird in the air.The forced mating of cause and effectwhich all the lessons of philosophy

flauntis the Discord that stiflesthe voice of the spirit,the vile cacophonythat tears the airand breaks the music.While yet we know this in our veinsin the prolonged stillness around,who, pray, hies to the sacred Bodhi

treefor the torch that will cast the needed

light?If the soul is illuminedwho has to speakof the Mount of Calvery?If indeed for a rare momentwe could all just human be...If only we could redeemthe visions that hurtlethrough our dreaming soul...


COLOMBIA

Fernando RendónFernando Rendón was born in Medellín, Antioquia (Colombia), in 1951. Hisdebut work “Contrahistoria” (1986), “a visionary idea of the future in complete oppo-sition to the realities of apocalyptic excess in his country”, was published in the 1980s.He has publishedanotherpoetrybooks: “Bajo otros soles” (1989), “Canción en losCampos de Marte” (1992), “Los motivos del salmón” (1998), “La cuestión radiante”(2005, Colombia; 2008, Venezuela; 2009, Costa Rica; 2010, El Cairo), “La Rama Roja(2010, Havana, Cuba), and “En flotación” (2010, Colombia; 2012, Venezuela; 2014,China). Actually he is general coordinator of World Poetry Movement (WPM).In1982, he founded the poetry magazine Prometeo, the Latin American poetry journalhas issued 100 numbers to date. In 1991 he founded the annual International PoetryFestival of Medellin. It regularly attracts crowds of over 160,000 and has become thebiggest event of its kind in the world. So far around 1.200 poets from 162 countries allfive continents have participated. The Foundation Right Livelihood Award with itsheadquarters in Stockholm has officially announced at September 28, 2006, that a juryformed by ten international personalities has decided to grant the 2006 AlternativeNobel Prize to the International Poetry Festival of Medellín, “in recognition of itscourage and hope in times of despair”, among 73 candidates of 40 nations, activists fortruth, peace and social justice. Fernando Rendón received the international poetryprize Poets Against War (Casa de PoesíaMorada al Sur, 2010, Los Angeles, USA); theArabian Bahrahill Foundation Prize, Egypt (2010) “by a high cultural achievement”;Rafael Alberti Poetry Prize in La Havanna, Cuba (2010); MihaiEminescu in Bucarest,Romania (2011); and 2013 Mkiva Humanitarian Award As The Foremost CulturalIcon, South Africa (2013).


POEMS BY FERNANDO RENDON

A poem is not a game of chance, where a cardsharp heart places its stakes on asenseless bet. Neither does the poem stake its existence at a greyhound race. Poetry isthe spirit’s number, the vestige of a superhuman metamorphosis.

Centuries ago, love was chained to a sinister poem. In a realistic poem, the workingclasses still struggle; Indian peoples mobilize from the south.

Men and forests are cut down by the same electric saw, while the world’s youthvainly waits for the spring, which will sprout like red gold, from inside out.

The fire destined to unchain us hides in the imagination of struggling freedom, inthe shining heart of the stone, in the sibylline plants and in the books which the Inqui-sition banned under penalty of imprisonment, in the songs and myths that nourishedthe infancy of the peoples who climb up from the substance of earth, settled in an in-candescent cognition.

The poem solves the riddle. Which is the hasty river, the bright, always-changingtruth it always denies us, expressed through an indescribable mutation, whose coursecan only be altered by sleep?

In poetry, in the critical writing of the poem, we all played bluntly this deadly his-tory.

Un poema no es un juego de azar donde un corazón tahúr se juega una apuesta sinsentido. Tampoco se juega su existencia el poema en una carrera de lebreles. Lapoesía es la cifra del espíritu, el vestigio de una metamorfosis sobrehumana.

En un poema siniestro fue encadenado el amor hace siglos. En un poema realistala clase obrera lucha todavía, mientras los pueblos indios se movilizan desde el sur.

Hombres y bosques son abatidos por una misma sierra eléctrica, en tanto la juven-tud del mundo espera en vano la primavera, que germinará como el oro rojo desdeadentro.

El fuego destinado a desencadenarnos se oculta en la imaginación de la libertadque pugna, en el corazón resplandecido de la piedra, en las sibilinas plantas y en los li-bros que la inquisición prohibió bajo pena de confinamiento, en los cantos y mitosque nutrieron la infancia de los pueblos que escalan la substancia de la tierra, afinca-dos en una incandescente cognición.

El poema resuelve el acertijo. ¿Cuál es el río presuroso, la risueña verdad siemprecambiante que nos niega, expresada a lo largo de una mutación inenarrable, cuyocauce sólo puede ser alterado por el sueño?

En la poesía, en la crucial escritura del poema, todos nos jugamos sin ambages estahistoria mortal.


MADIBA

You protected humankind’s cradle with your body and your dream.You healed the wound at the root of every cultureWhich the West had for centuries tried to root outWith its greedy intent of endless war looting.

You washed the little roots with the tender herbs of your loveYou freed all the generations of enslaved peoplesYou danced with the ‡Khomani San, the Khwe and the Khoekhoe,You led the sacred rhythm with the Griqua and the Cape Khoekhoe.Then freedom raised its voice in Swahili, Oromo, Hausa, Amharic, Mandé, Ewe, Yoruba, Igbo, Lingala, Shona, Setswana, Xhosa, Malagasy…

For the emancipation of all forms of fireYou spoke to the gods in the language of poetryYou sang to the peoples of Africa in the tongue of the futureYou extended the voices of the original continent’s drumsTowards the different cardinal points of EarthYou fought, you danced, you sang, you freedThe roots and the trunk, the branches and the flowers, the fruitsOf humankind, imprisoned by white terror.

You now enjoy your work among the Singing Invisibles.You come and go among them. The first Homo Sapiens embraces youThe ancestors with deep voices celebrate your featYou returned Life to the Ancient Fathers of HumankindYou protected humankind’s cradle with your body and your dreamYou healed the wound at the root of every civilizationYou nursed Earth’s Active Principle back to health.

MADIBA

Tú protegiste con tu cuerpo y tu sueño la cuna de la humanidad.Tú sanaste la herida de la raíz de todas las culturasQue Occidente había querido por siglos extirparEn su vocación codiciosa de saqueo, en su guerra infinitaTú lavaste las raicillas con las tiernas hierbas de tu amorTú liberaste a todas las generaciones de pueblos esclavizados

COLOMBIA


Tú danzaste con los khomani san, los khwe y los khoekhoe,Tú llevaste el ritmo sagrado, con los griqua y los cape khoekhoe.Entonces la libertad elevó su voz en suahili, oromo, el hausa, amhárico, mandé, ewe, yoruba, igbo, lingala, shona, setsuana, xhosa, malgache…

Por la emancipación de todas las formas del fuegoTú hablaste a los dioses en el lenguaje de la poesíaTú cantaste a los pueblos de África en la lengua del porvenirTú extendiste las voces de los tambores del continente originarioHacia los diversos puntos cardinales de la TierraTú luchaste, tú danzaste, tú cantaste, tú liberasteLas raíces y el tronco, las ramas y las flores, los frutos De la humanidad, aprisionados por el terror blanco.

