Democratic Republic of the Congo

One could be forgiven for getting confused about the Democratic Republic of the Congo. For one thing, it’s often referred to as DR Congo, DRC or RDC. For another, it’s also been known by several other names: the Congo Free State (no, that does not mean that it’s free of the Congo; it’s not); the Belgian Congo, Congo-Léopoldville, Congo-Kinshasa and, of course, Zaire. My point is that they’re all the one place, and none of them are the Republic of the Congo, which neighbours it to the west. Got that straight? Good. Now it’s time to celebrate their Independence Day (from Belgium), so open your hymnals to 30 June. The year was 1960.

So, there have been people there for thousands of years, but colonisers arrived late in the game—from the 1870s onward. And I expect a few of you have read Heart of Darkness, and thought about the snake that is the River Congo. Anyway, Europeans obviously decided to make up for leaving the locals in peace for so long by brutalising them when they finally arrived. They may have missed the slave-trade era, but they could be exploited for their rubber. King Leopold II made a lot of money out of rubber, and, not wanting to lose this source of income, sent in the Force Publique to terrorise the native population. How? Well, cutting off limbs in order to get the message across that rubber quotas had to be met. In a little over 20 years it’s believed that between five and fifteen million Congolese died as a result of this exploitation and diseases. Think about that for a moment. Now there’s a genocide no-one thinks about much. Luckily, at the time they did think about it—international pressure led to the Belgian parliament taking over the “Free State” from the king as a Belgian colony, improving the situation somewhat—they even brought about the teaching of a few Bantu languages in school, which was not a common practice at all in colonies. Doctors reduced the spread of African Sleeping Sickness, and the administration went in for economic reform and improvement of infrastructure.

But while this was a definite improvement, there was still a distinct lack of political power for the Congolese—everything was decided in Brussels and Leopoldville. An independence movement grew slowly. Oh, and during their time as a Belgian colony, the Congolese invaded and occupied German East Africa (including what is now Rwanda) during World War I. Reportedly some of the Belgian-instituted racial policies that came about during their administration of the country were a precursor to the Rwandan genocide.

Now, the name. When the country achieved its independence it chose the name “Republic of Congo.” However, their neighbours, also gaining independence (from France) chose the same name. For a while the two countries were known by their capital cities (Congo-Leopoldville; Congo-Brazzaville) and then in 1966 the name was changed to the Democratic Republic of the Congo. In 1971 it was changed to Zaire. In 1997 it was changed back. Oh, and I have to say I’m pleased that they changed the name of the capital to Kinshasa. I wouldn’t want to commemorate King Leopold II either.

There’ve been quite a few periods of political instability. Okay, that’s probably a severe understatement—it’s sad that political turmoil in emerging African nations is the rule, not the exception. The Mobutu era takes up most of the period of the country’s independence: 32 years to be exact.

Human rights seem to be unstable too—for instance, I read that “violence against women seems to be perceived by large sectors of society to be normal.”

Today’s poem, by Antoine-Roger Bolamba, comes from The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry.


Portrait

I have my gri-gri
                 gri-gri
                 gri-gri
my calm bounding awake
clings to the wavy limbs of the Congo
never a stormy passage for my heart
bombarded with glowing oriflammes
I think of my silver necklace
become a hundred isles of silence
I admire the obstinate patience
of the okapi
bluebird battered in the open sky
what shipwreck
plunges it to the gulf of nothingness
nothingness empty of nightly entreaties

Ah! the broken resolutions
ah! the screaming follies
let my face fall upon its guardians
they are three villains

I say three in counting 1 2 3
who dim the ancestral mirror
but you fugitive image
I will see you on the height of dizzy anger
wait while I put on my brown my mask of blood
and soon you will see
my tongue flutter like a banner.

—Antoine-Roger Bolamba
from The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry

French Polynesia

French Polynesia is a fairly recent invention—the island groups that make up the territory don’t share a common history. Well, not until the French got involved. French Polynesia (home of Tahiti and Bora Bora) is now a French Collectivity. On 29 June they celebrate Autonomy Day.

The Marquesas Islands were first settled around the year 300, while the Society Islands (home to both Tahiti and Bora Bora) saw settlers arrive about 500 years later. European contact began with the Portuguese—Magellan spotted Pukapuka (of the Tuamotu Archipelago) in 1521. Later, the Dutch, under the explorer Jacob Roggeveen, discovered Bora Bora in 1722, and British explorer laid down a beach towel on the shores of Tahiti in 1767. Suddenly a rush of explorers followed his lead—the French explorer Louis Antoine de Bougainville came to Tahiti in 1768, and Captain Cook arrived a year later. Not long after that Spanish priests arrived for a year in 1774, and then the London Missionary Society got in on the action, sending Protestants who settled permanently in the region in 1797.

The local King Pomare II fled Tahiti in 1803 to Moorea (also part of the Society Islands—this group of islands makes me think it should always be High Tea) in 1803, and was then converted to Protestantism in 1812—we all know “heathens” must be converted. That’s what missionary zeal is all about. The French decided they needed to get in on the missionary activity, and sent Catholics to do their work in 1834. When they were expelled in 1836 the French retaliated by sending a gunboat in 1838, and declaring Tahiti and Tahuata (in the Marquesas Islands) a French protectorate in 1842, allowing Catholic missionaries to continue their good work. (Yes, that was a little bit of sarcasm. I’m afraid I, too, was raised as something of a heathen.) In 1880 France changed the status of Tahiti from a protectorate to a colony, and then decided their wanted more of a foothold.

First they claimed the Tuamotu Archipelago. Having already declared Tahuatu a protectorate, they then thought, well, why not all the Marquesas Islands? So, they declared them to be French too. A couple of islands wanted British protection, but failed and were annexed by France as well.

1946 saw Polynesians granted French citizenship, and the status of French Polynesia changed to that of an overseas territory—the islands officially became known by the name of French Polynesia in 1957. Slowly the region has gained greater control over its own affairs—partial autonomy arrived in 1977; more extensive autonomy came about in 1984; then in 2004 French Polynesia became an overseas collectivity. The presidency hasn’t been particularly stable of late—bouncing between Gaston Tong Sang, Oscar Temaru and Gaston Flosse. The current president, Gaston Flosse, is anti-independence, but is in a coalition cabinet with Oscar Temaru’s pro-independence party. It’s thought that the relationship will break down sometime—their common ground is their allegiance against Gaston Tong Sang.

Oh, and let’s not forget Muraroa Atoll—we all remember how popular the nuclear testing in the Pacific was. Or rather, wasn’t.

Today’s poem is a traditional Tahitian poem, translated by Ulli Bejer.


Taaroa

He was there—Taaroa was his name.
Around him void:
no earth no sky
no sea people.
Taaroa calls—there is no echo.
In his loneliness he changes himself into the world.
These entangled roots are Taaroa.
These rocks are Taaroa.
Taaroa: sand of the sea.
Taaroa: clarity.
Taaroa: seed.
Taaroa: ground.
Taaroa the eternal
the powerful
creator of the world
the large sacred world
the world
which is only the shell.
Taaroa is the life inside it.

