Anguilla

So, 30 May is Anguilla day—which means I get to keep learning about the Caribbean. Never a bad thing. Anguilla is another British overseas territory, and part of the Leeward Islands. The Leeward Islands (the northern part of the Lesser Antilles) are divided between being independent, and being territories of the United Kingdom, France, the Netherlands, and the Netherland Antilles. Anguilla consists of the main island—capital: The Valley—and a number of smaller islands and cays that have no permanent population. Including—oh! I love it!—the Prickley Pear Cays.

The first inhabitants were Amerindians from South America—their name for the island was Malliouhana. There have been artefacts of their habitation found dating back to around 1300 BCE, with the remains of settlements from around 600 CE.

The European discovery of the island is uncertain—it may have been sighted by Columbus in 1493, but it is also often credited to the French explorer Pierre Laudonnaire. The Dutch say they built a fort (not, I imagine, out of pillows… Okay, that was just silly) in 1631, but no remains have been found. English colonists came from Saint Kitts in 1650, and began growing tobacco and corn. Following English settlement? Well, in 1656 Carib Indians invaded, destroying settlements, and in 1666 the French captured the islands. Then the British came back in 1667 under the Treaty of Breda, which saw them regain control of the island.

I never thought about the cutthroat hobby of colonists capturing each other’s islands in the Caribbean before. Anguilla got its own back in 1744 when it invaded the French half of St Martin and held it for four years until the 1748 Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle. Tit for tat. The French made attempts to invade Anguilla again in 1745 and 1796, but failed both times.

Anguilla’s soil and climate made it an unsuccessful site for plantations—as such, slaves were permitted to leave and pursue their own interests. With the abolition of slavery, many of the British left the region to return to Europe, and the majority of the island’s inhabitants are of African descent.

In 1824 Anguilla was placed under the administrative control of Saint Kitts—an unpopular move among Anguillans, who perceived that the Saint Kitts administration weren’t very interested in their affairs.

Which brings us back to Anguilla Day. On 30 May 1967, the Saint Kitts police were evicted from the island. 11 July saw a referendum on Anguilla’s secession—results? 1,813 votes for secession, 5 against. This raised a question regarding the governance of the island that continued for the next few years. A second referendum was held in 1969—again, the results were emphatic. 1,739 to 4 against returning to association with Saint Kitts. A British envoy arriving in March 1969 was expelled; this was followed by a contingent of British paratroops and 40 London police officers. The bobbies invade Anguilla! This was all in the name of restoring order, and soon the troops left, and Army engineers came in to improve public works.

Following over a decade of interim agreements, formal dissociation from Saint Kitts and Nevis occurred in 1980, and Anguilla became a separate British dependency.

Today’s poem then—I found this poem by Fabian Fahie online here.

TO MY OWN PRIVATE BEACH

In cities bent and choked, I dream of clear blue skies.
In dirty smelling streets, I recall days,
The fresh salt smell, Riding the insistent breeze.

I dream of the sea, And a conch shell,
Lone upon the sand, A foot-print, sunk deep,
Sudden washed away, By a tickling wave

Who can recall, now, His own private beach
When Maracas swarms, And Ochio Rios overflows
In rivers of flesh?

Who can recall, now, Sitting at sundown
On the hump Of an overhanging ledge, ‘Waiting
The sudden tensing line, Meanwhile witnessing

The cruel sadistic smashing Of waves against the sharpened teeth
Of the resisting rocks? Who can recall His paining toe
Bruised on a crab Among the weeds?

Who can recall a foot, Inflamed for days
With the spines Of a wayward sea urchin,
Half-concealed in the sand?

—Fabian Fahie

Ethiopia

Ethiopia—one of the world’s oldest countries, and rumoured resting place of the Ark of the Covenant. 28 May is Ethiopia’s National Day, known as Dergue Downfall Day. One of the earliest countries to become officially Christian, I’ve always wanted to see the churches carved into the mountains. There has also been a lot of Muslim influence since the earliest days of the Islamic faith. Long before that, fossilized remains of ancestors to the human species have been said to be as old as 5.9 million years old. It’s also the most likely candidate (along with Eritrea) for the land referred to by Egyptians as “Punt,” first mentioned in the twenty-fifth century BCE.

Oh, and Ethiopia is the place that was once known as Abyssinia, for anyone who’s always wondered where Abyssinia was, but never got around to looking it up.

Ethiopia also had early contact with Europe—the region is referred to by Graeco-Roman authors. This contact was lost for a time, reemerging in the 15th century—a letter from King Henry IV of England to the Emperor of Abyssinia survives. Continuous relations began in 1508 with Portugal.

During the 19th century scramble for Africa, the Italians formed the colony of Eritrea to the north of Ethiopia. This led to conflicts between the two countries, and the world was surprised when Ethiopia defeated Italy in the 1896 Battle of Adwa, retaining its independence. Independence was interrupted by a second Italo-Abyssinian war and Italian occuption from 1936-1940. British Empire forces combined with Ethiopian fighters liberated the country in the World War II East African Campaign in 1941—sovereignty was re-established the same year, being formally recognised in 1944 after the signing of the Anglo-Ethiopian Agreement.

The twentieth century saw Ethiopia under the rule of Emperor Haile Selassie for a long stretch. He came to power in 1930, and was deposed by the military junta, the “Derg” in 1974 who established a one-party communist state. 1994 saw the adoption of a constitution that led to the country’s first multi-party elections.

Today’s poem is by the poet Solomon Deressa.

Shifting Gears

I who swim
In the stealth of a dream
Listening to the mind’s insane silence scream,
Because of colour lack
I shall paint your loving face
In colourless breath,
With grapnel-fingers in an empty colour rack,
Beneath the quiet curve of your lashes
Two simple awesome dots in black,
You whose love never wavered
Towards whom I forever crack
On the tip of my parched tongue.

—Solomon Deressa

Azerbaijan

The Republic of Azerbaijan celebrates Republic Day on 28 May. Azerbaijan? That would be an amazing Scrabble score if it were allowed on the board. Also, it’s the largest country of the south Caucusus. There’s a small enclave belonging to Azerbaijan to the west of the main part of the country that is bordered by Armenia, Iran and Turkey. And several islands in the Caspian sea are also part of Azerbaijan—I’d never even thought of the Caspian sea having islands. It’s always good to have my ignorance exposed, especially when its offered an instant remedy. Azerbaijan declared independence from the then Soviet Union on 30 August 1991, the process of which was completed on 18 October that year. Republic Day celebrates the 1918 declaration of independence from the Transcaucasian Democratic Federative Republic—this marked the first sovereign state for Azerbaijan. Not up on your transcontinental facts? Capital: Baku. Language: Azerbaijani (also known as Azeri).