Tú disfrutas tu obra ahora entre los Invisibles que Cantan.Tú vas y vienes entre ellos. El primer Homo Sapiens te abrazaLos Antepasados celebran con voces profundas tu proeza


Tú volviste a la Vida a los Antiguos Padres de la HumanidadTú protegiste con tu cuerpo y tu sueño la cuna de los humanosTú sanaste la herida de la raíz de todas las civilizaciones.Tú curaste el Principio Activo de la Tierra.

HALF-SLEEP

As I died,I went up in smoke.

I dream that I’m dreamingyou’re in my dream with your eyes full of loveyou’re awake watching me in your dreamwe dream each other in a dream in which we cannot toucha persistent, dense dream that envelops allnow it’s clear that we can kiss this dream is like the seaI dream that we embrace in the sea and say absurd thingsthis dream has strange propertiesit can stretch and shrink and cannot endthe lives of the many who don’t dream depend on the dreamersone may only wake up and love in an open day without ceasing to dreamlive against death and struggle in half-sleepattracting the time to come like a magnetbecause only that which doesn’t exist may not diein my dream the serene non-existence is more realI know this dream must be strengthenedit is necessary for us to stay awake many nights in dreambetter a shoreless dream in which the world frees itselfeach second a wave of dream brings down your reality and brings down deathand you see yourself living for the first time

COLOMBIA


DUERMEVELA

A medida que moría,me hacía humo.

Sueño que estoy soñandotú estás en mi sueño con tus ojos llenos de amorestás despierta contemplándome en tu sueñonos soñamos los dos en un sueño en que no podemos tocarnoseste sueño es persistente y denso y lo envuelve todoahora se ve que ya podemos besarnoseste sueño es como el marsueño que estamos abrazados en el mar y que decimosdisparateseste sueño tiene raras propiedadespuede estirarse y encogerse y no puede terminarde quienes sueñan depende la vida de los muchos que nosueñansólo puede uno despertar y amar en un día abierto sin dejar desoñarvivir contra la muerte y luchar en duermevelaatrayendo como un imán al tiempo que vendráporque solo lo que no existe no puede moriren mi sueño la serena no existencia es más realsé que hay que fortalecer este sueñoes preciso que nos desvelemos muchas noches soñandomejor un sueño sin orillas en que el mundo se liberacada segundo una oleada de sueño derriba tu realidad yderriba a la muertey te ves a ti mismo viviendo por primera vez


USA

Mission District Poets:Poetry and SolidarityAlejandro Murguía


The San Francisco Bay Area has historically been associated with CentralAmerica going back to the 1849 when gold-hungry New Englanders discovered thatinstead of sailing around the Magellan Straits, they could navigate the San JuanRiver to Lake Nicaragua, then cross the Isthmus by land, effectively trimming theirvoyage to California by half the time and distance.

For this essay, I will limit my comments to Central American writers of thelatter half of the 1900s, all of whom I've had the privilege of knowing and followingtheir development.

For the sake of convenience and organization, I've organized the essay intoparticular decades, from the 1970s to the 1990s. But there is a deeper connectionbetween these writers than mere time. I have identified some broad thematicpoints and linguistic techniques that unite these contemporary Central Americanwriters in the San Francisco Bay Area:

1) They lived here—anywhere from several years to several decades; andthey wrote about the area—San Francisco, in particular, is a common theme in theirwork;

2) The majority of the work is poetry, with only occasional incursions in


USA

prose;3) They use a combination of Spanish and English in their writings to de-

scribe their experiences;4) The San Francisco Bay Area supported their work, and offered them

their first opportunity at publication.Although the above points are not inclusive, some poets, for example used

no English, while others used no Spanish, for the most part these writers shared acommon experience and used similar approaches in capturing that experience.

HISTORICAL OVERVIEW OF THE 1970S

The most influential, both artistically and politically, of this wave of CentralAmerican poets, is the Nicaraguan born (1941), Roberto Vargas, who migrated toSan Francisco in 1946. He grew up among the new generation of Nicaraguanscoming to the Bay Area during and after WW II. As a young man, he traveled tothe Far East as a merchant seaman, worked in a mattress factory, then became oneof the few Latinos to participate in both the Beat era North Beach scene and theHaight-Ashbury scene. With the rise of the Vietnam Anti-War Movement and theCivil Rights movement of the 1960s, Vargas becomes active in the Chicano Move-ment and the Third World Liberation Movement. This activity—the Brown Beretsand Los Siete de la Raza—inspires some of the best poetry of that era, "Canto alTercer Marcha de Delano," "They Blamed It On Reds," and "Elegy Pa' Gringolan-dia." His influence is such that his work appears in all the major Chicano antholo-gies of that period, including Aztlán:An Anthology on Mexican-AmericanLiterature edited by Luis Valdez and Stan Steiner, 1971, and Festival de Flor yCanto, edited by Alurista, et al, USC, Chicano Studies, 1974.

His first book of poems, Primeros Cantos, defines his style—rhythmic andimagistic. The poems are meant to be performed, which the poet often did accom-panied by congeros. The images are clear and precise, and flowing, often withoutconnecting phrases, just the pure image carrying the poem.

Vargas captures the breath of his experience in a prose-poem titled, "ThenThere Was..." a jazz like riff recounting the poet's early years in this country, fromhis arrival through high school years in the Mission District, his stint in the MarineCorps, and finally the death of his first wife. The influence of United States music,rhythm and blues, oldies, mixed with boleros, mixed with nostalgia for his home-land and his emerging political consciousness, mark this prose-poem as one of themost innovative of his poems. It was first published by Warren Hinckle in CityMagazine, in 1975, and later in Nicaragua, Yo te Canto Besos Balas Y Sueños deLibertad, in 1980.


A defining moment occurs in the poet's life when an earthquake destroysManagua, Nicaragua in December 1972. At this critical moment, he devotes all hisenergies into raising help for the devastated capital, only to be disillusioned, like somany other Nicaraguans, when the dictator Anastasio Somoza Debayle, steals mostof the aid. After this, the poet sets out on an ambitious plan to bring the FSLN(Sandinista National Liberation Front) and the plight of Nicaragua to the attentionof United States literary and political figures. Besides being a key organizer of theGaceta Sandinista, the official organ for the FSLN, he organized poetry readingsthroughout the United States in support of the Sandinista cause. Many celebratedpoets, such as Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Allen Ginsburg were recruited and readat benefits for Nicaragua, and later, after the Sandinista triumph in 1979, visited thehomeland of Rubén Darío. Vargas is also the prime organizer of Ernesto Carde-nal's historic first visit to the San Francisco Bay Area and the United States in 1976.

During this period, his effort were not just political, he also publishes inTin-Tan Magazine his first fiction, "Sandino, 1925," his recreation of theNicaraguan hero's desire for a free homeland. At the height of the Sandinista insur-rection, Vargas joins the Sandinista Front in Costa Rica and participates in the at-tack at Peñas Blancas in September 1978. He returns to San Francisco and rejoinsthe solidarity committee. Out of this experience comes--Nicaragua Yo Te CantoBesos Balas Y Sueños de Libertad.

Vargas later becomes Cultural Attaché for Nicaragua in Washington DC,before returning to Managua to live. Since returning to Managua, he has continuedto write—a finished manuscript titled Supersonic Secrets, as yet without a publisher,as well as other unpublished pieces, including an eulogy to the tragic Tejano musicstar, Selena, that the author of this essay has read. Besides his political activismwhich was instrumental in bringing attention to Nicaraguan writers, such as ErnestoCardenal, José Coronel Urtecho, Gioconda Belli, and others, his own work standsout for its powerful rhythmic accents and unique images created from a fluid com-bination of Spanish and English.