—Tahitian tradition poem
translated from the Tahitian by Ulli Bejer

Seychelles

The Republic of Seychelles consists of 155 islands off the east coast of Africa, northeast of Madagascar, and has the smallest population of any African sovereign nation. On 29 June in 1976 the country gained its independence from the United Kingdom. Since there’s no indigenous population, the nation consists of immigrants—mostly of French, African, Indian and Chinese descent. English and French are the official languages

It’s thought that either Austronesian or Arabs were the first to visit the islands—which were uninhabited—but the first sighting on record is that of Vasco de Gama in 1502. He named them the Amirantes after himself, the Admiral. Oh, and they were also used by pirates as a place to hole up between Africa and Asia. And we’ve learned how much I like my piratical history. Then the French began to take over from 1756, laying a “Stone of Possession” (which makes me want to go around laying stones of possession… see where it gets me) and, rejecting Vasco de Gama’s initial name for the islands, renaming them Seychelles after the Minister of Finance Jean Moreau de Séchelles.

Then there were the British. After contesting control over the islands from 1794 to 1812 (that whole French Revolution-Napoleonic War period) the British took over after the surrender of nearby Mauritius (then a territory united with the islands of the Seychelles) in 1812, and control was formalised in 1814. The Seychelles were granted status as a separate crown colony in 1903 before independence came along in 1976.

The ousting of presidents via coup d’états is beginning to feel like an alarming tradition as I write these histories, and, yes, the first president of the republic (James Mancham) was indeed tossed out in 1977 and replaced by France Albert René. From 1979 until 1991 the country was a socialist one-party state. In 1992 René was democratically reelected, and stood down in 2004 so that the then-vice president, James Michel, could step up to the plate. He was reelected in 2006.

There are giant tortoises in Seychelles. I want one.

Today’s poem delights me. PBS did a program on the Seychelles in 2002, and included in this program was a song written and sung by secondary school students from the nation and a poem and a story written by two different primary school children. The poem, “Thoughts of a Shark,” is below. The story and song can be found here. I’m sorry that I don’t have the name of the author of the poem.


Thoughts of a Shark

As I watched another of my kind
Being hauled into a wretched boat,
I think of the future that I will never see,
I think of how many of my kind are done for like me
My only future now is on a plate somewhere.

And my teeth shall be sold as a necklace
Somewhere in the market place
You don't know my pain
All you care about is your own gain.

I have survived from the time of the dinosaurs
But now even my immediate future looks bleak
Soon my kind will be no more
We shall be just another lost treasure of this world.
Only heard about, never seen
A legend that once lived.

—Written by a primary school child in the Seychelles

Djibouti

Imagine this: I had of course heard of the Horn of Africa, but until today I had no idea where it was, nor had I ever thought to look it up—until, that is, I read that Djibouti is in the Horn of Africa. Now, I know on a map where Djibouti is, so I thought I’d better look up the other half of the equation and find out exactly what makes up the Horn of Africa. Well, Ethiopia, Eritrea and Somalia. The thing is, I’ve already written about Ethiopia and Eritrea—I don’t know how I missed it. And if you look at a map that has all these countries highlighted then, yes, it does look like a horn.

So, glad to have yet more of my ignorance revealed to me (and lessened, at least a little) I suppose I should turn to Djibouti—the reason, after all, for being here. June 27 is the lucky day—in 1977 Djibouti attained its independence from France; alongside Arabic, French is still an official language of the nation, and recognized regional languages include Afar and Somali. The capital of Djibouti is Djibouti. Now that’s an easy one to remember! It’s a pretty small country—both size and population (less than 500,000 according to recent estimates)—but it’s in a part of the world that has a long history, trading with ancient Egypt, India and China. They’ve also had contact with the Arab world for over a thousand years, and Djibouti was the first nation on the African continent to accept Islam.

The French arrived in the 19th century, and the country was known as French Somaliland (later the French Territory of the Afars and Issas). Movements toward the country’s independence began in 1957, when French Somaliland was granted greater self-government. In a 1958 referendum the country decided to join the French as an overseas territory. By the time de Gaulle visited the nation in 1966, however, he was greeted with public demonstrations by citizens demanding independence. It was that same year that the name change to the French Territory of the Afars and Issas took place.

In 1975 the French government began to make more accommodations to the country demanding its independence, and following a referendum in May 1977, independence was enacted the next month.

In 1981 the country became a one-party state when the first president, Hassan Gouled Aptidon, declared his own party (People’s Rally for Progress) the only legitimate party in the nation. In 1991, a civil war broke out between the government and the rebel group Front for the Restoration of Unity and Democracy. The conflict was resolved with a peace accord in 1994, though the final peace accord was only signed in 2001, marking the official end of the civil war.

The 2005 elections were a multi-party affair—or they would have been if opposition parties hadn’t boycotted the elections. Aptidon’s nephew, who took over the leadership of the People’s Rally for Progress from his uncle, won—taking, apparently 100 percent of the vote from the 78.9 percent voter turnout.

It took some searching but eventually I found poem (well, actually, part of a poem) by the poem William J. F. Syad. He was born in what was then French Somalia in 1930—so it was some time to come before it would become Djibouti. After studying in Saudi Arabia and France, he worked for Radio Djibouti for a time before going into exile—he supported Somalian unity. He went to work in Somalia instead, working in the Somali foreign service. I found the poem online here.


Yesterday (Lines 8-21)

you have told me

my culture's past

wild thought

of my Somali

race

And like this fine sand

in the hollow

of a hand

you sift down into the past

where the mind

alone

may glean


—William J F Syad

Somalia

Present day Somalia is the union of two former colonies that gained independence a few days apart—26 June is the anniversary of the independence of British Somaliland; following hot on the heels of this, 1 July saw Italian Somaliland gain independence, uniting with British Somaliland on the same day, forming the Somali republic. Continuously inhabited for the past two and a half millennia, the region had trading links with the Greeks and Romans, saw the establishment of Islam in the 500 years from 700 to 1200, with European influence arriving in the 16th century, though it was really in the 19th century “scramble for Africa” that European-style imperialism arrived, with Somalia divided between the territorial claims of Britain, Italy and France. (Former French Somaliland didn’t form a union with Somalia, but is now the separate country Djibouti.)

With Somalia’s position on the Red Sea, across from the Yemeni port city of Aden, British interest in the region was all but guaranteed—the Red Sea being an important region for sea-connection to India. Italy didn’t have as much experience in colonialism when the scramble was on, and while they ended up with the largest claim in the country, it was the least important strategically.

Resistance to imperialism got under way in 1899, and a guerrilla war, lasting over two decades, ensued. (Somalian dervishes were fundamental in this resistance movement.)

Following World War II (in which Italy first conquered British Somaliland, then Britain in turn took back the region, and administered the whole of Somalia) military control in Somaliland began to relax—the question of the future of Somalia became was debated from 1945 onwards. While this was being debated, a commission of the Allied nations granted the area of Ogaden to Ethiopia, leading to war years later. The UN decided in 1949 that Italian trusteeship would continue for the next decade as a result of the economic benefits their presence brought to the region—aid money, Italian administration in the 1950s did see significant infrastructural development in the country.

