Saint Pierre et Miquelon

Moving through the little slices of French territory around the world, I’ll forgive you for perhaps forgetting Saint Pierre et Miquelon—I’m guessing there are a lot of people who couldn’t point to this island group on a map. Caribbean? No. African? No. Oceania? No. The islands—population not much over 6,000—are just south of Newfoundland. It’s French status is a hangover from the colonial territory of New France. And so it celebrate’s France’s Fête Nationale.

Before the Europeans arrived, it’s thought there were some prehistoric inhabitants—most likely the same group that inhabited Newfoundland. And then Europeans arrive, some time around the early 16th century.

The British attacked the islands a few times—they also took possession of them for the fifty years from 1713 to 1763. After the French took the islands back there was about 15 years of peace before they got passed back and forth a few more times. After 1815 they stayed with France—and the islands were quite prosperous, until the local fishing industry began to decline.

Things did perk up a bit with prohibition—the islands were, apparently, a handy spot for those smuggling alcohol. No mention of pirates in my reading, but, honestly, smugglers are just as good.

Also interesting is the fact that the guillotine was only ever used in North America once: in Saint-Pierre. The guillotine used was shipped from Martinique, and didn’t arrive in working order. Then there was trouble finding an executioner—eventually a recent immigrant agreed to the job. Want to see it? Go to Saint-Pierre’s museum.

It didn’t find a poem by an islander—I guess with such a small population that’s not so hard to believe. But I found a piece by William Henry Drummond—he was born in Ireland and moved to the French portion of Canada. He published a couple of books in the 19th century, and in this poem, illustrating the dialect of English-speakers in the region he lived, he mentions the islands a number of times. This is a small portion of what is a much longer piece. I found it online here.


from The Rose Delima

You can sew heem up in a canvas sack,
     An’ t’row heem over boar’
You can wait till de ship she ’s comin’ back
     Den bury heem on de shore
For dead man w’en he ’s dead for sure,
     Ain’t good for not’ing at all
An’ he’ll stay on de place you put heem
     Till he hear dat bugle call
Dey say will soun’ on de las’, las’ day
W’en ev’ry t’ing ’s goin’ for pass away,
But down on de Gulf of St. Laurent
     W’ere de sea an’ de reever meet
An’ off on St. Pierre de Miquelon,
     De chil’ren on de street
Can tole you story of Pierre Guillaume,
     De sailor of St. Yvonne
Dat’s bringin’ de Rose Delima home
     Affer he ’s dead an’ gone

—William Henry Drummond

São Tomé and Príncipe

So, São Tomé and Príncipe celebrate Independence Day on 12 July—independence? From Portugal. 1975. São Tomé and Príncipe are two islands, about 140 kilometres apart, and around 250 kilometres from the African mainland. They’re in the Gulf of Guinea, and if you head east from the islands, you’ll run into Gabon. They’re pretty well equatorial—São Tomé (the southernmost of the two) is just north of that invisible line. For the trivia night fact collection? It’s the smallest nation in the wold that is not a former British overseas territory, for US trusteeship or one of those European microstates. Yes, those are a few exceptions to remember—but interesting, yes? São Tomé is named, as I’m sure you can tell, for Saint Thomas—Portuguese explorers arrived on his feast day.

And before that 15th century Saint Thomas’s day, the islands were uninhabited. After exploring, the Portuguese decided the islands would make a nice base for trading with the mainland. Settlement began in 1493 on São Tomé, and in 1500 on Príncipe. Not a lot of people wanted to move there, though, and apparently early settlers were sent from Portugal as “undesirables.” In keeping with the nature of 16th century attitudes, a lot of those sent to the islands were Jews.

When sugar production took off in the islands the Portuguese paid attention, and made sure to administer the islands. Profit is a great motivator. When the new world brought better sugar colonies, the islands became a transit point for the slave trade—well, until that dried up too. Next up? Coffee and cocoa. (You need to move with the times—and I haven’t seen popularity of either product wane…) Cocoa is still the most important crop. Yum.

When the Caetano dictatorship ended in Portugal in 1974, the country decided to dissolve its overseas colonies—independence became the order of the day. So the Movement for the Liberation of São Tomé and Príncipe, formed in the 1950s, had its day. In the 1990s the country decided to go in for democratic reform, with a multi-party system and free and fair elections. Good job. There was something of a hiccup in July 2003—the army decided they’d do it better and seized power. It was a brief event though—after a week the president was back in power.

The poem I’ve got for you is by Aldo de Espirito Santo, and is from The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry. It was translated from the Portuguese by Gerald Moore. (I hope you all remember to appreciate translators when you read books from other languages…)


Where are the Men Seized in this Wind of Madness?