Though Azerbaijan only became a sovereign state (for the first time) in 1918, the region has been settled at least since the stone age, and South Caucasus has a long history. Alexander the Great anyone? In the 4th century CE the king of Caucasian Albania, as the region was then known, adopted Christianity as the official state religion, and it remained predominantly Christian until the Islamic conquest of the 8th century. The history following the Islamic conquest is a little confusing when put in a nutshell—shifting rulers, switches between Sunni and Shia Islam, wars, empire collapses, atabegs, dynasties, khanates. The frequent shifts of power, as well as the fact that the country was never a defined state until the twentieth century create a kaleidoscopic, somewhat dizzying tour of a history I don’t know well. (More ignorance to fill in.) Let’s say: after centuries of rule by southern powerhouses, the Persian Empire recognised Russian sovereignty over the region with the Treaty of Turkmenchay in 1828, following its defeat in the Russo-Persian War of 1826-1828.

Statehood in the early twentieth century was shortlived—in 1922 Azerbaijan, with Armenia and Georgia, became part of the Transcaucasian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, and then in 1936, with the dissolution of the TSFSR, Azerbaijan became an Azerbaijan SSR, a constitutive member of the USSR. During World War II, Azerbaijan supplied the bulk of the Soviet Union’s oil—and the Germans launched Operation Edelweiss in an attempt to occupy the Caucasian oilfields. All attempts to capture Baku failed.

The current president, Ilham Aliyev, took over the family business of government from his father Heydar Aliyev who died in 2003—the 1990s saw a number of attempted coups. On the upside, Heydar Aliyev reduced the country’s unemployment, curbed the activities of criminal groups, established important institutions of independent statehood and brought in major foreign investment. On the downside—there was a great deal of corruption among the government. The same complaint has been levelled about Ilham Aliyev, who was previously his father’s Prime Minister.

Azerbaijan has some amazing wildlife. I like the long-eared hedgehogs and Eurasian lynx in particular.

Oh, and this year—look out. Azerbaijan is making its first appearance in Eurovision. Who doesn’t love Eurovision?

This Azeri poem is from the wonderful Language for a New Century. It’s by the poet Firuza Mammadli.



Leaning My Shoulder to the Sun

Leaning my shoulder to the sun,
my face to the shadow.
You are between me and my shadow.
We are talking about you.

Is that how you spare me my shadow?
You are standing between us.
You have forgotten though, my shadow
is on your face.

I am sewing a shirt for you
from the rays of the sun.
I am sewing a shirt for you.
You are standing between me and the sun,
your shadow is on the shirt I am sewing.
I am sewing a shirt for you,
on your shirt your shadow.
I am sewing the shadow to your shirt.

—Firuza Mammadli
translated from the Azeri by Shouleh Vatanabadi
from Language for a New Century

Georgia

A few years ago I got an invitation to help on an archaeological dig in Georgia. I wanted to go so much, but somehow or other I never went. It was in the region where Jason (or Argonauts fame) went searching for the Golden Fleece. The Caucasus is one of the regions that seems magical in my mind—especially as its transcontinental. Transitional spaces are delightfully slippery. The most beautiful account I have read of Georgia is in Kapuscinski’s Imperium—in fact, his writings on all the former SSRs are extraordinary. Particularly lovely is his account of the production of cognac in Georgia. (Yes, I know it’s not actually cognac unless it comes from the Cognac region of France.) Interestingly, Georgia was the second state to adopt Christianity as the official state religion—way back in 337 CE. (Neighbouring Armenia was the first.) There is still a dispute about where the name “Georgia” comes from—whether its linked to Greek and Latin roots, comes from Persian names for the inhabitants of the region, or comes from St George—apparently a popular figure in Georgia. (Sir John Mandeville, always a tiptop source, if not always a strictly reliable one, votes for the latter.)

26 May is Georgia’s Independence Day—it celebrated the creation of the Democratic Republic of Georgia in 1918, not its independence from the Soviet Union, which was declared on 9 April 1991, and finalised on Christmas Day.

Placed as it is between Christian and Islamic cultures, Georgia experienced an early Renaissance—around 12-13th century. This Renaissance produced great cathedrals, poetry and literature. The latter includes the epic poem “The Knight in the Panther’s Skin,” the title of which has got me entirely sold. I want to read it. Then there was a pesky invasion by the Mongols in the 13th century, which, followed by several other invasions by Persians and Turks over the next several centuries, slowed this up considerably. The country broke up into several small kingdoms, and in the 18th century the Russians annexed what was left.

Then 1918 brought the independence of Georgia—for a few years, at least. In 1921 the country was invaded by the Bolsheviks, and became part of the USSR in 1922. Following the restoration of independence in 1991, civil war arose. 2003 brought the “Rose Revolution,” in which Georgia got rid of its corrupt President, Eduard Shevardnadze—when he announced his resignation after allegations of ballot fraud, more than 100,000 gathered in the streets of Tbilisi. Fireworks ensued. And who doesn’t love a good bout of fireworks?

Georgia’s territory isn’t a settled matter—there are a few breakaway areas, including autonomous regions Abkhazia and Ajaria, which both see themselves as sovereign, as well as South Ossetia, which has in part been an de facto independence region since the 90s. In Abkhazia they speak Abkhaz and Russian, and in South Ossetian they speak the Ossetian language. Ajarians speak Georgian.

Georgia is famous for its religious iconography. I read—probably in Kapuscinski—that when Armenian’s were forced out of Armenia, they saved the books. In Georgia, they saved the art.

Today’s poem is by Galakt’ion T’abidze
. I noticed that the recent anthology of Asian poetries from Norton (Language for a New Century) includes poems from the other Caucasian nations, but not Georgia. I wondered if it would be difficult to find work in translation—but it proved not to be. I found a number of things online, and selected “Sun of haying-month.” I found the poem here.



mzeo tibatvisa (Sun of haying-month)


mzeo tibatvisa, mzeo tibatvisa

locvad muxlmoq’rili graals ševedrebi.

igi, vinc miq’varda didi siq’varulit,

prtebit daipare — amas gevedrebi.



t’anjva-gansacdelši tvalni miuriden.

suli mouvline isev šenmieri,

dila gautene isev ciuridan,

suli umank’ota miec švenieri.

xanma undobarma, gza rom šeeɣeba,

uxvad moit’ana sisxli da cxedrebi,

mdzapri kart’exili mas nu šeexeba,

mzeo tibatvisa, amas gevedrebi.