With independence, the dormant issue of Ogaden arose, and the divide between the formerly British and Italian regions also became an issue, with language and cultural differences becoming apparent. A secession movement started in the formerly British area of Somalia, exacerbating the divide. By the late 1960s democracy was beginning to crumble and 1969 saw a coup d’état, and the Supreme Revolutionary Council take over government—who promptly prohibited the existence of political associations (other than, presumably, their own) creating a one-party state.

In 1991 the north declared its independence as Somaliland—this hasn’t to date been recognised by any foreign government. Civil war led to the presence of UN peacekeepers. The 1993 Battle of Mogadishu, in which a number of peacekeepers were killed, became the basis for Black Hawk Down. A further secession took place in 1998 in the northeast, with proclamation of the state of Puntland—not seeking full independence, this region considers itself an autonomous state. Another secession followed this with a southwestern region declaring the state of Jubaland—its status is unclear.

More recently conflict broke out in 2006, internally and with Ethiopia, and hasn’t been resolved.

On the bright side, Somalia has one of the lowest rates of AIDS/HIV in Africa.

Today’s poem is by Ismael Hurreh and comes from the Wole Soyinka-edited Poems from Black Africa.


Foreboding

Solo:
My brother you sealed on us your sighs of hypocrisy
My brother with magnetic eyes for these cactus faces on us
And for these wrinkles of contempt on the face of Somalia
We will chant you necklaces of dry bones:

Chorus:
What we are (we should have said)
Are empty voices in the dark
Emptier than our chants in crises
What we are (we should have said)
Are dangerous rats scuttling in dry paths.

Solo:
My sophisticated brother with mountains of kinsmen’s power
Our gory spears awaiting spears of other tribesmen
Arrayed with blue loincloth and white star-shaped shields
We will chant you hymns chanted to Sheikh Abdulkadir
Mourning the death of corn fields at your hands
Your hands sublimer than distant clouds
When dry mouths gape and drop dead of thirst.

Chorus:
Do you not hear these blind drums in our voices?
Do you not see us prostrating with blind hearts?
Do you not find us cold-blooded?
Do you not fear us causing plagues?

Solo:
And at the onset of pain pangs of Africa’s birth
We have heard you fluting ominous tales
Behind bank doors barred to us
We have heard you counting biles and eyes

Of dead bats and mouths drivelling your praises
And soon we will see you dismantling our kidneys
In parlours for diplomats
And in conjugal parties.

—Ismael Hurreh
from Poems of Black Africa

Madagascar

Of all things it was the boardgame Risk that gave me a fascination with Madagascar—it was one of the largest islands on the board, and tucked down in that corner it seemed, like Australia, an out of the way place. (Safe for amassing armies, but, after all, not very strategic on the board… I never won many Risk games.) It is, in fact, one of the largest islands in the world—if we’re not counting Australia (apparently a lot of people don’t, instead citing it as a continent) then it only lags behind Greenland, New Guinea and Borneo. Even better, 5 perfect of the world’s animal and plant species call Madagascar home—and the vast majority of these are endemic to Madagascar. Wow!

On 26 June, 1960 Madagascar gained its independence from France. Prior to French colonisation, it is believed that Madagascar was populated sometime between 200 and 500 CE— with seafarers most likely arriving from Borneo or the southern Celebes (one of the lesser-known-by-name island groups of Indonesia.) Around the same time, Bantu groups arrived, crossing the Mozambique channel. Hot on the heels of this, Muslims set up trading posts in the 7th century.

The Portuguese named the island Sāo Lourenço—they were the first Europeans to spot it nad set up trade from the sixteenth century. In the mid-seventeenth century, France got in on the action—initially setting up ports on the islands that are now Reunion and Mauritius (formerly Bourbon and Ile-de-France), and by the late 17th century they succeeded in their goal of establishing trading posts on Madagascar.

Better than all this, though (well, not better per se, but more exciting for anyone who grew up on Robert Louis Stevenson) is the fact that pirates loved to hang out in Madagascar in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Imperialism became the order of the day in the late nineteenth century—in 1883 France invaded Madagascar and in 1890 the country became a French protectorate. (I have to admit, I always find the term “protectorate” problematic…) War continued with inhabitant until 1896—in a statistic that is a nice inversion of Europeans bringing diseases to the Americas, 20 French soldiers died fighting, and 6000 died of Malaria.

Following World War II, the independence movement really fired up—there was a (rather bloody) nationalist uprising in 1947. It took nearly a decade before the journey toward independence started to move forward peacefully—first the Malagasy Republic was proclaimed an autonomous state in 1958, a new constitution was adopted in 1959, and full independence followed in 1960.

The early days of independence saw a quick change of government (the first president only lasted two months) and the following leader resigned after fifteen years—his successor was assassinated after just six days in office. In 1975 President Ratsiraka came to power, limiting political opposition and press freedom. There’ve been few changes of government since the 1990s (including a return of Ratsiraka after the impeachment of the man who beat him in 1992). When Marc Ravalomanana took power in 2001, Ratsiraka supported cut transport routes in the country, causing political crisis. When this was over (Ratsiraka is now in exile) the new President began a number of reform projects.


Today’s poem is by Jean-Joseph Rabéarivelo, and comes from his work Presque-songes. It’s from the Penguin Book of Modern African Verse.

Cactus
(from Presque-songes)

That multitude of moulded hands
holding out flowers to the azure sky
that multitude of fingerless hands
unshaken by the wind
they say that a hidden source
wells from their untainted palms
they say that this inner source
refreshes thousands of cattle
and numberless tribes, wandering tribes
in the frontiers of the South.

Fingerless hands, springing from a source,
Moulded hands, crowning the sky.

Here, when the flanks of the City were still as green
as moonbeams glancing from the forests,
when they still left bare the hils of Iarive
crouching like bulls upthrust,
it was upon rocks too steep even for goats
that they hid, to protect their sources,
these lepers sprouting flowers.

Enter the cave from which they came
if you seek the origin of the sickness which ravages them—
origin more shrouded than the evening
and further than the dawn—
but you will know no more than I.
The blood of the earth, the sweat of the stone,
and the sperm of the wind,
which flow together in these palms
have melted their fingers
and replaced them with golden flowers.

—Jean-Joseph Rabéarivelo
from Penguin Book of Modern African Verse

Mozambique

The Republic of Mozambique celebrates its Independence Day on 25 June—forgetful of your African geography? It’s on the southeast coast, with Tanzania to the north, Malawi and Zambia northwest, Zimbabwe to the west and Swaziland and South Africa to the south/southwest. Interestingly, in 1996 Mozambique joined the Commonwealth, making it the only nation that had never been a part of the British Empire to do so.

The Bantu people began migrating to the area that is now Mozambique from the first century onward—they came from the west and from the north, through the Zambezi River valley, moving to the plateau and coastal regions.

Arab trading (commercial and slave) had existed along the coast for a number of centuries—since at least 947—when the Portuguese, under the leadership of Vasco de Gama, reached the coast in 1498. From the 16th century, the Portuguese set up trading posts and forts on what became the new route to the East. Though the Portuguese influence expanded, development did not—Portugal spent more of its money and time investing in the Far East and Brazil. In fact, at the outset of the 20th century much of the administration of Mozambique was in the hands of private companies (gosh! Privatisation gone mad!)