The other important Nicaraguan poet of that decade is Pancho Aguila, whobecame a cause célèbre for many writers in the Bay Area. Pancho Aguila is thepoet's nom de guerre, adopted when he was first jailed in the early 1970s. PanchoAguila spent most of the decade of the 70s and part of the 80s, incarcerated at Fol-som Prison, where he was a key organizer of the Folsom Prison Writer's Work-shop. In his life and his work, Aguila always considered himself a political prisoner,and the act for which he was jailed, bank robbery, a political crime. As could be ex-pected, his work exhibits a strong political stance in favor of the oppressed and allpolitical prisoners. The poems published by Second Coming Press in 1977 underthe title Dark Smoke, are typically angry, but within the anger, there is unmistak-


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able gleams of hope and sincere humanity. One other Nicaraguan poet published a book during this decade. Although

Denis Corrales Martínez's book (a chapbook titled Pinceladas Nicaraguenses) didnot have the impact or power of the two previously mentioned poets, it is impor-tant to note that his book was all in Spanish, whereas the other poets were writingin English. Corrales Martínez’s work is also characterized by a more symplisticform—he uses the traditional verso of Hispanic literature--and also by his poeticconcerns. Being a recent newcomer to San Francisco when he published this book(recent in comparison to Vargas and Aguila, who'd spent decades here), the poemsare more traditionally Nicaraguan than Vargas's or Aguila's. The themes are theNicaraguan workers, especially campesinos, and their oppression; the poems alsoemphasize the poet's concern for the environment and ecology.

Among other highlights of Central American writing in the Bay Area duringthis decade, I will cite two.

Born in Belize of Honduran parents and raised in Hollywood, California,Walter Alfredo Martínez's poetry and prose is written in classical formal English.His book, Ascensions, published in 1974 by Heirs Press in San Francisco, has themost surreal writing of this entire group of poets mentioned in this essay. Thewords skip and fly over the page, confronting the real world that the poet surviveswith ingenious imagination. The poet's concerns are the spirit and the soul—ab-stractions to be sure, and yet the poems vibrate, tremble, dance, and engage thereader.

In 1975, Gilberto Osorio, a young Salvadorean artist-writer, publishes"Poesía in El Salvador," the first modern survey of Salvadorean poetry to appear inEnglish. The essay, though written 25 years ago, is still a fine source for an overviewof Salvadorean writers from 1930 to 1974. Osorio is also instrumental in gatheringthe news of the death of Roque Dalton in 1975 which Tin-Tan Magazine publishesin issue number two, October 1975. The magazine is the first to publish the newsof the death of the Salvadorean poet in the United States.

HISTORICAL OVERVIEW OF THE 1980s

After 1979, the literary influence of Central Americans in the Bay Area be-comes predominately Salvadorean, sparked in part by the political polarization ofEl Salvador which causes large portions of the population to seek exile in theUnited States, and also in part by the Roque Dalton Cultural Brigade, a collectiveof Bay Area writers, poets, and translators who take up the task of promoting Cen-tral American literature and poetry. Besides organizing poetry readings and cul-


tural events that focus attention on El Salvador, the Roque Dalton CulturalBrigade also publishes three important books of Central American poetry in trans-lation: Volcán: Poems from Central America; Otto Rene Castillo, Tomorrow Tri-umphant, and Roque Dalton, Clandestine Poems.

A few comments follow on these works. Volcán: Poems from CentralAmerica, published by City Lights Books, 1983—although this antholgoy doesn't in-clude all the important Central American poets, in fact, several of them are missingfrom its pages, for the first time in the United States, Central American poetry ispublished by an established publisher, which helps broaden the audience of this lit-erature. But more importantly, the book introduces to the American public thework of major poets, such as Roque Dalton, Ernesto Cardenal, José Coronel Urte-cho, Gioconda Belli, Claribel Alegría, Clementina Suarez, Claudia Lars, andRoberto Paredes, Roberto Sosa, and many others.

The two other books translated by the Roque Dalton Cultural Brigade—To-morrow Triumphant and Clandestine Poems reintroduce and enhance the reputa-tion of Otto Rene Castillo and Roque Dalton within the United States.

By 1988, the Roque Dalton Cultural Brigade had ceased to exist, but sev-eral of its former members continue translating and contributing to the flowering ofCentral American writing during the 1990s.

Technically speaking, the work of translation does not fall within the scopeof this essay—but I've included the work of the above mentioned groups and indi-viduals because during the lull between 1980, when Roberto Vargas publishes hislast book, and 1989, when the first Salvadorean writers are published, the literaryactivity around Central America, which was great in the Bay Area focused on thediscovery and translation of Central American writers who were for the most partunknown in the United States.

It is not till 1989 that the first Salvadorean writers make their presence feltin the Bay Area. One is a novelist and the other the most prolific poet to emergefrom the Central American diaspora in the Bay Area.

Armando Mauricio Molina, born in El Salvador in 1957, arrived in SanFrancisco in 1974. After receiving a degree in electronic engineering, and workingin his field for seven years, Molina abandones this profession to concentrate onwriting. In 1989 he publishes the first Central American novel written in the BayArea, El Amanecer de los Tontos. The story follows a young Latino executive, ashe tries without success, to establish meaningful human contact in a modern city(San Francisco) of the United States.

Around the same time that Molina's novel appears, another Salvadoreanpoet makes his presence felt in the Bay Area. Jorge Argueta, besides being an ac-


tive organizer of poetry and literary events during the late 1980s to the present,also publishes a body of work that is prolific, personal, and political.

Argueta publishes eighteen different collections of poetry between 1989and the present, making him the most published of all the Central American writ-ers in the Bay Area. The quality of the poetry is consistent and is characterized byits lyric quality, its brutal honesty, and its political perspective. The poetry is alsooften laced with humor and satire. The themes are abundant: traditional love be-tween a man and a woman; untraditional love of prostitutes and street people; lifein El Salvador; life in San Francisco; drugs and alcohol binges; poems of despera-tion, anger, and hope; poems for children.

Argueta writes strictly in Spanish, but all his work is available in bilingualeditions. Sometimes the poet translates his own work, such as in the most recent,Las Frutas del Centro; in his early work, competent translators like Beatrice Her-nandez and Barbara Jamison, effectively bring the poets voice across in English.

THE DECADE OF THE 90s

The decade of the 90s saw the first Central American woman writer achieveprominence in the Bay Area. A former school teacher, Martaivón Galindo arrivesin the Bay Area from her native land after being arrested and tortured by the secu-rity forces of El Salvador. She soon establishes herself as a writer and strong femi-nist voice. She goes on to graduate from the University of Berkeley, and nowteaches at both UC Berkeley and San Francisco State University. Her book, Reta-sos, combine prose vignettes and poems to recount her life as a child in El Sal-vador and her present condition as an exile in San Francisco. The writing is wittyand engaging, and often presents the feminist side of love and politics.

Armando Molina also published a new novel in the 1996, Bajo el Cielo delIstmo, and edited an anthology written in Spanish by Latin American writers in theUnited States, Imponiendo Presencias. His novel is similar in tone and theme tohis previous work and deals with alienation among middle-class professionals livingin San Francisco.

