“Tha an saoghal fhathast àlainn, ged nach eil thu ann. / The world is still beautiful, though you are not in it.” Bàrdachd: Latha Naomh Anndra / Gaelic poems for Saint Andrew’s Day
Posted: November 30, 2012 Filed under: IMAGES Comments Off on “Tha an saoghal fhathast àlainn, ged nach eil thu ann. / The world is still beautiful, though you are not in it.” Bàrdachd: Latha Naomh Anndra / Gaelic poems for Saint Andrew’s DayNua-bhàrdachd: Gàidhlig / Contemporary Gaelic poetry from Scotland: Meg Bateman
Posted: November 30, 2012 Filed under: English, Gaelic: Scottish, Meg Bateman Comments Off on Nua-bhàrdachd: Gàidhlig / Contemporary Gaelic poetry from Scotland: Meg Bateman
ZP_A nineteenth-century illustration, Spear-plume thistle or Cirsium vulgare, which was the original native Scotch Thistle until the arrival in the middle ages of the tougher, spinier and more impressive Onopordum acanthium.
Meg Bateman (born 1959, Edinburgh, Scotland)
“Mother”
.
We looked at the stars for a while
Before we turned in with the dogs,
And you said it was high time
You learnt their names properly.
.
But soon you will be among them yourself
And I will be the one trying to name you;
You whose nature I have seen
Only as their faint points of light –
.
As you labour behind duty,
Behind house-work, farm-work, books,
And who knows if you have your reward
For your care and effort and exhaustion.
.
I wish I could kindle a joy in you
That would let me see you whole
Or you won’t be further when you go
Than you were tonight at my side.
. . .
“Màthair”
.
Bha sinn a’coimhead nan rionnag
mus do thionndaidh sinn a-steach leis na coin,
is thuirt thu gum bu mhithich dhut
na h-ainmean aca ionnsachadh gu ceart.
.
Ach chan fhada gus am bi thu fhèin nam measg
’s is mise a bhios a’feuchainn ri d’ainmeachadh,
thusa aig nach fhaca mi do nàdar
ach mar phriobadh fann an cuid solais –
.
Is tu riamh an ceann do dhleastanais,
mu chòcaireachd, caoraich, leabhraichean;
a bheil fios an d’fhuair thu do dhìol
airson do dheataim is spàirn is sgìths?
.
O gun lasainn de dh’aighear annad
na leigeadh leam d’fhaicinn gu slàn,
no chan fhaide thu bhuam nuair a shiùbhlas tu
nab ha thu rim thaobh a-nochd.
. . .
“Lightness”
.
It was your lightness that drew me,
The lightness of your talk and your laughter,
The lightness of your cheek in my hands,
Your sweet gentle modest lightness;
And it is the lightness of your kiss
That is starving my mouth,
And the lightness of your embrace
That will let me go adrift.
. . .
“Aotromachd”
.
B’ e d’ aotromachd a rinn mo thaladh,
Aotromachd do chainnte’s do ghaire,
Aotromachd do lethchinn nam lamhan,
D’ aotromachd lurach ur mhalda;
Agus ‘s e aotromachd do phoige
A tha a’ cur trasg air mo bheoil-sa,
Is ‘s e aotromachd do ghlaic mum chuairt-sa
A leigeas seachad leis an t-sruth mi.
. . .
“O Bonnie Man, Lovely Man”
.
O bonnie man, lovely man,
You’ve brought a song to my lips,
.
A spring of clear gushing water
Spilling over the rocks,
.
Soft grasses and bracken
Covering my slopes with green;
.
Your bed is in cotton-grass
With curlews calling in flight,
.
Maytime’s sweet drizzle
is settling about me,
.
Giving mirth and voice
to my soils long barren,
.
O bonnie man, lovely man,
You’ve brought a song to my lips.
. . .
“Fhir luraich ’s fhir àlainn”
.
Fhir luraich ’s fhir àlainn,
thug thu dàn gu mo bhilean,
.
Tobar uisge ghil chraobhaich
a’ taomadh thar nan creagan,
.