When the Front for the Liberation of Mozambique initiated a guerrilla campaign against Portguese rule, the ensuing conflict became part of what is called the Portuguese Colonial War—also being fought in Angola and Guinea-Bissau, both on the West coast of Africa. It took over ten years, but in 1975 Mozambique attained its independence from Portugal. The new nation in turn supported the liberation movements in neighbouring South Africa and Zimbabwe—the existing governments in both countries retaliated by backing a rebel movement in Mozambique that meant there was turmoil in the new nation for its first decade, leading to the death of many in the civil war, the exodus of 1.7 million refugees and the internal displacement of many, many more. The civil war ended in 1992, and by 1995 the refugees had returned to Mozambique. Many of those internally displaced also returned to their own areas within the nation.

Voter-registration and election turn-out has been high in the country, and democratic elections have been held since 1994.

Today’s poem is by the Mozambican poet José Craveiriñha, and comes from The Penguin Book of Modern African Verse.


The Seed is in Me

Dead or living
the seed is in me
in the universal whiteness of my bones

All feel
uneasiness
at the undoubted whiteness of my bones
white as the breasts of Ingrids or Marias
in Scandinavian lands
or in Polana the smart quarter
of my old native town.

All feel
uneasiness
that the mingling in my veins should be
blood from the blood of every blood
and instead of the peace ineffable of pure and simple birth
and a pure and simple death
breed a rash of complexes
from the seed of my bones.

But a night with the massaleiras heavy with green fruit
batuques swirl above the sweating stones
and the tears of rivers

All feel
uneasiness
at the white seed in me
breeding rash inflamed with malediction.

And one day
will come all the Marias of the distant nations
penitent or no
weeping
laughing
or loving to the rhythm of a song

To say to my bones
forgive us, brother.


—José Craveiriñha
from The Penguin Book of Modern African Verse

Luxembourg

On 23 June Luxembourg celebrates its national day—the Grand Duke’s Birthday. But though there have been a few Grand Dukes of Luxembourg, confusingly none of their birthdays have ever fallen on that day. That’s okay though—nations can celebrate their nationhood with whatever name they please as far as I’m concerned, and the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg is no exception. A small landlocked country between France, Germany and Belgium I feel like Luxembourg sometimes gets forgotten (though not so often as Liechtenstein might…) so let’s remedy that here. I once formulated the plan to walk across Luxembourg (about 80 kilometres I believe) but I haven’t got to it yet. One day, I’m sure… Oh, and to match nearby Switzerland, Luxembourg is trilingual, speaking French, German and Luxembourgish.

Luxembourg has a long history—going back to 963 with the acquisition of Luxembourg Castle, then known as Lucilinburhuc, by Siegfried, Count of Ardennes. With the news that the recorded history of any country starts with a man named Siegfried, I am perhaps unreasonably happy! Anyway, a town developed around the fort, which in turn became the centre of a small state.

In 1437, with the lack of a male heir causing a crisis in the question of succession, Luxembourg was sold to Philip the Good of Burgundy. I’m thinking Philip the Good got a good deal. Following this, Luxembourg’s fortress continued to enlarge, and had a number of different occupants—Bourbons, Habsburgs, Hohenzollerns (from Germany, Prussia and Romania, if, like me, you didn’t already know about the Hohenzollerns) and the French. When Napoleon was defeated, Luxembourg was a matter of dispute between Prussia and the Netherlands. It seems Luxembourg had it both ways—they became a Grand Duchy with a personal union with the Netherlands, and also became a member of the German Confederation. With the Treaty of Paris they were independent of France.

When the Belgian Revolution occurred (1830-1839, again for those of you not already in the know) Luxembourg lost about half of its territory to that nation. In 1839, the first Treaty of London affirmed Luxembourg’s independence; 28 years later this was reaffirmed by the Second Treaty of London.

Despite these affirmations of independence, the King of the Netherlands was still the head of the state until 1890. When William III of the Netherlands died, Luxembourg passed to Adolph of Nassau-Weilburg.

Luxembourg, by the way, it one of the founding member-nations of what is now the European Union. Oh, and they have a very small army—around 800 people.

Today’s poem comes from New European Poets, and was written by Jean Portante. It was translated by Pierre Joris, himself a very interesting (and highly recommended) poet. It’s from a longer work—“The Desert.”

from The Desert

    The Desert counted its wrinkles;
        the eagle and the falcon immediately spread the news.
         —Edmond Jabès

it is due to the general indifference of
the grains of sand
that the desert came about
but also because the sand
knew how to remain gregarious

—

to know that all the grains of sand
of all the deserts sleep in me
does not reassure me
like them every night
I get under way
searching for a dry dream
a dream which in order to defend us
would brace the meanders of humidity

—

I went to station myself
on the line separating one desert from the other
to watch the grains of sand
getting married in secret
before crossing the border

—

when I said I had the desert in me
I was thinking less of the dryness
than of the incessant swarming of the sand
and caught in the swirl
I stopped weeping
even though I had been weeping for joy

—

each desert hides a secret
each secret hides and injustice
nobody knows who slipped it in there
but it makes everybody rejoice secretly

—

I’ve read somewhere or did I dream it
that the desert was the scar a sea left
oh what anguish to think
that one day the wound could open again

—

in my childhood my youth my life for short
I have known many a gathering of sand
the words I have spoken or written
rest there temporarily
a wind comes up and worries them

—

I envy the anonymity of the desert’s sand grains
they come and go they say hello good night
they love & know how to recognize each other

because there where one ends the other begins
in the desert the eternal return
is a question of life and death


—Jean Portante
translated from the French by Pierre Joris
from New European Poets

Greenland

I heard recently that, once again, the movement for independence is afoot in Greenland; in the mean time, while they remain a province of Denmark, they are at least self-governing and on 21 June the celebrate their national day—Ullortuneq Day. And, as is often noted, while Iceland is really very green, Greenland is incredibly icy, with not a lot of green to be found.

Though the population is small (just over 55,000 these days) Greenland has been inhabited since prehistoric times, and, more recently, was colonized by the Norse in 984—the native Inuit population remained, and seems to have existed peacefully alongside the Norse. When Norway converted to Christianity, Greenland received a bishop and in 1261 Greenland officially became part of the Kingdom of Norway.

But then, a few centuries later, the Norwegian settlements vanished. Remains suggest malnourishment was a contributing factor. It wasn’t until 1721 that Norway—now the Kingdom of Denmark-Norway—reasserted its claim to the island. When the Treaty of Kiel broke up the union of Denmark and Norway, Denmark claimed overseas possessions, including Greenland. In 1931, Norway occupied and laid claim to parts of East Greenland, but when in 1933, the matter went before the Permanent Court of International Justice, Norway lost out.

During the World War II German occupation of Denmark Greenland became self-governing as a result of a 1925 law that allowed governors to take control when extreme circumstances arose. When the relationship with Denmark resumed, the movement toward permanent self-rule began to gain ground and home rule was finally instituted in 1979.

Over 80 percent of the country is covered by the Greenland ice sheet. Apparently the weight of this ice has depressed the central land area into a basin shape that lies over 300 metres below sea level. a quarter of the world’s surface ice is found in Greenland. Interesting, the extreme north of Greenland is not covered by the ice sheet because the air there is too dry to produce snow.

