unesco courier - war on war poeme 074796eo

7/30/2019 UNESCO Courier - War on War Poeme 074796eo

1/36

TheUnescoNOVEMBER 1982-5 French francs

W

' \ . \ fi '>r: . . . "T-i J t 1' , 4 l*i f /.> ft' J J *'

f-


2/36

A time to live...

O ITALYWoman of Valcamonica

What are days for?Days are where we live.They come, they wake usTime and time over.They are to be happy in:Where can we live but days?(FromDays, by Philip Larkin)


3/36

TheUnescoCourierA window open on the world

NOVEMBER 1982 35th YEAR

PUBL ISHED IN 26 LANGUAGESEnglish Tamil KoreanFrench Hebrew. SwahiliSpanish Persian Croato-SerbRussian Dutch MacedonianGerman Portuguese Serbo-CroatArabic Turkish SloveneJ apanese Urdu ChineseItalian Catalan BulgarianHindi Malaysian

A selection in Braille Is publishedquarterly in English, French and Spanish

Published monthly by UNESCOThe United Nations Educational, Scientificand Cultural OrganizationEditorial, Sales and Distribution OfficesUnesco, P la ce de Fontenoy, 75700 P arisSubscription rates1 year: 48 French Francs2 years: 84 FFBinder for a year's Issues: 36 FF

Editor-in-chief: Edouard Glissant

I SSN 0041 - 5278No . 10 - 1982 - OP I - 82-1 392 A

pages

32

34

2

WAR ON WARby J ean-J acques Lebel

5-19 POEMS BY :Adonis, Ai Qing, Breyten Breytenbach, Ernesto Cardenal,J ayne Cortez, J ean-Pierre Faye, Allen Ginsberg,Sony Labou Tan'si, Thiago de Mello, Amrita Pritam,Kazuko Shiraishi, Andrei Voznesenski

20 POETRY BEFORE AND AFTER HIROSHIMAby Stephen Spender

22 'TO BE CALLED MEN'Kupala and Kolas, poets of libertyby Maksim Tank

24 IF SAINT FRANCIS CAME TO CALLWould the message of the 'seraphic saint'be heeded in the modern industrial world?by Carlo Bo

27 WIFREDO LAMby Francisco Fernndez-Santos

28 SZYMANOWSKI: A GREAT COMPOSER REDISCOVEREDby J erzy Waldorff '

30 BHARATI, POET AND PATRIOTby K . Swaminathan

HUE, A CITY IN PER I L

UNESCO NEWSROOM

A TIME TO LIVE...ITALY: Woman of Valcamonica

ON December 10 this yearUnesco 'sParisheadquarters willbecomefora dayan

internationalforumfrom which ascore ofpoetsfromevery cornerofthe globe will speak out throughtheir poems against the never-resting forces of oppression anddestruction, aplatformfromwhichthemingledvoices ofpeace,poetryand liberty can declare "War onWar".

To ourgreatregret, limitationsofspace andtimeprecludepublicationofworks byall those takingpart inthis symposium. Nevertheless, inthe works of twelve of the participating poets presented in thisissue ofthe Unesco Courier, some

hitherto unpublished, despite differences of tone, emphasis andcultural background, and despitethe cloudingveiloftranslation, theanguished, universal voice of thepoetcan be heard, denouncingwarand pleading for fraternity andpeace.

The centenaries of three otherpoets are also honoured in thisissue those of SubramaniaBharati, the great Tamilwriterwhofoughtforbutdidnotlive tosee hiscountry's independence, and Y nkaKupalaand Y akubK olas, bothalsosturdy fighters for freedom anddemocracy who have earned thetitle of "fathers" ofByelorussianliterature.

Nor could the Unesco Courierallowtheyear1982 toelapsewithoutmarking the anniversaries of twoothergreatfigures S t. Francis ofAssisiwhose 800-year-oldmessage,as the ItalianwriterCarloBopointsout, is stillapplicable today, andthePolish composerKarolSzymanow-ski whose music is now being accorded the renewed recognition itdeserves.Finally, we pay all too brief

tributeto thememoryofthe C ubanpainter Wifredo Lam, who diedinSeptember this year, and whoseworks exude the electrifyingcreativeforcegenerated by the encounterofdifferent cultures.Cover: drawing by Roberto MattaPhoto Unesco Courier


4/36

WAR ON WARP oets of the world at Unesco

by J ean-J acques Lebel

The walls, gardens, and courtyards of Unesco's P aris Headquarters are ashowcase for a number o artistic masterpieces which have been donated totheOrganization. Amongthe workswhich can be admired byvisitors and staffmembers alike are a Caldermobile, murals by Picasso and Glazunov, ceramicsbyMir, sculptures byMoore, Giacomettiand Soto, and a mural byMatta. ButUnesco is also the home ofmany other works of art which are equally noteworthy. In this issue of the Unesco Courier, on pages 4 to 21, we present aselectionof theseworks. Above,modern figurative statue represents a humanbeing reflecting on the world (Peru).

Photo Unesco

IN organizing a poetry evening atUnesco we have accepted the challenge implicit in the incursion of

poetry into an official institution. Ourtask has notbeenwithoutdifficulties, butthe challenge is commensuratewith thegreat importancepoetryshould have andthe role it should play in a world in permanent crisis where the fight forculture never won, and the fight forliberty never ended, are one. Thedelayed effects of this incursionmaybeconsiderable, especially since poetryfestivals are today experiencing aremarkable revival in some parts of theworld, perhaps because of the collapseof so many cultural, religious andpolitical values which had been thoughtto be sound.The idea was simple and inspiring: that

the vision and language of the poet assuch should be presented without constraint or censorship on the stage ofUnesco, which is by definition supranational. We wanted to provide an opportunity for poetry, with all its spirit,rigour, pass ion, and complexity, to beread aloud to an audience by its authorsin a prestigious setting.This is the firsttime thatso manygreat

poets ofdifferentcultures fromall overthe world, chosen solely on the groundsof their intellectual quality, havegathered foran eventofsuch importancein such surroundings. The great literary .voices of our time are rarely heardbeyond the narrowbounds withinwhichcreative and Utopian thought is confined both in the highly industrialized countries and in the developing world. Thesocieties where shamans and prophetswere actually listened to have virtuallyceased to exist.The men and women invited to take

part in this event are here in their ownright not as representatives ofnations,ethnic groups, political parties, churches,tribes orclasses. The concerns ofpoetrygo far beyond the affiliations of thecitizen who is oftenengaged, moreover,ina social struggle. The poet is above allan extraordinary being, an inventor oflanguage who dares to think the unthinkable and say the unsaid. E verypoem begins by overstepping the bounds,the blockages and the alienations which

J EAN-J ACQUES LEBEL , French writer andtheatreand filmdirector, is theauthorofseveralbooks including: La P osie de la Beat Generation (Poetry of the Beat Generation), Le Happening (The Happening) and L'Amour etl'Argent (Love and Money). He is also thefounderof the international Polyphonix festival.On behalfofUnescohe has organizedthe "Waron War"manifestation ofpoets to be held atUnesco headquarters, Paris.


5/36

reduce mostofhumanityto despair andsilence. On this occasion, the poets willpropose visionary alternatives to the programmed massacres and planned catastropheswhichmilitaristic futurolgistsand multinational arms purveyors areseeking to impose on all peoples.Essentially poetry ought not to raise

eyebrows in an institution which setsitselfthegoal ofendingthehegemony ofignorance. The least to be expected is thatthe structural crisis which permanentlyconvulses all the nations both in theircultural and their economic life shouldoverturnsome old habits. It is notthosewho express themselves in poetry butthose whowieldthe language ofwarwhoendanger the survival ofmankind. It isnotgoingtoo far to say thatpoetrymaybring(ifonly foran experimentalperiod)"imaginationtopower". Ifpoetry is stillthere, at the very heartof the questionsfacing society, it is because the otherforms of expression scientific, political, religious, and administrativeand theother systems ofbelief, perception and expression, have proved incapable of comprehending the presentworld crisis.Meanwhile, poetryuses this crisis as its

rawmaterial, drawingits legitimacy fromits rejection of ides reues, high-flownspeeches, dogmatic lectures, the woodendictionofpower, thebabelofthemedia,and the dominance ofculturalmediocrityuniversalized by the audio-visualmedia.Poetry dissents from industrial normsand customs, it opens up a royal road,the adventure of the indomitable andsovereign spirit. The poet's work restoresto its adepts the use of a different kindofword and language, and allows the individualto accepthis individuality, an indispensable role in an age of massphenomena and automation. In thenuclear age it is still possible as itwas inAntiquity, both in Ea st and West, inAfricaorthe Americas, thanks topoetryto learnor learnagainhowto think freely. It is here thatthe objectives ofmodernpoetry and those of Unesco are notirreconcilable.The Director-GeneralofUnesco,Mr.

Amadou-MahtarM'Bow, is to be thanked forhaving welcomed this initiativeandfor giving a score of such diverse poetsan opportunity to declare together Waron War, to set the ethic of philosophyagainstmilitaryaggression, whatever itssource and whatever its pretext. P erhapsthis will encourage those who love peaceinall countries to join forces against thecriminal logicofthose who kill. P erhapsthis eventwill inspire the awareness andthe process ofreflection which is the basisof poetic activity.

I know thee.../ know thee O image of terrorI discern thy endless wildernessMy fear-racked tomorrow, and on my cheeksS tains of the murderedskyThe prints ofmy two handsI spell thee out, I revive the flame of thy visageI squeeze a cry from each reluctant letterI embrace the lynx and the ravenI embrace the deadWakened they leave the sod resuscitatedAs ant or book reincarnateWillingly I wash themWith my tomorrow ormy yesterdayTrue to myselfI outstripI fashion the others

Adonis

Poem AdonisTranslated from the Arabic


6/36

Faith All people have their own spaceBreathing is life pulsatingWhether for happiness or sorrowWe are always waiting, hoping for something

The desert has its camel bellsThe ocean its siren blastsA motorbike rides through the streetEach bears a different message

Where is paradise? There is no paradiseOr else it's a minority's freeholdBut we the humble creatures of the earthHave nought but thefaith that yearns in our hearts

But faith itself is dynamicSometimes pulling us forwardOr pushing us into pursuitRemaining ever remoteWe are opposed to warAs people daily shed their blood in sacrificeWe beseech an end to hungerAs millions from hungerperish

Nation against nationClass against classReligion against religionC lose in battle every passing dayWhat obscure hand's operationTurns us powerless and weak,Can't we gather up our splendid faithsIn a blazing volcanic explosionThrusting aloft the whole worldLike bright clouds ascending the skyTurningfantasies into realityCreating a genuine paradise?