Feur caoin agus raineach
a’ glasadh mo shliosan;
.
Tha do leabaidh sa chanach,
gairm ghuilbneach air iteig.
.
Tha ceòban cùbhraidh na Màighe
a’ teàrnadh mu mo thimcheall,
.
’S e a’ toirt suilt agus gutha
dham fhuinn fada dìomhain,
.
Fhir luraich ’s fhir àlainn,
thug thu dàn gu mo bhilean.
. . . . .
All poems © Meg Bateman
Latha Naomh Anndra / Scottish Gaelic poems for Saint Andrew’s Day: Sorley Maclean
Posted: November 30, 2012 Filed under: English, Gaelic: Scottish, Sorley Maclean Comments Off on Latha Naomh Anndra / Scottish Gaelic poems for Saint Andrew’s Day: Sorley Maclean.
Sorley Maclean (Somhairle MacGill-Eain)
(Raasay, Scotland, 1911-1996)
“Should I even strip off…”
.
Should I even strip off
My deceit-proof clothing
And go naked and eager
As a blaze of supreme reason,
I’d then reach the core-love
Of my reason for living
And I’d add to your pleasure
The blaze of supreme reason.
. . .
“Ged chuirinn dhiom éideadh”
.
Ged chuirinn dhiom éideadh
Faireachaidh na cluaineis
‘S nam falbhainn 10m gleusta
‘Nam chaoir céille buadhmhoir,
Ruiginn an-sin cré-ghaol
Mo chéille luaidhe
‘S liùbhrainn do t’ éibhneas
Caoir na céille buadhmhoir.
. . .
“Calvary”
.
My eye is not on Calvary
nor on Bethlehem the Blessed,
but on a foul-smelling backland in Glasgow,
where life rots as it grows;
and on a room in Edinburgh,
a room of poverty and pain,
where the diseased infant
writhes and wallows till death.
“Calbharaigh”
.
Chan eil mo shùil air Calbharaigh
no air Betlehem an àigh
ach air cùil ghrod an Glaschu
far bheil an lobhadh fàis,
agus air seòmar an Dùn Èideann,
seòmar bochdainn ’s cràidh,
far a bheil an naoidhean creuchdach
ri aonagraich gu bhàs.
. . .
“The Choice”
.
I walked with my reason
out beside the sea.
We were together but it was
keeping a little distance from me.
.
Then it turned saying:
is it true you heard
that your beautiful white love
is getting married early on Monday?
.
I checked the heart that was rising
in my torn swift breast
and I said: most likely;
why should I lie about it?
.
How should I think that I would grab
the radiant golden star,
that I would catch it and put it
prudently in my pocket?
.
I did not take a cross’s death
in the hard extremity of Spain
and how then should I expect
the one new prize of fate?
.
I followed only a way
that was small, mean, low, dry, lukewarm,
and how then should I meet
the thunderbolt of love?
.
But if I had the choice again
and stood on that headland,
I would leap from heaven or hell
with a whole spirit and heart.
. . .
“An Roghainn”
.
Choisich mi cuide ri mo thuigse
a-muigh ri taobh a’ chuain;
bha sinn còmhla ach bha ise
a’ fuireach tiotan bhuam.
.
An sin thionndaidh i ag ràdha:
a bheil e fìor gun cual’
thu gu bheil do ghaol geal àlainn
a’ pòsadh tràth Diluain?
.
Bhac mi ’n cridhe bha ’g èirigh
’nam bhroilleach reubte luath
is thubhairt mi: tha mi cinnteach;
carson bu bhreug e bhuam?
.
Ciamar a smaoinichinn gun glacainn
an rionnag leugach òir,
gum beirinn oirre ’s gun cuirinn i
gu ciallach ’na mo phòc?
.
Cha d’ ghabh mise bàs croinn-ceusaidh
an èiginn chruaidh na Spàinn
is ciamar sin bhiodh dùil agam
ri aon duais ùir an dàin?
.
Cha do lean mi ach an t-slighe chrìon
bheag ìosal thioram thlàth,
is ciamar sin a choinnichinn
ri beithir-theine ghràidh?