In closing my essays, I want to mention that translation of Central Ameri-can authors also continued during the 1990s. In particular, former members of theRoque Dalton Cultural Brigade published three volumes of translations—Clamor ofInnocence, an anthology of short fiction from Central America; Angel in the Del-uge, by Rosario Murillo, and Riverbed of Memory, by Daisy Zamora, bothNicaraguan poets. All three volumes are published by City Lights Books in SanFrancisco.

A final note: Because of the large presence of Central Americans in the

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Bay Area, and because the Bay Area has shown itself to be supportive, not justof their exile but also of their literature, it seems obvious that Central American lit-erature will continue to find publishers for years to come. What is not so obvious iswhat impact these writers will have in their native countries, or within the region.Another question: how known are these writers outside of the Bay Area? In thepast, writers like Roberto Vargas, who wrote and published primarily in English,did achieve a certain amount of recognition outside the Bay Area, although, notenough within Nicaragua. Other writers like Jorge Argueta, whose work is in Span-ish with English translations, have not achieved wide recognition, mainly becausetheir work is published by small presses. Somehow these two bridges need to becrossed: a wider recognition of these writers as part of the American voice in litera-ture, as well as recognition of their work in their native countries, as legitimate ex-pressions of the Central American Diaspora.

Partial Bibliography

Aguila, Pancho, Dark Smoke, San Francisco, Second Coming Press, 1977Argueta, Jorge, La Puerta del Diablo, San Francisco, Editores Unidos Salvadorenos, 1990Argueta, Jorge, Del Ocaso a la Alborada, Berkeley, Co Press, 1989Argueta, Jorge, Love Street, San Francisco, Editores Unidos Salvadorenos, 1991Argueta, Jorge, Far From Fire, San Francisco, Editores Unidos Salvadoernos, 1991Argueta, Jorge, Litany of Love and Hate, San Francisco, Luna's Press, 1996Argueta, Jorge, Las Frutas del Centro, y otros sabores, Berkeley, Canterbury Press, 1997Corrales Rodriguez, Denis, Pinceladas Nicaraguenses, San Francisco, S.F. Neighborhood Arts

Program, 1976Galindo, Martaivon, Retasos, San Francisco, Editorial Solaris, 1996 Martínez, Walter, Ascensions, San Francisco, Heirs Press, 1974Mirikitani, et al, Time to Greez!, San Francisco, Glide Communications-Third World

Communications, 1975Molina, Armando, El Amanecer de los Tontos, San Francisco, Editorial Solaris, 1989Molina, Armando, Bajo el Cielo del Istmo, San Francisco, Editorial Solaris, 1996 Molina, Armando, ed. Imponiendo Presencias, San Francisco, Editorial Solaris, 1995Murguia, A. & Pashke, B., Volcan, Poems from Central America, San Francisco, City Lights

Books, 1983 Vargas, Roberto, Primeros Cantos, San Francisco, Editorial Pocho-Che, 1972Vargas, Roberto, Nicaragua, Yo Te Canto Besos, Balas, y Suenos de Libertad, San Francisco,

Editorial Pocho-Che, 1980Winans, A. D., California Bicentennial Poets Anthology, San Francisco, Second Coming Press,

1976


USA

Poems by Joy Harjo


Joy Harjo was born in USA in 1951. Her seven books of poetry include HowWe Became Human- New and Selected Poems, and She Had Some Horses. Herawards for poetry include the New Mexico Governor’s Award for Excellence in theArts, a Rasmussen US Artists Fellowship and the William Carlos Williams Awardfrom the Poetry Society of America. She has released four albums of originalmusic including her most recent, Red Dreams, A Trail Beyond Tears, and won aNAMMY for Best Female Artist for Winding Through the Milky Way. Wings ofNight Sky, Wings of Morning Light, Harjo’s one-woman show premiered to goodreviews in Los Angeles. She has been commissioned by The Public Theater ofNYC to write the musical We Were There When Jazz Was Invented. Soul Talk,Song Language, Conversations with Joy Harjo from Wesleyan, and Crazy Brave, amemoir from W.W. Norton have both just been released in paperback. Forthcom-ing are a new CD of original music, Wings of Night Sky, Wings of Morning Lightfrom Wesleyan University Press, a collection of poetry, and the new play. She trav-els extensively nationally and internationally, solo and with her band Joy Harjo andthe Arrow Dynamics Band. She is a founding board member of Native Arts andCultures Foundation and is now on the Leadership Council. She is working on es-tablishing an arts academy for tribal citizens. The curriculum will include the blues.She is a half-time full professor at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaignand lives in the Mvskoke Nation in Oklahoma.

This Is My Heart

This is my heart. It is a good heart.Weaves a membrane of mist and fire.When we speak love in the flower worldMy heart is close enough to sing to youin a language too clumsy, for human words.

This is my head. It is a good head.Whirrs inside with a swarm of worries.What is the source of this mystery?Why can’t I see it right here, right nowas real as these hands hammering the world together?

This is my soul. It is a good soul.


It tells me, “Come here forgetful one.”And we sit together We cook a little something to eat, then a sip of something sweet,for memory, for memory.

This is my song. It is a good song.It walked forever the border of fire and waterclimbed ribs of desire to sing to you.Its new wings quiver with vulnerability.

Come lie next to me.Put your head here.My heart is close enough to sing.

Este es mi corazón

Este es mi corazón. Es un buen corazón.Teje una membrana de niebla y fuego.Cuando hacemos el amor en el mundo de las floresEstá tan cerca de ti que puede cantaren un lenguaje demasiado torpe,para las palabras humanas.

Esta es mi cabeza. Es una buena cabeza.En su interior zumba un enjambre de preocupaciones.¿Cuál es la fuente de este misterio?¿Por qué no puedo verla aquí, en este preciso momento tan real como estas manos que unen el mundoa golpes de martillo?

Esta es mi alma. Es un alma buena.Me dice, “Ven aquí olvidadiza.”Y nos sentamos muy juntasCocinamos algo para comer,luego sorbemos algo dulce,para la memoria, para la memoria.

Este es mi canto. Es un buen canto.

USA


Camina desde siempre los límites del fuego y el aguaha trepado las costillas del deseo para dedicarte su canto.Sus alas recién nacidas tiemblan en su vulnerabilidad.

Ven aquí recuéstate a mi lado.Pon tu cabeza aquí.Mi corazón está tan cerca que podrá cantar.

NO

Yes that was me you saw shaking with bravery, with a government issued rifle onmy back. I’m sorry I could not greet you, as you deserved, my relative.

They were not my tears. I have a reservoir inside. They will be cried by mysons, my daughters if I can’t learn how to turn tears to stone.

Yes, that was me standing in the back door of the house in the alley, with freshcorn and bread for the neighbors.

I did not foresee the flood of blood. How they would forget our friendship,would return to kill the babies and me.

Yes, that was me whirling on the dance floor. We made such a racket with allthat joy. I loved the whole world in that silly music.

I did not realize the terrible dance in the staccato of bullets. Yes. I smelled the burning grease of corpses. And like a fool I expected our

words might rise up and jam the artillery in the hands of dictators.We had to keep going. We sang our grief to clean the air of turbulent spirits. Yes, I did see the terrible black clouds as I cooked dinner. And the messages of

the dying spelled there in the ashy sunset. Every one addressed: “mother”. There was nothing about it in the news. Everything was the same. Unemploy-

ment was up. Another queen crowned with flowers. Then there were the sportsscores.