Ai Qing

Poem Ai QingTranslated from the Chinese


7/36

The U fe Blessed are the children ofDimbaza,of Welcome Valley, Limehill and Stinkwaterthey dief-v-f tTlfk GOil of sickness, malnutrition, poverty" U-i-C UJ .A for they beautify the prospect for the master's eye

for they escape the jaws ofhellfor they clear the Boer's domains

the Boer and his Godthe hand ofGod

for they are spared from livingfor to be black is a political provocationforyou who are black

in the land of bloodof thepassbook and the insult of thepolice dog,you pollute the land of the Boers

Blessed are the children ofDimbazaof Welcome Valley, Limehill and Stinkwater

cast downinto thepits, a feastfor ants,a black-toothed smilefor they receive toys and empty milk-bottlesto furbish their tombs,toys and silver paper rustling in the wind,milk-bottles dried up teatsfrom which the windcan conjure soundsa lure for moles

meat is rareso that the brats forgetthat they are deadblessed are the dead ofDimbazaof Welcome Valley, Limehill and Stinkwater

swallowed upby the earth, for their comings and goingspass unremarked between mouthfulscasting no shadow in the sunlightblessed and holy and sanctified are the molesthe worms and the antsin the land of the sunin the land of the Boersin the land the Masters have given themfor they enrich and beautify the grasslandsso thatman flourishes andprospersgrows the fruits of the earth and raises his cattlewaxes fine and strong and white

to the glory of his God

Breyten Breytenbach

Poem MeulenhoffAmsterdam, 1976Translated from the Afrikaans


8/36

The youngstersofLa Prensa

In the daily photo line-ups in La P rensa they appearstretched outEyes half closed, half-parted lipsAs if in laughter, as if in pleasure

The youngsters of the list of shameOr else from stamp-sizedpassport snaps they stareSerious, deadly serious,The boys who daily swelled the roll ofhorrorThis one went for a neighbourhoodstrollThey found him cast aside on a rough patch of wastelandThis one set off to work from his home in the San J udas districtAnd never returned

Then there was the one who went to buy a Coke at the cornerThe one who went to see his girl-friend and never came backOthers snatchedfrom their homes

carried off in army jeeps that disappeared into the nightAnd laterfound at the morgueOr at the roadside in the Cuesta del PlomoOr on a rubbish dump

Arms brokenEyes gouged out, tongue severed, genitals torn off

Or who simply were never seen againThose kidnapped bypatrols of the Macho Negro or the Cara'e LenAnd cast heaped up beside the lake behind the Teatro Dario

Of their faces nothing remainsBut a bright-eyed glance, a smile, reduced to flatpaperTiny pasteboard squares their mothers expose like treasure in La P rensa(An image engraved on the heart's core, on the dear little pasteboard)

T he one with the shock ofhairThe one with thefrightened-deer eyesThe one with the roguish smileThe girl with the melancholy gazeOne inprofile or with head inclinedOne pensive , one with open shirt

Ladders to the Stars, a kinetic painting by Frank Malina (United States).

Photo J .-C. Bernath-Unesco


9/36

Others with curls, with hair over face, with a beretAnother, blurred, smiling out from under curlersIn graduation garbThe lass with smiling lips and puckered browThe girl in the photo sent to her betrothedThe posing boy in the photo given to his fiance

20, 22, 18, 17, 15 years oldY oung people killedfor being young becauseIn Nicaragua it was illegal to be between 15 and 25

And it seemed that Nicaragua would be bereft ofyouthEven after the victory I was surprisedWhen greeted at a gathering by a youth

to findmyself asking wordlessly: "How did you escape?"For once we were afraid ofyoung survivors

Y ou whom the guards seized, the "Beloved of the gods"As the Greeks used to say, those whom the gods love die young

Others will grow old, but yet, for them, the beloved onesWill stay foreverfresh and young

Smooth-browed, hair ungrayingThe fair-haired Roman girl who died, in memory stays ever fairYet you, I say, are not of those who do not agesimply because they stay young in the briefmemoryOf others who one day will dieY ou will stay young because there will always be young people in NicaraguaAnd because ofyour deaths, you the countless victims of the daily slaughter,The young people ofNicaragua will always be revolutionariesIn them you will live again, your lives perpetually renewed

New again, as each day's dawn is new.

Ernesto Cardenal

Poem Ernesto CardenalTranslated from the Spanish

Prometheus Bringing Fire to Men, a painting by Tamayo (Mexico).

Photo Volta-Unesco

Executed on cowhide, this pyrograph by Lougu Kou depicts scenesfrom everyday life, sacred animals and masks (Upper Volta).Photo R. Lesage-Unesco


10/36

Stockpiling The Stockpiling offrozen treesin the deep freeze of the earthThe stockpiling of dead animals

in the exhaust pipes of supersonic rocketsThe stockpiling of desiccated plants

on the death root of an abscessed toothThe stockpiling ofdefoliants

in the pine forest of the skullThe stockpiling of aerosols

in the pink smoke of a human corpseStockpiles

of agent orange agent blue agent white acidsburning ike the hot hoofof a race horse on the tongue

Look at itthrough the anti-bodies in the bodythrough the multiple vaccines belching in the veinsthrough the cross-infection of viruses stockpiled

in the mouththrough the benzine vapors shooting

into the muscles of the starsthrough the gaseous bowels ofmilitary fantasiesthrough the white radiation ofdelirious dreams

Lookthis stockpile marries that stockpileto mix and release a double stockpile offissions

explodinginto the shadows of disappearing space

Global incapacitationsZero

and boomThis is the nuclear bleach of realitythe inflated thigh of edemathe filthy dampness in the scientific pants

of a peace prizethe final stockpile offlesh dancing inthe terrible whooping cough of the windAnd even ifyou thinkyou have a shelterthat can survive this stockpiling

of communal gravestell me

Vase in form of an amphora dating from the8thcentury BC (Cyprus).

Photo Unesco

The Lamb, by thecalligrapher Mashi Shunsoh

(Japan).


10


11/36

Where are you goingwith the sucked liver ofmustardflintthe split breath of hydrogen fumesthe navelpit of invisible clamsthe biological lung of human fleasthe carcinogenic bladder of spongeswords made ofkeloid scarspoems in the numb section of the chromosomes

J ust where do you think you 're goingwith that stockpile of contaminated stink

ListenWhen I think of the tactical missiles plunging

into the rancid goiters of the sunThe artillery shells of wiretapping snakes hissing and vomiting

into the depths of a colorless skyThe accumulation offried phosphoric pus grafflttied

on thefragile fierceness of the moonThe pestering warheads of death-wings stockpiling feathers

in the brainAnd the mass media's larval of lies stockpiled

in the plasma of the earsAnd the stockpiling offoreign sap in the fluxes

of the bloodAnd the stockpiling of shattered spines

in chromium suitsunderpolyurethane sheets

I look at this stockpilingat this rotting vegetationand I make myselfunderstand the targetThat's why I say I'm into life

preservation of life nowrevolutionary change now

before the chokingbefore the panic

before thepenetration of apathy rises upand spits fire

into the toxic tearsof this stockpile

J ayne C ortezPoem J ayne Cortez

Terra-cotta tabletdating fromthe reign ofIshbi-lrra (2017-1985BC), the founder of theIsin dynasty (Iraq).

Photo Dominique Roger-Unesco


12/36

Torture / serve notice on allpoints of the circle of the dayof news which is brought to me hammeringof torturing points from as far away as can be reportedand beatings, neighbours ofmine even in their dangereven in kinship with iron no longer enduredwhen their quadrilateral snaps at the edgesand I shall not cease from watching while they break the edgesnorfrom listening while near andfar they shroud the dayand I shall try to bear word of what is not enduredI shall notmuffle the earpiece while I hear the sound of hammeringI shall listen to all that endures domination and dangerand comes to me from the torturing points reportedfrom oppositepoints on the circle by that which is reportedI shall hear the broken messenger from the place of the broken edgeswhere they are scattered and cast to the winds and in dangerwhere night is abolished after all the points of daywhere the blows can no longer be heard on her hammeringso you turn deaf ears to that which is no longer enduredhere we shall waitfor news of that which is no longer enduredand we shall hear and endure the details reportedletting them drill us, assail us, hammeringI shall outstretch my fingers to the bruised soft edgeshead in the night yet walking on the dayin places where they are downtrodden and in dangerand if they are bound or threatened by dangereven shattered by news that cannot be enduredhear itpattering across night and daybearing the unbearable assault ofwhat is reportedputting the hand in the wound of the edgewhere the bruise has come back wounding and hammeringI shall hear the report, I shall go to it hammeringraising before the lordship ofdangerthe hand at the root of the wound in the edgeand the eyes unblinking at that which can be enduredhearing them come from allpoints tortured and reportedthe bodies that are spring and sustenance of the day

Poem J ean-Pierre FayeTranslated from the French J ean-Pierre Faye

TheNdaanaan, a tapestry byModou Niang (Senegal).


12


13/36

Plutonian ode(excerpt)

Radioactive Nemesis were you there at the beginningblackDumb tongueless unsmelling blast ofDisillusion?

I manifestyour Baptismal Word after four billion yearsI guess your birthday in Earthling Night, I salute your

dreadful presence lasting majestic as the Gods,Sabaot, J ehova, Astapheus, Adonaeus, Elohim, Iao,

Ialdabaoth, Aeon from Aeon born ignorant in anAbyss ofLight,

Sophia's reflections glittering thoughtful galaxies,whirlpools of starspume silver-thin as hairs ofEinstein!