.
Ach nan robh ’n roghainn rithist dhomh
’s mi ’m sheasamh air an àird,
leumainn à neamh no iutharna
le spiorad ’s cridhe slàn.
. . . . .
Poemas y Oración para el Día de Acción de Gracias
Posted: November 22, 2012 Filed under: Alexander Best, English, Spanish | Tags: Poemas para el Día de Acción de Gracias Comments Off on Poemas y Oración para el Día de Acción de Gracias.
Dos poemas por Alexander Best
.
“Thanksgiving ‘Getaway’ March”
.
Rrrrum pa pum pa pum-key – that turkey’s on the run.
Rrrrum pa pum pa pum-key – he got away too late.
Dinner’s almost rrread-y – an hour and it’s done.
Our house smells good for comp’ny – a drrrumstick on your plate!
. . .
“Poema pavo”
.
Señor Ave distinguido,
¿Porqué eriza las plumas?
Totole, totole, manojo de nervios,
¿Te marchas a las lomas?
Macho gordo – está listo
– no buscamos bronca.
Da tu vida por plato de mole,
¡Hoy día – la gran tertulia!
Guajolote, guajolote,
Pajarote indio.
Comida antigua americana
– y ésta tarde, ¡p’ra todo!
. . .
“Oración dulce, sincera – y juguetona”
.
Padre nuestro, Madre nuestra –
que estén en el cielo,
Santificado sean sus nombres,
Venga el reino de ustedes,
Háganse la voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo,
Dennos hoy nuestro pan de cada día,
(– y hoy día guajolote al horno con chilmole y flan de calabaza también, por favor –)
Perdonen nuestras ofensas,
como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden,
No nos dejen caer en tentación y líbrennos del mal.
Amén.
. . . . .
Muharram Mubarak: poem for a blesséd New Year المحرّم
Posted: November 15, 2012 Filed under: Arabic, English Comments Off on Muharram Mubarak: poem for a blesséd New Year المحرّم
New Year’s Resolutions:
a poem by Wayfarer
.
The first of Muharram has arrived
– Alhamdulillah –
Another year we have survived
This year we strive to do so much better
Practice our Deen down to the letter
Complete all our Salaat on time
Do many good deeds in our prime
Give Zakat without hesitation
Of the Holy Qu’ran make frequent recitation
Treat all we come across with kindness
Constantly ask for forgiveness
Muharram Mubarak to you, and
May all your Duas come true
– Insha’Allah !
. . .
Glossary of Arabic phrases and Muslim terms:
Alhamdulillah: In Arabic – God/Allah be praised
Deen: In Arabic – the way or code of life
Salaat: Arabic for proper prayer ritual
Zakat: the giving of a portion of one’s wealth to the poor or needy – a practice initiated by Muhammad
Muharram Mubarak: Blesséd Muharram – an equivalent to Happy New Year in English. Muharram is the first month of the Islamic lunar calendar. In 2012 New Year’s Day is November 15th and marks the beginning of year 1434.
Dua: calling out to/summoning God – one’s personal invocation to Allah
Insha’Allah: In Arabic – God/Allah willing, If God/Allah wishes it to be so.
.
A special Thank You to Wayfarer for this Muharram poem!
. . . . .
दीप एक जलता रहे / Poems for Diwali !
Posted: November 13, 2012 Filed under: English, Hindi Comments Off on दीप एक जलता रहे / Poems for Diwali !दीप एक जलता रहे / Diwali Poems in Hindi / English
.
पर्व है पुरुषार्थ का,
दीप के दिव्यार्थ का,
देहरी पर दीप एक जलता रहे,
अंधकार से युद्ध यह चलता रहे,
हारेगी हर बार अंधियारे की घोर-कालिमा,
जीतेगी जगमग उजियारे की स्वर्ण-लालिमा,
दीप ही ज्योति का प्रथम तीर्थ है,
कायम रहे इसका अर्थ, वरना व्यर्थ है,
आशीषों की मधुर छांव इसे दे दीजिए,
प्रार्थना-शुभकामना हमारी ले लीजिए!!
