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

PLASprNing 2E015 - T#02 Ayyapa Paniker Basir Ashang, Joy Harjo, Dinah Roma KING NEZAHUALCÓYOTL Roque Dalton Fernando Rendon Roque Dalton Alejandro Murguía Ataol Behramoglu Juan Manuel Roca A World Poetry Movement Edition WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 2

ALEJANDRO MURGUIA JOY HARJO

KING NEZAHUALCÓYOTL

ROQUE DALTON

FERNANDO REND óN JUAN MANUEL ROCA

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

Poetry Planet #02 Spring 2015 E-edition of World Poetry Movement www.wpm2011.org Editor: Dinos Siotis, Athens, Greece - [email protected] Designed by Nektarios Lambropoulos, Patras, Greece - [email protected] WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 3

ATAOL BEHRAMOGLU BASIR ASHANG Ayyappa Paniker Dinah Roma

ooking at this map of the world, place. This map isn’t another geography we see a combination of earth, tool but a guide for the reader and poetry water, ice, desert and space. Some lover. Every place asks for a poet’s name. Lof us try to find the place we live, others Poetry Planet will give some names in just have glimpses of countries they ’ve every issue. Reading is always a voyage to visited. At World Poetry Movement, we different places and time zones. Let us can see something beyond that: people travel together in poetry. Poetically. And from all over the world writing and read - in every other way. Because, as Gabriela ing poetry in many languages. With words Mistral put it, “what the soul is for the and images. Some practice poetry. With body, is the poet for his people”. And be - voices anEd movementsD. With spirit in IcaTuse we want toO be ahead of the news. WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 4

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Ayyappa Paniker, Malayalam Poets (1930-2006) by K Satchidanandan WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 5

s a poet Paniker was the very ent from the other. ‘Mrityupooja’(The embodiment of the spirit of Hymn to Death), ‘Kudumbapuranam’ Modernism in Malayalam. (The Family Saga), ‘Pakalukal, Rathrikal’ HisA‘Kurukshetram(1960) was the scream (‘Days,Nights)‘Passage to America’, of a mind torn by the contradictions of ‘Gopikadandakam’ , Ivide Jeevitam our time. Arjuna here is not the character (Here, life) and ‘Gotrayanam’ are perhaps in Mahabharata who is assuaged and his most outstanding works. In the long guided into battle by the eloquence of Kr - poem ‘Gotrayanam’ Paniker returns to ishna, but the lonely, inconsolable human his racial roots and recreates history in being who inherits the central dilemmas the form of a journey while ‘Days, Nights’ of his age- of hubris and of the hatred, vi - and ‘The Passage to America’ are se - olence, poverty, estrangement from na - quence poems that deal with the many ture and the war that it breeds. He does contradictions of life in the U. S. where , not trust the truths of religion or ideology at Indiana, Paniker had spent some years any more as both have led to senseless pursuing his postdoctoral research. bloodshed. He finds that the bodhi and ‘Kudumbapuranam’ deals, with his char - the cross are redundant if only we will just acteristic irony ,with the history of his own become human and rise on our own family in Kuttanad in Kerala. ‘Ivide Jeevi - navels. ‘Kurukshetram’ was a break- tam’(Here, Life) is a gathering of his ex - through in terms of form and structure periences during his tour to Russia and too. The poet mixed meters, took free - East Europe in a sequence of poems, one doms with them , coined new expressions of his favourite forms, used in all his and created fresh, often sur-real, images travel poems.His dark satires during the like the ripe corpses waiting to wake up in years of the Emergency in India revealed cradles. The poem had also a sprinkling the conscientious objector in Paniker of black humour and irony like when the while his sarcastic poems on power and poet asks, do the world banks hold the corrruption as well as his series of ‘Car - key to truth ,or,who will cook and serve toon Poems’ and ‘The Tales of the Ma - the new Veda, does it need to be fried harajah’ used irony as a weapon to fight with mustard? Kurukshetram’ fascinated evil and as a new tool to comprehend the the readres of my generation who were tragi-comic human condition.He went on waiting for something new, free from the renewing himself all through his poetic cliches of romantic poetry while it an - career that resulted in the astounding for - gered the champions of the status quo mal variety of his poetry. He tried San - who rejected it as unpoetic gibberish.The skrit metres, the metre of the kathakali poet-editor of the famous Mathrubhumi verse and of the tullal verse, various Dra - Weekly returned the manuscript to the vidian metres, free verse patterns and naughty youngster and it was then picked prose of different kinds and tones. The up by C. N. Sreekantan Nair, a modern range of his verbal resources and cultural playwright who at that time used to edit registers was equally astounding. He liber - the weekly Desabandhu. ‘Kurukshetram’ ated the art of poetry from its orthodox was followed by many others , each differ - confines giving the posterity a range of WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 6

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formal possibilities and plenty of experi - committed teacher and a wonderful com - mental space. municator, always abreast of the develop - While editing Kerala Kavita Paniker ments in world literature and literary also kept writing and translating and edit - theory. His translations of the poems of ing many serieof books.The four volumes Mayakovsky , poems from Cuba, Raja of Medieval Indian Literature he edited Rao’s Cat and Shakespeare and Jean for the Sahitya Akademi is an exemplary Toomer’s Sugar cane are great examples collection while he also edited the Com - of translation of poetry and prose. plete Works of Shakespeare and a series Ayyappa Paniker was also an excellent of 1 20 world classics in Malayalam trans - speaker, clear-headed, cogent in his argu - lation. He was nominating editor for ments, lyrical in his expressiveness and al - Katha, Delhi and consulting editor for ways witty and original in his insights into The Journal of South Asian Literature, authors, texts and issues.He was also in - Michigan (of which two issues were en - terested in theatre, both classical and tirely devoted to Malayalm writing )be - modern and was an inspiration behind sides many other literary publications. Margi, an organisation to promote Paniker also edited a series of mono - kathakali and classical arts. He also en - graphs in English on the English Writers couraged New Drama in Malayalam , es - of Kerala.His books on Thakazhi pecially its pioneers like G. Sankara Pillai Sivasankarapillai , V. K. Krishna Menon, and Kavalam Narayana Paniker and was a Vallathol and Sardar K. M. Paniker, his chief force behind the Nataka Kalari- a short works like A Short History of modern theatre workshop- established by Malayalam Literature,Indian Renaissance C. N. Sreekantan Nair, another major and Indian English Literature ,his literary playwright.He wrote articles not only articlescollected in three volumes, his about poetry, but on fiction, theatre, cin - books on Indian poetics, especially the ema , acting and aesthetics too, many of one on the principle of antassannivesam which are yet to be collected.This is also that Paniker distinguishes from intertextu - true about his essays in English still lying ality- all these are monuments to his stu - scattered in various journals across the pendous scholarship and profound grasp world. Paniker never went after awards of the different traditions of literature and and recognitions, yet he won most of the poetics. His collections of poetry in Eng - major Indian awards for literature, includ - lish translation, The Poems of Ayyappa ing the Sahitya Akademi Award, Bhilwara paniker, Days, Nights and I can’t help Award from the Bharatiya Bhasha Blossoming that bring together poems se - parishad, Gangadhar Meher Award, lected from his four volumes in Malay - Kabir Samman and Saraswati Samman, alam besides the last published collection, not to speak of the many poetry awards Pathumanippookkal, are a good introduc - he won in Kerala.He accepted them with tion to his poetry for the non- Malayali humility, the sole exception being the readers.His students remember him as a Vayalar Award, the most popular award WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 7 WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 8