Father Whitman I celebrate a matter that renders Selfoblivion!

Grand Subject that annihilates inky hands &pages'prayers, old orators' inspired Immortalities,I begin your chant, openmouthed exhaling into spacioussky over silent mills atHanford, Savannah River,Rocky Flats, P antex, Burlington, Albuquerque

I yell thru Washington, South Carolina, Colorado,Texas, Iowa, NewMexico,

where nuclear reactors create a new Thing under theSun, where Rockwell war-plants fabricate this deathstuff trigger in nitrogen baths,

Hanger-Silas Mason assembles the terrified weaponsecret by ten thousands, & where Manzano Mountain boasts to store

its dreadful decay through two hundred forty millenniawhile our Galaxy spirals around its nebulous core.

I enter your secret places with my mind, I speak withyour presence, I roar your Lion Roar with mortalmouth.

One microgram inspired to one lung, ten pounds ofheavy metal dust adrift slow motion over greyAlps

the breadth of the planet, how long .before your radiancespeeds blight and death to sentient beings?

Enter my body or not I carol my spirit inside you,Unapproachable Weight,

0 heavy heavy Element awakened I vocalize your consciousness to six worlds1 chant your absolute Vanity. Yeah monster ofAnger birthed in fear O mostIgnorantmatter ever created unnatural to Earth!Delusion

ofmetal empires!

Detail of TheSigns ofCadmus, a tapestry byArefRayess (Lebanon).

Photo Unesco

13


14/36

Poem Allen Ginsberg

Destroyer of lying S cientists! Devourer of covetousGenerals, Incinerator ofArmies & Melter of Wars!

J udgement ofjudgements, Divine Wind over vengefulnations, Molester ofP residents, Death-S candal ofCapital politics! Ah civilizations stupidly industrious!

Canker-Hex on multitudes learned or illiterate!Manufactured Spectre of human reason! O solidifiedimago ofpractitioners in Black Arts

I dare your Reality, I challenge your very being!I publish your cause and effect!

I turn the Wheel ofMind on your three hundred tons!Your name enters mankind's ear! I embody your ultimate powers!

My oratory advances on your vauntedMystery!This breath dispels your braggartfears! I sing your form at last

behindyour concrete & iron walls inside your fortressof rubber & translucent silicon shields in filteredcabinets and baths of lathe oil,

My voice resounds through robot glove boxes & ingotcans and echoes in electric vaults inert of atmosphere,

I enter with spirit out loud into your fuel rod drumsunderground on soundless thrones and beds of lead

0 density! This weightless anthem trumpets transcendentthrough hidden chambers and breaks throughiron doors into the Infernal Room!

Over your dreadful vibration this measured harmonyfloats audible, these jubilant tones are honey andmilk and wine-sweet water

Poured on the stone block floor, these syllables arebarley groats I scatter on the Reactor's core,

1 call your name with hollow vowels, I psalm your Fateclose by, my breath near deathless ever atyour side

to Spell your destiny, I set this verse prophetic on yourmausoleum walls to seal you up Eternally withDiamond Truth! O doomed Plutonium.

Allen Ginsberg

This votive stone reliefrepresenting a Thracianhorseman dates from the2nd century AD (Bulgaria).

Photo J .-C. Bemaih Unesco

14


15/36

A farewellto hormones

Poem Sony Labou Tan'siTranslated from the French

A man of dustWith eyes of dustEver fixed on the sunTeeth of dustWherein lurk powder-fliesA dusty sprayed-on smileSkin of dustRocketed to the outworn moonOf racismApollo ninety-threeMade inMadnessMade in HatredMade in Vanity

The dust of shameThe hollow laugh of silenceFalling on man woman and childOn your hunter's powder-hornOn your lipstick civilizationOn your heart-shaming technologyOn your Herculean labouringTo constructThis monstrosity ofmonstrositiesAnd then to dieTied to the assembly-lineDeath is no longer to dieAnd to die is not even to bidA last farewell to hormones

Sony Labou Tan'si

Metal sculpture by EilaHiltunem is a monument tothe Finnish composerSibelius (Finland).

Photo Dominique Roger-Unesco

15


16/36

The covenant Article 1. It is decreed that henceforth truth exists,that henceforth life existsand that hand in handall shall strivefor the true life.

Article 2. It is decreed that every day of the week,even the greyest ofgrey Tuesdays,shall have the right to become a Sundaymorning.

Article 3. It is decreed that, from this moment on,there shall be sunflowers at every windowand that each sunflower shall have the rightto open in the shade;that each window shall stay day-long openon to the green lawns where hope grows.

Article 4. It is decreed that mannever againshall doubt his fellow-man.That man shallput his trust in manas the palm-tree confides in the wind,as the wind confides in the air,as the air confides in the blue span of the sky.

Special codicil Man shall put his trust in manas one child puts his trust in another.

Article 5. It is decreed that manbe freed from the yoke offalsehood.That never again will he needthe breastplate of silenceor the chain-mail of words.He will sit at tablewith unclouded eyefor truth will be servedbefore the meal's end.

Article 6. It is laid down thatfor ten centuriesshall be fulfilled Isaiah the prophet's dream:together wolfand lamb shall grazefeeding upon the same sweet fresh of dawn.

Article 7. Established by irrevocable decree,the endless reign ofjustice and of lightnow shall begin, and joy, a generous standard,unfurled shallfloat within the people's soul.

Poem Thiago de MelloTranslated from the Portuguese

Gallo 1978, an acrylic painting by Mariano Rodriguez(Cuba).


16


17/36

Article 8. It is decreed that mankind's greatest dolourhas been and forever shall be this: to lovethough powerless to give the loved one love,to know that it is water's gift aloneto bring the plant the miracle offlower.

Article 9. It is permitted that the daily breadshall bear for man the sweat-drop mark of toil.Yet foremost and forever it shall keepthe bake-warm aftertaste of tenderness.

Article 10. It is accorded that no matter who,no matter at what moment of his life,may garb himself in white.

Article 11. It is decreed that, by definition,man is a loving creature,that is why he is beautiful,surpassing in beauty the morning star.

Article 12. It is decreed that nothing shall be obligatory or prohibitedE verything shall be allowed,especially playing with rhinocerosesand walking in the afternoonwith a huge begonia for a buttonhole.

Special codicil One thing alone shall be forbidden:loveless loving.

Article 13. It is decreed that moneyshall no longer have the power to buythe morning sunlight of the days to come.Banished from the arsenal offearit shall become the sword of brotherhooddefending the right to singand the right to fte the new-dawned day.

F inal Article. The word "liberty" shall be proscribed,expurgatedfrom all dictionaries,banned from the treacherous marshlands ofspeech.From henceforthliberty, like fire or like a stream,or yet like seed-corn,shall be a limpid living thingthatshall forever dwellin the heart ofman.

Thiago deMello

Diana theHuntress, a mosaicfrom the ancientRoman cityofThysdrus (modern E l Djemin Tunisia). It dates from theend of the 2nd century AD(Tunisia).

Photo R . Lesage-Unesco

17


18/36

Statue of 'F ty Mhy (5thdynasty, 2400 BC )discovered on the site of thepyramids at Giza (Egypt).

\jk 9> y


19/36

My address today i have Erased the number ofmyhousethe name of the street where i live,i have changed the direction of every

road,ifyou must find me nowjust knock on any door in any streetin any city anywhere in the world,this curse, this benediction:wherever you find freedom is my home.

Amrita PritamPoem Amrita Pritam

Footballplayer

He's a footballplayerKicks a ball, everyday, he kicks a ballOne dayHe kicked love up high in the skyAnd it stayed thereBecause it didn't come downPeople thought itmust be the sunThe moon or a new starInside meA ball that never comes downHangs suspended in the skyY ou can see it become flamesBecome loveBecoming a star

Kazuko Shiraishi

Poem Kazuko Shiraishi and Shichosha Publishing C o.E nglish translation by Ikuko Atsumi et al. New

Directions Publishing Corporation

Goya/ am Goya!My eye-sockets craters pecked by the

(crow-black) enemy, flyingover the nakedplain.

My name is grief.I am the voiceOfpocked war, charred beams ofburnt cities scattered

over the snow ofnineteen-forty-oneMy name is hunger.I am the scarred throatOf the hanged peasant woman, her body swinging ringing like a bell,

over the empty square...My name is Goya!(O the grapesOf revenge!) Salvoes ofartillery shattered

I swept back to the. Westthe ashes of the uninvitedguest!

And into the commemorative sky I drovestars

Strong as nails.Goya is my name.

Andrei VoznesenskiPoem Andrei Voznesenski

Translated from the Russian by Brian Featherstone

19


20/36

Poetry beforeand

after Hiroshimaby Stephen Spender

T OETS adore ruins,"Audenwrote, and this is a warningtobear inmindwhen considering the attitudeof poets to war.Historically they have been, to say the least, ambivalent

about it.War forms the subjectofmostepic poetry and ofmuchpoetic drama, including Shakespeare's historical plays, andTroilus and Cressida. In Troilus and Cressida, it is true, theGrecian warriors are depicted as half-wits, war as senselessviolence. But in the highly patriotic historical plays war ispatriotism incandescent, soldiers are, for the most part,manly and heroic.In the past, indeed right up to the FirstWorldWar, war has

had great appeal forpoets. Vergil begins the Aeneidwith thewords "Arma virumque cano" (I sing of arms and the man)connecting arms withman, almost as though men becomemostman inwar. War inpoetry is traditionally a kindofstrippingthose who fight down to the essential man, like nudes inpainting.The reason why poets have been so attracted by war is

because it provides experiences of actual living in whichpeople are reduced to the elemental conditions oftheir existing:death; the sense ofbeing at once isolated and belonging to acommunity; the cause worth living and dying for,camaraderie war provides a terrible testing inwhich, throughbeing made aware of their courage or cowardice men realizesome significant truth about the qualityoftheirown physicaland spiritual nature which would never be revealed in yearsof peace.P oets , when they are being poets and notjust likeothermen ,

see life in relation to these ultimate realities. However, mostpeople do notdo so, except in times ofcrisis. They spendmostoftheir lives living fromday to day, occupied on the treadmillofwork or being what is called "worldly", impervious to theultimate realities of human existence.Butwaris a situation inwhicheveryone, ornearly everyone,

is brought face to facewithlife and death. Thus itbreaks downthe barriers between the poet and the public, poetry and theroutine ofmaterial Iiving:_barriers which mean that in timesofpeace and material prosperity the poet may well be writingabout a world ofwhose existence the greatmajorityofpeopleS T E P HEN S P ENDER is a noted English poet who first won recognitionin the 1930s as one of a group ofwriters andpoets includinghis friendW.H. Auden. He is also the author ofcriticism, drama, fiction/translations andan autobiographyWorldWithinWorld (1951). His mostrecentbook is The Thirties and After: Poetry, Politics, P eople, publishedbyMac-Millan, London in 1978.