Sun of haying-month, sun of haying-month,

I kneel deep in prayer, like a grail knight here.

That one whom I loved deeply, with great love,

Shelter in your wings. This I pray of you.



Mishap, suffering comes — turn your eyes from her.

Touch her soul instead — make her strong again.

Morning bring to her light from heaven again.

Give her soul repose, blessed unspottedness.

When in troubled times she must walk a path

Red with dead men’s gore, history’s victim’s blood,

May she be untouched by the whirlwind’s force.

Sun of haying-month, this I pray of you.

—Galakt’ion T’abidze

translated from Georgian by Kevin Tuite

Turks and Caicos Islands

26 May is National Heroes Day in the Turks and Caicos Islands, though the islands (two groups) are actually a British Overseas Territory—not a nation. The original inhabitants were Carib Amerindians, but following colonial many nations have been in control of the area. And, there are pirates too. In the 18th century, the islands were a popular pirate hangout spot. Matey!

Bermudian salt collectors settled in the islands in 1678 or so. I never even knew there were salt collectors, let alone Bermudian ones. It was under French control for a while in the 18th century, then the British. In 1799 the islands were annexed by Britain as part of the Bahamas—the Bahamas, incidentally, first settled by Bermudian puritans. (Bermuda had puritans! I’ll get to revisit this when it’s their turn, no doubt.)

They were made a separate colony in 1848, and then in 1872 were made part of the Jamaican colony. 4 July 1959 saw then become a separate colony, but until 1962 there were part of the Federation of the West Indies. Since 1976 the islands have had their own government, and in 1979 independence was agreed upon—but when the People’s Democratic movement lost power to the Progressive National Party the move was reversed. Oh, and the then leader of the country, Norman Saunders of the PNP, was convicted in the USA on drug charges. Scandal nation! While the PNP again won the by-elections following the conviction of chief minister Saunders, the governor dissolved the government in 1986, after allegations of arson and fraud associated with the government. The post-Saunders leader, Nathaniel Francis, was deemed unfit to rule. Scandal nation! A new constitution was created, and new elections held in 1988, when the People’s Democratic Movement once more came to power.

It’s a small population—well under 50,000. But there are still poets. 82 percent of the population is located on the Caicos Islands. Also notable is the fact that the astronaut John Glenn landed off the coast of Grand Turk upon his return from orbit in 1962. Claim to fame!

Today’s poem is by Gilbert E Brooke—he was a ship’s surgeon who became the government Medical Officer in the Turks and Caicos Islands 1897. He also became the J.P., District Commissioner, Police Magistrate and Coroner for the islands in 1899, and then, in 1900, the Receiver of Wreck (I want that title) and Marriage Officer. Later he emigrated to Singapore, and became a Lecturer in Hygiene at the Singapore Medical School. In 1922 he published Oddments, which includes his poems. He must have been fascinating. I’ve been trying to find out if there are copies of his book anywhere—it seems the library of the Singaporean Embassy has a copy on microfilm. I found the poem online here.


The Caicos Islands, West Indies

O salt-laden land, with your rocks and your thatch trees,
How oft have I toiled through your tropical wilderness
Though only returning to jaws of Charybdis—
Ephemeral structure, culicidal, chiggeral—
Despite protestation.

O land of the palm and the bush odoriferous,
O home of the sand-fly, and genus anopheles,
Full oft did you haunt me in fever malarial --
Shapes pallid, Walterian, grinning, rapacious --
All horrible phantoms.

O Islands of Caicos -- the last of created things --
With water bacterial, foetid, mephitical;
Eroding the desert with vapours Avernian:
And yet I escaped from a death choleräical,
O marvellous Islands!

—Gilbert E. Brooke

Guyana

Guyana, or the Co-operative Republic of Guyana celebrates independence on 26 May. Guyana, Guyana. It’s such a beautiful name. Independence from the United Kingdom came in 1966, followed in 1970 (on 23 February—celebrated by Mashramani-Republic Day) by the establishing of Guyana as a republic. The name Guyana comes from an Amerindian word meaning “Land of many water.” The capital is Georgetown—and when I told one of my friends I was going to Georgetown (University, DC) he looked up Georgetown online, and had visions of me living in Guyana.

There are jaguars in Guyana.

Beyond being a beautiful name, it’s the only country in South America whose official language is English, though it also recognises the languages Guyanese Creole, Akawaio, Hindustani, Macushi, Wai-Wai, Arawakan, and Cariban. I love reading the names of languages I hadn’t heard of before this project. It’s generally considered a Caribbean nation, as its culture is similar to that of the English-speaking Caribbean.

So, before the Europeans dropped anchor around 1500, Guyana was peopled by Arawak and Carib peoples. The Dutch were the first to establish colonies there (Essequibo, Berbice, Demerara…ah, Demerara sugar) before the British took over in the late 18th century. This was formalised when the Dutch ceded the territory in 1814.

Recently, it has the unfortunate association with the Jonestown massacre at the Jonestown settlement in northwestern Guyana created by the Peoples Temple.

And, I love this: escaped slaves formed maroon communities before the abolition of slavery in 1834 meant that many came into urban areas.

Today’s poems is by the Guyanese poet Martin Carter, who died in 1997. He was a pre-eminent poet of anti-colonial radicalism. Due to his association with the movement for independence he was jailed in the 1950s, and following his release remained active in the movement—in 1965 he was a member of the delegation to the Guyana Constitutional Conference in London. His best-known poem is a protest poem from the 1960s entitled “I come from the nigger yard of yesterday.” For this project I have chosen the earlier poem “Old Higue.” From his book The Hill of Fire Glows Red, I found it online here.

                            Old Higue

                  Old Higue in the kitchen
                        peel off her skin—
             mammy took up old higue skin
               and pound it in the mortar
                 with pepper and vinegar.
                 "Cool um water cool um
                 cool um water cool um"
        Old higue come back in the kitchen
                 "Cool um water cool um"
       She grab the skin out of the mortar
                 "Cool um water cool um"
     She danced merengue when the pepper
                       burn up her skin—
         dance merengue when the pepper
                       burn up her skin
             "skin skin you nah know me
             skin skin you nah know me"
      She danced merengue when the pepper
                       burn up her skin.

—Martin Carter
from The Hill of Fire Glows Red, 1951

Jordan

25 May, and it’s Independence Day for the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. I’ve just learned about the Hashemite part of that equation—from the Arabic, it means those who belong to the “clan of Hashim,” which is part of the larger Quraish tribe, a dominant tribe of Mecca from the beginning of Islam. It also refers to the Hashemite family, who the royals belong to. Feel educated? Independence dates from 1946, with the end of the British League of Nations. But, of course, Jordan is an ancient country. I want to go to Petra before I die…

Following an influx of Palestinian refugees from the 1967 war against Israel (in which Jordan was a participant) a conflict leading to the expulsion of PLO groups from Jordan occurred in 1970, commonly known as Black September—though there are many who know the same event as White September.