Yes, the distance was great between your country and mine. Yet our childrenplayed in the path between our houses.

No. We had no quarrel with each other.

NO

Sí, fue a mí a quien viste temblando de valor, con un fusil del ejército cruzadosobre mi espalda. Estoy apenada de no haberte dado la bienvenida que te mere-ces, pariente mío. _


No eran mis lágrimas. Poseo una reserva en mi interior. Ellas serán lloradaspor mis hijos, por mis hijas, si es que no aprendo a transformarlas en piedra.

Sí, esa era yo que estaba parada en la puerta trasera de la casa en el pasadizo,con frescas espigas de maíz y pan para nuestros vecinos.

No pude prever la inundación de sangre. El modo en que olvidarían nuestraamistad, para luego regresar a asesinarnos. A los niños y a mí.

Sí, esa era yo girando como un remolino en la pista de baile. Hicimos tantabulla con toda esa alegría. En esa música tonta amé al mundo entero.

Nunca imaginé la terrible danza en el entrecortado eco de las balas. Sí. Olí la grasa incendiada de los cadáveres. Y, como una tonta imaginé que

nuestras palabras podrían elevarse y detener la artillería en las manos de los dicta-dores.

Teníamos que continuar en movimiento. Cantamos nuestras penas para limpiarel aire, purificarlo de los espíritus turbulentos.

Sí, en efecto vi las terribles negras nubes mientras preparaba la comida para lacena. Y los mensajes de los que morían, allí en ese atardecer de cenizas. Todosdirigidos a la madre.

De todo esto nada salió en las noticias. Todo seguía igual. La tasa de desempleohabía crecido. Otra reina de belleza coronada con flores. Y también se referían endetalle a los resultados deportivos.

Sí, la distancia entre tu país y el mío es muy grande. Sin embargo, tus niños ju-gaban en el sendero entre nuestras casas.

No. Entre nosotros no había pleito o pelea.

Equinox

I must keep from breaking into the story by force,If I do I will find a war club in my handAnd the smoke of grief staggering toward the sun,Your nation dead beside you.

I keep walking away though it has been an eternityAnd from each drop of bloodSprings up sons and daughters, treesA mountain of sorrows, of songs.

I tell you this from the dusk of a small city in the northNot far from the birthplace of cars and industry.Geese are returning to mate and crocuses have

USA


Broken through the frozen earth.

Soon they will come for me and I will make my standBefore the jury of destiny. Yes, I will answer in the clatterOf the new world, I have broken my addiction to war And desire. Yes, I will reply, I have buried the dead

And made songs of the blood, the marrow.

EQUINOCCIO (EQUINOX)

Debo abstenerme de penetrar la historia por la fuerza,si no lo logro me hallaré con un arma de guerra en la manoY el humo del dolor tambaleándose hacia el sol,Tu pueblo muerto a tu lado.

Continúo alejándome, lentamente, ha sido una eternidadY de cada gota de sangreSaltan hijos e hijas, árbolesuna montaña de llanto, de canciones.

Te digo esto desde el atardecer de una pequeña ciudad en el norteNo muy lejos del lugar de nacimiento de los automóviles y la industria.Los gansos están regresando para aparearse y las flores amarillasAtraviesan la tierra congelada y estallan en color.

Pronto vendrán por mí y yo resistiré Ante los jueces del destino. Sí, yo contestaré en el ruidoDe un mundo nuevo, he puesto fin a mi adicción a la guerraY el deseo. Sí, contestaré, he enterrado a mis muertos

Y he construido cantos de la sangre, de la médula

d


MEMORIES ABOUT TEZOZOMOCTZIN AND CUACUAUHTZIN

I

I am sad, I grieve myself,I, Lord Nezahualcóyotl,with flowers and songsI am remembering princes going away,to which they wenttoTezozomoctzin, to Cuacuauhtzin.

II

They truly live,

beyond where somehow it exists.I wish I could follow the princes,bring them our flowers!If I could make mine the beautiful Tezozomoctzin’s anthems!Not once perish thy praiseworthy

nameOh, my Lord Tezozomoctzin!Thus, missing your hymns,I have come to afflict myself,Only I have come to be sadI tear myself.

III

I have come to be sad, I upset my-self.

MEXICO

TWO POEMS OF KINGNEZAHUALCÓYOTL


You are not here, not anymore,in the region where it somehow ex-

ists,you left us without provisions in this

Earth,that’s why I tear myself.

A BOOK OF SONGS IS YOUR HEART

I

In the home of aquatic mossHe arises to sing,rehearses his song.spills flowers:enjoy this chant.

IIResounds the chant (Icahuicacuicatl)clanking bells sound soft:Our flowery rattles reply.Spilling flowers:enjoy this chant.

III

Sings on the flowers (Xochiticpac)a wonderful pheasant:it is already displaying his anthem into the water.

IV

Several red birds rejoin (zan ye connaquila) the

charming red birds:sing stunning

V

A book of songs is your heart: ,

you have come to hear your songplaying your drum.Your are singer:among the spring flowersyou delight people.

VI

Deliveringflowers of alluring fragrance,treasurable flowers:you are singeramong the spring blossoms,delighting people.VIIYou offer flowers,countless flowers:with them, you delight men,Oh prince Nezahualcóyotl:Ah, my heart relish it:they bloom and still:with them you craft your own neck-

lace,with spring flowers.

VIII

From there, they are all from the place of duality,within the sky:with them you delight men,Oh, prince Nezahualcóyotl:Ah, my heart relish it.they bloom and still:with them you do a necklace,with spring flowers

Written by Nezahualcóyotl, The Texcoco’sKings Poet, 1402-1472

GAZZE


Dün ölümü gördüm, ölüm kanatsızdı Yağmur gibi yağıyordu havada

İşte ölümün divan kurduğuGazze’desin

Hava bir bıçakla yırtılıyor sanki Kör bir çığlık güneşCamları cam gibi suskun Ağaçların cesetleri ceset gibi Minareler gökyüzüne değil hiçliğe

yaslanıyor

Çocuklar çocuklar çocuklar Gazze’ninçocukları

Çocuklar sokak sokak çocuklar çarşıçarşı çocuklar ev ev

Gazze düşmanla çarpışan çocuk göl-geleriyle bir dev

Ölümün kucağında şarkı söylüyorçocuklar

Çocuklar azizler kadar sessiz mümin-ler kadar dindar

Kurşun sesleri dinsin diye bekliyorlar Bir anda dolduracaklar alanları Açlıklarını unutup ölülerine

sarılacaklar

Ehramlarına sarınmış yaşlı kadınlar Evler sokaklar omuz omuza hayatı ko-

ruyorlar Sabırla çizilmiş yüzleri Çaresiz asabi acılı kindar Göğe ağan bir çığlık halinde Göğe ağan yeminler gibi Göğün bir parçası gibi duruyorlar

İşte Gazze’desiniz Gazze’de ölüm çocukların oyunu gibi Sabahları kahvaltıda zeytin ekmek gibi Sevişmek gibi gençler arasında Gazze’de ölüm tunçtan bir heykel gibi Bütün pencerelerin baktığı