are scarcely aware. But if, intimes ofwar, a poetwrites aboutheroism, destruction, faith, the sacred cause, religious need,camaraderie, people recognize their own condition in hispoems. Warcan indeed producethe sensation of life itself, asTolstoy in his epic War and Peace, shows in his descriptionofPrince Andrew lyingwounded on thebattlefieldand contemplatinghis own death.Waralso has given peoples the senseofsharing a commondream oftheirnationhood. The Aeneidis aboutthe dreamofRome shared bythe soldiers and fightersliving and dying for itunder the leadership ofAeneas, who isthe pattern ofmilitary and civic virtues.Nevertheless, poets inthe pastwhilstbeing very open to the

attraction ofwar as a kind of lived and shared poetic dramahave, in the long run, been repelled and disgusted by it. Theyhave seen that it leads to terrible human suffering, senselessbrutality, the breaking up ofties ofaffectionbetween familiesand friends, and the destructionof those maintained conditionsofcivilizationwhichare the essential basis ofart. C ivilization requires peace, and ultimately, war leads to barbarism.The Iliadends in dust and ashes. In Shakespeare's Henry VIthere is a terriblescene ofcivilwarinwhicha father finds deadonthe battlefieldthe corpse ofan enemywhich, when he turnsitover, he discovers to be thatofhis own son: a scene perhapsechoed by the greatest English poet ofthe FirstWorldWarWilfred Owen in his poem Strange Meeting, where immediately after his death a soldier has a conversation with afellow soldier killed inbattle at the same instant as he himselfwas killed, who at the end of the poem says, "I am the enemyyou killed, my friend."Historically I think then thatpoets have vacillated betweeen

praise forwar, because itmakes people conscious offinalities,and revulsion at the brutality, rapine, waste, boredom, destruction and corruption. In the FirstWorldWar the poets passedrapidlyfromthe phase ofseeing the war as an awakening fromthe leaden materialist lethargy of the late nineteenth century,with its values of scientific and industrial "progress", to thephase ofhorrorand disgustat the killingand destruction, andthe boredom.In 1914, inGermany, R ilke, the leastmilitaristofpoets, saw

waras a great upsurge ofsacred life against thematerialistcentury, just as in England R upert Brooke saw it as a cleansingfrom the moral decadence of the E ngland of the early partofthe twentieth century. Inthe sonnets Brooke wrote at the outbreak ofthe war he characterized the young Englishmen whorushed to offer their lives to their country as "swimmers intocleanness leaping".

20


21/36

But the immense scale of the destruction soon put an endto this. By 1916 the two best English poets fighting in thetrenches Wilfred Owen and S iegfried Sassoon were writingpoems describing the horror, destruction and suffering produced by the war and attacking the triumph ofthe hideous warmachine over the humanity of the soldiers fighting on theWestern front, the wickedness ofthe political leaders on bothsides who did nothing to stop the slaughter, the callous insen-sitivity ofold men and civilians at home who accepted complacently the sacrifice of the lives of the young.These poets divided the English into the heroic victims, who

were the soldiers at the front, and the scarcely consciouscivilians ofthe home base. They no longer cared whether thevictims were English, French or German soldiers. For themthe real enemies were not the German soldiers but themilitarists, politicians and arms manufacturers on both sides.When Sassoon and Owen, and other officers like them, wenthome on leave, they found that they hated their civilian fellowEnglishmen. They no longer feltthatEngland was home. Homewas their fellow soldiers on the Western front. They had cometo hate war and knew themselves to be pacifists, yetmore important to them than their pacifism was that, so long as thefighting continued, they should endure horrors with their fellowsoldiers.In this one can see that, despite their detestation ofwar, the

poets did feel that the suffering resultant from ithadmade thesoldiers in the trenches, whether English, French or German,superior to those who did not fight. Here was a remnant ofthe feeling that war brings out human virtues in thosewho participate in it. To Wilfred Owen, every soldier was Christ.This attitude ofthe English warpoets became a kind ofpoetic

orthodoxy which lasted into the Second World War in whichmany poets foughtwhile hating war yet feeling that they shouldshare the camaraderie and agony of fellow soldiers. Anti-fascismthe fact that they were fighting in defence of individual freedom againstHitlerismperhaps qualified this attitude, butnot verymuch. The poetry ofanti-fascism was notwritten by combatant poets in the armies ofthe democraciesbut by poets ofthe resistance, such as Aragon and E luard, inFrance.Hiroshima entirely altered all this. From J une 1945 onwards

there was no more soldier/pacifist poetry. War had becometotally dehumanized. The only poetry that could be written

about war now was about' the total inhumanity of thetechnology which could destroywhole cities, countries, perhapsthe world as we know it. The anti-war poetry of today is thatofman almost helpless against the totally destructive powersofhis own inventing. It is written \vith certainty that there canbe no heroic, just, comradely phase ofany future war. Warnow means nothing but destruction. The threatofthe extinction ofall civilized values, perhaps ofthe human race and all.life on earth.The poetry of poets who try to write about this situationseems to bemainlyoftwo kinds. F irstly, thatofpoets who make

metaphors of destruction, as does J ayne Cortez here in herpoem "Stockpiling":

The stockpiling offrozen treesin the deepfreeze of the earth

the stockpiling ofdead animalsin the exhaustpipes ofsupersonic rockets

the stockpiling ofdesiccatedplants...etc.

It is a magnificent effort to make poetry out of total inhumanity, themetaphors having the effectofmaking the forcesofnuclear destruction accessible to the imagination. But when,at the end of the poem, Cortez declares:

/ look at this stockpilingat this rotting vegetationand I make myselfunderstand the targetthat's why I say I'm into life

preservation of life nowrevolutionary change now

it is not wholly convincing. The poet has been all too successful in inventing metaphors forthe inhuman scientific progress of destruction for us to feel that "being into life" hasmuch chance to save the world; and "revolutionary change"seems almost pathetically vague. On the other hand, what alternative to the technological inhumanity is there except braveassertions oflife and humanity? We find these in the beautifullysensitive "Football P layer" of Kazuko Shiraishi and in thedeclarations of faith in humanity of Ferlinghetti :

. . .and I am awaitingperpetually andforevera renaissance ofwonder

Anti-war poetry is not only againstwar. Itstates the predicament of life against destructive technology

21


22/36

TO BE CALLED MEN'Kupala and Kolas, poets of liberty

byMaksim Tank

THE years between 1905 and 1907were turbulent, shaking 'thefeudal order to its foundations.

Harbinger of freedom and democracy,the wind of change swept overByelorussia, fanning the hopes of themillions living indesperate poverty andbackwardness, in what was familiarlyknownas "thatgodforsakencorner' ' ofthe Tsar's domains.It was during the same period, at the

height of the revolutionarystorm, thattwo voices were heard, shouting into thewind thepent-up, centuries-oldangerofthe peasants againsttheiroppressors, andproclaiming their demand for a radicalnew orderofthings. The voices belonged to theyoungpoets YankaKupalaandYakub Kolas, whose centenary is beingcelebrated in 1982.My bread is the fruitofmy own toil,I endure insults, the voices shouting at

me.Holidays? I hardly know what they

are,I'm just a peasant, a miserable

muzhik.But today and tomorrow, andfor the

rest ofmy days,Long though my life may be, or

short,There's one thing, brothers, I'll not

forget.A peasant Imay be, but a man, too.These lines by Kupala are echoed

by Kolas:Muzhik, it's true, but nofool, forall

that;I knowmy daywill come.Quietthough /may be now, not

daring to answer back,One of these days I'llShout, Brothers! to arms!With such protests, Kupalaand Kolas

broke the silencewhichhad been imposed for so long on the downtroddenByelorussianpeasantry,articulatingtheconditions oftheirdaily life, their caresand suffering: the hungry springtimeswhen the last crumb ofbread had beeneaten; themare staggering with exhaustion in the shafts; the wailing children;the worn-out and emaciated women.

MAKSIM TANK is "People's Poet"oftheByelorussian Soviet Socialist Republic. His workhas been rewardedby the awardof the LeninP rize andState prizes of theByelorussian SSR .He is a member of the Academy ofSciencesof the Byelorussian SSR , a secretary of thegoverningcouncilof the USSR Writers'Union,andChairmanoftheWriters' Union oftheByelorussian SSR .

"My tongue is as dry as a bone in mymouth", says one verse, and another:"Poor devils, we are, our heads in thenoose... work in the fields... tears athome..."It is nothardto understand the impor

tance of the role played by the verse ofKupala and Kolas linked as closely asit was to their people's aspirations andto the problems of their time in therenaissance of Byelorussian letters. Arenaissance indeed, because although thecountry had a long literary traditionreachingback to the earlysixteenth century, with its origins in theworks ofthegreathumanist and philosopherFrantiskSkorina, ithad also been condemned byhistoryto a long, dark age ofoccupationby the P oles duringwhich all printedmat- 'terintheByelorussian language was prohibited and the feudal overlords imposed a campaign of assimilation on thepeople. And if, at the end of the eighteenth century, Byelorussia had beenreunitedwithRussia a countrytowhichithad been linked fromtime immemorialby historical, cultural and linguisticties itwas notuntil the beginning ofthetwentiethcenturythatwhatamountedtolittle more than descriptive, written-down folklore began to evolve into a newnational literature. The distinctive contribution by Kupala and Kolas was toenrich this new literaturewithprogressiveand revolutionary ideas, which they expressed to artistic perfection.Despite its concern with the sombre

realities of the times, the poetry ofKupala and Kolas carries a hearteningand thought-provoking message. Thewaywe live now, itsays, is barely an improvement ondeath; struggle offers theonly chance ofescape. This leitmotifofrevolt is nowhere more apparent thaninKupala's "Who goes there?", whichMaksim Gorki, who translated it into

Russ ian, described as "an eloquent,austere piece of verse."Who goes there, in themarshland

and theforest,Goes in that enormous crowd?The Byelorussianpeople go there!What are they bearing, on their

skinny shoulders,Lifting in theirskinny hands

Injustice and lies, they bear!Where are they carrying all the lies

and the injustice,Taking them to show to whom?