Culturally, Greenland shares a lot of traits with Inuit traditions—not surprising since they also share the same ancestry. Hunting is an important part of life—now that it is common for at least one family to be in salaried employment (to pay for the electricity that is now common) it is common for a woman of the family to take a job, while men hunt full-time. Unfortunately this means that many Thule women are losing their knowledge of many traditional cultural skills.

Looking for a poem from Greenland, I found what I take to be a traditional piece (correct me if I’m wrong)—“Song to Spring”—online here. Translated by Tom Lowenstein, it comes from his book Eskimo poems from Canada and Greenland..


Song to Spring

Aja-ha aja-ha
I was out in my kayak
making toward land.
Aja-ha aja-ha
I came to a snow-drift
that had just begun to melt.
Aja-hai-ja aja-hai-ja
And I knew that it was spring:
we’d lived through winter!
Aha-hai-ja aja-hai-ja
And I was frightened
I would be too weak,
too weak
to take in all that beauty!
Aja-hai-ja
Aja-jai-ja
Aja-ha


Translated from the Greenlandic by Tom Lowenstein

Iceland

Recently I was reading about icefish, and I’m surprised my mind didn’t stray to Iceland. Of course, the icefish I was reading about were from the Antarctic region, so my mind was down south, but still… Iceland has always been a magical idea to me—increasingly so when I read about its geological wonders and the Icelandic sagas. On 17 June Iceland celebrates its National Day—the anniversary on which, in 1944, they Iceland became a republic.

It’s amazing to think that Iceland has been settled since 874—it seems like one of those outposts (not as isolated as St Helena or other southern islands, but still…) But even as a seeming outpost, when the volcano Laki erupted in 1783-1784, not only did the eruption cause a famine that killed a quarter of the Icelandic population, but dust clouds and haze appeared over most of Europe and spread as far as sections of Asia and Africa for months after the eruption.

In the 13th century, Iceland came to be under Norwegian sovereignty; in the late 14th century, possession of Iceland passed to the Denmark-Norway union. In contrast to their current status, during the middle ages Iceland became one of the poorest countries in Europe. When the black death arrived in Iceland, it killed about half the population. Later, in the 18th century, a smallpox epidemic killed a third of the population, before Laki wreaked havoc all over again.

Cheerily, when Denmark decided to impose Lutheranism on Iceland, the last Catholic bishop of Iceland was beheaded. Not surprisingly, the Icelandic population subsequently became Lutheran, and this is still the dominant religion. And when the Denmark-Norway union broke up after the Napoleonic Wars, Iceland remained a Danish dependency. Following this, an independence movement arose—led by Jón Sigurðsson—which led, incrementally, to Iceland’s independence. In 1874, Iceland was granted home rule; this was expanded in 1904. In 1918, Denmark recognized Iceland as fully sovereign, under the Danish king. This agreement expired in 1943, and in 1944 Icelanders voted on whether to remain in union with Denmark, or to become a republic. The republic won out—with an emphatic 97 percent of the vote—and the republic was formally inaugurated on 17 June, 1944.

And, with the Icelandic sagas, of course Iceland has a place in the literary canon. (Incidentally, when Pico Iyer writes about Iceland he tells us that the best seat on an Icelandair flight will be in Saga Class.) More recently, Halldór Laxness won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1955.

Today’s poem is by Kristín Ómarsdótter, and comes from New European Poets.


Closed Bridal Night

A veil cushioned the bottom of that coffin.

In a grave lies a bride
with gifts in
her lap.

Ribbons in pale colors and white
tissue paper.

Visiting cards.

Dressed

in a crocheted dress,
lace stockings, shoes
and gloves.

Serpentine locks.

A veil cushioned the bottom of that coffin.

A face of salt
and sensitive
dusty eyes.

A veil cushioned the bottom of that coffin,

Many messages from bottles
were written there.



—Kristín Ómarsdótter
translated from the Icelandic by Bernard Scudder
from New European Poets

The Falkland Islands

The Falkland Islands are, famously, a self-governing British territory 300 miles from the coast of Argentina, consisting of two main islands—imaginatively named East Falkland and West Falkland. Oh, and 776 smaller islands, including the cheerily named Barren Island, Carcass Island and Bleaker Island. The islands are self-governing, Since 1833 Argentina has claimed sovereignty over them, and I suppose most people (with the possible exception of the very young) know about the 1982 invasion of the islands by Argentina, prompting the two-month (undeclared) Falklands War. Falkland Islanders are full British citizens, but are also eligible for Argentine citizenship, though the islanders reject Argentina’s claim to sovereignty. On 14 June they celebrate Liberation Day, in recognition of the 1982 withdrawal of Argentine troops from the islands. The islands are also known by the Spanish name of Islas Malvinas, though with the continuing debate over sovereignty use of the Spanish name is considered by many to be offensive.

While in the early 16th century there were many sightings recorded of what “may have been” the Falkland Islands, it was the 1541 indication of the “Sanson” islands on a Map, which corresponds with the location of the Falklands, that can be supposed to be their discovery, I suppose. However, it’s the 1600 sighting by Sebald de Weert (a Dutch name if ever I heard one) that is accredited as the first sighting. France, Britain, Spain and Argentina have all claimed possession, and at different times established (and abandoned) settlements on the islands. Prior to the 1982 to-do there was a Falklands Crisis in 1770, which nearly caused a war between the Franco-Spanish Alliance and ye olde Britannica. When Argentina attained independence in 1816, they inherited, so to speak, the Spanish claim to the islands. Britain returned to the Falklands in 1833, following the destruction of the Argentine settlement, and has remain ever since, in spite of continued Argentine dispute over the territory.

Oh, and penguins. There are penguin colonies in the islands. Also, beautiful black-necked swans that I think beat Australia’s wholly black swans hands down. As well, as is proper in a British territory, Scouts and Girl Guides.

Looking around for a poem by a Falkland Islander, I found the following poem by Gus Hales online here. Reportedly he read this poem on Rememberance Sunday at the Cathedral in Stanley last year.


Deep in my Mind where Nobody Goes


Every year on Remembrance Sunday
I sit in the corner of the British Legion Bar,
Dressed in blazer, shirt, Regimental tie
And polished shoes, with my head held high.

But deep in my mind, where nobody goes,
I see a wooden cross where the wind of victory lies.
“Three Cheers for Victory,” I hear the politician say.
But you never asked me about my victory.
And, if they did, I would have explained it this way:

It isn’t your flags or emblems of war,
Or the marching of troops past the Palace’s door.
It isn’t Mrs. Thatcher on the balcony high,
Reaffirming her pledge to serve or die.
But it’s the look and the pain on a teenager’s face
As he dies for his country, In a far off place.

It’s the guns and the shells and the Phosphorus grenades
And the wounded and the dead in freshly cut graves
Or the grieving wife or the fatherless child
Whose young, tender life will be forever defiled.

Or the iconic soldier with a shattered mind
Who takes the suicide option for some peace to find.
Well, that’s my victory but no one knows
For its deep in my mind where nobody goes.