झिलमिल रोशनी में निवेदित अविरल शुभकामना
आस्था के आलोक में आदरयुक्त मंगल भावना!!!
. . .
Ashwani Kumar ‘Jatan’
“Pyari Deepawali Hai Aayi”
.
Bachchon khushiyan khoob manaao
rang birange deep jalaao,
dene fir khush haali aai
pyari deepawali hai aayi.
.
Ghar-ghar deep jalaana hai
khoob mithaai khana hai.
pataakhe nahin bajaana hai.
paryavaran ko bachaana hai.
.
Mat karna bachchon manmaani
pataakhon se nahin chhedkhaani.,
sabhi ke cheharon par hai laali
“Jatan” sabhi ko subh Diwali.
. . .
“Praise Laxmi Maa”
.
Goddess of riches,
Granter of health,
Most revered of all gods – Mother Laxmi,
We praise you on this day!
.
Make vanish the darkness,
Spread rays of light,
We are your children, oh Mother –
Bless us all with your boons!
.
Give us strength to conquer what’s evil,
Make us happy and civil,
You on this day killed one mighty devil –
Bestow your grace on us and
Let good prevail!
.
Lord Ram’s wife, Sita, you are,
And Lord Krishna’s great gita,
You – our lighthouse in dark seas,
Only through You will we reach our destination!
. . . . .
Remembrance Day 2012: “War is like a flower…”: poems of War world-wide
Posted: November 11, 2012 Filed under: IMAGES, Louise Glück | Tags: Remembrance Day poems Comments Off on Remembrance Day 2012: “War is like a flower…”: poems of War world-wide.
Louise Glück
“The Red Poppy”
.
The great thing
is not having
a mind. Feelings:
oh, I have those; they
govern me. I have
a lord in heaven
called the sun, and open
for him, showing him
the fire of my own heart, fire
like his presence.
What could such glory be
if not a heart? Oh my brothers and sisters,
were you like me once, long ago,
before you were human? Did you
permit yourselves
to open once, who would never
open again? Because in truth
I am speaking now
the way you do. I speak
because I am shattered.
. . .
Remembrance Day: poems about Palestine, Iraq, Afghanistan
Posted: November 11, 2012 Filed under: Arabic, Dunya Mikhail, English, Mahmoud Darwish | Tags: Remembrance Day poems Comments Off on Remembrance Day: poems about Palestine, Iraq, Afghanistan
Mahmoud Darwish (born 1941, Palestine/Israel, died 2008, USA)
“I am from there”
.
I am from there and I have memories.
Like any other man I was born, I have a mother,
A house with several windows, friends and brothers.
I have a prison cell’s cold window, a wave
Snatched by seagulls, my own view, an extra blade
Of grass, a moon at word’s end, a life-supply
Of birds, and an olive tree that cannot die.
I walked and crossed the land before the cross
Of swords banqueted on what its body was.
.
I come from there, and I return the sky
To its mother when it cries for her, and cry
For a cloud on its return to recognize me.
I have learned all words befitting of blood’s court to break
The rule; I have learned all the words to take
The lexicon apart for one noun’s sake,
The compound I must make:
Homeland.
Sami Mahdi
Poems from “War Diaries”
(translated from Arabic by Ferial J Ghazoul)
.
I (Feb.14th 1991)
From gazelles’ eyes the pupils dropped
When the bridge was bombed
Lovers’ rings shattered
And mothers were bewildered.
.
II (Feb.16th 1991)
With fire we perform our ablutions every morning
Collecting our remnants
And the debris of our houses
We purge our souls with the blood of our wounds.
.
III (Feb.24th 1991)
Plenty we have received
What shall we offer you, O land of patient destitutes?
Plenty we have received
So receive us
And pave with us the paths of wayfarers.
.
Sami Mahdi (born 1940, Iraq) wrote the above poems about the Gulf War (1990-1991) when he was living in Baghdad and working as editor of an Iraqi daily newspaper.
. . .