Ölüm aklı gibi çalışıyor Gazze’nin

İşte Gazze’desiniz Ateşler arasında Ölümün dilini yuttuğu ateşler arasında Gazze sanki patlamış bir balon

Neylesin Arap ozanlar Yanık kokar artık Celile’de türküler: Gazze çöl ortasında bir sarı limon Bir yandan görünmez eller sıkar Çelikten bir cendereyle Bir yandan düşman Ölümden bir bulut halinde Ağlamaktan kurumuş gözyaşları

Gazze’nin Gayrı Gazze’den tanrının cesedi çıkar

GAZA

Yesterday I saw death, it was wingless It was on the air, raining

Here, you are in Gaza where death en-camped

Air seems to be torn by a knife The sun is a blind scream

TURKEY

A POEM by ATAOLBEHRAMOGLU


Its glasses are silent Trees are like corpses Minarets are leaning not on the sky

but on nothingness

The children, children, children, Gazas children

Streets, markets, houses full of chil-dren

Gaza with its images of children is agiant which fights with enemy

Children singing on the lap of death Children are as silent as saints, as reli-

gious as Muslims They are waiting for the ceasefire They are going to fill all the arenas and embrace their deaths without

keeping in mind the hunger

Old women covered in togas Houses, streets, shoulder by shoulder

are guarding life Their faces are drawn with patience Helpless, angry, sad, revengeful Like a scream going up sky Like promises They are standing as a piece of sky

Here, you are in Gaza Death in Gaza is like games of chil-

dren It is like eating olives and bread at

breakfast It is like love-making of the young Death in Gaza is like a statue made of

bronze That all windows look at

Death is working like Gaza’ s mind

Here, you are in Gaza

In fire Where death swallowed its tongue Gaza is like a balloon blown

What can the Arabian poets do Songs smell burnt in Galilee Gaza is like a yellow lemon in the mid-

dle of desert On the one hand, it is shaken by invisi-

ble hands By a steel press On the other hand, enemies stand Like a death cloud The eyes of Gaza dried because of cry-

ing So from Gaza now the corpse of God

goes out

Translated into English by Muesser Yeniay


Poems by

Juan Manuel Roca

Juan Manuel Roca was born in Medellín, Colombia, in 1946. His work has been awardedthe Eduardo Cote Lamus prize by the University of Antioquia (the state of which Medellínis the capital), while the same university from his native town has also awarded him the

Simón Bolivar Award for Journalism and the University of Antioquia Short Story Award. Hereceived the Colombian state poetry prize for his collection Las hipótesis de Nadie (The Hy-pothesis Concerning No One) in 2004. His publications include Memoria del agua (Memoryof Water, 1973); Luna de ciegos (Moon of the Blind, 1975); Los ladronesnocturnos (Thievesin the Night, 1977); Señal de cuervos (Warning of the Crows, 1979); Fabulario Real (RoyalBook of Fables, 1980); AntologíaPoética (Poetry Anthology, 1983); País secreto (Secret Coun-try, 1987); Ciudadano de la noche (Inhabitant of the Night, 1989); Prosareunida (CollectedProse, 1993); La farmacia del ángel (The Pharmacy of the Devil, 1995) and the novelEsamalditacostumbre de morir (The Accursed Habit of Dying, 2003). His short stories appearin Las plagassecretas y otroscuentos (2001). Roca is one of the most often anthologizedColombian poets.

COLOMBIA


POETICS

After writing on paper the word coyoteOne must watch that that butcher-like

wordDoes not take over the page, Does not manage to hideBehind the word jacarandaTo wait for the word hare to pass by And then tear it apart. In order to prevent it, To sound the alertWhen the coyote stealthilyPrepares its ambush,Some old mastersWho know the spells of languageRecommend tracing the word match,Rubbing it against the word stoneAnd lighting up the word fireTo scare it away.There is no coyote or jackal, no hyena

or jaguar, No puma or wolf that won’t fleeWhen fire converses with air.

POÉTICA

Tras escribir en el papel la palabra /coyote

Hay que vigilar que ese vocablo /car-

niceroNo se apodere de la página, Que no logre esconderseDetrás de la palabra jacaranda A esperar a que pase la palabra liebre

/y destrozarla. Para evitarlo, Para dar voces de alerta Al momento en que el coyote Prepara con sigilo su emboscada,

Algunos viejos maestros Que conocen los conjuros del lenguajeAconsejan trazar la palabra cerilla,Rastrillarla en la palabra piedraY prender la palabra hoguerapara alejarlo.No hay coyote ni chacal, no hay hiena

/ni jaguar, No hay puma ni lobo que no huyanCuando el fuego conversa con el aire.FOR MAKING A STATUE

Michelangelo discoveredThat in all the stones in the worldThere is a sleeping statue.That it is enough to remove the sur-

plusTo find it.Just as there are horses inside a pencil,Beautiful girls with sleeping hair,Hidden turtles or a treasure map,Stones can keep inside themThe shape of the god of rain,The statue of a forgotten hero,The head of a wild bullOr a wolf looking up towards the

moon.It’s a matter of intently examiningThe stones of the road,Say the pebble readersAnd road therapists.A matter of searching them to findWho is hiding,Who is slumbering,Who is afraid of the outdoors,Who whisks away the being that dwells

inside them –Even if there are mocking massesWho never deliver their secret,Slabs, crags, pebbles,Pieces of basalt, volcano tears,


Round stonesThat explorers call barren stone. There is no need for disappointment. The sculptor shall find the waiting

stoneAnd may make his chisel or hammer

ready.Then he will see, arising from it,A caged bird, an old bison,An imprisoned man, a reclining

woman,An iron mask,A scalded cat and a dragonOr a little speared deerWaiting for a voice to wake it.

CONJUROS PARA HACERUNA ESTATUA

Miguel Ángel descubrióQue en todas las piedras del mundo Hay una estatua dormida,Que basta con quitar lo que sobraPara encontrarla.Así como dentro de un lápiz hay cabal-

los,Hermosas muchachas de cabellos

dormidos,Tortugas escondidas o el mapa de un

tesoro,Las piedras pueden guardar en su

adentroLa figura del dios de la lluvia, La estatua de un héroe olvidado, La cabeza de un toro cimarrónO un lobo que mira hacia la luna.Se trata de examinar con atención Las piedras del camino, Dicen los lectores de guijarros,Los terapeutas de los caminos.

Se trata de esculcarlas para encon-trar

Quién se esconde,Quién dormita,Quién le teme a la intemperie,Quién escamotea el ser que habita en

ellas,Aunque haya masas burlonasQue no entregan nunca su secreto,Lajas, peñascos, guijas,Trozos de basalto, lágrimas de volcán,Cantos rodadosQue los exploradores llaman piedras

baldías.No hay por qué desencantarse. *El escultor encontrará la piedra que

lo espera Y podrá alistar su cincel o su martillo. Entonces verá brotar de ella Un pájaro enjaulado, un bisonte an-

ciano,Un hombre preso, una mujer recli-

nada,Una máscara de hierro,Un gato escaldado y un dragónO el pequeño ciervo lanceadoQue espera la voz que lo despierte.

A SEASON OF STATUES

There are seasons closed for statue-hunting,

When students and drunks are forbid-den

From throwing stones or bottlesAt the heroes’ impassive dignity.In the hunting seasonEven beheading is permitted,So that many statues end up beingReduced to medal-strewn chests,

COLOMBIA


Warrior bodies with the face ofNobody.

