Martinique

Another French territory—or “overseas department”—another unofficial flag. Hey, but I didn’t know that as an overseas region of France, Martinique is part of the European Union. No wonder they celebrate Fête Nationale on 14 July. I’d probably celebrate it too for EU membership. Maybe. Oh, and an unofficial flag with a coiled snake? Why not? The snakes, for those wondering, are fer-de-lance vipers, which are native to Martinique. It’s actually a version of the old French ensign of the time.

And before the French? Both Arawak and Carib populations settled on the island before European colonization began. (Incidentally, I’m beginning to find the word colonization very creepy—I don’t know if its just writing so much about this age of empire building, or if science fiction movies about alien colonization play into it.)

The British had something of a habit of capturing French islands in the Caribbean. Martinique was no except—they held the island from 1762-1762. The French liked their sugar though and they decided they would trade Canada (yes, Canada) for Martinique and Guadeloupe. I’m still thinking about trading Canada for a few Caribbean islands. But that’s because I like big empty spaces more than I like pristine beaches. (I’m weird that way.) And I’m trying to give up sugar.

The capital of Martinique was St Pierre—that is, until 1902 when Mont Pelée erupted and wiped out the town. In a Pied Piper manner, all the inhabitants were killed—except one. A prisoner in a dungeon cell survived. Though the town was rebuilt, the capital shifted permanently to Fort-de-France.

Obviously I’ve chosen a poem by Aimé Césaire—obviously? The guy was a legend. (He died earlier this year, on 17 April. He was given a state funeral.) As well as being a major twentieth-century poet, Césaire was also an intellectual and activist. He was President of the Regional Council of Martinique for five years in the 1980s, too. This poem comes from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse.

Lost Body

          I who Krakatoa
I who much better than monsoon
I who chest open
I who Laëlaps
I who bleating better than a cloaca
I who off-scale
I who Zambezi or frenetic or rhombus or cannibal
I would like to be humbler and humbler and lower
always graver with neither vestige nor vertigo
until I lose myself fall
into the living semolina of well opened soil.
Outside a beautiful mist instead of atmosphere
would be not dirty
each drop of water in it making a sun
whose name the same for all things
would be TOTAL   AND   COMPLETE
ENCOUNTER
so that one could not be sure what is passing
whether a star or a hope
or a petal from the flamboyant tree
or an underwater retreat
streaked by the torches of the medusa aurelias
Then life I imagine would bathe me all over
better would I feel it touching me or biting me
As I lie I would see approaching me scents finally free
like helpful hands
and they would find a way to pass within me
to swing their long hair
longer than this past that I cannot reach.
Things move aside make space between you
space for my rest that bears like a wave
my terrible crest of anchoring roots
looking for somewhere to hold on to
Things I probe I probe
I the burden-bearer I am the root-bearer
And I weigh and I force and I arcane
          I omphale
Ah which takes me aback towards the harpoons
          I am very weak
I whistle yes I whistle very ancient things
of snakes of cavernous things
I gold now wind be still
and against my cool unstable muzzle
place against my eroded face
your cold face of canceled laughter.
The wind alas I shall hear it still
nigger nigger nigger from the depth
of the immemorial sky
not quite as loud as today
but too loud yet
and this mad howling of hounds and horses
that it sets on our ever-runware trail
but when my turn comes into the air
I will raise up a cry so violent
that I will spatter the sky utterly
and by my shredded branches
and by the insolent jet of my solemn wounded bole

          I shall command the islands to exist.

—Aimé Césaire
from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse
translated from the French by E. Anthony Hurley