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for literature in Kerala which he refused, power do not need analysis; those who probably as it came to him too late.He have not known its force have no use for was never tempted by power of any kind it. The best method is to know creation and politely refused an invitation to be through creation. All good poems are the the Vice Chancellor of a University in result of a divine union so that each poem Kerala.His works have been translated is obscure, yet each will have a dim halo into all the major languges of India be - around it To reveal the sources of the in - sides several forein languages like French spiration of poetry is even more difficult and Spanish. than writing a poem; what the poet can do Ayyappa Paniker was one of India’s is only to speak about his state of mind or best cultural ambassadors to the world the circumstances of his life when he outside as he knew not only the new, but wrote a poem..... the classical as well. He was all for the ....Whatever claims a poet may make, modern, but had deep appreciation for no poet can do beyond the limits of his the tradition, especially its elements that genius. Even trying to do the best within would inspire new invention in art and lit - one's ability is no child's play. It is also erature.With his loss, India has lost a wrong to assume that poetry for a poet is unique genius, an integrated human being circumscribed or defined by a single equally at home and equally creative in poem. It goes on bubbling, surging and diverse fields of art and knowledge. overflowing into the next poem. There is an often invisible relationship between PANIKER ON POETRY one poem and another. Only the poet will be anxious about the poems not yet All creation carries a seed of mystery. written, the reader is ignorant of it. Can The creation of poetry is also a mysteri - we say that each poem is but one incarna - ous process. Even the poet may not know tion of poetic creativity? If so how many its secret. What happens in each poem is incarnations does poetry have! a divine birth where human and superhu - Kurukshetram (Part three and part man powers come together unexpectedly five) yet inevitably as if predetermined in some Tell me, Sanjaya, what my sons and unknown fashion. By the time the poet's the sons of Pandu did, energy or vitality gets transformed into the when they gathered on the sacred field poem, the same radiating energy kills a of Kurukshetra part of the poet. The birth of a poem is a eager for battle memorial to that destruction, that partial The Bhagavad Gita death. It is doubtful whether this creative power can ever be analyzed and under - There stood by the destructive acts of simple where the horizon dips, reason. Those who have known that hurled out of the bowels of the steam - WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 9

ing Void, sanctified by ritualistic lore, awake 0 star trembling in the cerulean down the cool gleams of vestal lamps blue! trickles the voice of human grief: Quicken the flow of blood and the Give us our happiness, oh Lord! beat of the pulse. Give us our happiness, 0 star in love with life, cast your gaze on the earth beneath, These acute geometrical spike-like sweep your glance on this stage spires where we ply our mortal lot! of church and mosque and temple Do you not hear the mute voice of our that rise against the sky grief? toss and tear in glee Let drops of light fall from your eyes the heart of the mortals that throng like tears! this earth. See us And the hordes of the devout caught in the labyrinth of our daily deftly tear the eyes out of their sockets grind: and fix in their stead the lenses of this crowded market faith. where we plunge and push and out - Across the figure of the cross smart gleams the keen and angry look to gain each our end of the blind fanatic, chanting the this is the world as we style it. gospel. And here they come, The order of faith come to buy and come to sell; issues in a sterile flood, boiling hot, themselves they buy end themselves in these centres of the devout. they sell, In the theatre that is cleansed in human souls they deal! Life like a surgeon works. The eyes suck and sip Here the priestly order the tears that spurt; like aproned doctors move; the nerves drink up the coursing end these nuns and sisters, blood; these youthful nurses, and it is the bones that trail the doctors true. eat the marrow here, As though all wakeful sins while the skin preys on the bones. would be wiped off soon The roots turn carnivore at the foot of the cross, as they prey on the flowers the course of mortal life while the earth in bloom inches along in agony: clutches and tears at the roots. Hail, Mary! Look, look at this earthly sphere Full of grace... where we walk our wonted ways. Blessed art thou among women! On the patterned floor WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 10

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When the sun at break of day where we together rise and set, sheds his gentle golden rays these tents and these tombs on the world beneath, bed us a little while with their double braid of lovely hair in this fugitive sphere. and smiling faces framed in shawls, The time we spent in the little girls run fast. friendly camaraderie Before the hour of darkness is the sum of happiness comes evening gained; this much I know; like a drowsy river: this, after all, is all that life means. even so, Dearest, the girls glide along, although you be a star, clad in their flowing skirts. I greet in you the very seat And here are the mothers going by that holds the warmth and fervour who in the strength and purity of my affection and love. of their passion of maternity To me you have bequeathed bring to the brooding soul strange and visionary dreams never the fervour and warmth of the sun at thought of, noon. made me speak a language I never Here like sombre clouds of darkness learned, that spread over the earth at midnight granted me an heir by a grace I barely hobble and stagger grey and withered touched. crones. O star, you burn in the high heavens, Here where the passionate souls so my blood drip and the world pulsate in their bodies awaken to life! end lusty youth tear past We throb and pulse and even death steps aside with the rhythm of life, before this onrush of the mortal and driven to each other’s arms, stream, by the force of desire and love why is the quiet voice of grief we create anew this joy. continually swelling by? At the twilight time of my life Inside the church of faith, that is full like the sounding sea, inside the fortified wall, when that rhythm and that joy in their black robes make themselves felt the priestly order stand; and the flames of a burning rapture And like souls in torment leap across all Time and Space, tremble, dwindle, and wast when that hour is come, will these varied spheres V hearken to the harmony we have together evoked? In the uncertain course of this world When I sow my thought in you, WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 11

putting the holy seed within, on good and evil? the living light shall grow and ripen When the subtle dialectics of the intel - to a smile through you lect in the fullness of time lay quiescent, when we are gone. breathed there a mortal Children of goodwill who could cook this vedic lore? shall once again walk this earth And do we have to fry it with mustard? and cherish visions of sweetness; All that philosophy bright and new-fledged stars with its varied schools of thought shall light the heavens above, could do when we and the world for us are an - is, I think, nulled to arrest a splintered gleam and beneath this then different sky, of the primal cause, that the curtain drawn on the stage of time, sustains whatever we feel and perceive. the adventure of human endeavour Schools of speculation dazzle the eye; shall bring delights still undreamt of. they cannot trap the bird in the air. Today we know each other, The forced mating of cause and effect today we converge. which all the lessons of philosophy Under the vast, expanding skies, flaunt out of smouldering bowels of time is the Discord that stifles in the intense heat of the earth’s inte - the voice of the spirit, rior, the vile cacophony the roots break their shells, that tears the air and sprout into suckling birds, and breaks the music. the message of my eyes While yet we know this in our veins and the compassion of your rays unite, in the prolonged stillness around, and your love buds into blossom into who, pray, hies to the sacred Bodhi fruit into seed. tree At the time for the torch that will cast the needed when this spectral world, light? all through the seven spheres, If the soul is illumined was lost in slumber who has to speak and riven by nightmares of the Mount of Calvery? and lay insensate, If indeed for a rare moment when, shouldering the load of human we could all just human be... pain, If only we could redeem I waged the battle of the spirit at the visions that hurtle Wardha, through our dreaming soul... When, on my mission of peace, I trod the streets of Noakhali, what had you to say WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 12