Then the experts arrive,Guides explaining to travelersThe absent features of such classic stat-

uary.Some of the crippled statuesLie in hospital convalescingFrom the fatigue of bronze, the histo-

rian explains:They will soon be restored to their

pedestals,Even if they are only missed by birds,

tightrope walkersAnd the blind man who, while selling

lottery tickets,Takes shelter under their shifting map

of shadows.

To Patricia T, fairer than the Victory of Samothrace.

TEMPORADA DEESTATUAS

Hay épocas vedadas para la caza de es-tatuas

Que prohíben a estudiantes y borra-chos

Arrojar piedras o botellas A la impasible dignidad de los héroes.En tiempos de cazaEs permitido, inclusive, la decapitaciónAsí que muchas estatuasQuedan reducidas a pechos con

medallas,A cuerpos de guerreros con caras de

Nadie.Entonces aparecen los peritos,

Los guías que explican a los via-jeros

Las facciones ausentes de tan clásicaestatuaria.

Algunas de las estatuas lisiadasYacen convalecientes en un hospitalPara la fatiga del bronce, explica el his-

toriador:Ya serán repuestas a sus pedestalesAunque sólo las extrañen los pájaros y

los funámbulosY el ciego que mientras vende loteríaSe acoge al mapa movedizo de sus

sombras.

Para Patricia T,


DESPUÉS DE LAS ORACIONES

Eres la brasa en la punta dela varita de incienso,una calma ante el temblor,la suave caída de cenizaque llama la fraganciael alientobajo nuestra oración.

Eres las oraciones vespertinasde una súplica,banquetes de cielos del atardecer;la prisa nítidayel ascenso de la graciamás allá de la austeridadde la cuaresma.

Eres la nieblavelando nuestra vista en la noche,una bendiciónde manos entrelazadasredentoras como la vigiliade un momento que se despliegapenitencial como los iconosque presionannuestros corazones.

MAYA, REAVIVADA

Escalando distancia hasta el calor,Tomaste esta manocomo la niebla nocturnasobre mi cabello.

Más temprano en el día,La habría consideradoIlusión. El suelodonde te paraste, espacioiluminado hasta el vacío -corazón anunciando otrasombría brillantez.

En otro lugar ahora,ella esperacada díadulceincandescencia.

AMAR DESCONOCIDO

Sobre la noche, la nieve se ha asen-tado en un espesor conocido. Lacafetería contigua yace quieta en surapto de neón mientras la azotea gris alfrente titila en la incesante suavidad noc-turna. Hoy, la habitación está impreg-nada con un brillo feroz, igual quecuando partiste de madrugada y dejastetus huellas profundas en la nieve másallá del porche hace muchos inviernos.

Había algo en tus pasos vacilantes; laforma en que dejabas caer tu cabezahablaba de una pérdida incipiente.Quería pedirte que volvieras a entrar ala penumbra confiable de mihabitación, en esa esquina en la quesiempre te derrumbabas tras un día im-posible, para dar la bienvenida a lo lu-minoso y calmo. Pero te habías idoantes de que yo lo supiera.

PHILIPPINES

DINAH ROMA, Philippines


¿Quién hubiera pensado que el in-vierno engaña de esa forma? ¿Fue ellenguaje frío extrañamente desconge-lando nombres? ¿Fueron los murosatándonos a la luz y al espacio queocultaba el descontento? ¿No fuiste túquien argumentó, en el día en que ladistancia se convirtió insoportablementeen invierno, que el hogar es alegría re-vivida repetidamente? Desde ese mo-mento he buscado la afinidad entre lascorrientes de aire y los océanos, herodeado la geografía del corazón, perocada que piso la habitación, estoy máslejos de la presencia.

La nieve cae. Todo afuera se vuelve humilde.

AQUÍ, LA HISTORIA

Aquí hallarás la historiamientras los bordes del sol abarcan tu corazón para ese conocido lla

mado

a lo inhabitable.Acurrúcate a mi lado,yo soy luna,preciosa carne de luz,un regalo tendidosobre la órbita de la profundidadde tus ojos en mi precipicio.

Siente luto por lo que tu vozConoce del filo del amor,y el corazón, conmovidoantes de su primer pérdida,vagará profundohacia el duro origen - dichahiriendo el núcleo.

Antes que el anochecer desacelere las horas y el aireagote tus palabras,cuéntame la historia:cómo pastaban los cuerpos, reúne la Tierra.

Traducción de León Blanco con la colabo-ración de G. Leogena

Dinah Roma is Professor of Literature and Cre-ative Writing at De La Salle University, Manila whereshe is also Chair of its Department of Literature. Au-thor of three books of poetry, her Geographies of Lightwon won the country’s Carlos Palanca Award for Poetryin English in 2007 and was one of the finalists in the2011 Philippine National Book Award for Poetry. Herwork explores the liminal spaces between place and lan-guage, where possibilities of journeys are manifold.While her first book celebrates her beginnings in thecraft of poetry, her second one pursues bolder wander-ings that merge her favourite motifs of travel and itsepiphanies. It draws inspiration from the rich traditionsof Asia to chart the traveller’s passage across landscapesand terrains, peoples and cultures, through time andmemory. Her third volume begins her on a new trackas she ruminates on the guises of ruins—its internal andexternal landscapes—in our encounter with everyday. Init she reflects on the destruction of climate change inher devastated country.


WANDERING EXILE

Wandering exileDespondent but braveWith a suitcase of war tales and woe

Perhaps the flight from deathThe sense of abandonmentDragged me to exile in this foreign

city

The soles of my shoes are the wholeof my land

Since in a world so wideI have been given no place to call my

own

I write on the walls of the night “be arefuge for humanity”

Like a nudge to quieten the cityMy only motivationMy bedtime stories on the coloured

walls of the city That thin the smoke and the disap-

pointment

My language is unknown to allEven to my nearest neighbour Who everyday ignores my good

morning with an angry scowl But I still live in hope

I am exiledAnd a hundred miles away my whole

existence and my memoriesAre tied to a patch of landWhich now plays crossroads to

blood and terror

But I will still live in hope

Perhaps one day this knot will comeundone

And the next generation in this cityOnce they’ve read our stories Will be guests no longer but hosts in

their own homesAnd maybe my fateWill curse only their fathers

This is my storyI am a wandering exileAnd my homeland is no more

Than the soles of my shoes

BOGOTÁ

To the Colombian people who have suffered formore than half a century

Bogotá!Live long your rainbowAnd ‘Providencia’, the jewel in your

crownYou, the golden, red and blue land Will echo in the song‘La Sonora Dinamita’ will play onWith the Cumbia dance And its steely-chain soundBearing on the ankles of slavesA message of freedom

Smile!Now is the time to stand againIt’s more than half a centuryThat beyond these dark clouds

AFGHANISTAN

BasirAhang, Afganistán


A reckless cobalt sky has breathedFor half a century‘Providencia’ the paradise Has waited for your sparkTo break at last the broken cycleAnd bring hope to its green coastGabo will write of no more love in

the time of cholera And your children of tomorrowWill take each other’s handsTo dance the Cumbia and the

Vallenato

Stand up! Bolivar is waiting for ‘Totó la Momposina’