Blood falling in drops to the earth
men dying in the forest
and blood falling, falling…
on those cast into the sea…
Fernâo Dias for ever in the story
of Ilha Verde, red with blood,
of men struck down
in the vast arena of the quay.
Alas the quay, the blood, the men,
the fetters, the lash of beatings
resound, resound, resound
dropping in the silence of prostrated lives
of cries, and howls of pain
from men who are men no more,
in the hands of nameless butchers
Zé Mulato in the story of the quay
shooting men in the silence
of bodies falling.
Alas Zé Mulato, Zé Mulato,
The victims cry for vengeance
The sea, the sea of Fernâo Dias
devouring human lives
is bloody red.
—We are arisen—
Our eyes are turned to you.
Our lives entombed
in fields of death,
men of the Fifth of February
men fallen in the furnace of death
imploring pity
screaming for life,
dead without air, without water
they all arise
from the common grave
and upright in the chorus of justice
cry for vengeance…
The fallen bodies in the forest,
the homes, the homes of men
destroyed in the gulf
of ravening fire,
lives incinerated,
raised the unaccustomed chorus of justice
crying for vengeance.
And all you hangmen
all you torturers
sitting in the dock:
—What have you done with my people? …
—What do you answer?
—Where is my people? …
And I answer in the silence
of voices raised
demanding justice…
One by one, through all the line…
For you, tormentors,
forgiveness has no name.
Justice shall be heard.
And the blood of lives fallen
in the forests of death,
innocent blood
drenching the earth
in a silence of terrors
shall make the earth fruitful,
crying for justice,
It is the flame of humanity
singing of hope
in a world without bonds
where liberty
is the fatherland of men…


—Aldo do Espirito Santo
from The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry
translated from the Portuguese by Gerald Moore

Cape Verde

The name “Cape Verde” is so evocative. Discovered by the Portuguese in the 15th century, the islands were uninhabited until colonised, and they became independent of Portugal in 1975. Off the coast of Africa in the North Atlantic, west of Mauritania and Senegal.

Prior to the Portuguese, apparently Pomponius Mela and Pliny the Elder both wrote about the islands, referring to them as the “Gorgades.” According to myth, this is in reference to the Gorgons killed by Perseus. It’s also thought that when Marinos of Tyre wrote about the Isles of the Blessed, he was referring to Cape Verde. This being the case, who doesn’t now want to visit the islands?

And while, yes, the Portuguese “discovered” the islands, their presence in these writings suggests prior discoveries. Folklore also contains suggestions of Arab visits centuries before Europeans arrived. There’s even been a theory (rejected by mainstream historians) that the Chinese visited the islands in 1420. No, I don’t believe it, but there is a sort of poetic fancy to it.

The islands were prosperous under the Portuguese initially—so prosperous that they were a popular target for pirates, including Sir Francis Drake. Prosperity was interrupted, though, when recurrent droughts began in 1747—made worse by deforestation. The end of the slave trade also ended a major source of income for the islands. When whaling ships began visiting the area because of its many whales, many Cape Verdeans joined their crews and emigrated to America. Then, when ocean liners arose, the islands became a popular spot for resupplying ships, again providing prosperity to the region—particularly the harbor city Mindelo on São Vincente. World War II brought a decline in shipping traffic though, and the economy collapsed.

Literacy under the Portuguese was at a higher rate than any of their other African colonies (25 percent, as opposed to 5 percent in what is now Guinea-Bissau). With literacy came awareness of other countries’ independence movements, and so the push for an independent Cape Verde arose. The subsequent liberation war was long—the Portuguese dictator António de Oliveira Salazar didn’t want to give up the colonies. It was only after the fall of his regime that Cape Verde gained independence.

Before independence there had been hope for a unity with Guinea-Bissau, but with a coup in the latter country in 1980, the relationship between the two fell apart a little. These days relations between the two countries are good.

For a long time Cape Verde was ruled until a one-party system—this was abolished in 1990, and the first multi-party elections were held in 1991, and the Movement for Democracy party won the day. Subsequent elections were judged free and fair. And—talk about neck and neck—in the 2001 presidential election, Pedro Pires beat Carlos Veiga by twelve votes. Twelve!

Today’s poem is by Onésimo Silveira. I found it online here using google books, back when I was searching for Namibian poets.


A Different Poem

The people of the islands want a different poem
For the people of the islands;
A poem without exiles complaining
In the calm of their existence;
A poem without children nourished
On the black milk of aborted time
A poem without mothers gazing
At the vision of their sons, motherless.
The people of the islands want a different poem
For the people of the islands:
A poem without arms in need of work
Nor mouths in need of bread
A poem without boasts ballasted with people
On the road to the South
A poem without words choked
By the harrows of silence.
The people of the islands want a different poem
For the people of the islands:
A poem with sap rising in the heart of the BEGINNING
A poem with Batuque and tchabeta and the badias of St Catherine,
A poem with shaking hips and laughing ivory.
The people of the islands want a different poem
For the people of the islands:
A poem without men who lose the seas’ grace
and the fantasy of the main compass points.

— Onésimo Silveira

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

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