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Fernando Rendón Fernando Rendón was born in Medellín, Antioquia (Colombia), in 1951. His debut 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 los Campos 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).In 1982, he founded the poetry magazine Prometeo, the Latin American poetry journal has issued 100 numbers to date. In 1991 he founded the annual International Poetry Festival of Medellin. It regularly attracts crowds of over 160,000 and has become the biggest event of its kind in the world. So far around 1.200 poets from 162 countries all five continents have participated. The Foundation Right Livelihood Award with its headquarters in Stockholm has officially announced at September 28, 2006, that a jury formed by ten international personalities has decided to grant the 2006 Alternative Nobel Prize to the International Poetry Festival of Medellín, “in recognition of its courage and hope in times of despair”, among 73 candidates of 40 nations, activists for truth, peace and social justice. Fernando Rendón received the international poetry prize Poets Against War (Casa de PoesíaMorada al Sur, 2010, Los Angeles, USA); the Arabian 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 Cultural Icon, South Africa (2013). WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 13

POEMS BY FERNANDO RENDON

A poem is not a game of chance, where a cardsharp heart places its stakes on a senseless bet. Neither does the poem stake its existence at a greyhound race. Poetry is the spirit’s number, the vestige of a superhuman metamorphosis. Centuries ago, love was chained to a sinister poem. In a realistic poem, the working classes still struggle; Indian peoples mobilize from the south. Men and forests are cut down by the same electric saw, while the world’s youth vainly 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, in the 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 nourished the 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-changing truth it always denies us, expressed through an indescribable mutation, whose course can 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 sin sentido. Tampoco se juega su existencia el poema en una carrera de lebreles. La poesía es la cifra del espíritu, el vestigio de una metamorfosis sobrehumana. En un poema siniestro fue encadenado el amor hace siglos. En un poema realista la 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 desde adentro. El fuego destinado a desencadenarnos se oculta en la imaginación de la libertad que 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 mitos que 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 siempre cambiante que nos niega, expresada a lo largo de una mutación inenarrable, cuyo cauce sólo puede ser alterado por el sueño? En la poesía, en la crucial escritura del poema, todos nos jugamos sin ambages esta historia mortal. WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 14

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MADIBA

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

You washed the little roots with the tender herbs of your love You freed all the generations of enslaved peoples You 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 fire You spoke to the gods in the language of poetry You sang to the peoples of Africa in the tongue of the future You extended the voices of the original continent’s drums Towards the different cardinal points of Earth You fought, you danced, you sang, you freed The roots and the trunk, the branches and the flowers, the fruits Of 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 you The ancestors with deep voices celebrate your feat You returned Life to the Ancient Fathers of Humankind You protected humankind’s cradle with your body and your dream You healed the wound at the root of every civilization You 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 culturas Que Occidente había querido por siglos extirpar En su vocación codiciosa de saqueo, en su guerra infinita Tú lavaste las raicillas con las tiernas hierbas de tu amor Tú liberaste a todas las generaciones de pueblos esclavizados WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 15

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 fuego Tú hablaste a los dioses en el lenguaje de la poesía Tú cantaste a los pueblos de África en la lengua del porvenir Tú extendiste las voces de los tambores del continente originario Hacia los diversos puntos cardinales de la Tierra Tú luchaste, tú danzaste, tú cantaste, tú liberaste Las 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 abraza Los Antepasados celebran con voces profundas tu proeza WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 16

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Tú volviste a la Vida a los Antiguos Padres de la Humanidad Tú protegiste con tu cuerpo y tu sueño la cuna de los humanos Tú 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 dreaming you’re in my dream with your eyes full of love you’re awake watching me in your dream we dream each other in a dream in which we cannot touch a persistent, dense dream that envelops all now it’s clear that we can kiss this dream is like the sea I dream that we embrace in the sea and say absurd things this dream has strange properties it can stretch and shrink and cannot end the lives of the many who don’t dream depend on the dreamers one may only wake up and love in an open day without ceasing to dream live against death and struggle in half-sleep attracting the time to come like a magnet because only that which doesn’t exist may not die in my dream the serene non-existence is more real I know this dream must be strengthened it is necessary for us to stay awake many nights in dream better a shoreless dream in which the world frees itself each second a wave of dream brings down your reality and brings down death and you see yourself living for the first time WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 17

DUERMEVELA

A medida que moría, me hacía humo.

Sueño que estoy soñando tú estás en mi sueño con tus ojos llenos de amor estás despierta contemplándome en tu sueño nos soñamos los dos en un sueño en que no podemos tocarnos este sueño es persistente y denso y lo envuelve todo ahora se ve que ya podemos besarnos este sueño es como el mar sueño que estamos abrazados en el mar y que decimos disparates este sueño tiene raras propiedades puede estirarse y encogerse y no puede terminar de quienes sueñan depende la vida de los muchos que no sueñan sólo puede uno despertar y amar en un día abierto sin dejar de soñar vivir contra la muerte y luchar en duermevela atrayendo como un imán al tiempo que vendrá porque solo lo que no existe no puede morir en mi sueño la serena no existencia es más real sé que hay que fortalecer este sueño es preciso que nos desvelemos muchas noches soñando mejor un sueño sin orillas en que el mundo se libera cada segundo una oleada de sueño derriba tu realidad y derriba a la muerte y te ves a ti mismo viviendo por primera vez WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 18

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Mission District Poets: Poetry and Solidarity Alejandro Murguía WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 19

The San Francisco Bay Area has historically been associated with Central America going back to the 1849 when gold-hungry New Englanders discovered that instead of sailing around the Magellan Straits, they could navigate the San Juan River to Lake Nicaragua, then cross the Isthmus by land, effectively trimming their voyage to California by half the time and distance. For this essay, I will limit my comments to Central American writers of the latter half of the 1900s, all of whom I've had the privilege of knowing and following their development. For the sake of convenience and organization, I've organized the essay into particular decades, from the 1970s to the 1990s. But there is a deeper connection between these writers than mere time. I have identified some broad thematic points and linguistic techniques that unite these contemporary Central American writers in the San Francisco Bay Area: 1) They lived here—anywhere from several years to several decades; and they wrote about the area—San Francisco, in particular, is a common theme in their work; 2) The majority of the work is poetry, with only occasional incursions in WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 20

