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