T o the whole world, to show!Butwho was itwho roused thesemillions from their sleep,Who said, Take up your burden

now, andgo?Misery andsorrow taught them so!

But what is it they seek, then, theoppressed of the ages,

The blind and the deaf, what do theyseek?

To be called men!In its original language, we seem to

hear in the rhythm of this poem theheavy, breathless treadofa huge crowdofpeople, carrying on their shoulders animmense load. "To be called men..."The laconic phrase recalls the insult inflictedon a people fartoolongsubjectedto the most terrible ofdeprivations anddenied the exercise of themost elementarypolitical and social rights. But "Tobe calledmen... "is also ademand, stemming from a new self-awareness.However it was interpreted, the poemmade a powerful impression on thepeople, and found its wayto all the corners ofTsaristRussia. And if, at the time,"Who goes there?" was translated intoten languages, it is worth noting that inthe special centenary editionoftheworksof the two poets, it is translated into nofewer than eighty, including Arabic,Chinese, English, French, German, Hindi, J apanese and Spanish...

22


23/36

Familiar with the folklore of theircountry, transforming imagery into symbols, linking genuine feelingwith an impressive breadthof vision, Kupala andKolas opened the eyes oftheir people tospiritual horizons which lay far beyondthe frontiersofByelorussia, without losing sightofnational realities. At the sametime, their innate creativity, nourished bythe oral traditions of the rural population, enabled them to reveal the richness,the freshness and the inexhaustibleresources oftheirnative language. Smallwonder, then, that great masters ofliterature such as Gorki, Sholokhov,Aragon and many others have paidtribute to the contributionmade by thesetwo Byelorussian poets to the heritage ofworld literature.Kupala and Kolas were not linked

merelyby theirwork and thegiftwhichthey shared of ' 'conversingwithall theircountrymen". The circumstances oftheir lives were very similar. Both bornin 1 882, they each learned at a very earlyage what itwas really liketo till the earth,to work on the landwithout possessingthe smallest plotofone's own, to travel

Yanka Kupala (left) andYakub Kolas photographedduring the 1920s.

Photo Fotokhronika, Tass, Moscow

from place to place in search of temporaryemployment. The fathers ofeachof them died young, worn out by thestruggle against poverty.And it was not by chance that both

poets chose pseudonyms of popularorigin. Ivan Dominikovich Lutsevichbecame ''Y anka Kupala'' inevocation ofthe festival which bore that name.Konstantin Mikhailovich Mitskevichselected "Yakub Kolas", thus commemorating the ear ofgrain (kolas) produced by his native soil.Both poets fought for the freedomof

their people; and both experienced therigours ofcensorship and Tsarist oppression, in their literary work and in theirpublic activities. In 1908, Y akub Kolasreceived a prison sentence ofalmost threeyears, forhaving taken part inan illegalcongress of teachers.It is notsurprising, therefore, to find

similar themes, and even similar images,in theirwriting, although each poet hashis own distinctive personality. Kupalais the more lyrical of the two. Some ofhis poems, such as Kurgan (BurialMound) ,Mogila I'va (The Lion's G rave)

Born in the same year a century ago, the two great Byelorussian poets IvanDominikovich Lutsevich (Kupala) and KonstantinMikhailovich Mitskevich (Kolas)took their pen names from local fertility myths, thus expressing their love oftheir native landand theirdesire to see their country free and bomagain. Kolas,whichmeans an ear ofgrain, evokes the legend of thedays when the Byelorussian countryside was no more than an expanse of sand, marsh and untamedgrassland. Dropped by a bird or carried on the wind orby a horse, a grain ofbarley took root and flourished in this wasteland, thus providingman with hisdaily bread. Even today, in Byelorussia, at harvest-time, the first handful ofcorn harvested is ceremonially knotted around the farmer's waist (see drawing left). Kupala, from the word koupat, meaning to bathe, is the name of apagan midsummer festival on which pagan "weddings" were consummated.On the eve of Kupala unmarried peasantgirls would each fashion two circletsof sweetcloverwhich they threw into a nearby river. If thetwo circlets floatedside by side, the maidens would soon be wed (drawing opposite page). Thatsame night thepeasants would setout in search of a fern in flower. Traditionhad it that the fern, the symbol of happiness, flowered only once a year, onthe eve of Kupala.

and Ona ija (She and I), have a romantic tone; others are taut with dramatictension. His inventions, images and symbols are frequently audacious. Kolas, onthe otherhand, is a more down-to-earthpoet, with a closer eye for detail:The villages have a sad look,Heartbreaking it is, to see them.In a backyardfirewood, a few

planksAnd a heap ofrubbish.A rickety cross at the roadside,A pile ofdrypoplar trees. . .Silence, a sortofboredom as in a

prisonOr in a cemetery somewhere.A s well as a poet, Kolas was also,

throughout his life, a distinguishedprose-writer, noted particularly for hiscollection ofshort stories Skazki Zhizni(Tales of Life) and for his great trilogyNa Rostanjakh (At the C rossroads).During the First World War, both

poets were conscripted into the Tsaristarmy and served outside Byelorussia.Understandably, they greeted the October Revolution in 1917 with great enthusiasm, and celebrated the event in anumberofpoems. But the vicissitudes ofthe post-warperiod were such thatpartofByelorussia remained under P olish occupation until 1939. On the other hand,in 19 1 9, Eastern Byelorussia became oneofthe fifteen constituent republicsoftheUSSR . F actories were built; roads weretraced across the landscape; and thescourge ofilliteracy,which had been rifethroughout the population, waseradicated. The children ofthe poorwerenow to be found in universities and othereducational establishments. Theatreswere created, and crowds flocked, as theystill do today, to see Kupala's Pavlinka,and other dramatic works by the twopoets. Both were among the firstmembers of the Byelorussian AcademyofSciences and Letters, the foundationofwhich launched a new era inthe country's economic, scientific and culturallife.In 1941, Nazi Germany attacked the

Soviet Union. Kupala and Kolas issuedpassionate calls for popular resistanceagainst the invader, in stirring poemssuch as the former's Belorusskim P ar-tizanam (To the Byelorussian partisans).Despite the destruction by the enemy ofentire towns and villages, and the suffering of the people (one Byelorussian infour did notsurvive the war), there wasno surrender. Yanka Kupala, unhappily, did not live to see his country's victory, but died in 1942. Yakub Kolaslived until 1956, and thus witnessed therevival which began with the liberation,playing an active part inpublic life andexpressing his creativity up to the veryend.Today, the works ofKupala and Kolas

are published in impressive quantities.P oetic gatherings are organized in theirmemory. S treets, squares, schools,libraries, theatres, institutions ofvariouskinds and even ships bear the two poets'names. Indeed, the names of YankaKupala and Yakub Kolas will always belinked with that of their country, towhichthey unstintinglydevoted theirexceptional talents.

23


24/36

Saint Francis giving his cloak to a rich man fallen on hard times, oneof a cycle of28 scenes from the S aint's life in the Upper Church at Assisi,by Giotto (1300).Photo Alinari-Giraudon, P aris

TAKING flight into the realms ofpurefantasy, let us imagine that oneday Saint Francis knocked at our

door. What yvould happen? No doubt hewould begin by telling us about his owntimes andwhathe had tried to accomplishduring his life. And this would be the pointatwhich some real problems would arise.Let us imagine how the conversation

would continue. Saint Francis would remind us ofhisguidelines for living and rightawaywewould come up againstgreatdifficulties. No doubt he would speak ofpovertyand invite us to live the life of thepoor, advising his brothers to acceptneitherchurchnoreventhe pooresthouse;he would preach the ChristianityofChrist,theChristoftheGospels who is the inspiration of the pilgrim church oftheworld, ofthatchurchwhich is in eternalmovementbecause it pursues the notion of thespiritual prey, souls that wait to beeducated and helped, ofthatchurchwhichover six centuries does notappear to havegone very far in that direction.Andwhat about us? We are still caught

up in a totally opposed vision, one whichcannot be reconciled with this path ofadversity and difficulty. Ourgoal is to livein houseswhich are evermorecomfortableand richly appointed, to pray in churcheswhich best suitour tastes. Above all, westrive tomakeofthis same religion, ofthisreligion which links us through Saint Francis to Christ, a centre ofappeasement, ofsatisfaction and, indirectly, of lassitude.We enter the church to find peace; Saint

CARLO BO , /fa/f'an writer and literarycritic, hasplayed a leading role in a numberofavant-gardeliterary movements, including hermetism, inwhich suchgreat Italianpoets as UngarettiandMntale have taken part. He teaches Frenchlanguageandliterature at Urbino, wherehe hasbeen rector of the university since 1950.This article is taken from a longer study inwhich the author, writing from the standpointofa Christianof the West, calls for a return tothe essentials of Franciscan teaching love,peaceandbrotherhoodbetweenmenandbetween the peoples of the world.