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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 a common 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 Central American poets, is the Nicaraguan born (1941), Roberto Vargas, who migrated to San Francisco in 1946. He grew up among the new generation of Nicaraguans coming to the Bay Area during and after WW II. As a young man, he traveled to the Far East as a merchant seaman, worked in a mattress factory, then became one of the few Latinos to participate in both the Beat era North Beach scene and the Haight-Ashbury scene. With the rise of the Vietnam Anti-War Movement and the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s, Vargas becomes active in the Chicano Move - ment and the Third World Liberation Movement. This activity—the Brown Berets and Los Siete de la Raza—inspires some of the best poetry of that era, "Canto al Tercer 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-American Literature edited by Luis Valdez and Stan Steiner, 1971, and Festival de Flor y Canto, edited by Alurista, et al, USC, Chicano Studies, 1974. His first book of poems, Primeros Cantos , defines his style—rhythmic and imagistic. 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 without connecting phrases, just the pure image carrying the poem. Vargas captures the breath of his experience in a prose-poem titled, "Then There Was..." a jazz like riff recounting the poet's early years in this country, from his arrival through high school years in the Mission District, his stint in the Marine Corps, 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 the most innovative of his poems. It was first published by Warren Hinckle in City Magazine, in 1975, and later in Nicaragua, Yo te Canto Besos Balas Y Sueños de Libertad, in 1980. WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 21

A defining moment occurs in the poet's life when an earthquake destroys Managua, Nicaragua in December 1972. At this critical moment, he devotes all his energies into raising help for the devastated capital, only to be disillusioned, like so many other Nicaraguans, when the dictator Anastasio Somoza Debayle, steals most of 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 attention of United States literary and political figures. Besides being a key organizer of the Gaceta Sandinista, the official organ for the FSLN, he organized poetry readings throughout the United States in support of the Sandinista cause. Many celebrated poets, such as Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Allen Ginsburg were recruited and read at benefits for Nicaragua, and later, after the Sandinista triumph in 1979, visited the homeland 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 in Tin-Tan Magazine his first fiction, "Sandino, 1925," his recreation of the Nicaraguan 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 rejoins the solidarity committee. Out of this experience comes--Nicaragua Yo Te Canto Besos 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 continued to 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 music star, Selena, that the author of this essay has read. Besides his political activism which was instrumental in bringing attention to Nicaraguan writers, such as Ernesto Cardenal, José Coronel Urtecho, Gioconda Belli, and others, his own work stands out 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, who became a cause célèbre for many writers in the Bay Area. Pancho Aguila is the poet's nom de guerre, adopted when he was first jailed in the early 1970s. Pancho Aguila 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 all political prisoners. The poems published by Second Coming Press in 1977 under the title Dark Smoke, are typically angry, but within the anger, there is unmistak - WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 22

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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) did not 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 writing in English. Corrales Martínez’s work is also characterized by a more symplistic form—he uses the traditional verso of Hispanic literature--and also by his poetic concerns. 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 poems are more traditionally Nicaraguan than Vargas's or Aguila's. The themes are the Nicaraguan workers, especially campesinos, and their oppression; the poems also emphasize the poet's concern for the environment and ecology. Among other highlights of Central American writing in the Bay Area during this 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 the most surreal writing of this entire group of poets mentioned in this essay. The words skip and fly over the page, confronting the real world that the poet survives with 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 the reader. In 1975, Gilberto Osorio, a young Salvadorean artist-writer, publishes "Poesía in El Salvador," the first modern survey of Salvadorean poetry to appear in English. The essay, though written 25 years ago, is still a fine source for an overview of Salvadorean writers from 1930 to 1974. Osorio is also instrumental in gathering the news of the death of Roque Dalton in 1975 which Tin-Tan Magazine publishes in issue number two, October 1975. The magazine is the first to publish the news of 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 of El Salvador which causes large portions of the population to seek exile in the United States, and also in part by the Roque Dalton Cultural Brigade, a collective of 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 - WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 23

tural events that focus attention on El Salvador, the Roque Dalton Cultural Brigade 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 Central America, 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 missing from its pages, for the first time in the United States, Central American poetry is published by an established publisher, which helps broaden the audience of this lit - erature. But more importantly, the book introduces to the American public the work of major poets, such as Roque Dalton, Ernesto Cardenal, José Coronel Urte - cho, Gioconda Belli, Claribel Alegría, Clementina Suarez, Claudia Lars, and Roberto 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 of Central American writing during the 1990s. Technically speaking, the work of translation does not fall within the scope of 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 his last book, and 1989, when the first Salvadorean writers are published, the literary activity around Central America, which was great in the Bay Area focused on the discovery and translation of Central American writers who were for the most part unknown in the United States. It is not till 1989 that the first Salvadorean writers make their presence felt in the Bay Area. One is a novelist and the other the most prolific poet to emerge from the Central American diaspora in the Bay Area. Armando Mauricio Molina, born in El Salvador in 1957, arrived in San Francisco in 1974. After receiving a degree in electronic engineering, and working in his field for seven years, Molina abandones this profession to concentrate on writing. In 1989 he publishes the first Central American novel written in the Bay Area, El Amanecer de los Tontos. The story follows a young Latino executive, as he 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 Salvadorean poet makes his presence felt in the Bay Area. Jorge Argueta, besides being an ac - WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 24

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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 1989 and 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 by its lyric quality, its brutal honesty, and its political perspective. The poetry is also often 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; life in 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 bilingual editions. 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 achieve prominence in the Bay Area. A former school teacher, Martaivón Galindo arrives in 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 now teaches 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 witty and engaging, and often presents the feminist side of love and politics. Armando Molina also published a new novel in the 1996, Bajo el Cielo del Istmo, and edited an anthology written in Spanish by Latin American writers in the United States, Imponiendo Presencias. His novel is similar in tone and theme to his previous work and deals with alienation among middle-class professionals living in 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 the Roque Dalton Cultural Brigade published three volumes of translations—Clamor of Innocence, an anthology of short fiction from Central America; Angel in the Del - uge, by Rosario Murillo, and Riverbed of Memory, by Daisy Zamora, both Nicaraguan poets. All three volumes are published by City Lights Books in San Francisco. A final note: Because of the large presence of Central Americans in the WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 25