Dunya Mikhail (born 1965, Baghdad, Iraq, now living in the USA)
“The Prisoner”
(translated from Arabic by Salaam Yousif and Elizabeth Winslow)
.
She doesn’t understand
what it means to be “guilty”
She waits at the prison door
until she sees him
to tell him “Take care”
as she used to remind him
when he was going to school
when he was going to work
when he was going on vacation
She doesn’t understand
what they are uttering now
those who are behind the bar
with their uniforms
as they decided that
he should be put there
with strangers in gloomy days
It never came to her mind
when she was saying lullabies
upon his bed
during those faraway nights
that he would be put
in this cold place
without moons or windows
She doesn’t understand
The mother of the prisoner doesn’t understand
why should she leave him
just because “the visit has finished” !
(2003)
“The War works hard”
(translated from Arabic by Elizabeth Winslow)
.
How magnificent the war is!
How eager
and efficient!
Early in the morning
it wakes up the sirens
and dispatches ambulances
to various places
swings corpses through the air
rolls stretchers to the wounded
summons rain
from the eyes of mothers
digs into the earth
dislodging many things
from under the ruins…
Some are lifeless and glistening
others are pale and still throbbing…
It produces the most questions
in the minds of children
entertains the gods
by shooting fireworks and missiles
into the sky
sows mines in the fields
and reaps punctures and blisters
urges families to emigrate
stands beside the clergymen
as they curse the devil
(poor devil, he remains
with one hand in the searing fire)…
The war continues working, day and night.
It inspires tyrants
to deliver long speeches
awards medals to generals
and themes to poets
it contributes to the industry
of artificial limbs
provides food for flies
adds pages to the history books
achieves equality
between killer and killed
teaches lovers to write letters
accustoms young women to waiting
fills the newspapers
with articles and pictures
builds new houses
for the orphans
invigorates the coffin makers
gives grave diggers
a pat on the back
and paints a smile on the leader’s face.
It works with unparalleled diligence!
Yet no one gives it
a word of praise.
(2003)
.
Dunya Mikhail’s poem “The War works hard” has been described as being not about a specific war – although it could easily be about The Iraq War (2003-2011) – but rather “about War itself, seemingly a force as insistent and powerful as Life, in fact the very motor of human history. The poet’s verbs (“works” “sows”, “reaps”, “teaches”, “paints”) work rhetorically to make war seem like any other worthwhile human activity. Her (Mikhail’s) speaking voice exhibits not the slightest trace of shock, but in doing so forces the reader into shock…”
. . .
Alex Cockers
The Brutal Game
.
I’m sitting here now
Trying to put pen to paper
Trying to write something
That you can relate to.
.
It’s hard to relate
To my personal circumstances
I’m out here in Afghanistan now
Taking my chances.
.
Read what you read
And say what you say
You won’t understand it
Until you’ve lived it day by day.
.
Poverty-stricken people
With mediaeval ways
Will take your life without a thought.
.
And now we’re all the same
Each playing our part in this brutal game.
. . .
Morals……two for a pound
.
I’ve been and seen
And feel slightly unclean
About the things I’ve done
Under a hot sun.
.
Away in a place
The British public don’t understand
A place where every day
Man kills fellow man.
.
Is it right to fight
In an unjust war?
Well I don’t have a choice
And peace is such a bore.
.
Being paid tuppence
To put my life on the line
Trying to pretend
That everything is fine.
. . .
Alex Cockers (born 1985, UK) was a Royal Marines Commando from 2005 to 2009. He served in Helmand province, Afghanistan, for fourteen months. He explains:
” I had many feelings and thoughts that I was unable to share with anyone…Under the stars in the desert, rhymes would manifest in my head. I would write them down, construct them into poems and somehow I felt better for getting it off my chest. ”
. . . . .
Remembrance Day: “No Secret: the Rwandan Genocide”
Posted: November 11, 2012 Filed under: English, Paul Hartal | Tags: Remembrance Day poems Comments Off on Remembrance Day: “No Secret: the Rwandan Genocide”“Revenge is barren of itself; itself is the dreadful food it feeds on; its delight is murder, and its satiety, despair.”
(Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller)
.
Paul Hartal
(Canadian painter and poet, born 1936, Hungary)
“No Secret: the Rwandan Genocide”
.
A remote source of The Nile,
the Kagera River originates in Burundi.
On its way to Lake Victoria it flows
into a steep gorge along the natural border
between Rwanda and Tanzania.
Before entering the ravine,
the river cascades in a small waterfall
that swells in the rainy season.
.
As the Kagera sweeps down from
the highlands it carries within its currents
vast clusters of uprooted trees embedded
in gigantic dollops of elephant grass.
In the spring and summer of 1994
it was still much the same.
However, this time also thousands
of human corpses floated on the river.
.
Rwanda and Burundi
are two tiny African countries,
each with a territory somewhat smaller
than Belgium. Most of the population
belong to Hutu tribes,
who are traditionally crop growers.
.
But beginning in the 1300s
warrior herdsmen
from the highlands of Ethiopia
migrated to the region.
They originally spoke Somali or Oromo,
but in adopting the local Bantu language
and settling among the Hutus,
they became known as Tutsis.
.
The German colonists favoured
the Ethiopian look of the Tutsi minority.
They employed them as overseers
in the administration of Ruanda-Urundi,
as the colony was called then.
.
Then during the First World War Belgium
took over governing the territory
but continued to support the Tutsis
as the ruling class.
.
In 1919 Brussels received a mandate
from the League of Nations to administer
the colony. The Belgian colonists divided
Tutsis and Hutus on the basis
of cattle ownership, church documents,
physical measurements
and physiognomic appearance.
.
Basically, they had designated
the wealthy and tall as Tutsis,
and classified those poorer
and shorter as Hutus.
The Tutsis got used fast
to their privileged status
as Rwandan aristocrats.
They worshipped their king
as a god-like ruler and treated
the Hutus with disdain as peasants.
.
But the aristocratic Tutsi monarchy
came to an end in 1959
when Belgium allowed holding
universal elections.
King Kigeli V of Ruanda-Urundi
was forced to go to exile
and the majority Hutus
assumed control of the government.
.
These were turbulent times
that deteriorated into wide spread
communal violence.
In 1962 two independent countries
emerged from the former colony,
Rwanda and Burundi.
But the transition from colony
to independence was not
a peaceful one.
.
At the time that Rwanda
became independent,
Hutus comprised more than 80 percent
of the country’s seven million people.
Nevertheless, the Tutsi minority
was reluctant to give up
its privileged ruling status.
.
Consequently, Hutus and Tutsis
were at each other’s throat
in the power struggle
for governing the country.
In Rwanda hundreds of Tutsis
were killed while thousands of others
fled to neighbouring Burundi and Uganda.
.
In the aftermath of the atrocities,
President Grégoire Kayibanda
made the Hutus the governing majority
of the nation. Yet the leaders
of the new regime did not choose
a policy of national reconciliation.
Instead, they opted for oppression
and discrimination.
.
They blamed the problems of Rwanda
on the Tutsis. In the 1970s
the Hutu-led military
continued to murder Tutsis in Rwanda.
They excluded the Tutsis
from the governmental administration,
the armed forces, even from schools
and universities.
.
Yet meanwhile Tutsis had their share
in violent ethnic cleansing as well.
In 1972, in response to a Hutu rebellion,
the Tutsi controlled army
in the Republic of Burundi
killed over 100,000 Hutus.
.
Similarly to Rwanda, over 80 percent
of the population in Burundi
consists of Hutu tribes.
.
Harking back on the shame and humiliation
of the past, the Hutu leadership in Rwanda
intensified their hateful propaganda,
inflaming bitterness and hostility
against the tall, aristocratic Tutsi.
.
They claimed that the Tutsis
intended to restore a feudal system
to enslave the Hutu population.
They recruited writers and teachers
to travel the country to raise Hutu pride
and to create a pan-Hutu consciousness.
They sowed the seeds of spite,
unfurled the propaganda of hate
and prepared the hurricane of genocide.
.