Following the 1994 Israeli-Jordanian peace treaty, Jordan has made an effort to maintain peaceful relations with other countries in the region. Though it has made these efforts, the situation within the country has been of concern to human rights groups. As well as the death penalty, it is reported that torture is used within the country, and there is restricted free of the press—journalists have often been imprisoned. Still, it is considered the third-best nation in terms of freedom of expression within the Middle Eastern region.

Every time I look at pictures of places in Jordan I want to pack my bags and set out straight away. I also want to learn Arabic.

Today’s poem is by Amjad Nasser, and comes once more from the anthology A Crack in the Wall: New Arab Poetry.



Wildernesses

How will I write my poem
when I have nothing
but the wreckage of description?
How will I prepare
my florid blurry praise
for the princess’s face
in its white quietude?
How will I pursue
the gazelle’s trail
shot through with golden shards?

I went down to the river
and found nothing but pebbles
and the commandments of drought.
I went to the lovers;
and found only the ink of letters
the autumn of cloves.
I went to the wildernesses
and found only the wolf’s solitude,
loneliness of the serpent.
I went to wisdom
and found nothing but
the leftovers of a sermon.

I went
to poetry
and found nothing
but the wreckage
of description.


—Amjad Nasser
from A Crack in the Wall: New Arab Poetry (2001)
translated from the Arabic by Sargon Boulus

Eritrea

Eritrea’s independence—or restoration of independence—is a very recent phenomenon, in a region of the world that is very old. Bordering Sudan, Ethiopia and Djibouti, the country has lies along the Red Sea. Having been asked “How did Moses cross the Red Sea?” as a five-year-old (I gave the wrong answer—very little bible education in my household...) just the mention of the Red Sea makes me think of ancient nations. Formal independence, and recognition internationally as an independence nation, came on 24 May, 1993, the anniversary of which is marked as Eritrean Independence Day. Something I didn’t know about Eritrea is that over a hundred islands are part of the country, and the Dahlak Archipelago was known to the Romans back in the day as pearl fisheries. They still produce a few pearls.

In 1890 Eritrea was conquered by Italy, and became a Italian colony until Italy’s losses in World War II. From 1941 until 1952, the country was a United Nations protectorate that was administered by the British. In 1950, the UN decided to federate Eritrea with Ethiopia, and until 1962, the country was an autonomous territory federated with Ethiopia. In 1962, Ethopia annexed Eritrea as a province, which led to a 31 year long civil war. Among other victims of the civil war (and I don’t want to
diminish the human impact) was the elephant population of Eritrea. Once a source of war elephants for the Egyptians, from 1955 until 2001 there were no elephants seen in the country. More recently, a herd of 30 were seen, and its now thought there are a population of about 100 elephants in the country.

A referendum (supervised by the UN) was eventually held, and Eritreans overwhelmingly voted for independence. When I saw overwhelmingly, I mean it—over 99 percent. In the capital, Asmara, for instance, 128,443 voted for independence, 144 voted against, and 33 were uncounted. That’s a pretty astounding result.

Prior to this recent history, Eritrea has a long recorded history—the earliest reference to it is from Egypt in the twenty-fifth century BCE. And long before recorded history, it’s the place where one of the oldest hominids has been found—over a millions years old. Its modern name is derived from the Greek term for the Red Sea.

And—hey here’s something I really didn’t know!—in the third century AD the state of Aksum, which took up most of modern Eritrea and also the northern Ethiopian highlands, minted its own coins. I did know that they were early adopters of Christianity (fourth century) and during this period it grew to be on par with Rome, Persia and China as a civilisation—yet it’s the one we never hear about. When Islam came to Arabia in the seventh century, Aksum’s power on the Red Sea waned. The medieval period saw the breakup of Aksum, with the formation of small states and tribal and clan lands.

There is, unfortunately, huge media censorship: any journalist criticizing the President Isaias Afewerki is immediately jailed. Four journalists have died in detention. Reporters Without Borders last year ranked Eritrea last in the world—“unseating” North Korea which had run last every other year since the survey was instituted. It’s not a claim to fame to be proud of…

Today’s poem, “Knowledge,” is by Reesom Hail and is translated from the Tigrinya by Charles Cantalupo. There is no official language in Eritrea—government business is conducted in both Tigrinya and Arabic, and often in English as well—but I wanted to find a poem that had come out of Tigrinya, as the Tigre people make up around 80 percent of the population, and it is a language confined to Eritrea and Ethiopia. I found this poem in The Drunken Boat.

                          Knowledge

           First the earth, then the plow:
   So knowledge comes out of knowledge.
              We know, we don't know.
              We don't know we know.
              We know we don't know.
                           We think
                 This looks like that—
              This lemon, that orange—
                Until we taste the bitter.

by Reesom Haile,
translated from the Tigrinya by Charles Cantalupo
from The Drunken Boat

St Helena

Ah, St Helena. Exile to Elba wasn’t enough for Napoleon. He had to be shipped to one of the most remote locations in the world, where he died in 1821. This has been the source of many imaginings, including today’s poem. Did you know the (green) wallpaper used in his house had a high level of arsenic in it? Still, the cause of his death is disputed.

21 May is St Helena day. St Helena has actually always been a colonial place, since, when it was discovered by the Portuguese in 1502, it was uninhabited. Now it is a British overseas territory, with a population of around 6,500—primarily inhabiting S Helena, but with another permanent population on Ascension, and a very small group on Tristan da Cunha, which is the most remote archipelago in the world. All islanders on Tristan da Cunha belong to one of seven families—the surnames of islanders are Glass, Green, Repetto, Rogers, Swain, Hagan and Lavarello. Oh! And it’s important to know, of course, that there are girl guides on the island.

While the Portuguese used it as a stopping place, and left their those who were suffering from scurvy there to be picked up by the next passing ship (presumably having recovered by eating form the fruit trees and vegetable patches established by the Portuguese) if they survived. Still, the Portuguese never established a permanent settlement, though the introduction of European flora and fauna (mostly goats) altered the landscape of the island forever, as many endemic bird and plant species have disappeared from St Helena and its dependencies, Ascension Island and Tristan da Cunha.

The idea for the British first arose in 1644, and in 1657 the British East India Company were given a charter to govern the island. The first town was renamed Jamestown in 1660, with the restoration of the monarchy, sowing the seeds of the British Colony.