Bay Area, and because the Bay Area has shown itself to be supportive, not just of 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 is what 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 the past, writers like Roberto Vargas, who wrote and published primarily in English, did achieve a certain amount of recognition outside the Bay Area, although, not enough within Nicaragua. Other writers like Jorge Argueta, whose work is in Span - ish with English translations, have not achieved wide recognition, mainly because their work is published by small presses. Somehow these two bridges need to be crossed: 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, 1977 Argueta, Jorge, La Puerta del Diablo, San Francisco, Editores Unidos Salvadorenos, 1990 Argueta, Jorge, Del Ocaso a la Alborada, Berkeley, Co Press, 1989 Argueta, Jorge, Love Street, San Francisco, Editores Unidos Salvadorenos, 1991 Argueta, Jorge, Far From Fire, San Francisco, Editores Unidos Salvadoernos, 1991 Argueta, Jorge, Litany of Love and Hate, San Francisco, Luna's Press, 1996 Argueta, Jorge, Las Frutas del Centro, y otros sabores, Berkeley, Canterbury Press, 1997 Corrales Rodriguez, Denis, Pinceladas Nicaraguenses, San Francisco, S.F. Neighborhood Arts Program, 1976 Galindo, Martaivon, Retasos, San Francisco, Editorial Solaris, 1996 Martínez, Walter, Ascensions, San Francisco, Heirs Press, 1974 Mirikitani, et al, Time to Greez!, San Francisco, Glide Communications-Third World Communications, 1975 Molina, Armando, El Amanecer de los Tontos, San Francisco, Editorial Solaris, 1989 Molina, Armando, Bajo el Cielo del Istmo, San Francisco, Editorial Solaris, 1996 Molina, Armando, ed. Imponiendo Presencias, San Francisco, Editorial Solaris, 1995 Murguia, A. & Pashke, B., Volcan, Poems from Central America, San Francisco, City Lights Books, 1983 Vargas, Roberto, Primeros Cantos, San Francisco, Editorial Pocho-Che, 1972 Vargas, Roberto, Nicaragua, Yo Te Canto Besos, Balas, y Suenos de Libertad, San Francisco, Editorial Pocho-Che, 1980 Winans, A. D., California Bicentennial Poets Anthology, San Francisco, Second Coming Press, 1976 WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 26

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Poems by Joy Harjo WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 27

Joy Harjo was born in USA in 1951. Her seven books of poetry include How We Became Human- New and Selected Poems, and She Had Some Horses. Her awards for poetry include the New Mexico Governor’s Award for Excellence in the Arts, a Rasmussen US Artists Fellowship and the William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. She has released four albums of original music including her most recent, Red Dreams, A Trail Beyond Tears, and won a NAMMY for Best Female Artist for Winding Through the Milky Way. Wings of Night Sky, Wings of Morning Light, Harjo’s one-woman show premiered to good reviews in Los Angeles. She has been commissioned by The Public Theater of NYC to write the musical We Were There When Jazz Was Invented. Soul Talk, Song Language, Conversations with Joy Harjo from Wesleyan, and Crazy Brave, a memoir 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 Light from 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 and the Arrow Dynamics Band. She is a founding board member of Native Arts and Cultures 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-Champaign and 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 world My heart is close enough to sing to you in 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 now as real as these hands hammering the world together?

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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 water climbed 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 flores Está tan cerca de ti que puede cantar en 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 mundo a golpes de martillo?

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

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Camina desde siempre los límites del fuego y el agua ha 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 on my 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 my sons, 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 fresh corn 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 all that 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 sports scores. Yes, the distance was great between your country and mine. Yet our children played 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 cruzado sobre mi espalda. Estoy apenada de no haberte dado la bienvenida que te mere- ces, pariente mío. _ WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 30

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No eran mis lágrimas. Poseo una reserva en mi interior. Ellas serán lloradas por 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 nuestra amistad, 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 tanta bulla 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 limpiar el aire, purificarlo de los espíritus turbulentos. Sí, en efecto vi las terribles negras nubes mientras preparaba la comida para la cena. Y los mensajes de los que morían, allí en ese atardecer de cenizas. Todos dirigidos a la madre. De todo esto nada salió en las noticias. Todo seguía igual. La tasa de desempleo había crecido. Otra reina de belleza coronada con flores. Y también se referían en detalle 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 hand And the smoke of grief staggering toward the sun, Your nation dead beside you.

I keep walking away though it has been an eternity And from each drop of blood Springs up sons and daughters, trees A mountain of sorrows, of songs.

I tell you this from the dusk of a small city in the north Not far from the birthplace of cars and industry. Geese are returning to mate and crocuses have WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 31

Broken through the frozen earth.

Soon they will come for me and I will make my stand Before the jury of destiny. Yes, I will answer in the clatter Of 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 mano Y el humo del dolor tambaleándose hacia el sol, Tu pueblo muerto a tu lado.

Continúo alejándome, lentamente, ha sido una eternidad Y de cada gota de sangre Saltan hijos e hijas, árboles una montaña de llanto, de canciones.

Te digo esto desde el atardecer de una pequeña ciudad en el norte No muy lejos del lugar de nacimiento de los automóviles y la industria. Los gansos están regresando para aparearse y las flores amarillas Atraviesan la tierra congelada y estallan en color.

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

Y he construido cantos de la sangre, de la médula d WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 32

MEXICO

TWO POEMS OF KING NEZAHUALCÓYOTL MEMORIES ABOUT beyond where somehow it exists. TEZOZOMOCTZIN AND I wish I could follow the princes, CUACUAUHTZIN bring them our flowers! If I could make mine the beautiful I Tezozomoctzin’s anthems! Not once perish thy praiseworthy I am sad, I grieve myself, name I, Lord Nezahualcóyotl, Oh, my Lord Tezozomoctzin! with flowers and songs Thus, missing your hymns, I am remembering princes I have come to afflict myself, going away, Only I have come to be sad to which they went I tear myself. toTezozomoctzin, to Cuacuauhtzin. III II I have come to be sad, I upset my - They truly live, self. WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 33

You are not here, not anymore, you have come to hear your song in the region where it somehow ex - playing your drum. ists, Your are singer: you left us without provisions in this among the spring flowers Earth, you delight people. that’s why I tear myself. VI A BOOK OF SONGS IS YOUR HEART Delivering flowers of alluring fragrance, I treasurable flowers: you are singer In the home of aquatic moss among the spring blossoms, He arises to sing, delighting people. rehearses his song. VII spills flowers: You offer flowers, enjoy this chant. countless flowers: with them, you delight men, II Oh prince Nezahualcóyotl: Resounds the chant (Icahuicacuicatl) Ah, my heart relish it: clanking bells sound soft: they bloom and still: Our flowery rattles reply. with them you craft your own neck - Spilling flowers: lace, enjoy this chant. with spring flowers.

III VIII

Sings on the flowers (Xochiticpac) From there, they are all a wonderful pheasant: from the place of duality, it is already displaying his anthem within the sky: into the water. with them you delight men, Oh, prince Nezahualcóyotl: IV Ah, my heart relish it. they bloom and still: Several red birds rejoin (zan ye con with them you do a necklace, naquila) the with spring flowers charming red birds:sing stunning Written by Nezahualcóyotl, The Texcoco’s V Kings Poet, 1402-1472

A book of songs is your heart: , GAZZE WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 34