—Gus Hales

Russia

Russia, the great transcontinental land, taking up all of northern Asia and 40 percent of Europe. The once-was powerhouse, which I first became aware of watching news reports of Russians lining up to buy whatever might be in the perpetually empty supermarkets. I also remember, as a child in the 80s, hearing a lot about Gorbachev, and the word glasnost appeared in my vocabulary before many English words. Probably, after the United States, the country from which people are most likely to be able to name a large number of 20th century leaders—be it dictators or presidents. Today is Russia Day.

In the classical era, the Pontic Steppe was known as Scythia; but the history of the country really begins with the East Slavs, who emerged as a group sometime between the 3rd and the 8th century. (Yes, I realise that’s not very exact.) The first East Slavic state—which was founded by Vikings—was Kievan Rus’, which arose in the 9th century, adopting Christianity in 988, and—in the 10th and 11th centuries—becoming the largest and most prosperous state in Europe. Kievan Rus’ ultimately disintegrated, as the lands were divided into small feudal states, and was succeeded by Moscow. (Invasion by the Mongols didn’t help.) Over time, Moscow reunified the surrounding Russian principalities until, by the 18th century, it had become the vast Russian Empire.

Then we have the dynasties, the Tsars. The Russian Empire was founded by Peter I (or Peter the Great) in the 17th century, and the rule of the Tsars ended with the Russian Revolution which overthrew the monarchy and eventually led to the Communism that became the bogeyman to the US in much of the 20th century. Nor was it a picnic—Stalin’s rule is the one everyone remembers, and with famine, extreme political repression and the possibility of execution or exile to Siberian gulags, the history often reads like a horror story.

In 1991, the USSR broke up, dissolving in December of that year. Also officially at an end by this time: Communism.

You know what? Russia is not just the place for caviar. Russia also has the world’s largest forest reserves which absorb a huge amount of carbon dioxide (second only the Amazon rainforest) and provides a similarly huge amount of oxygen. Thank god it’s so big, with huge swathes of land barely populated!

Russia has so, so many great writers—from the novelists (Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy head any list, but we shouldn’t forget Turgenev and Gogol) to Chekhov’s short stories and plays to the many, many great poets, how is one to choose? I suppose, in the end, by choosing something I love. So I’m choosing Anna Akhmatova—and have trouble, even, in choosing a single poem by her. (Perhaps this is the hardest of all.) I found this poem online here.



‘I don’t know if you’re alive or dead –’

I don’t know if you’re alive or dead –
Can you be found on earth, though,
or only in twilit thoughts instead
be mourned for, in that peaceful glow.

All for you: the prayer daily,
the hot sleeplessness at night,
the white flock of poetry,
and the blue fire of my eyes.

No one was cherished more,
or tormented me so, no not
him, who betrayed me to torture,
nor him, who caressed and forgot.

—Anna Akhmatova
translated by A. S. Kline.

The Philippines

The Philippines consists of over seven thousand islands. I’m always amazed when I read things like that. And, yes, today is Independence Day in the Republic of the Philippines, which has been peopled for about 50,000 years, and, during the age of discovery, was colonised first by the Spanish in the 16th century before becoming a US territory at the outset of the 20th century. The Philippines gained its independence from the United States on the 4th of July in 1946; before that, the declaration of independence was made on 12 June.

The Philippines, when I think of it, is a mixed culture—with Asian roots, and Spanish and American influences. In fact, Spanish was the official language there until 1973, when both English and Filipino took over. Oh, and it was the Portuguese Ferdinand Magellan, in the service of Spain, who starting the infiltration of European influence. This was continued when Miguel Lópex de Legazpi, coming from Mexico, formed the first settlements. Before that, the Philippines had had ties with Malaysia, Indonesia and India for centuries, and traded with China and Japan from around the 9th century.

Having friends growing up in the Philippines, or Filipino families, I was always struck by their stories of devout Catholicism—that for Good Friday, for instance, it is not unusual to stage a real crucifixion.

The movement towards independence started in the 1930s, but was interrupted by World War II. Following the defeat of the Japanese and end of the war, the Philippines was granted independence in 1946.

Since independence, it hasn’t all gone smoothly. There have been rebel groups and martial law, assassination and what are believed to have been fraudulent elections. The current president, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo has found her administrations. The Philippines, too, is one of the outposts for processing and assembly of cheap good—Naomi Klein has written about factory conditions in the country.

And, who can forget Imelda Marcos? When she left the Malacañang Palance after the People Power Revolution in EDSA, it was found that she owned 15 mink coats, 508 gowns, 888 handbags and 1060 pairs of shoes. I can only wonder how Carrie Bradshaw would feel about the whole thing…

Today’s poem is from Language for a New Century, and is by the poet Cesar Ruiz Aquino.

She Comes with Horns and Tail

She comes with horns and tail
     And yet no nightmare
Made of air
     With such a gift
She carries heaven when she walks.
     On all fours, she is
The metamorphosis.
     Hair done or undone
True to the touch
     And true only to her looks
Till she comes with horns (not the moon)
     And tail (not the comet)
Someone no woman has met
     In the mirror. 

—Cesar Ruiz Aquino
from Language for a New Century.

The Åland Islands

The Åland Islands are an autonomous province of Finland, and on 9 June they celebrate Självtyrelsedagen, or Åland Self-Governing Day: this is the anniversary of the first congregation of the regional government. While it’s not quite independence I thought it would fit the scope of this project because Självtyrelsedagen celebrates a recognition of a different group of citizens within the Finnish nation. Åland is, interestingly, a monolingual province—and the language isn’t Finnish. They speak Swedish in the Åland islands. Åland consists of the main island, Fasta Åland, and over 6,500 other skerries and islands. There is only one land border among the islands—the uninhabited islands of Märket is shared by the Åland and Sweden.

The islands belonged to Sweden for the period prior to 1809—before they came under the control of Imperial Russia. They became part of the Grand Duchy of Finland, the predecessor to the modern nation, while the region was still part of the Russian Empire. Early in the twentieth century, the Åland islanders worked towards the goal of having the islands ceded to Sweden—reportedly, over 95 percent of Åland’s adult population signed a petition for secession—but Finland wasn’t willing for this secession to take place. Instead, in 1920, the islands were granted extensive autonomy, which was reaffirmed when Finland entered the European Union.

As well as its own government, Åland has its own national flag—and it issues its own postal stamps too. (I have to admit, this project is making me want to restart the stamp collection I had as a child…)

It took some searching, but I found a poem by an Åland writer—Katarina Gäddnäs. I found the poem online here.



Finlandia II
— a polyphonic work for symphony orchestra, metal band and large choir

Through the darkness you must go, through the forests and the tarns’ black waters.
Through the sauna you must go, through the beer, the sausages, the birch twig whisks.
Through the drinking you must go, through the vomit and the knife-fights.
Through wood pulp, steelworks and telephones you must go.
Through November cities and the extinguished windows of the village shop.
Through Moomin Valley you must go, through symphony orchestras, opera and monster rock.
Through glass birds and bentwood furniture you must go,
through large-patterned fabrics and traditional knitwear.
Through vodka, reindeer hides and cloudberry liqueur you must make your way
Through tar-smelling jetties and glittering summer bays boulder fields, swamps and fells in their autumn tints you must go.
Through ski-jump slopes, hockey fields, running circuits you must go
Through jazz and tango festivals, light summer nights, bird migration times
Through elk-hunts and bear fever you must go.
Through all the languages we are silent in, you must go
Through the refugee camps, and the wars,
through the wars you must go.
Through hunger, famine and rationing
you must go as the ice-breakers go.
Through all the ages you must go ages that rest like earth’s primordial creases
in the faces of the old.
Through the children’s laughter and the games of playgrounds you must go.
Through the moss in the swamp you must go
Through the darkness, the forests and the tarns’ black waters.