Sadly, the clearance of indigenous forest for development (and the all important distillation of spirits… a colony obviously requires a source of alcohol to survive) led to a shortage of wood by the 1680s—the 1680s? Sheesh. Not to mention the fact that rats and goats had reached plague proportions. We know how to ruin a natural environment, don’t we? The Great Wood (which once extended from Deadwood Plain to Prosperous Bay Plain… I love these names) was reported in 1710 to not have a single tree left standing. And we still haven’t learnt the lessons of deforestation? (Looking at postcards of St Helena I’m pleased to report that at least some trees are back.)

And then, Napoleon. Exiled, living at Longwood. In 1840 she remains were reclaimed by the French and taken back to Paris.

1981 saw all British colonies reclassified as territories. (I guess Britain had an urge to feel post-colonial, eh?) In 2002 a museum was opened on the island, and in 2004 a bank (next to the Post Office) commenced operation. There’s no airport or flights to St Helena at present (though in 2005 the British Government announced plans to construct an airport, to be completed in 2011 or 2012 most like) so I imagine mail is slow, and the tourist trade as well. Knowing that I’m probably never going to make it to St Helena—or the nearby Inaccessible Island which has a population of Rockhopper Penguins that sounds awesome—I’m tempted to find a St Helenese penpal.

Today’s poem is not by a poet from St Helena. Which is not to say the island doesn’t have any poets—in my experience there are poets everywhere. But I did have trouble trying to track any down, and in the end I was interested in the way such a remote place lived in the imagination of non-local poets. The primary association we all have is with Napoleon. This poem draws on that. George Wallace is an American poet, and this poem appeared in Jacket.

saint helena

six years later rain
was still filling the
streets of his city
men to whom he
had restored pride
with broom handles
in their hands swept
the gutters of paris
they still dreamed his
name asking each other
& to the waves of his
exile he asked it too
why the human sea
no longer reached to
his shore.

  *May 5 1821, Napoleon Bonaparte dies in a farmhouse outside
  Jamestown, on the tiny South Atlantic island of Saint Helena

—George Wallace
from Jacket

Montenegro

Montenegro is in its very early stages of independence—after emerging from the break up of the last incarnation of Yugoslavia as part of the union Serbia and Montenegro, Montenegro held a referendum on 21 May 2006 which resulted in the declaration of independence on 3 June, and this was formally recognised by the world when on 28 June the country became a member state of the United Nations. It’s the anniversary of the referendum, when 55.5% of the population (narrowly passing the 55% required) voted to become a separate nation, that Montenegrins choose to mark as their Independence Day. It’s just over a year (11 May 2007) that the country also became part of the Council of Europe.

As can be guessed from the name of the nation, there’s Italian—specifically Venetian—heritage in the country; not surprising, really, since it lies right across the Adriatic from Italy, though its certainly a Slavic language they speak…

Things I’ve learned recently: the earliest recorded settlers in Montenegro were Illyrians. Hey! I’ve heard of the Illyrians in my browsing in the classical world, but never had any idea about where they were from or anything else. Illyrius was the son of Cadmus and Harmonia, and he eventually ruled Illyria. That aside, not a lot is known about the Illyrians, except that they lived in the region that now comprises Montenegro and Albania. The Illyrians haven’t been mentioned since the 7th century—apparently with the arrival of the Slavs in the 6th century they all became Slavicized, which I didn’t know was a word, but now that I do, I want to be Slavicized too. Maybe.

In the 16th century, Montenegro came under the rule of the Ottomans, but developed what was a unique autonomy—despite which they rejected Ottoman reign. In the 17th century, following many rebellions, the Great Turkish War led to Ottoman defeat. Following this, Montenegro became tied to Serbia.

Looking at all these places has the effect that I know more and more about all the cities and landscapes I haven’t seen, and I know that there are a huge number of them I won’t get to see. The city of Kotor and the Morača and Tara River Canyons look lovely…

Oh, and those with the literary habit, lets not forget that Jay Gatsby was supposed to have fought in Montenegro in World War I.

Today’s poem is by Balša Brković, and comes, once more, from the anthology New European Poetry. Ulvija Tanović is the translator.


The Babylon Song

It is more and more difficult to write a letter.

The irretrievable clearness of words is lost.
Every poem used to be full of
uncanny meaning:
on the one side there were the woman and night,
and on the other light and I.

Now it is different:
Penelope’s weave of my civilization
is undone overnight, it ebbs easily.

If all words have been spoken,
everything, it then seems, has already happened.
And that would be terrible:
as if the World were a great Theater
in which for a long time there has been not
a single writer, or director, or musician.

The whole of space, the Stage, the Planet
is inhabited by actors
(gone wild without all the Others,
without the Manuscript of the Creator)
an entire ocean of actors
infinitely repeating
scraps of the same roles.
There is simply no one to tell them
What to say, or where to go.

If all the words have already been in His wrath,
then we have forever been—tired.

Still, the limits of the unutterable are wider and wider.
And it is more and more difficult to eat the darkness of the last Nothing
and spew the light that changes everything into Being,
into the certainty of Language.

Oh, sweet demons of erudition!
When God spilled the languages over Babylon
perhaps He only
gave us sturdier material:
after all, one does not get to the Creator’s throne
by piling bricks.

—Balša Brković
translated from the Montenegrin by Ulvija Tanović
from New European Poets

Cameroon

When I was in Berlin in 2003, I met a linguistics professor from Cameroon, who was doing a project on English-speakers from different regions. He wanted me to participate—he’d been having trouble finding Australians (which seems odd to me—we’re everywhere in Europe) but I was leaving to go to Prague—I met him on the train that was taking me to the bus station. I would have been interested to hear more about the project. When I think of Cameroon, I think of meeting this man briefly, and this sudden sense I had of Cameroon as a place, one that I had never thought about before. It was a spotlight on my ignorance.

Cameroon has two different dates of independence, from 1960 and 1961—it had to gain independence from both France and the United Kingdom. Perhaps a result of this split in the dates for independence, rather than celebrating an independence day on either 1 January or 1 October, Cameroon instead celebrates its National Day on 20 May—though 1 October is celebrated as Unification Day, and 1 January is a public holiday anyway for the New Year.