TURKEY

A POEM by ATAOL BEHRAMOGLU Dün ölümü gördüm, ölüm kanatsızdı İş te Gazze’desiniz Ya ğmur gibi ya ğıyordu havada Gazze’de ölüm çocukların oyunu gibi Sabahları kahvaltıda zeytin ekmek gibi İş te ölümün divan kurdu ğu Sevi şmek gibi gençler arasında Gazze’desin Gazze’de ölüm tunçtan bir heykel gibi Hava bir bıçakla yırtılıyor sanki Bütün pencerelerin baktı ğı Kör bir çı ğlık güne ş Camları cam gibi suskun Ölüm aklı gibi çalı şıyor Gazze’nin Ağaçların cesetleri ceset gibi Minareler gökyüzüne de ğil hiçli ğe İş te Gazze’desiniz yaslanıyor Ate şler arasında Ölümün dilini yuttu ğu ate şler arasında Çocuklar çocuklar çocuklar Gazze’nin Gazze sanki patlamı ş bir balon çocukları Çocuklar sokak sokak çocuklar çar şı Neylesin Arap ozanlar çar şı çocuklar ev ev Yanık kokar artık Celile’de türküler: Gazze dü şmanla çarpı şan çocuk göl - Gazze çöl ortasında bir sarı limon geleriyle bir dev Bir yandan görünmez eller sıkar Ölümün kuca ğında şarkı söylüyor Çelikten bir cendereyle çocuklar Bir yandan dü şman Çocuklar azizler kadar sessiz mümin - Ölümden bir bulut halinde ler kadar dindar Ağlamaktan kurumu ş gözya şları Kur şun sesleri dinsin diye bekliyorlar Gazze’nin Bir anda dolduracaklar alanları Gayrı Gazze’den tanrının cesedi çıkar Açlıklarını unutup ölülerine sarılacaklar GAZA Ehramlarına sarınmı ş ya şlı kadınlar Evler sokaklar omuz omuza hayatı ko - Yesterday I saw death, it was wingless ruyorlar It was on the air, raining Sabırla çizilmi ş yüzleri Çaresiz asabi acılı kindar Here, you are in Gaza where death en - Gö ğe a ğan bir çı ğlık halinde camped Gö ğe a ğan yeminler gibi Air seems to be torn by a knife Gö ğün bir parçası gibi duruyorlar The sun is a blind scream WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 35

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

The children, children, children, Gaza s children Streets, markets, houses full of chil - dren Gaza with its images of children is a giant 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 In fire Houses, streets, shoulder by shoulder Where death swallowed its tongue are guarding life Gaza is like a balloon blown Their faces are drawn with patience Helpless, angry, sad, revengeful What can the Arabian poets do Like a scream going up sky Songs smell burnt in Galilee Like promises Gaza is like a yellow lemon in the mid - They are standing as a piece of sky dle of desert On the one hand, it is shaken by invisi - Here, you are in Gaza ble hands Death in Gaza is like games of chil - By a steel press dren On the other hand, enemies stand It is like eating olives and bread at Like a death cloud breakfast The eyes of Gaza dried because of cry - It is like love-making of the young ing Death in Gaza is like a statue made of So from Gaza now the corpse of God bronze goes out That all windows look at Translated into English by Muesser Yeniay Death is working like Gaza’ s mind

Here, you are in Gaza WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 36

COLOMBIA

Poems by Juan Manuel Roca uan Manuel Roca was born in Medellín, Colombia, in 1946. His work has been awarded the Eduardo Cote Lamus prize by the University of Antioquia (the state of which Medellín is the capital), while the same university from his native town has also awarded him the JSimón Bolivar Award for Journalism and the University of Antioquia Short Story Award. He received 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 (Memory of Water, 1973); Luna de ciegos (Moon of the Blind, 1975); Los ladronesnocturnos (Thieves in the Night, 1977); Señal de cuervos (Warning of the Crows, 1979); Fabulario Real (Royal Book of Fables, 1980); AntologíaPoética (Poetry Anthology, 1983); País secreto (Secret Coun - try, 1987); Ciudadano de la noche (Inhabitant of the Night, 1989); Prosareunida (Collected Prose, 1993); La farmacia del ángel (The Pharmacy of the Devil, 1995) and the novel Esamalditacostumbre de morir (The Accursed Habit of Dying, 2003). His short stories appear in Las plagassecretas y otroscuentos (2001). Roca is one of the most often anthologized Colombian poets. WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 37

POETICS Algunos viejos maestros Que conocen los conjuros del lenguaje After writing on paper the word coyote Aconsejan trazar la palabra cerilla, One must watch that that butcher-like Rastrillarla en la palabra piedra word Y prender la palabra hoguera Does not take over the page, para alejarlo. Does not manage to hide No hay coyote ni chacal, no hay hiena Behind the word jacaranda /ni jaguar, To wait for the word hare to pass by No hay puma ni lobo que no huyan And then tear it apart. Cuando el fuego conversa con el aire. In order to prevent it, FOR MAKING A STATUE To sound the alert When the coyote stealthily Michelangelo discovered Prepares its ambush, That in all the stones in the world Some old masters There is a sleeping statue. Who know the spells of language That it is enough to remove the sur - Recommend tracing the word match, plus Rubbing it against the word stone To find it. And lighting up the word fire Just as there are horses inside a pencil, To scare it away. Beautiful girls with sleeping hair, There is no coyote or jackal, no hyena Hidden turtles or a treasure map, or jaguar, Stones can keep inside them No puma or wolf that won’t flee The shape of the god of rain, When fire converses with air. The statue of a forgotten hero, The head of a wild bull POÉTICA Or a wolf looking up towards the moon. Tras escribir en el papel la palabra It’s a matter of intently examining /coyote The stones of the road, Hay que vigilar que ese vocablo Say the pebble readers /car - And road therapists. nicero A matter of searching them to find No se apodere de la página, Who is hiding, Que no logre esconderse Who is slumbering, Detrás de la palabra jacaranda Who is afraid of the outdoors, A esperar a que pase la palabra liebre Who whisks away the being that dwells /y destrozarla. inside them – Para evitarlo, Even if there are mocking masses Para dar voces de alerta Who never deliver their secret, Al momento en que el coyote Slabs, crags, pebbles, Prepara con sigilo su emboscada, Pieces of basalt, volcano tears, WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 38

COLOMBIA

Round stones Se trata de esculcarlas para encon - That explorers call barren stone. trar There is no need for disappointment. Quién se esconde, The sculptor shall find the waiting Quién dormita, stone Quién le teme a la intemperie, And may make his chisel or hammer Quién escamotea el ser que habita en ready. ellas, Then he will see, arising from it, Aunque haya masas burlonas A caged bird, an old bison, Que no entregan nunca su secreto, An imprisoned man, a reclining Lajas, peñascos, guijas, woman, Trozos de basalto, lágrimas de volcán, An iron mask, Cantos rodados A scalded cat and a dragon Que los exploradores llaman piedras Or a little speared deer baldías. Waiting for a voice to wake it. No hay por qué desencantarse. *El escultor encontrará la piedra que lo espera CONJUROS PARA HACER Y podrá alistar su cincel o su martillo. UNA ESTATUA Entonces verá brotar de ella Un pájaro enjaulado, un bisonte an - Miguel Ángel descubrió ciano, Que en todas las piedras del mundo Un hombre preso, una mujer recli - Hay una estatua dormida, nada, Que basta con quitar lo que sobra Una máscara de hierro, Para encontrarla. Un gato escaldado y un dragón Así como dentro de un lápiz hay cabal - O el pequeño ciervo lanceado los, Que espera la voz que lo despierte. Hermosas muchachas de cabellos dormidos, Tortugas escondidas o el mapa de un A SEASON OF STATUES tesoro, Las piedras pueden guardar en su There are seasons closed for statue- adentro hunting, La figura del dios de la lluvia, When students and drunks are forbid - La estatua de un héroe olvidado, den La cabeza de un toro cimarrón From throwing stones or bottles O un lobo que mira hacia la luna. At the heroes’ impassive dignity. Se trata de examinar con atención In the hunting season Las piedras del camino, Even beheading is permitted, Dicen los lectores de guijarros, So that many statues end up being Los terapeutas de los caminos. Reduced to medal-strewn chests, WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 39