— Katarina Gäddnäs
Translated by David McDuff

Sweden

Strindberg. Bergman. Garbo. Pippi Longstocking. And—who could forget that Eurovision smash?—ABBA.

Oh, and Beowulf. Now I know at least some of you must have read at least some of this—and not just in Seamus Heaney’s translation. Yes, the poem is in Old English, but it describes Swedish-Geatish wars.

So, 6 June is Sweden’s national day. It was officially made the national day by the Riksdag in 1983—before that it was known as the Swedish flag day. The country began celebrating the date early in the twentieth century—it honours the 1523 election of King Gustav Vasa (which ended the Kalmar Union ruled by Denmark), considered the foundation of modern Sweden. The day only became an official holiday in 2005.

The Kalmar Union, affecting the union of Sweden, Norway and Denmark, occurred in 1397, though in reality most power was help by local regents though the country was officially under Danish rule. When King Christian II of Denmark tried to enforce Danish rule in Sweden, he ordered a massacre of Swedish nobles known as the 1520 “Stockholm blood bath.” This had the effect of inspiring resistance among the Swedes, and led the 1523 crowning of King Gustav Vasa.

Hey! The population grew significantly in the 18th and 19th centuries. Apparently this was attributed to “the peace, the vaccine, and the potatoes.” (The vaccine was smallpox.) This pithy explanation of the population increase was made in 1833.

So, Sweden was officially neutral in both World Wars. Though the country was under significant German influence in World War II—blockades isolated Sweden from the rest of the world, and the government felt it couldn’t openly contest Germany.

Today’s poem is by Tomas Tranströmer. Throughout his professional life he has worked as a psychologist, and since his first book of poems was published in 1954 he has been a major voice in contemporary Swedish literature.

Sketch in October

The towboat is freckled with rust. What’s it doing here so far
       inland?
It is a heavy extinguished lamp in the cold.
But the trees have wild colors: signals to the other shore.
As if people wanted to be fetched.

On my way home I see mushrooms sprouting
                                                   up through the lawn.
They are fingers, stretching for help, of someone
who has long sobbed to himself in the darkness fown there.
We are the earth’s.

—Tomas Tranströmer.
translated from the Swedish by Robin Fulton
from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry

Denmark

When I was a child, I wanted to go to Denmark. Though, of course, I hadn’t read or seen Hamlet at the tender age of six, I’d heard about Hamlet’s castle, and for some reason that was the place I fixated on. When I was nine I had a school project to make an itinerary for a tour of Europe. (This, I think, was an early instigator of my wanderlust.) I think I was the only person to put Denmark in my tour. When I was twelve, the first thing I studied in high school history was the bog people of Denmark. It was also when I first saw a film version of Hamlet. (I fell in love with the character of Ophelia.) When I was sixteen I started reading Seamus Heaney, including his bog poems—“One day I will go to Aarhus/ to see his peat-brown head.” A few years ago I went to Århus—and to Copenhagen, to Helsingor, to Skagan… It was a beautiful—if incredibly poor (moneywise)—week. In Århus I was staying in a hostel where I made friends with a Scottish girl who was looking for a place to live, before embarking on a year’s exchange to Denmark to improve her Danish—she was equally poor. We ended up eating meals consisting of plain pasta and tinned corn together. For some reason, I cherish the memory of these dinners, just as I cherish my memory of wading into the sea at Skagen—with the Kattegat section of the North Sea on my right and the Skagerrak on my left, wandering off the northern tip of Denmark. Also, after wandering along four kilometres of sand dunes, and then settling down in a field in the middle of nowhere to wait for a bus—that I was not completely certain would ever come!—I was delighted when the keys I thought I had lost seemingly dropped from the sky. (Okay—they’d worked their way into some odd place in my bag, and came flying out when I flung the bag on the ground… it still seemed like magic.) I wish I could have spent more time there—especially going to some of the islands (other than Zealand/Sjælland). Looking at photographs, I’m struck by all the places I missed. Another thing to go back for…

Oh, and 5 June? This was the date on which Denmark became a constitutional monarchy in 1849. Before that, there’s some interesting history. In particular: during the reign of Valdemar II (in the thirteenth century) the Danish “Baltic Sea Empire” was formed, stretching from Estonia to Norway. The 1241 Code of Jutland included concepts such as: right of property; that a king cannot rule beyond the law; that all men are equal to the law. Good stuff.

Another historic moment was Easter Sunday 1525 when the monk Hans Tausen proclaimed the need for Luther’s reforms in the Catholic Church. This sermon began a ten year struggle—Tausen was moved to an isolated monastery in the north of Jutland, where he continued to preach through the window of his lock chamber. Within weeks, Tausen was freed by followers who had first come out of curiosity, and Lutheran ideas took hold quickly—the country officially became Lutheran in 1536.

And one of my favourite things about Denmark is that when it became apparent that the Germans would come in and start removing the Jews in World War II, the nation managed to save the majority of its 6000 Jews almost overnight. Apparently families stopped the people they knew were Jewish on the street, and hid them until they could get them to Sweden and safety. Only a few isolated Jewish groups—including, tragically, a nursing home—didn’t get the message.

Both the Faroe Islands and Greenland are provinces of Denmark, but both have autonomy, and I was pleased to hear recently that the independence movement in Greenland is getting under way again.

Vikings. Amber. Jutes. Peat bogs.

For the last two years, Denmark has been ranked “the happiest place in the world.” It must be all those bicycles.

Today’s poem is by Adda Djørup, and translated from the Danish by Peter Greenwald. It’s another from New European Poets.


The Nth Day of the Nth Month

Today I upended a huge oak tree and saw
that it had no roots. Furious, I razed the whole forest.

The flowers smell as lifeless as wax.
But wax here is no more lifeless than flowers.
Wax and flowers.

I put the moon and the sun at the same height. All creation fell still.
Before too long I remembered I had done this before.
And it hasn’t amused me this time either.

I visited Libella’s grave. I created her
and killed her to have something to give me joy
and sorrow. The truth is that she left me cold.
—Can I classify that as an action?

I created the Cult of the Horse—and of the Cat.
I equipped their members with certain traits of my own
as well as the conviction that the highest of all goods
is in one case the ability to see sideways like a horse
and in the other the ability to leap like a cat.
The beginning was amusing but the outcome
was determined in advance. I didn’t stay to see the end.

Staring at the sky is the only thing I haven’t grown weary of.
I can even feel some doubt about which of us came first.
This doubt is so pleasant that I evoke it only rarely
so I can enjoy it fully each time.
If I leave it untouched long enough perhaps
it can develop a certain independence?

I took ten drops of water and filled them with infinity.
Eight turned black. Two stayed clear.
Now, how can that be? I thought and was delighted
to have a little puzzle to start the next day with.

I think I’ll move tomorrow up to today.