From riches to ragsFEW periods in history and few places in the world could have

seemed less propitious than the Italyof the endof the twelfthcentury for the birthof the "seraphic saint" , the man whose

life mission was "to follow the teaching ofOur Lord J esus Christand towalk in his footsteps". For when Francesco diPietrodi Ber-nardone was born, in 1182, at Assisi inUmbria, the peninsula wastorn withstrifePope foughtEmperor, Guelph foughtGhibelline,bourgeois fought noble and city foughtcity.The man who was laterto found a great religious orderwhose first

rule was povertywas bornrich.His father, PietrodiBernardone, wasa wealthy cloth merchant, and with his good looks, his riches and hisromantic notions of chivalry, acquired from the chansons of theFrench troubadours, Francesco soon became the acknowledged leaderof the worldly young blades of Assisi.Thirsting for knightly adventure, in 1202 he took part in the war

between Assisi and Perugia but was taken prisoner at the battle ofP onte San G iovanni at which Assisi suffered a crushing defeat. Released a year laterhe became seriously ill, buton his recovery he set out,in 1205, to join the papal army. This journeywas to be his "road toDamascus". H e had got no farther than Spoleto when he had avision inwhich he was instructed to return to Assisi and await a callto another form of knighthood.

On his return to Assisi, in preparation for this call, he devotedhimselftoprayerandsolitude. Hemade a pilgrimageto Rome wherehe experiencedpovertyat firsthand, mingling with beggars and himselfbegging for alms.The call which he had been so patiently awaiting came to himat

the ruined chapelofSan Damiano on the outskirtsofAssisi. One daya voice fromthe crucifixabove the altarcommanded him: "Go Francisand repairmyruinedhouse". Takingthese words literally, he returnedhome, took as much cloth from his father's shop as he could loadonto his horse and rode to Foligno where he sold bothclothand horse.On his return he tried to give the money to the priest of San Da

miano, but his enraged father hauled him first before the civilauthorities and then before the bishop. Before the startled prelate'seyes he stripped offhis clothingwhich he handed to his father saying, "Until today I called PietrodiBernardonemyfather;henceforthI can truly say: Our Fatherwhich art in heaven". Whereupon theastonished bishop gave him a cloak to cover his nakedness and heset off to live in the forests ofMount Subasio. 'With family ties broken and materialgoods renounced hewas free

to devote himselftoGod'swork. Dressed nowinrough hermit's garbhe set about restoring first the chapel at San Damiano and then thechapel ofSanta Maria degli Angeli, known because of its small size

24


25/36

If Saint Francis came to callWould the message of the 'seraphic saint'be heeded in the modern industrial world?

by Carlo Bo

F rancis enters itso as to reinforce his desireto fightagainsthimself, againsteverythingwhich might give him a moment of tranquility, a breathing-space, oblivion.It is clear that, broached in this fashion,

our hypothetical conversation offers nopossibility ofmutual understanding, theSaintcontinuingtowalkthehighways andbyways of theworld (certainly in anotherform, dressed differently, and with the faceof an asocial, marginal figure condemnedby a society that excludes him). And yetthe first words he pronounces in our

imagination and across centuries ofCatholic tradition are simply these: "thespirit of poverty."The very principle of our economy is in

contradictionwith theevangelical idealofSaint Francis. It is not fornothing that hisdiscourse is centred on negation: not topossess, notto hold, notto accept. We areimpelled to give, to render what we giveacceptable and to discover thosewho arepoorer than ourselves.The theme oftrue happiness is precise

lythis: happy and serene is themanwho.

stranded farfromhome ona stormynight,knocks n vainatthe doorof the convent.Saint Francis makes of this domesticparable themain instrumentof his geniusfor spiritual individuationman finds hissalvation in theverymomentthattheworldabandons him.In the depths ofmisfortune, continues

the disconcerting Saint Francis, thistrouble-makerwehavewelcomed intoourhome, we discover the unique sign ofsalvation. For the Saint hope does notcome from us or fromanyotherman, but

Saint Francis' love of nature has come to betypified by the story of how he exhorted hisfriends the birds to sing the praises ofGod. Heregarded nature as the mirror of God and hissense ofbrotherhood which extended not only to his fellowmen but to all God's creaturesfound expression in his famous C ntico difratesole (Canticle ofBrother Sun). This poem is notonly one of the most beautiful in Italianliterature, it is a lso one of the first to be written in the vernacular. Until the 13th centuryalmost all Italian literary work was written inecclesiasticalLatin.When SaintFranciswrotethe Cntico In 1225, not long beforehis death,he pointed the way to such men as GuidoCavalcanti and Guido Guinlzell i towards the"dolce S til novo", the "sweet new style" ofpoetry whose praises Dante sang in the DivineComedy. Left, Graham Faulkner as Saint Francis in Franco Zeffirelli's film F rancis and theWay to the Sun.

Photo Tlrama, P aris

as the P orziuncola, which was later to become the centre ofthe Franciscan Order.There, on the feastofStMatthias, on February 24, 1208, he heardthewords from the Gospel with which Christ sent forth his apostles:

"Provideneither gold, nor silver, nor brass in your purses, nor scripforyour journey,- neither two coats, neither shoes, nor yet staves, fortheworkman is worthy ofhis meat. And into whatsoever city or townye shall enter, enquire who in it is worthy; and there abide until yego thence."At last themeaning and purpose ofhis life seemed crystalclear. Although not an ordained priest, he began preaching to hisfellow townsmen, quickly attracting around him a band ofdisciples.On April 16, 1209, the rule oflifehe had drawn up forthem receivedpapal sanction and the great adventure ofthe Franciscan Order waslaunched.Women, too, flocked to joinhim and three years later he founded

for them a second order that came to be known as the Poor C laresafter his firstwoman adherent C lare Offreduccio, a noblewomanofAssisi. F inally, in 1221 , he formed the Third Order ofBrothers andS istersofPenance, a lay fraternity for those who,withoutwithdrawing from the world or taking religious vows, wished to follow the principles of Franciscan life.Meanwhile the men's order had grown rapidly and was no longer

confined to Italy. In 1212 F rancis had set out for the Holy Land butwas shipwrecked in the Adriatic and was forced to return home. In1219 he went to Egypt where the crusaders were besieging Damietta,

and is said to have entered the Saracen camp and preached beforethe sultan.Illhealth, which was to dog him for the restofhis life, forced himto abandon projected visits to France and Spain. Besides, his presence

was needed in Italy where the continual growth of the men's ordermade amplification and revision ofthe rule ofthe order imperative.The new and final version of the Franciscan rule was approved byPope Honorius III in November 1223.Exhausted by his many illnesses, which he called his "sisters" and

the many penances he inflicted on "BrotherAss the body", Francisfelt the need to withdraw from the external affairs ofthe order andin the summer of 1224 he wentwith three companions to the mountain retreat ofLa Verna, not far fromAssisi. Here, as he prayed onthe Feastof the Exaltationof the Cross, he saw a visionofa seraphwith six wings. When the vision faded he found that his body borethe stigmata, the marks of the wounds ofC hrist, on his hands, feetand side.As Christmas approached Francis returned to the P orziuncola and,

despite constant il lness and near blindness, he spent the firstmonthsof the year 1225 riding throughout Umbria on a donkey preachingto the people.Withhis eye conditionworsening his companions tookhim to Rieti formedical treatment which proved unsuccessful. Then,after a brief stay in Siena, he was brought home to Assisi where, onOctober 3, 1226, he died at the P orziuncola. In 1228 hewas canonized a saint by Pope Gregory IX.

25


26/36

fromGod who assigns us mysterious tasksand has us encountertragic conditions onourway through life. Grace is nota reward,it is only the promise of a reward, ofsalvation, the promise that our terrorwillbe transformed into joy and jubilation.Our poorman, or, more accurately, the

poormanas we like to imaginehimand dealwith him, is a completelypassive being.Wemollycoddle the poorman,we sendhimtosleep, we do everythingwe can to relievehim of his moth-eaten coat of glory. Wegive himsomething in thehope thathe willmove on, and we even vouchsafe him afew words of advice so that he won'tdisturb our tranquillity. Saint Francis, onthecontrary, sees the poorman as a king,

Our lives, such as wehave lived and areliving them, would appearto give the lie tothe dream and the realityof Saint F rancisand suggestthatthenatural character, normality and enormous importance of ourtemptations constitute basic proof ofthevanity and laughable character of SaintFrancis'dream, thedreamof fraternity andof peace through fraternity.Hereinwe find one ofthemostdisturb

ing and atthe same time splendid aspectsof the Franciscanwanderings the cleartendency to rebellion in the saint, thetendency to defer obedience to his ownconvictions. Itwould have been easy forhimto place himselfatthe head ofa movementwhich challengedthe "SignorPapa"

Saint J ohnEvangelist andFrancis of Assisi,Greco (earlycentury). .

theSaintby E l17th

P hoto Anderson-Giraudon,Pa ris. Prado Museum, Madrid

Saint Francis and SaintDominic. Detail from aseries of frescoespainted by BenozzoGozzoll between 1450and 1459 in thechurchof Saint Fortunatus atMontefalco, Umbra.

and his own bishop. But itwas in this verycontextthatSaintFrancis understood thattruth is indissociable from obedience andthat obedience is very similar to the nightof stormand cold, a chastisingexperiencewhoseultimategoal is the recuperationofliberty. It is important to note, however,that the obedience is not of a purelymechanical kind, nor can itbe replaced bya facile escapism; it is an obedience, rather, .which takes its toll in tears and blood.Thegreatstory ofChristianityhas been

writtenwith this obedience as its main instrument, as Saint F rancis, with his fearofheresy and the tempting spirit of contradiction, was well aware. Nor, for thatmatter,did he hesitate to bind his brothers to ascrupulous observance ofevangelical principles and theteachings oftheChurch. Thesuspicion of theologyarose from the ideathatcarnal pride could returnto ourheartsas the result of uncontrolled speculation.Whatgreater sacrifice could one askof

a man than that of submitting to theeradicationofhis own intelligence? We feelthat God gave us our brains to use in anywaywechoose. SaintFrancis, ontheotherhand, absolutely denies this. For him theintelligence is only a means of increasingthe love of God, and should be placed atthe disposal of whoever has been calledupon to act as our guide.The precepts and recommendations

which his voice carries to us from that lostcenturyhave been tacitlyavoided, silenced, for a long time fromthe moment, infact, thatmanbegan lookingtohisown interest and seeking an equilibrium whichchance, our capacity for adaptation, andthe illusion of being alone in the world,appear to have made possible. We havestifled or, for the moment, we appear tohave stifled the cry of Cain, that very crythat Saint F rancis strove to banish fromourdaily lives.Why render an account of ouracts, why renounce the spirit of liberty,whymake ofobedience the verygateway

as thethornthatmakes our fleshbleed and,above all, as the face of truth.In elaborating his teachings of love by

contrasts, Saint Francis advances thespiritualmeaningofpovertyone stage further. He who hates us is a powerful figure,resembling us yetmenacing ourpropertyarea, trying to take from us our part ofpower, of glory, of ambition. And SaintFrancis tells us thatweshould love him asourselves, as ifthis richman was in realitya poverty-stricken individual, as if in the image of this victor we could discover theface of the beaten and insulted Christ.It might be conjectured that God sent

Saint Francis into this world in thefootsteps ofChristin ordertooffer us onemore demonstration that the Gospels extol a utopia. And this affords us theopportunityto formulate a firstobjectionto SaintFrancis and to J esus: why preach thingswhich are so arduous, so difficult n factas to be next to impossible to implement,and which two thousandyearsofworldexperience has shown to be soifnot totally, at least in part?