The nation is formed from the union of the two former colonies—French Cameroun and British Cameroons. Now the country is the United Republic of Cameroon. Comparatively, Cameroon enjoys political and social stability—there has been (imperfect, and not always well-maintained) development of agriculture, roads, railways, industries… but there is still a great deal of poverty, and the government of Paul Biya—president since 1982—engenders widespread corruption. Biya did initially start out moving toward a more democratic government, but a failed coup d’etát put an end to that. In 2006 Biya did initiate an anti-corruption move. The jury’s out. Since 1990, there has been pressure from some areas of the former British Cameroons for secession as the Republic of Ambazonia—and the Cameroons National Council declared it an independent state in 1999, though the declaration has not been recognised. The press in the country is curtailed in its freedoms—there is a lot of self-censorship in the media to avoid possible consequences. On the other hand, there is a high level of religious freedom.

Reading about Cameroon’s geography is awakening my wanderlust—the country has coast, desert, mountains, rainforest and savannah. Just writing those words makes the idea of empty places open in front of me.

Today’s poem is by the poet Mbella Sonne Dipoko—I found it using Google Books in the pages Penguin allowed me to view of an anthology of modern African poetry…


Our Life

An ailing bird over the desert made its agony
A song blown through the air
As at the oasis
Drawers of water said
How long it flies oh how touching its song

The winged hope that proved to be a dream
(Masked our destiny with a black hood)

As in the cities we said the same prayers
As in the villages we espoused ancestral myths
Transmitting our frustration our life our mortality
To the young country of tomorrow and day after tomorrow
Flattering ourselves with the charity of the blood-donor’s love.

— Mbella Sonne Dipoko

Timor-Leste

The Democratic republic of Timor-Leste gained its independence in 2002: on 20 May they celebrate Independence Day. As one of the nations closest to Australian, East Timor is a country that I have felt very conscious of in the last decade as independence became an issue.

East Timor’s independence has been a long process: in 1975 the country declared independence from Portugal (and 28 November is a public holiday too—known as Proclamation of Independence Day) but later the same year was invaded by Indonesia who occupied the country for a long time. In 1999 Indonesia relinquished control of the territory and in 2002 Timor-Leste became the first new sovereign state of the twenty-first century. Following independence the government requested the official name in all languages to be Timor-Leste, but most English speakers still refer to it as East Timor. In the Australian media, where the struggle for independence and subsequent history of the country have been a constant stream, the media always calls the country East Timor.

Timor-Leste has been inhabited for at least 40,000 years—the earliest migrants were related to the indigenous groups of New Guinea and Australia. Around 5000 years ago, Austronesians migrated through the region, including Timor-Leste—they may have developed agriculture in the country. A third group, proto-Malays, arrived in the country too—I don’t know when. In the fourteenth century Timor became part of the Chinese and Indian trading networks.

The Portuguese arrived in the sixteenth century, establishing an outpost in Timor. In 1769, when European occupation of the territory really started, the capital Dili was founded. The Portuguese provided very little by way of infrastructure for the island.

During World War II, the country was occupied briefly by Dutch and Australian armies: they wanted to preempt the invasion of the island by Japan. The Japanese arrived and drove the Australians out of Dili. At the end of the war, Portuguese control was reinstated until they began decolonisation in 1974.

It was only nine days after the 28 November declaration of independence in 1975 that Indonesian forces invaded. A guerrilla outfit—Falintil—fought against the Indonesians from 1975 until 1999. One thing that really interests me about the Indonesian occupation is that the Indonesians banned the Portuguese language (along with Tetum, the official language of Timor-Leste) in the country, and so Portuguese was used clandestinely, and became a symbol of resistance: one colonisers language was used as a kind of weapon against the new coloniser. The 1991 Dili Massacre brought international attention to Timor-Leste, strengthening support for an independent East Timor.

Though an independent Timor-Leste was recognised in 2002, tensions have continued—in 2006, for instance, riots broke out, which led to peace-keeping forces from a number of countries. In February this year, the president José Ramos-Horta was injured as the result of an assassination attempt during a failed coup.

A recent issue—as in much of the rest of the world—is hunger. 2007 saw a bad harvest, and the lack of food led to deaths in several parts of the country.

Today’s poem was written by the East Timorese Prime Minister Xanana Gusmão, the second poem of the project so far to be written by a poet who became a country’s leader. Gusmão wrote this poem while he was in Cipinang Prison.


My Sea of Timor

If I could capture between my fingers the sighs of the sea and share them with children
If I could caress with my fingers the wave's gentle breeze and feel the hair of children
If I could feel between my fingers the kiss of the foam and hear the laughter of children
If I could touch with my fingers the sleep of the sea and coax to slumber the eyes of children
If I could take between my fingers pretty little shells and make of them necklaces for children
Oh, sea of mine! why do you wait? why don't you give? why don't you feel? why don't you hear?
Immersed in my thoughts I was suddenly shaken From the sea, my sea, Out of the bellies of ships, tremors came
I looked at the erupting sky and the size of the sea were cries of agony the gentle breeze the smell of dust and blood the kiss of the foam the death-rattle the sea's slumber. The pebbles of the gravestone and the pretty shells traced the destiny of the Homeland!
—Cipinang Prison, Jakarta October 8, 1995

—Xanana Gusmão

Norway

Ah, Norway. 17 May marks Norway’s Constitutition Day, and gives me a chance to think about fjords, and the Northern Lights. Officially, it’s the Kingdom of Norway, and as well as the country itself includes Svalbard and Jan Mayen—as I’ve written before, Svalbard is one of the places that I’m fascinated by. I often seem to find myself looking up its history, and pictures of the place… The sovereignty of Norway over Svalbard is based upon the Svalbard Treaty of 1920. Norway, you will no doubt be pleased to know, tied with first place in the human development index in 2007, and was also ranked as the most peaceful country in the world last year.

From the archaeological evidence, it looks like Norway was first colonised about 12,000 years ago. It’s early known history was a time of petty kingdoms; tradition has it that Harald Fairhair (Harald Fairhair!) brought to these kingdoms together in 872 AD with the Battle of Hafrsfjord, thus becoming the first king of a now-united Norway.

Scandinavia of course also brings to mind Vikings, and I’m interested to learn that it was people of Norwegian origin who founded the Irish cities of Dublin and Limerick. Also that the third king of Norway, Haakon the Good (Haakon the Good!), was Norway’s first Christian king.

Alliances and kingdoms among the Nordic nations weren’t continually independent after the early unification of Norway: in the fourteenth century Norway, Denmark and Sweden all came under control of the Danish Queen Margrethe I, and though Sweden broke away in the 16th century, Norway remained part of this union until 1814. (1814 also saw Norway on the losing side in the Napoleonic Wars.) Independence in Norway, as well as bringing a constitution based on American and French models, also brought about the election of the Danish crown prince Christian Fredrik as king. On top of that, war broke out with Sweden—they’d been promised Norway as a reward for aiding the winners in the Napoleonic war, but their army wasn’t strong enough to defeat the Norwegians outright. Norway instead agreed to enter a personal union with Sweden (which I have now learned means there is “relationship of two or more entities that are considered separate, sovereign states, which, through established law, share the same person as their respective head of state.” Again, thankyou Wikipedia.) This union ended in 1907.