However, in the neighbouring countries
the Tutsi refugee Diaspora organized
militia forces to overthrow
the Hutu regime in Rwanda.
In 1990 civil war broke out
as the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF)
of the Tutsi minority
invaded the country from Uganda.
.
Then on April 6,1994, an airplane
carrying the Hutu presidents
of two African nations,
Juvénal Habyarimana of Rwanda and
Cyprien Ntaryamira of Burundi,
had been shot down.
The fanatic Akazu organization
of the Hutu Power ideologists
immediately blamed the Tutsis
for the shooting down of the plane.
.
They spread hate and hysteria.
By radio and word of mouth
they told Hutu civilians that it was
their patriotic duty
to “fill the half-empty graves”
with the bodies of Tutsis.
They called for the slaughter
of all Tutsis, as well as of Hutus
who sympathized with the Tutsi.
.
They even incited Hutu wives
and husbands to murder
their own spouses.
.
Although throughout the centuries
both Hutus and Tutsis
unleashed violent actions
and slaughtered each other,
the tragic events of 1994 culminated
in one of the most horrible atrocities
of history.
.
The Rwandan radio exhorted people
to fight for Rwanda and to kill
the Tutsis like ‘cockroaches’
and sweep them from the country.
The radio inflamed the Hutus
to massacre the Tutsis,
urging them to use
every kind of weapons;
if not guns and grenades,
then arrows, spears,
machetes, knives and clubs.
.
And so they did.
Frenzied Hutu squads killed
Tutsi men, women, children
and babies by the thousands
in the streets, in churches,
schools and in their houses.
In the countryside the murderers
covered the dead with banana leaves
in order to screen them
from aerial photography.
.
In about100 days,
between April 6 and mid-July in 1994,
approximately one million people
were killed. The victims also included
Hutus who refused to participate
in the massacres or were
on friendly relations with Tutsis.
.
The cold blooded murderers
who perpetrated these heinous crimes
were fuelled by fanatic dedication
to a pan-nationalist identity politics.
.
The killers were often not strangers
but familiar faces to the victims,
neighbours and workmates,
even relatives or former friends.
.
The December 1993 issue
of the Hutu Kangura magazine shows
a picture of the Rwandan President
Grégoire Kayibanda next to a machete.
Adjacent to the picture appear the words:
“Tutsi: Race of God”, and then
the magazine poses the question:
“Which weapons are we going to use
to beat the cockroaches for good? ”
.
The genocide
that followed was no secret!
It occurred uninterrupted
by United Nations forces
that were in place
monitoring a ceasefire.
.
And journalists and TV cameras
from all over the world reported
the massacres.
Viewers in cities and villages
on different continents
sat in front of their television screens,
sipping coffee or eating popcorn,
and watched in shock
the horrible mass murders.
.
The genocide ended in July 1994
when the Tutsi rebels of the RPF
defeated the Hutu military forces
of Rwanda. Fearing retributions,
two million Hutus fled
to neighbouring Burundi, Tanzania,
Uganda and Zaire. Many of them
participated in the massacres.
.
Conditions in the refugee camps were
dreadful and thousands died
in epidemics of cholera and dysentery.
.
The international community
could have intervened in order to stop
the Rwandan genocide, but governments
lacked the political will to do that.
And, indeed,
the United Nations Security Council
accepted responsibility
for failing to prevent the massacres.
.
The unchecked brutality
of the perpetrators of this genocide
“made a mockery, once again,
of the pledge ‘never again’”,
said the Canadian Foreign Minister,
Lloyd Axworthy.
He was referring to the promise
made after the Holocaust.
. . .
Editor’s note:
Paul Hartal presents this poem to us almost like a computer printer dishing up page after page of a dense document. There is little of the poem in his poem but perhaps that’s because the most urgent thing – if one can speak urgently of an event in time from 18 years ago – is to make history known, to tell the facts, to keep on telling the facts, of the Rwandan Genocide.
.