26


27/36

to prayer? Saint Francis asked and continues to ask much of us without everspeaking to us ofwhatwewill be given inexchange. At most he promises us"perfect happiness", something thatnobody believes in these days. Like theChrist of the Gospels, the Saint does notlay before us hard and fast rules of salvation nor does he conjure up in ouranguishedminds themirageofgardens ofenchantment;weare merely men pointingoutto othermenterrestrial paradiseswhichwith time have come to form a single"Eden" where everything is fulfilled inmurder and the exaltation of visibleconquests.The strain ofmadness in Saint Francis'

preaching does notstrike oraffectus as itstruck and affected his contemporaries,completely taken aback as theywere byhis desire todispossess and stripclean.Theeffect on those who saw and heard himpreach in the streetsand squareswasoneof fury: he was at odds with the socialmodel of his time. As to us, we do notremember him, we have eliminated him.Whatwasmadness, themadness ofGod,is today a curiosity. But perhaps weexaggerate. If he has remained in ourmemory for seven hundred years and if,from Dante up to the latest'writers whofromtimetotime have felttempted to rein-voke his spirit, Saint Francis has appealedto our intelligence, it is because his path,temporarily dropped from our itineraries,is not yet closed.Will Saint F rancis return? For the mo

mentweare limited to fantasizing concerning this possibility, to turningthequestionupsidedown in the formofan hypothesis:should he return. If he returns, ifone dayhe knocks on our paperdoor,whatwill filterthrough the unending stream of othernews, of other messages? How will wejudge him and what will he himself findmost surprising?When Saint Francis knocks atour door

(and this happens much more frequentlythanwe suppose),weonlyhalf open it;weadmithis legend into ourhomes and leavehis truths outside his patience, his pardon, his love. In the final analysis it is thatlove alone that joins and reunites us a ll.Whydowe leave his truthof loveoutside?Simply because we are incapable of thislove; the regime of consumerism, usuryand exploitation, the rule ofdo utdes (I givethatyou maygive) and the philosophy oflife which follows from it, have as theirprimary objective the spirit of love, this"good"thatwe inscribe on our standardsbutwhich in realitywedo notrespect. This"good" is only forus and we do all we canto obtain it and to improve iton the practical level. But, as Saint F rancis saw, it isnever the good of others.Saint F rancis has lost, in the same way

that his dreams of a human communityfreed from the harsh laws of economicshave notprevailed. The efforts which havebeen made in other continents and whichhave been inspired by his more generousambitions belong to written historyand itis unlikely that they will manifestthemselves again in written form. Industrialized societies have increased thefactors of social contrast which wereknown in the time ofSaintFrancis, but letus not forget that he foresaw the importance of the problem and in his own waysucceeded in breaking itdown to its rootcauses.

Carlo Bo

jrrwas tall, raw-boned, emaciated; oneof thosemenwhoseskeletonsJ L J L seem visible through theflesh-like Don Quixote to whom he dedicated hisautobiographyandfor whom he reserveda special cornerofhis heart as the embodiment of the ideal man. Yet despite hisphysicalsimilarity to and loveof"TheManfromLaMancha", Wifredo Lam was notSpanish; he was a man of the tropics, aCaribbean, a Cuban to his fingertips.Lam was born in 1902 at Sagua La

Grande, Cuba, in the heart of a regionwhose long and determinanthistoryofintermingling of peoples and cultures hasmade it, in Lam's own words, "aprivileged geographicalcross-roads, both a meetingpointand apointofdeparture". Byhis birthLam inherited thefourbasic elemen tsoftheCaribbean ethnic intermix:African, European and Indian, from his mother, andChinese, from his father.After starting his study ofpainting in

Havana, Lam set out, in 1923, for Spainwhere he was to spend a crucialperiodofhislife. "When Iarrived inMadrid", Lamrecounted later, "I was like a countrybumpkin who had seen nothing. Myfirstvisit to the Prado was a revelation ". Somethirteen years later, in 1936 and 1937, heplayed an active role in the defence ofMadridagainstFranco 'sforces, andat theend of1937 he moved to P aris.Soon afterhis arrival in Paris Lammet

P icasso who introduced him to AndrBreton and otherfigures of the surrealistmovementwith which he was from then onclosely associated. Lam's encounter withP icasso and the surrealists was to have adecisive impact on his work which was tobe moulded by the twin influences of theEuropean intellectual and artistic avant-garde and his deeply implanted Caribbeanroots. It was not long before this fusionfoundmaterialexpression in thefirstofhismajor works.In 1941, fleeing the Nazi invaders, Lam

shippedoutofMarseilles withseveralofhisP arisianfriends. In 942 he reachedHavanawhere the rediscovery, after an absence ofeighteen years, ofhis native land and the .Blackcultureinto which he had been borngalvanized his artistic imagination. In

WifredoLam1902-1982

1943 he completed his famous painting TheJ ungle (see the Unesco Courier, December1981) in which the imagery and thesyncreticcult myths of Cuba (African animism-Spanish Catholicism) found expressionthrough European avant-gardeformswithsuch imagination and explosive force thatitprovoked an uproar when exhibited inNew York that same year.Lamremained in Cuba until 1952, when

he returned to P aris which he was to makehis permanent home. He continued,however, tomakefrequenttrips tohis nativeCuba, especially after the 1959 revolutionofwhich he had been afirmsupporterfromthestart.By this time hispaintings had earnedhim

a worldwide reputation and each new workenhancedhisposition as one ofthegreatartists ofan awakening Third World and asthe voice of its oppressed and neglectedcultures. Through themagicofhis imagination the universe of the occult and themysterious took on colour and shape,becoming aware ofthe factofits own existence. Referring to The J ungle, theF renchwriterAlainJ ouffroywrote that "itwasthefirstartistic revolutionary declaration ofaThird World that already, itwould seem,perceived the need to place all cultures ona common footing, and an augury ofanawakening to this need on a worldscale...The J ungle affirmed that there were no insuperable incompatibilities betweenpeoplesand that they areall intimately interlinked. "Indeed, though Lam was a Caribbean and

aman ofthe New World, he also belongedto theOld World. The upsurgeoftheAfro-Cuban heritage in the works of Lam'smaturityoccurredprecisely because the verynatureofthe adventureoftwentieth-centuryE uropean art (we recall the discovery of"primitive"African art by Matisse andP icasso) had made itpossible. Mestizo inhis origins, Lam was mestizo in his art, aquality that brought to his works adynamism thatkept itinperpetualfermentrightto the endand imbued itwith the richjoyousness ofthe adventureofCaribbeanand modern art.Wifredo Lam died thisyearin P aris under

a bright September sky.Francisco Fernndez-Santos


28/36

Szymanowskia great composer rediscovered

byjerzy Waldorff

and Arab music (which he discoveredwhile travelling inAfrica). But he soonfound his ownway, essentially Polish ininspiration.After his journey to Africa

SzymanowskivisitedParis ontheeve ofthe FirstWorldWarwhere hemetC laudeDebussy, and Londonwhere he made theacquaintance of Igor Stravinsky. Asdescribed, notwithout humour, in Ar-tur Rubinstein's memoirs, the meetingwith the outwardly cold and aloofS travinsky was not a success! ThenSzymanowski returned home by one ofthe last trains inthe summerof 1914. As

GREAT creative artists and theirworks often have a chequeredfate. Vivaldi's music was only

discovered two centuries after its composer's death. Van Gogh, like manyother painters, lived inpoverty; today hispaintings are valued a t millions ofdollars. In some cases outstandingcreators are celebrated during theirlifetimebutaftertheirdeath theirworksare temporarily and unjustly consignedto oblivion. This has been the fate ofKarol Szymanowski, who was considered to be one of the great Europeancomposers in the 1930s.Szymanowski was born on 3 October

1882 inthe little townofTimoszowka onthe border of the Ukraine and Podolia.It is a matter ofcoincidence that J osephConrad (JozefKorzeniowski) the greatEnglish writer of Polish origin, thefamous pianist and statesman IgnacyP aderewski, and the noted twentieth-century Polish writer J aroslavIvaszkiewicz were all born in this sameregion ofPoland. Two famous women,Balzac's great love Ewelina Hanska, andKarolina Ivanowska (later the princess ofWittgenstein)whowas the inspirationofFranz Liszt, also came from the samearea.

S zymanowski had the good fortunetobe born into a familywhich was deeplyinterested in the theatre, literature andabove allmusic. Theydidnotstand intheway ofhis vocation and allowedhimtostudy inWarsaw where he made friendswith the pianistArturRubinstein and theviolinistPawel Kochans. These brilliantperformers later became the mostfaithful champions of S zymanowski'sworks inEuropeand the United S tates.Initially Szymanowskiwas influenced

by Chopin and Scriabin. In 1902 hisS tudy in B Flat, which P aderewski included inhis repertoire,made himinternationally known. After 1906 his sym-J ERZY WALDORFF, Polish essayistandcritic,is Vice-Chairman of the Music Council of the.PolishMinistry ofCulture. He is the authorofseveral books on music including twomonographs on Karol Szymanowski.