Norway remained neutral in World War I, but was invaded by the Germans in World War II.

There are two official written Norwegian languages (who, besides the Norwegians, knew?)—Bokmål and Nynorsk. Both officially have equal status and are both used in public administration, schools, media etc—but Bokmål is the language used by the majority. There are also a lot of dialects spoken, as well as some Sami languages, especially in the north. (Do yourself a favour. Look up the Sami people. Interesting stuff.)

Today’s poem—ah! getting to the point!—is by the Norwegian poet Pedro Carmona-Alvarez, and is translated by Roger Greenwald, who is probably the major translator of Norwegian literature into English. It’s another from the new book New European Poets, which I cannot praise enough.

60 Minutes

There’s a war, it starts and is already missing
from histories, tales
under the light of lamps that sparkle
and lean over bodies
There’s a war and there are pebbles. The presence
of myths, blood running from the forehead puddles
in the eyes
resembles make-up and puddles in the eyes resembles war
in the eyes that tremble from being windows,
shaking from knowing the inside

There’s a war and all the generals have drowned.
There’s a war
and my sweetheart comes home
her hair pulled up in a knot that tightens her face
till it’s unrecognizable.
There’s a war and the ones who know are heading home
to watch themselves on screens.

Make me happy and it won’t help much.


—Pedro Carmona-Alvarez
translated from the Norwegian by Roger Greenwald
from New European Poets

Paraguay

Paraguay, Paraguay… For some people “Timbuktu” is the place-name that inspires romantic visions. For me, it is not one but two places that have been in my mind for years and years, as the farflung corners I want to visit: Paraguay is one of them. (Botswana is the other, if you’re curious; and, more recently, add Patagonia and Svalbard.) To tell the full story: when I was ten, and very serious about music, I went to a music camp where the Australian harp-maker Andy Rigby visited us. While there, he told us about the harps he had picked up on his travels: harps from Paraguay and Botswana.

Paraguay’s Flag Day falls on 14 May—I’ve noticed that most of the Latin American independence days are clustered around September, so I’m interested in this different date. Paraguay actually celebrates for two days: 14 May is Flag Day, then 15 May is Independence Day. I’ve decided to post on the former, because independence was actually declared (from Spain) on 14 May in 1811—I want to mark that anniversary, and I don’t think it’s cheating when they still celebrate on that day.

Europeans arrived in Paraguay in the 16th century, and the city of Asunción was founded in 1537 as a settlement that eventually became the center of a Spanish colonial province, as well as a important site for Jesuit missions. I’m sad that immediately accessible sources don’t give much information about pre-Columbian history of the region—only that it was inhabited by the seminomadic Guarani
-speaking tribes prior to European contact.

Following the emergence of Paraguay as an independent nation, the government of the country has apparently been marked by authoritarian government and wars with neighbouring regions. 1989 marked the start of a transition to democracy.

Geographically? It’s a landlocked country (bordering countries: Argentina, Bolivia and Brazil) and it straddles the Tropic of Capricorn.


Today’s poem was written by Rodrigo Díaz-Pérez, and comes from the Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984.


Memories

I left Paraguay
one clear January day.
The sun bit the watersheds
of turbulent rivers.
The land of the dreams
of all the silences
so quietly
went on adding new dimensions
to the frame of my forge.

And today appear
solemn colors
disappeared,
vaguely touching some corner,
some burned corner
lost forever
on the long journey of no return.

My heart, my pulse,
my eternal ardor,
Oh chronological tortures
of blinding afternoons.
And when I arrived he said:
“Don’t say, brother,
that you departed.
You will not depart, brother,
though you may leave.”

—Rodrigo Díaz-Pérez
Translated from the Spanish by Wayne H Finke
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984

Channel Islands

The Channel Islands are a British dependency, that fall into two self-governing bailiwicks. (There are multiple flags, too.) And, yes, I’m thrilled that this project has given me a reason to use the word “bailiwick.” Thrilled. On 9 May they celebrate Liberation Day—during World War II the island were the only part of the British Commonwealth to be occupied by Germany. Think about this: the British Commonwealth is a huge, sprawling thing, and its only this small group of islands that were occupied. So: Liberation from occupation is a significant thing.

But back to the bailiwicks. As mentioned above, the islands are self-governing, with two separate governing bodies: the Bailiwick of Guernsey and the Bailiwick of Jersey. The overall population of the islands is somewhere around 160,000—that’s no slouch. Eight of the islands are inhabited, and all except Jersey fall under the Bailiwick of Guernsey. The linguistics enthusiast in me is interested to learn that as a general rule the larger islands have an –ey suffix while the smaller islands have a –hou. This is thought to derive from the Old Norse –ey and holmr.

The islands were annexed to the Duchy of Normandy in 933; then there was “1066 and all that” with William the Conqueror, with William becoming the king of England, and the Channel Islands becoming part of the English Crown. When the 1204 loss of the lands of Normandy to France occurred, France only took on the continental Normandy, and the Channel Islands stayed under the English Crown.

Of the four main Norman dialects of the islands, one (Auregnais) has recently become “extinct.” Dgèrnésiais (Guernsey), Jèrriais (Jersey) and Sarkese (Sark) are spoken today. And (this fascinates me) the islanders of the four main islands have traditional nicknames—the Guernsey people are les ânes, or donkeys (locals claim this as strength of characters; Jersey-ites interpret it as stubbornness); Jersey-ites are crapauds or toads (apparently there are toads and snakes on Jersey that Guernsey doesn’t have); Sark dwellers are corbins, or crows; and those living on Alderney are called lapins—rabbits. Alderney has a lot of rabbit warrens.

Victor Hugo spent a long time in exile in the Channel Island—first in Jersey, then Guernsey. While there he wrote Les Misérables. Wow! Claude Debussy also visited Jersey, and while there composed part of La Mer. Two artistic monuments.

Today’s poem comes from a nineteenth century collection I found in my searches. Two bilingual volumes of The Patois Poems of the Channel Islands were published, as Channel Islands poets wrote in their dialects. This both fits in with the nineteenth century interest in nationalism, but the collection of local dialects also remind me of the work of linguists and anthropologists wanting to capture culture and language before it disappears. As no author is attributed, I take this to be one of the popular “Folk Poems” the book presents.