Ask yourself – honestly – do you remember very much about world events in the summer of 1994? Because the Canadian and U.S. media’s scandal-vulture coverage after the murder of O.J. Simpson’s wife was top of the news in June and July while Rwanda’s horrific social cataclysm received far less scrutiny on TV news programmes. Rwanda, Burundi – Hutus, Tutsis? What countries were those? And which people were they? And: who are they – today?
.
Any reader wishing to find out more is encouraged to make a beginning by reading Shake Hands with the Devil: The Failure of Humanity in Rwanda, published in 2003 by Canada’s Roméo Dallaire. In 1993 Lieutenant-General Dallaire received the commission as Force Commander of UNAMIR, the United Nations Assistance Mission in Rwanda.
.
Lloyd Axworthy quotation (April 15th 2000, BBC News): “The unchecked brutality of the genocidaires made a mockery, once again, of the pledge ‘Never again’.” (‘Never again’ – this phrase is inscribed in several languages at the Dachau monument marking the Nazi Holocaust.)
“There’s a man who drinks nothing but memories”: Vietnamese poems: Nguyen Quang Thieu, Nguyen Ba Chung, Thich Nhat Hanh
Posted: November 11, 2012 Filed under: English, Nguyen Ba Chung, Nguyen Quang Thieu, Thich Nhat Hanh Comments Off on “There’s a man who drinks nothing but memories”: Vietnamese poems: Nguyen Quang Thieu, Nguyen Ba Chung, Thich Nhat Hanh.
Nguyen Quang Thieu (Vietnamese poet, born 1957)
“The Inn of Snake Alcohol”
.
The snakes are buried in alcohol.
Their spirits creep over the mouth of the jug,
They lie in the bottoms of cups.
Creep on, please creep on through white lips —
Listen: Drunk is shouting his vagabond song.
.
With the top of a hat, with a pair of shoes
With glazed eyes that search the horizon
With anger setting fires in the temple
A whole life stunned by nothingness —
.
Like a broken stone, like a bending reed
With the startling turns of a poem
With a frenzy of fears that lick like fire
With the laugh in the sleepwalker’s crying —
.
Creep on, spirits of snakes, creep on!
Dazzling venom spurts from the jug.
There’s a man who drinks nothing but memories
Whose veins are the paths of snakes.
.
The little inn buries the great night
The forest recalls the name of Autumn
Alcohol carries the spirits of snakes
And Drunk is making a song from his own venom.
“My Mother’s Hair”
.
One of your hairs fell out last night,
a piece of your life was gone without a sound.
I know a difficult day is coming,
my heart, pierced, utters a quiet cry.
.
Let my childhood smile again, in the sun,
and turn me into an innocent little headlouse
so I can crawl through the jungle of your hair
and sing a song of darkness in its fragrance.
.
Under your fingernail-roof I’ll sleep in my house;
in my black dream I’ll water your black trees.
I’ll pick black fruits, and hair-jungle bees
will bring me black poems to be opened.
.
How will I live, without your hair?
How will I breathe without its fragrance?
How will I survive when I am discovered
by ghosts of wooden combs combing your hair?
.
Let me wear shows made of dawn-flowers
and crawl without a sound into your sleep.
I’ll take the place of the hair that’s gone
and sing of hair-clouds flying from night to day.
.
“The Inn of Snake Alcohol” and “My Mother’s Hair” © Nguyen Quang Thieu
Translations from Vietnamese by the poet – with Martha Collins
. . .
Nguyen Ba Chung (born 1949, Vietnam)
“Non-attachment”
.
Let’s gather every fragment of our memories,
it’s all that we have at the end of our life.
Warring days and nights, showers of sun and rain –
what’s left of love?
Let’s gather what remains of our memories,
it’s all that we have at the close of our life.
Warring days and nights make us wonder:
Should the bundle we gather be empty or full?
. . .
Thich Nhat Hanh
(Buddhist monk, poet, peace activist – born 1926, Vietnam)
“For Warmth”
.
I hold my face between my hands
– no, I am not crying
I hold my face between my hands
– to keep my loneliness warm
– two hands protecting
– two hands nourishing
– two hands to prevent my soul from leaving me
– in anger.
. . . . .