Left to right, Grzegorz Fitelberg, KarolSzymanowski and Artur Rubinstein, In Vienna, in1912.

phonic work's began to be played by theorchestras ofWarsaw, Berlin and Vienna. In accordance with the traditionalpractice of that time, an ambitiouspatron and man of taste, PrinceWladislawLubomirski, offeredhimthehospitality of his palace in Vienna andrecommended him to the "UniversalEdition"publishing housewhichwas topublishallhis works except forthe balletHarnasie, the Fourth Symphonie Concertante, and the Second ViolinConcerto,whichappeared under the imprintofthe Paris house ofMax E schig.Szymanowski's compositions between

1906 and 1910 reflected his enthusiasmfor the work of Max Reger, RichardS trauss, the impressionismofDebussy,

theguns began to thunder intheWest hewas grippedby a fever ofcreativity andbegan toproduce a flowofmajorworks.His FirstViolinConcerto, inspired by

the Polish poet Tadeusz Micinski'sMaySong, is a hymn to love which .rises,against a background of inexpressibleanguish. The Third S ymphony (TheSong of the Night) for orchestra, tenorand choir, is quite different; written towords by the great Pers ian Sufi poetRumi (13th century AD) this .giganticwork evokes the heaving of the oceanthrough its rich canvas of sound, andculminates inameditationborderingonecstasy: "God and I are alone..."Mity (Myths)are a suite forviolin and

28


29/36

piano, the best-known piece being thedemanding Foun tain ofArethusa. On hisway to Africa Szymanowski had spentsome time inSicily, still imbued with theheritage of ' 'greater G reece" , and wherehe discovered Antiquity. TheMyths area reflection of this revelation.

After the TreatyofVersailles the composer and his family returned fromE lisavetgrad, where they had moved in1 9 17, to a Polandreborn. After 1920 hisworks increasingly drew inspiration fromfolklore songs, dances, fiddler's im-provizations, especially those of the

sobriquet, "romantic of modernity",was fully deserved. As time went by,however, his technique became increasingly refined and rigorous. HisoratorioStabatMater, universallyconsidered tobe a masterpiece, was producedwhen hewas at the height of his powers.S zymanowski's growing authoritywas

recognized when he was appointed directorofthe Warsawconservatory in 1 927,but the envy of some of his fellow-musicians and government intrigues ledhim to resign in 1932. This was a blowfrom which he never recovered. ButSzymanowski did not need direct

mountain-dwellers of the Tatra massif.But when he introduces popularmelodiesand the rhythms of peasant dances intosuch compositions as the oratorio S tabatMater, the ballet Harnasie, and theFourth Symphonie Concertante,S zymanowski uses the same freedom andorchestral refinement as a Prokofiev, aBartok or a Stravinsky.He rarely abandoned the tonal system.

In his rare atonal experiments he wentclose to the serialwritingofSchoenberg,withouthowever employing a completetwelve-tone system. He was attachedabove all to the originality of melodiclines and to their scintillation and clat,wishing to express in music the profoundand unchanging feelings ofmankind. His

Poster for the highlypraised 1936 P aris performance ofSzymanowski's balletHarnasie which hadreceived its premire inPrague the previousyear. In HarnasieSzymanowski useddirect quotations fromfolk music colouredwith echoes of Tatramountain airs.

Photos Polish Institute, Paris

classroom contact in order to influencesuch musicians as Grazyna Bacewicz,Witold Lutoslawski, Tadeusz BairdandKrzysztofP enderecki. Although at timesthey resisted Szymanowski's "romanticism" these young artists neverthelessprofited fromthe lessons taughtthembythework of their older contemporary.

While the master was encounteringdifficulties inhis own country, elsewherehis successes were bringinghimrecognition as a leading figure in E uropeanmusic. In 1929 he was awarded the Orderof the Italian Crown and in the following year he became a member of theP rague Academyof Sciences and Arts.In 1931 he was awarded the French

Legion of Honour, and became anhonorarymember of the InternationalSociety for Contemporary Music, towhich R ichard S trauss, Manuel de F alla,Maurice R avel, Stravinsky, Bla Bartokand others also belonged.Between 1924 and 1926

Szymanowski's First Violin Concertowas performed by such musicians asS ampigny in P aris, P awel Kochanski inNew Y ork, S tokowski and Huberman inVienna. Between 1929 and 1937, theS tabatMaterwas sung inNaples, Vienna, Brussels, P aris, Klagenfurt,Warsaw,New York,Dusseldorfand Chicago. TheballetHarnasiewas performedbetween1935 and 1937 in a concertante versionin Cleveland and New York, and danced inP rague, Paris, Belgrade andHamburg. Szymanowski himself was thesoloistwhen his FourthSymphonieConcertante forpiano and orchestrawas performed in Copenhagen, Moscow,Amsterdam, Bucharest, Stockholm,Paris and London.S zymanowski's last great success also

brought him great distress. In 1936 hisballet Harnasie was staged at the P arisOpera to choreography by Serge Lifarwho danced the principalrole. The criticsunanimously showered praise on thecomposer. Unfortunately, a few daysafter theopeningnight, a fire broke outin thecorridors and theballethadto betransferred to the Thtre des ChampsE lyses. But there were no offers of further performances.In 1937 Szymanowski died of tuber

culosis, an illness he had contracted inchildhood and onewhichwas at thattimeoften incurable.Two years later the SecondWorldWar

unleashed by Hitler swept throughEurope, destroyingPoland and erasingthe greatmusician's name frommemory.Then, with the returnofpeace a certainavant-garde which was in some casesmore attached to tradition than to innovationslowed downthe rediscoveryofa composer who, formerly dubbed a"romantic" had inthe meantime becomea "classic" because of the vigour andbeauty of his art.In spring 1975 Szymanowski's opera

KingRoger was staged at Sadlers WellsinLondonbytheNewOperaCompany.Itwas a triumphant success and set offa chain reaction, with more and moreperformances ofKing Roger being puton invarious parts oftheworld.A recentexample: Szymanowski'sopera scored atriumph at the Teatro Coln in BuenosAires in autumn 1981.The centenary of Szymanowski's

birth, inscribed onUnesco'sworldcalendarofanniversaries, is a fittingmomentto contribute to the revivalofhis musicin a worldwhichmore than ever standsin need of the beauty and peace whichmusic can bring.

29


30/36

Bharati,poet and patriot

by K. Swaminathan

INDIA is celebrating this year thecentenary of Subramania Bharati(1882-1921), whomTamils regard

as a Mahakavi (Great Poet) andAmarakavi(ImmortalPoet), and whomhistorians regard as one of the mostauthentic voices ofmodern India proclaiming theunityofthenation, its passionate longing for freedom and thehumancry foruniversal brotherhood. Inhis brief working life of two decades,Bharati, as journalist, poet and patriot,brought about a revolution in Tamilliteratureand inthe thinkingofthe Tamilpeople. He combined profoundknowledge of and admiration for theeternal elements in the ancient Tamiltraditionwith a forward-lookingacceptance of the ideal ofhumanunity. Thushe broughtTamil prose andpoetry intoclose contactwith contemporaryrealitybyusing the language ofcommon speechinhis songs and poems dealingwith current topics like indentured labour, therape of Belgium, the great RussianRevolution and the demand fornationalintegration and real Swaraj(independence).Subramania was born on December

11,1882, inEttayapuram inTirunelvelidistrictof the then Madras P residency.His fatherChinnaswami Iyer was in theservice of the local Zamindar or chieftain. Subramanian'smother died whenhe was an infant. The father wished hisfirst son to become an English-educatedofficer or engineer. But the boy tooklittle interest in such "bread-winning"studies and failed inthematriculation examination at the end of his high schoolcourse.

But even during school days he hadcreated a stir among students andteachers by his spontaneous gift of versification. At 15 , he wasmarriedto 7 yearold Chellammal. Hewas then providedthe sinecure job of reading dailynewspapers to the local chieftain. Aboutthis time the title "Bharati" was conferred onhimby a gathering of poets at acourt function. Henceforth, literary

K . SWAMINATHAN, Indian educatorand journalist, has been since 1960 chiefeditorof the"Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi", theGovernment of India's project to publish amulti-volume edition of Mahatma Gandhi'swritings and speeches.

Subramania Bharatiwith his wife.

Photo Information and PublicRelations Department, Government of Tamil Nadu, Madras.

circles knew himas SubramaniaBharatir just "Bharati" (embodiment ofSaraswati, Goddess of learning).This idyll in his home-townwas short

lived. Within a year, his father passedaway, leaving the familyinstraitened circumstances. Bharatimoved toVaranasito be with his aunt there. The two yearshe spent in Varanasi brought about agreat change inhis outer personalityandinner vision; he gained a soundknowledge of Sanskrit, Hindi andEnglish;passedwithcreditthe EntranceExamination of the Allahabad University; and read and enjoyed the EnglishRomantic poets, especially Shelley.Insearchofa livelihood, Bharatiwent

back to Ettayapuram in 1901, where hetaughtTamil ina high school fora short

period. When Bharati was 22, he cameinto contact with G.Subramania Iyer,editor ofa leadingTamildaily , SwadesaMithran, published from Madras. Theyoung man was invited to join the dailyas a sub-editor. His fluency and facilityas a translator enabled himto bring tothe Tamil public the inspired utterancesof Swami Vivekananda, AurobindoGhose and Bal Gangadhar Tilak. Soonthe rebel in Bharati drew him into thevortex ofIndianpolitics. Hi's originalarticles in his inimitable style espousing' 'extremism" were read widely. The nextand final step was the transformation ofTamil poetry by Bharati's use of his;unique lyrical power for the expression iofmodern ideas forrousing the pride and Ipatriotismof the people.

30


31/36

Detail from a bronze sculpture representing the9th-ceiitury Saivite poet and mystic Manik-kavacakar and dating from about950 AD. Asa Desifca, or supreme teacher, Manikkavacakaris always por

unesco courier - war on war poeme 074796eo

Documents