The Churning-Maid’s Song
From the Guernsey dialect

Oh the daisies are bright, and the asphodels,
And the clover is sweet, and the pimpernels,
With every fair floweret that blossoms and blows,
On the smiling hills where out cattle browse!
Then listen ye all to my simple song,
While the churn goes merrily plashing along!

Just look at their markings, our cows as they stand,
How splendid they are, and our red ones, how grand!
Oh handsomer heifers there never have been,
And prettier calves you never have seen!
Then listen ye all, &c.

The birds in the thicket how gladsome they sound,
The cows in the pastures are lowing around;
The bees, oh how busy they hum near the hive,
While the shouts of the children, they keep you alive!
Then listen ye all, &c.

In churning and churning the butter comes well,
While churning, still churning, my stories I tell;
The heaven gleams in blueness, and all the day long,
I hear in the breezes some plaintive love song.
Then listen ye all, &c.

The daisies spread wide o’er the pastures so sweet,
The primrose is blossoming under our feet,
And we shall have butter as yellow as gold,
For which chinking silver will quickly be told.
Ten listen ye all, &c.

The butter is coming all ready for sale,
And the churning goes on as I tell my tale,
While, to-morrow, will Marion drive to town,
And the old horse to market will carry it down.
Then listen ye all, & c.

From The Patois Poems of the Channel Islands, 1883

Israel

Israel’s Independence Day varies year by year in the Western calendar—the Hebrew calendar differs from the Gregorian calendar, and the Israeli Independence Day falls on Iyar 5, a date that falls between 14 April and 14 May each year. This year, Iyar 5 is on 8 May. On the Gregorian calendar, the declaration of independence took place on 14 May in 1948.

In 1947, the United Nations approved the division of the Mandate of Palestine into two states, an Arab and a Jewish state. We all know that since that time, the region has been in a state of constant tension, if not outright conflict. The name “Israel” derives from the Old Testament/Pentateuch book of Genesis in which Jacob is renamed Israel after wrestling successfully with an angel of God. The biblical nation that descends from Jacob as such became known as the “Children of Israel” or the “Israelites.” (Entirely incidentally, I’ve been thinking about the nineteenth century proto-Zionist movement, as I’ve been writing a paper on George Eliot’s Daniel Deronda recently.)

Large waves of immigration to modern-day Israel began late in the 19th century as Jews fled pogroms in Eastern Europe. This is known as the First Aliyah, or עלייה. The Second Aliyah began after the Kishinev pogrom, an anti-Jewish riot that took place in 1903 in what is now the Moldovan capital Chişinău. Some of the migrants of the Second Aliyah were early socialists who were responsible for the kibbutz movement. The Third and Fourth Aliyahs took place between the two World Wars, and the Fifth Aliyah took place during the aftermath of World War II.

The last fifty years have seen repeated conflicts in the region—the Six-Day War of 1967; the massacre of Israeli athletes at the 1972 Olympics followed by the Israeli Operation Wrath of God; the Lebanese Civil War; the First Intifada (a Palestinian uprising against Israeli rule); the first Gulf War; the Second Intifada; the five-week war known in Israel as the Second Lebanon War.

I have to see the Judean desert for myself one day. I must.

Today’s poem is by the poet Yehudi Amichai—it was a toss-up. There are certainly other Israeli poets I admire as well. Still, there comes a moment that I have to choose. I chose. I love this poem. I found it here.

Jerusalem

On a roof in the Old City
Laundry hanging in the late afternoon sunlight:
The white sheet of a woman who is my enemy,
The towel of a man who is my enemy,
To wipe off the sweat of his brow.

In the sky of the Old City
A kite.
At the other end of the string,
A child
I can’t see
Because of the wall.

We have put up many flags,
They have put up many flags.
To make us think that they’re happy.
To make them think that we’re happy.

—Yehuda Amichai
translated from the Hebrew by Irena Gordon

Netherlands

When looking into world independence days, I found that the Netherlands neither had an independence day, a foundation day nor a “national” day. What they do have, however, is a Liberation Day on 5 May. This is not a public holiday every year (every fifth year it is observed as a holiday) but it is a day of national celebration each year. In a way, Liberation Day is similar to the “Independence Restoration” days that some former SSRs celebrate, and liberation from occupation—in this case, the German occupation of World War II—is certainly a opportunity for national reflection.

Ideas we have of the Netherlands? Windmills, clogs, tulips. Those of us with the inclination, gouda and edam. Bicycles everywhere and pretty blue and white delft pottery. Also, tolerance: drugs, sexuality, abortion, euthanasia… The Netherlands is also the home of many international courts, situated in The Hague. It all adds up to an idea of a place where human rights are respected, and no-one is afraid to embrace the slightly kitsch. Plus, there’s art.

The Netherlands has been inhabited for millennia—though it’s really from the middle ages onward that the Netherlands figures in world history. Following the Eighty Years’ War from 1568-1648 the independence of the Netherlands was recognised, with the 1648 Treaty of Münster. During the Eighty Years’ War the Dutch provinces were the most important trading centre in Europe. Because I’m fascinated by the play, I was interested to learn that during this period, Dutch ships hunted whales of Svalbard. (Svalbard! Look at some pictures. Desolate and beautiful.) The Dutch were part of the slave trade—a significant portion of the wealth of the Netherlands came through slavery during the slave trade period.

During the French revolution the Netherlands came under the occupation of the French army (pesky Napoleon!) and in 1806 Napoleon pronounced the region the “Kingdom of Holland,” instating his brother as king. It didn’t last long—reunification came in 1815, with the sixth William of Orange at the head.

The occupation in World War II is well-known—perhaps most widely as a result of The Diary of Anne Frank. In 1945 Nazi Germany capitulated, signing their surrender to the Dutch on: Liberation Day.

The Netherlands, of course, has also been the origin of many major artists. It’s not all Rembrandt and Van Gogh. Bosch, Bruegel, Mondrian, de Kooning… It’s a feast.

Today’s poem comes from the recent anthology New European Poets. (Anyone at all interested in contemporary world poetry should buy it immediately.) Written by Nachoem E. Wijnberg, I liked the idea of a ‘psalmic’ poem to celebrate liberation.


Psalm 22

Listen.
The words I that I cry out

like

a herd,
stampeding the field,
and there is no other field.

There is a drowning horse at the bottom of a waterfall,
there is blood on half my face.

Doesn’t it distract you to listen to me
from your sure and constant loss?

But I keep an eye open for you
so that you can look through it
and look again and can think of an answer
and want to take it back like an unintended but relinquished sacrifice.

Like saying: I don’t want
to lose you.

—Nachoem E. Wijnberg
translated from the Dutch by Alissa Valles
from New European Poets