Warrior bodies with the face of Los guías que explican a los via - Nobody. jeros Then the experts arrive, Las facciones ausentes de tan clásica Guides explaining to travelers estatuaria. The absent features of such classic stat - Algunas de las estatuas lisiadas uary. Yacen convalecientes en un hospital Some of the crippled statues Para la fatiga del bronce, explica el his - Lie in hospital convalescing toriador: From the fatigue of bronze, the histo - Ya serán repuestas a sus pedestales rian explains: Aunque sólo las extrañen los pájaros y They will soon be restored to their los funámbulos pedestals, Y el ciego que mientras vende lotería Even if they are only missed by birds, Se acoge al mapa movedizo de sus tightrope walkers sombras. And the blind man who, while selling lottery tickets, Takes shelter under their shifting map Para Patricia T, of shadows.

To Patricia T, fairer than the Victory of Samothrace.

TEMPORADA DE ESTATUAS

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 caza Es permitido, inclusive, la decapitación Así que muchas estatuas Quedan reducidas a pechos con medallas, A cuerpos de guerreros con caras de Nadie. Entonces aparecen los peritos, WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 40

PHILIPPINES DINAH ROMA, Philippines DESPUÉS DE LAS Más temprano en el día, ORACIONES La habría considerado Ilusión. El suelo donde te paraste, espacio Eres la brasa en la punta de iluminado hasta el vacío - la varita de incienso, corazón anunciando otra una calma ante el temblor, sombría brillantez. la suave caída de ceniza que llama la fragancia En otro lugar ahora, el aliento ella espera bajo nuestra oración. cada día dulce Eres las oraciones vespertinas incandescencia. de una súplica, banquetes de cielos del atardecer; la prisa nítida AMAR DESCONOCIDO yel ascenso de la gracia más allá de la austeridad Sobre la noche, la nieve se ha asen - de la cuaresma. tado en un espesor conocido. La cafetería contigua yace quieta en su Eres la niebla rapto de neón mientras la azotea gris al velando nuestra vista en la noche, frente titila en la incesante suavidad noc - una bendición turna. Hoy, la habitación está impreg - de manos entrelazadas nada con un brillo feroz, igual que redentoras como la vigilia cuando partiste de madrugada y dejaste de un momento que se despliega tus huellas profundas en la nieve más penitencial como los iconos allá del porche hace muchos inviernos. que presionan Había algo en tus pasos vacilantes; la nuestros corazones. forma en que dejabas caer tu cabeza hablaba de una pérdida incipiente. Quería pedirte que volvieras a entrar a MAYA, REAVIVADA la penumbra confiable de mi habitación, en esa esquina en la que Escalando distancia hasta el calor, siempre te derrumbabas tras un día im - Tomaste esta mano posible, para dar la bienvenida a lo lu - como la niebla nocturna minoso y calmo. Pero te habías ido sobre mi cabello. antes de que yo lo supiera. WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 41

¿Quién hubiera pensado que el in - a lo inhabitable. vierno engaña de esa forma? ¿Fue el Acurrúcate a mi lado, lenguaje frío extrañamente desconge - yo soy luna, lando nombres? ¿Fueron los muros preciosa carne de luz, atándonos a la luz y al espacio que un regalo tendido ocultaba el descontento? ¿No fuiste tú sobre la órbita de la profundidad quien argumentó, en el día en que la de tus ojos en mi precipicio. distancia se convirtió insoportablemente en invierno, que el hogar es alegría re - Siente luto por lo que tu voz vivida repetidamente? Desde ese mo - Conoce del filo del amor, mento he buscado la afinidad entre las y el corazón, conmovido corrientes de aire y los océanos, he antes de su primer pérdida, rodeado la geografía del corazón, pero vagará profundo cada que piso la habitación, estoy más hacia el duro origen - dicha lejos de la presencia. hiriendo el núcleo. La nieve cae. Todo afuera se vuelve humilde. Antes que el anochecer desacelere las horas y el aire agote tus palabras, AQUÍ, LA HISTORIA cuéntame la historia: cómo pastaban los cuerpos, Aquí hallarás la historia reúne la Tierra. mientras los bordes del sol abarcan tu corazón para ese conocido lla Traducción de León Blanco con la colabo - mado ración de G. Leogena

Dinah Roma is Professor of Literature and Cre - ative Writing at De La Salle University, Manila where she is also Chair of its Department of Literature. Au - thor of three books of poetry, her Geographies of Light won won the country’s Carlos Palanca Award for Poetry in English in 2007 and was one of the finalists in the 2011 Philippine National Book Award for Poetry. Her work explores the liminal spaces between place and lan - guage, where possibilities of journeys are manifold. While her first book celebrates her beginnings in the craft of poetry, her second one pursues bolder wander - ings that merge her favourite motifs of travel and its epiphanies. It draws inspiration from the rich traditions of Asia to chart the traveller’s passage across landscapes and terrains, peoples and cultures, through time and memory. Her third volume begins her on a new track as she ruminates on the guises of ruins—its internal and external landscapes—in our encounter with everyday. In it she reflects on the destruction of climate change in her devastated country. WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 42

AFGHANISTAN BasirAhang, Afganistán WANDERING EXILE But I will still live in hope

Wandering exile Perhaps one day this knot will come Despondent but brave undone With a suitcase of war tales and woe And the next generation in this city Once they’ve read our stories Perhaps the flight from death Will be guests no longer but hosts in The sense of abandonment their own homes Dragged me to exile in this foreign And maybe my fate city Will curse only their fathers

The soles of my shoes are the whole This is my story of my land I am a wandering exile Since in a world so wide And my homeland is no more I have been given no place to call my own Than the soles of my shoes

I write on the walls of the night “be a refuge for humanity” BOGOTÁ Like a nudge to quieten the city My only motivation To the Colombian people who have suffered for more than half a century My bedtime stories on the coloured walls of the city Bogotá! That thin the smoke and the disap - Live long your rainbow pointment And ‘Providencia’, the jewel in your crown My language is unknown to all You, the golden, red and blue land Even to my nearest neighbour Will echo in the song Who everyday ignores my good ‘La Sonora Dinamita’ will play on morning with an angry scowl With the Cumbia dance But I still live in hope And its steely-chain sound Bearing on the ankles of slaves I am exiled A message of freedom And a hundred miles away my whole existence and my memories Smile! Are tied to a patch of land Now is the time to stand again Which now plays crossroads to It’s more than half a century blood and terror That beyond these dark clouds WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 43