—Adda Djørup
translated from the Danish by Peter Greenwald
from New European Poets

Italy

2 June is Italy’s national day—the anniversary of the day on which it became a republic (Repubblica Italiana) in 1946. Everyone remembers that Italy is “the boot” and also includes Sicily, but—please folk!—lets not forget Sardinia. (When I was on the southern tip of Corsica a few years ago, I saw Sardinia—less than 20 kilometres across the water.) Italy—ancient Rome! The Renaissance! So much art, so much music.

I hardly know how to approach Italy’s history—I mean, I suppose I could give the highlights. (These are subjective, and mostly artistic for someone like me. Ie. Me.) This is based partly on the fact that I was living in Firenze (Florence) for a few months a few years ago. So, perhaps instead of the usual format, a tour.

Roma: now I finally got down to Rome one weekend, but I saw a very odd selection of things, because I needed to get to the Vietnamese embassy to organise a visa, and the Vietnamese embassy is not in a particularly historic part of town. I had very little time, so I stuck to the following: the Colosseum; the Vatican and St Peters; the Trevi fountain. There were other things thrown in, but that was what I really go to. Yes. I know how much I missed. I at least got to drive past a lot of things.

Assisi: St Francis. Also, the best meal I ate while I was in Italy. Spectacular ravioli with a creamy tomato and mushroom sauce.

Napoli: Herculaneum and Mount Vesuvius. I was struck by how brown everything was for miles around Mt Vesuvius.

Lucca, Pisa, Siena, San Gimignano: beautiful, beautiful towns. The head of Saint Catherine of Siena. The whole body of Saint Zita of Lucca.

Venezia: running through the fountain outside the station. Soaking. Absolutely soaking. Oh, and Venezia. The whole place is gorgeous.

Padua and Verona: wandering. St Anthony related things. The fake-out that is the Juliet balcony.

Firenze: oh, Firenze! The art. Reading Henry James in various spots around the city. Escaping into the Duomo when the sun got to be too overpowering. Living in a weird suburb northwest of the Cascine gardens, asking directions to the discount supermarket on the first day of my Italian classes. Watching the French open final and The Simpsons in Italian. So many memories…

Livorno: this crazy, crazy pensione about ten miles out of town on Easter Saturday, that was like something out of Fawlty Towers. Sharing a room with a pre-teen boys tennis squad.

Self-indulgence aside. The ancient Romans gave us more than a wariness about the Ides of March. Virgil, Ovid, Horace, Juvenal, Persius… The Renaissance gave us the great artists. And let’s not forget Boccaccio and Dante. Is The Decameron the greatest thing to emerge from the Black Death pandemic?

And, yes, we’re all glad fascism and Mussolini had a use-by date, though it would have been nice if we didn’t have to have them in the first place. Dictatorships are so passé.

Literature in Italy still has its spectacular proponents. My earliest readings (aside from high school translations of Caesar, Ovid, Tacitus and Virgil) were Italo Calvino and Luigi Pirandello. I fell in love with Six Characters in Search of an Author as a teenager. More recently, I love Montale, Andrea Zanzotto and Salvatore Quasimodo—I struggled through the latter in the original with an English crib.

I’ve chosen Montale as today’s poet. I’m going to read him in the original one day. In the mean time, I’m grateful to Jonathon Galassi and Charles Wright for their translations. Wright is the translator for today’s poem, which I found here.

The Dead

The sea that breaks on the opposite shore
throws up a cloud that spumes
until the sand flats reabsorb it. There,
one day, we jettisoned, on the iron coast,
our hope, more gasping than
the open sea—and the fertile abyss turns green
as in the days that saw us among the living.

Now that the north wind has flattened out the cloudy tangle
of gravy-colored currents and headed them back
to where they started, all around someone has hung
on the limbs of the tree thicket fish nets that string
along the path that goes down
out of sight;
faded nets that. dry in the late
and cold touch of the light; and over them
the thick blue crystal of the sky winks
and slides toward a wave-lashed arc
of horizon.

                More than seawrack dragged
from the seething that uncovers us, our life
moves against such stasis: and still it seethes
in us, that one thing which one day stopped, resigned
to its limits; among the strands that bind
one branch to another, the heart struggles
like a young marsh hen
caught in the net's meshes;
and motionless and migratory it holds us,
an icy steadfastness.
                               Thus
maybe the dead too have an rest taken away from them
in the ground; a force more pitiless
than life itself pulls them away from there, and all around
(shadows gnawed and swallowed by human memories)
drives them to these shores, breaths
without body or voice
betrayed by the darkness;
and their thwarted flights brush by us even now,
so recently separated from us, so close still,
and back in the sea's sieve go down...

—Eugene Montale
translated from the Italian by Charles Wright

Samoa

The Independent State of Samoa gained its independence from New Zealand on 1 January in 1962—but they celebrate their independence day on 1 June.

Samoa was settled around 3000 years ago, when South East Asian peoples migrated towards the Pacific Islands. In the early days, as Tui Manu’a, Samoa ruled most of the pacific islands region for a time—and Tonga and Fiji took on Samoan influences. Tonga freed itself from Tui Manu’a, and eventually formed the empire of Tu’i Tonga around 950 CE, in turn dominating Samoa for a long period.

European contact began in the 18th century, as it did for much of the region of Oceania. The Dutchman Jacob Roggeveen sighted the islands in 1722, and the French explorer Louis-Antoine de Bougainville visited (and named them the Navigator Islands) in 1768. Contact was irregular until the 1830s when English missionaries and traders began arriving. At the end of the 19th century, the French, British, German and Americans all showed interest in the islands as a refuelling station for coal-fired shipping.

At the turn of the twentieth century the islands were split in two parts—the eastern group is still under American rule, as American Samoa. The western islands were German Samoa (Britain gave up its claim in return for Fiji). In 1914, New Zealand forces landed and seized control, and they continued to control Samoa until 1962.

Oh, and Samoa has produced some kick ass Rugby Union and Rugby League players.

Today’s poem by Caroline Sinavaiana comes from the anthology Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980.



War News

     small flag of white lace
     hands from barbed-wire
     fence, which keeps the ducks in
     all safe among teuila /
     red ginger, and banana trees.

     at the lagoon, i wash clothes
     on black rocks, bowled lava, 
     glad for small discoveries: 
     if you fold them into quarters first,
     your blue jeans won’t trail
     in the muddy pebble bed.

radio voice drifts down the early morning breeze:

LAST NIGHT, AN AMERICAN WARSHIP SHOT DOWN
A PASSENGER AIRLINER OVER THE PERSIAN GULF.

beyond the clothesline, a congress of chickens
mill about pecking grass seeds,
one brown hen teaching wee chicks
the art of pecking coconut from the half-shell;
two offspring listen rapt / one foot each
planted in today’s    lesson

290 PEOPLE DEAD. PRESIDENT REAGAN DECLINES TO
COMMENT. VICE-PRESIDENT BUSH DECLINES TO
ISSUE APOLOGY.

in the mangrove swamp, shadowy wings
disturb the dark air:
     matu’u / reef heron,        and once
     god of war, now ascending /
     his ablutions       complete,
          to survey the day’s grim business
          out       across the mudflats,           where pigs
          love to root at low tide

—Caroline Sinavaiana
from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980