To begin murmuring a songHeedless of the tobacco taste still

bitter in his mouth

BOGOTÁ

A los colombianos que han sufrido por más de

medio siglo

¡Bogotá!Larga vida a tu arco irisY “Providencia”, la joya en tu

corona.Tú, tierra dorada, roja y azulHarás eco en la canción“La Sonora Dinamita” seguirá

tocandoA ritmo de cumbiaY su sonido de cadena aceradaCargando en los tobillos de los

esclavosUn mensaje de libertad

¡Sonríe!Ahora es tiempo de erguirte de

nuevoPor más de medio sigloMás allá de estas nubes oscurasUn osado cielo cobalto ha respiradoPor medio siglo“Providencia” el paraísoHa esperado tu chispaPara romper al fin el ciclo rotoY llevar la esperanza a su costa verdeGabo no escribirá más amor en los

tiempos del cóleraY tus niños del mañanaSe tomarán de las manosPara bailar cumbia y vallenato

¡Levántate!Bolívar espera a “Totó la

Momposina”Para empezar a murmurar una canción

Sin preocuparse por el sabor del tabaco, aún amargo en su boca

This Moment is Mine

This moment is mineBecause of the journey, the discom-

fortAnd all that was but is no more

My footprints trace borders innumer-able

From Kabul to Rome,From Tamerlane to Julius CaesarPassing through lands stained by

Gobineau

This moment is mineAnd I give it to my motherWho embroidered her life’s desires


On scraps of cottonOnly so that my father Could blow his nose

To my sisters isolated from the worldAnd to my brothersWho instead of books

Without meaning toPicked up guns

This moment is mineAnd I will give it to the tears and the

screamsUntil the reflections, the echosWake the deaf, restore sight to the

blindOf my city

This moment is mine no moreIt’s time to goMy turn has come to tell of the wan

dering watersOf the MediterraneanSo that my footprints would become

uneresable

What life is this?

Perhaps you better get used to itIf they couldn’t bomb you in warWell then you’d give your body to

the seaWhat life is this?When you leave your landYou’re little more than food for

fishesIf you’re given one chanceLet you heart beat with the bells

Of the churchUntil the years passAnd you remain a second class citi

zenA foreigner who wants to liveWith a tongue by now too bitterPerhaps you better get used to itLike an orphaned childWho’s used to being hitWhat life is this? You who love itMust surrender to it

That Fucking NightTo the survivors of the Yakawlang

genocide by the Taliban

When they had shot the last bulletIt was nightThe roads to Bamiyan 1 were closedThat nightKapisa 2 burned in bedlam’s flameAnd the Devil of Kabul Drunk on the last bottle Of Jalisciense tequilaDreamed of bodies Naked citizens of SodomThat night Bamiyan was lightedWith blue lanternsAnd a barefooted crowd chantedA chant of peace For the lost pieces of ShahmamaBamiyan was lightedAnd the edges of the sky above

Ghulgula 3Were colourlessThat night lunacy reigned And miserable we were exiled In the magical alleys of VeniceLightless lanterns in hand

AFGHANISTAN


That night fear reignedAnd Yakawlang 4 awaited its prom-

ised destructionThat night the world choked on the

awful lump in its throat While miserable we were dancing in

the darkness Of our thoughtsWhen the news headlines of the

worldChanged suddenlyAnd a lightening quick boltVaulted the Venetian sky At dawn your city

Was destroyedAnd miserable weWere still dancing in the darkness of

our thoughtsThat fucking night

22/01/2014 Commemoration day forthe massacre at Yakawlang

Traducción de León Blanco con la colaboración

de G. Leogena

BasirAhang nació en la provincia de Gazni, Afgan-istán, el 1 de enero de 1984. Es poeta, periodista y ac-tivista defensor de los derechos humanos en su país.Estudió Literatura Persa en la Universidad de Kabul.Vive en Italia como refugiado político. Pertenece alpueblo Hazara, de raíces mongoles y turcas, que consti-tuye la cuarta parte de Afganistán. El pueblo Hazara hasido fuertemente golpeado por los talibanes y miles desus habitantes asesinados. En sus poemas documenta ydenuncia esos crímenes, a la vez que hace un recorridopor el exilio e invoca la solidaridad mundial por lapreservación de su pueblo. Recientemente publicó ellibro de poemas: Arroyo de ciervo, 2014. Ha partici-pado en numerosas conferencias sobre refugiados deguerra, los derechos de las mujeres y las minorías, asícomo la crisis en Afganistán, siendo reconocido por Al-jazeera como un experto en el tema de los refugiados.

BasirAhang was born in 1984 in Ghazni, Afghanistan.He is a Hazara poet, journalist and human rights ac-tivist. He graduated with a degree in Persian Literaturefrom Kabul University in 2007. After receiving threatsby Taliban for his activities in Afghanistan, BasirAhangmoved to Italy in 2008 where he continued his studiesin International Relations at Padua University. He haspublished “SarzamineBadamhayeTalkh” an anthologyof his poems in Persian. In 2014 one of his poems wonthe Special Jury Award at the International Poetry Festi-val of Sassari (Italy). His poems have been translated inItalian and English. He is also a member of Interna-

tional Federation of Journalists. He wrote many reportsand made a documentary about the refugees and asy-lum seekers in Europe and particularly in Greece. Apart of this documentary was broadcast on “Rai 1”Italy’s public television. Ahang has written hundreds ofreports on refugees and their legal rights, women’srights, freedom of speech and human rights violation inAfghanistan. His articles, written in Persian, Italian andEnglish, are published in different online and printmedia such as Kabul Press, BBC Persian, Radio Za-maneh, Deutsche Welle and Hazara People Interna-tional Network.


World Poetry Movement edition

En nombre de quienes lava ropa

ajena(y expulsan de la blancura la mugre

ajena)En nombre de quienes cuidan hijos

ajenos(y venden su fuerza de trabajoen forma de amor maternal y

humiliaciones)

En nombre de quienes habitan in vivienda ajena

(y aun los mastican con sentimiento deladron)

En nombre de quienes viven en un paisajeno

(las casas y las fabricas y los comerciosy las calles y las ciudades y los pueblosy los rios y los lagos y los volcanes y los

montesson siempre de otrosy por eso esta alli la policia y la guardiacuidandolos contra nosotros)En nombre de quienes lo unico que

tienenes hambre explotacion enfermedadessed de justicia y de aguapersecuciones condenassoledad abandono opresion muerteYo acuso a la propiedad privadade privarnos de todo.In the name of tose washing others’

clothes(and cleaning others’ filth from the

whiteness)

h In the name of thoe caring forothers’ children

(and selling their labor powerin the form of maternal love and

humiliations)

In the name of those living in another’s house

(which isn’t even a kind belly but a tomb or a jail)

In the named of those eating other’ crumbs

(and chewing them still with the feelingof a thief

In the name of those living on others’ land

(the houses and factories and shopsstreets cities and townsrivers lakes volcanoes and mountainsalways belong to othersand that’s why the cops and the guards

are thereguarding them against us)In the name of those who have nothing

buthunger exploitation diseasea thirst for justice and waterpersecutions and condemnationsloneliness abandonment oppression

and deathI accuse private property of depriving us of everything.

Translated from Spanish by Jack Hirschman

EL SALVADOR

Acta / Act

ROQUE DALTON


p oetry planet - wpm2011.org oetry planet spring 2015 ... poet-editor of the famous mathrubhumi ......

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