A reckless cobalt sky has breathed nuevo For half a century Por más de medio siglo ‘Providencia’ the paradise Más allá de estas nubes oscuras Has waited for your spark Un osado cielo cobalto ha respirado To break at last the broken cycle Por medio siglo And bring hope to its green coast “Providencia” el paraíso Gabo will write of no more love in Ha esperado tu chispa the time of cholera Para romper al fin el ciclo roto And your children of tomorrow Y llevar la esperanza a su costa verde Will take each other’s hands Gabo no escribirá más amor en los To dance the Cumbia and the tiempos del cólera Vallenato Y tus niños del mañana Se tomarán de las manos Stand up! Para bailar cumbia y vallenato Bolivar is waiting for ‘Totó la Momposina’ ¡Levántate! To begin murmuring a song Bolívar espera a “Totó la Heedless of the tobacco taste still Momposina” bitter in his mouth Para empezar a murmurar una canción BOGOTÁ Sin preocuparse por el sabor del tabaco, aún amargo en su boca A los colombianos que han sufrido por más de medio siglo This Moment is Mine ¡Bogotá! Larga vida a tu arco iris This moment is mine Y “Providencia”, la joya en tu Because of the journey, the discom - corona. fort Tú, tierra dorada, roja y azul And all that was but is no more Harás eco en la canción “La Sonora Dinamita” seguirá My footprints trace borders innumer - tocando able A ritmo de cumbia From Kabul to Rome, Y su sonido de cadena acerada From Tamerlane to Julius Caesar Cargando en los tobillos de los Passing through lands stained by esclavos Gobineau Un mensaje de libertad This moment is mine ¡Sonríe! And I give it to my mother Ahora es tiempo de erguirte de Who embroidered her life’s desires WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 44

AFGHANISTAN

On scraps of cotton Of the church Only so that my father Until the years pass Could blow his nose And you remain a second class citi zen To my sisters isolated from the world A foreigner who wants to live And to my brothers With a tongue by now too bitter Who instead of books Perhaps you better get used to it Like an orphaned child Without meaning to Who’s used to being hit Picked up guns What life is this? You who love it This moment is mine Must surrender to it And I will give it to the tears and the screams That Fucking Night Until the reflections, the echos To the survivors of the Yakawlang Wake the deaf, restore sight to the genocide by the Taliban blind Of my city When they had shot the last bullet It was night The roads to Bamiyan 1 were closed This moment is mine no more That night It’s time to go Kapisa 2 burned in bedlam’s flame My turn has come to tell of the wan And the Devil of Kabul dering waters Drunk on the last bottle Of the Mediterranean Of Jalisciense tequila So that my footprints would become Dreamed of bodies uneresable Naked citizens of Sodom That night Bamiyan was lighted What life is this? With blue lanterns And a barefooted crowd chanted Perhaps you better get used to it A chant of peace If they couldn’t bomb you in war For the lost pieces of Shahmama Well then you’d give your body to Bamiyan was lighted the sea And the edges of the sky above What life is this? Ghulgula 3 When you leave your land Were colourless You’re little more than food for That night lunacy reigned fishes And miserable we were exiled If you’re given one chance In the magical alleys of Venice Let you heart beat with the bells Lightless lanterns in hand WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 45

That night fear reigned Was destroyed And Yakawlang 4 awaited its prom - And miserable we ised destruction Were still dancing in the darkness of That night the world choked on the our thoughts awful lump in its throat That fucking night While miserable we were dancing in the darkness 22/01/2014 Commemoration day for Of our thoughts the massacre at Yakawlang When the news headlines of the world Changed suddenly Traducción de León Blanco con la colaboración And a lightening quick bolt de G. Leogena Vaulted the Venetian sky At dawn your city

BasirAhang nació en la provincia de Gazni, Afgan - tional Federation of Journalists. He wrote many reports istán, el 1 de enero de 1984. Es poeta, periodista y ac - and made a documentary about the refugees and asy - tivista defensor de los derechos humanos en su país. lum seekers in Europe and particularly in Greece. A Estudió Literatura Persa en la Universidad de Kabul. part of this documentary was broadcast on “Rai 1” Vive en Italia como refugiado político. Pertenece al Italy’s public television. Ahang has written hundreds of pueblo Hazara, de raíces mongoles y turcas, que consti - reports on refugees and their legal rights, women’s tuye la cuarta parte de Afganistán. El pueblo Hazara ha rights, freedom of speech and human rights violation in sido fuertemente golpeado por los talibanes y miles de Afghanistan. His articles, written in Persian, Italian and sus habitantes asesinados. En sus poemas documenta y English, are published in different online and print denuncia esos crímenes, a la vez que hace un recorrido media such as Kabul Press, BBC Persian, Radio Za - por el exilio e invoca la solidaridad mundial por la maneh, Deutsche Welle and Hazara People Interna - preservación de su pueblo. Recientemente publicó el tional Network. libro de poemas: Arroyo de ciervo, 2014. Ha partici - pado en numerosas conferencias sobre refugiados de guerra, los derechos de las mujeres y las minorías, así como 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 Literature from Kabul University in 2007. After receiving threats by Taliban for his activities in Afghanistan, BasirAhang moved to Italy in 2008 where he continued his studies in International Relations at Padua University. He has published “SarzamineBadamhayeTalkh” an anthology of his poems in Persian. In 2014 one of his poems won the Special Jury Award at the International Poetry Festi - val of Sassari (Italy). His poems have been translated in Italian and English. He is also a member of Interna - WPM-PoetryFlash-2_Layout 1 20/2/2015 4:35 µµ Page 46

EL SALVADOR ROQUE DALTON Acta / Act En nombre de quienes lava ropa h In the name of thoe caring for others’ children ajena (and selling their labor power (y expulsan de la blancura la mugre in the form of maternal love and ajena) humiliations) En nombre de quienes cuidan hijos ajenos In the name of those living in another’s (y venden su fuerza de trabajo house en forma de amor maternal y (which isn’t even a kind belly but a humiliaciones) tomb or a jail) En nombre de quienes habitan in In the named of those eating other’ vivienda ajena crumbs (y aun los mastican con sentimiento de (and chewing them still with the feeling ladron) of a thief In the name of those living on others’ En nombre de quienes viven en un pais land ajeno (the houses and factories and shops (las casas y las fabricas y los comercios streets cities and towns y las calles y las ciudades y los pueblos rivers lakes volcanoes and mountains y los rios y los lagos y los volcanes y los always belong to others montes and that’s why the cops and the guards son siempre de otros are there y por eso esta alli la policia y la guardia guarding them against us) cuidandolos contra nosotros) In the name of those who have nothing En nombre de quienes lo unico que but tienen hunger exploitation disease es hambre explotacion enfermedades a thirst for justice and water sed de justicia y de agua persecutions and condemnations persecuciones condenas loneliness abandonment oppression soledad abandono opresion muerte and death Yo acuso a la propiedad privada I accuse private property de privarnos de todo. of depriving us of everything. In the name of tose washing others’ clothes Translated from Spanish by Jack Hirschman (and cleaning others’ filth from the whiteness) World Poetry Movement edition