...and one more, long one

Ernesto Cardenal's
With Walker in Nicaragua
Translated from the Spanish
by Jonathan Cohen
[Reading by Edward Asner]

In a lonely cabin on the frontier, I, Clinton Rollins, attempting no literary style, pass the time by penning my memories. And as an old man my thoughts wander back: The things that happened fifty years ago … Spanish-Americans I have known — whom I have grown to like … And that warm, sweet, green odor of Central America. The white houses with red-tiled roofs and with wide sunny eaves, and a tropical courtyard with a fountain and a woman by the fountain. And the heat making our beards grow longer. What scenes return to my memory now! A grey wave that comes blotting out the hills and a muffled sound of flood waters rushing through the jungle and the howls of monkeys on the opposite bank and then the heavy, metallic beating of raindrops on the tin roofs and the people running to take in the clothes from the ranch porches and later the grey wave and the muffled sound moving off and once again the silence … And how it smelled of underbrush and the river turned leaf-green, how the little steamboat looked there, calm as could be, anchored to the shade of the jungle. And the sudden flop of an iguana into the water, the rumble of falling timber, the distant shot of a rifle, a Spanish word shouted from afar, the laughter of the black women washing clothes and a Caribbean song. My companions on that expedition with William Walker: Achilles Kewen, the aristocrat, who fell fighting at Rivas; Chris Lilly, the boxer, his throat cut while drunk one night beside a shining lagoon; William Stoker (Bill), with his pirate's face — and a good man — who got married there afterwards and lived by Lake Managua (and I ate once at his house); and Crocker, the pretty-boy, who died gasping for breath at Rivas, with his dirty, blond beard heavy with blood, and one arm dangling and a half-empty revolver in the other; Skelter, the braggart, who died of cholera; and Dixie, the newsboy — the bugler — who on the night Colonel Jack broke through the lines was better than the Scottish bagpipes at Lucknow playing his bugle. De Brissot, Dolan, Henry, Bob Gray; the bandit, the doubting Thomas, the bum, the treasure hunter; the ones who were hanged from trees and left swinging beneath the stinking black vultures and the moon or sprawled on the plains with a lone coyote and the moon, their rifle beside them; or in the hot, cobbled streets filled with shouts, or white like shells on the seashore where the tides are always covering and uncovering them. The ones who survived all those dangers and are even still alive. The ones who stayed there afterwards to get married and to live in peace in that land and who this afternoon probably sit remembering (thinking about how one day they might pen their memories), and their wife who is from that land, and their grandchildren playing … The ones who deserted with Turley, inland, toward the gold mines and were surrounded by natives and perished. The man who while sleeping fell from a boat into the water — dreaming perhaps of battles — and not a soul heard his cries in the darkness, if he did cry out. The ones who were shot by Walker against a grey church. And later, Walker himself, shot … Hornsby had been in Nicaragua and he spoke of its blue lakes amid blue mountains under a blue sky, and how it was the Transit route and the great passageway, the pier of America, and how it would teem with merchant ships and with foreigners speaking all tongues, waiting for the Canal; and each ship bringing new adventurers, and the green plantations with their great white houses with verandas; and the planter's wife instructing the children of the blacks; and the countryside with sawmills and palm-lined avenues humming with sugar mills and the roads filled with blue stagecoaches and the logs floating down the rivers. I saw Walker for the first time in San Francisco: I remember him as if I were seeing his blond face like a tiger's; his grey eyes, without pupils, fixed like a blind man's, but which expanded and flashed like gunpowder in combat, and his skin faintly freckled, his paleness, his clergyman's ways, his voice, colorless like his eyes, cold and sharp, in a mouth without lips. And a woman's voice was hardly softer than his: that calm voice of his announcing death sentences … that swept so many into the jaws of death in combat. He never drank or smoked and he wore no uniform. Nobody was his friend. And I don't remember ever having seen him smile. We set sail from San Francisco in '55. Achilles Kewen and Bill and Crocker, Hornsby and the others: — on board a filibuster brig! There were storms in Tehuantepec, and during the nights volcanos every now and then along the coast like beacons. In the Gulf of Fonseca, behind blue islands, crumbling old volcanos like pyramids seemed to be watching us: The land where we would go through so many adventures, where so many of us would die by fever or fighting! And the jungle with a whistle calling, calling, with its thick leaves like flesh, rattan palms, rushing water; and like a constant moan … No one had done us any harm, and we brought war. When we saw Lake Nicaragua for the first time, upon reaching the front at a bend in the road, we halted, with a single exclamation: — Ometepe! The smooth blue lake and the Island with its two twin volcanos like breasts joined at water level by their bases, which looked like they were sinking in the water, and the humble smoke rising from its villages. And through the air's clearness they seemed close by. And beneath us that glassy sand, and in the distance the steeples of the church at Rivas. So Rivas next and the first shots, Walker in front on horseback like a flag. It was noonday, and our sun-drenched clothes felt heavy on us. Then Kewen and Crocker were wounded. Fire! shouted Kewen and we ran through the grey, walled street, Crocker with his silver-plated revolver shouting. Rivas was left filled with shouts and blood and fires burning in the sun's glare and we returned to that blue port nestled in hills with their curved yellow coconut palms swaying and a small Costa Rican ship in the harbor. There were high winds that night with the moon swift among the silvery dark clouds. — And De Brissot in a hospital bed, angry at Walker … And in León the nights were cool with distant guitars below wrought-iron balconies and the wind swinging the golden lamps in front of the houses. And as we neared the city we heard from afar the sentries pacing back and forth and an "alerta" one after the other running from street to street. The voices of the people sounded strange to us and their words ended faintly as in a song. And the sentry's cry was as musical as a bird's in the evening. Just the way in snow-covered small towns in the States, come evening one hears the watchmen's voices cheery, full and clear. And the cry of "alerta" resounded once more. The girls in Nicaragua wore rosaries with gold crosses hanging from them and strings of pearls around their heads and black tresses. And we fell in love with the women of that land. One day we embarked on the Virgen, for Granada, in front of those two silent volcanos like two blue guards. The lake was glassy smooth and all at once herons everywhere flew over the lake as if great white flowers, toward islands where they sleep, and flocks of screaming ducks took off in search of shelter. At night we stopped the trembling engine in front of Granada, and only the waves against the boat could be heard. We covered our lanterns with canvas, dropped anchor stealthily, attached a cable to a tree on the shore, and lowering some launches, we disembarked. No one could see us advancing in the darkness with our black uniforms — the darkness full of fireflies and crickets — hearing every little noise as if a big racket. And by the time the alarm was sounded in the thick towers it was late, as the dawn suddenly rose from the waters lighting the foreign streets, grave and empty of the captured town: with filibusters in black uniform on the streetcorners and our flag with its Red Star at St. Francis. And then there was peace. Walker spoke of peace and National Reconciliation and kneeling with Corral in church he swore to observe the Constitution. Granada would awake each morning with bells and cries of vendors in the streets: I have oranges, papayas, jocotes, watermelons, musk melons, zapotes! — Who wants to buy? and water vendors with their casks crying out: Waaaaaaaater, waaaater, waaaater! All day long that cry of water would cool the streets and there were stands with drinks of all colors in the streets — some stands they call canteens there — and processions of girls would come from the lake with their jars and in the lake half-naked washerwomen washed laundry singing, while men would be watering or bathing their horses. And you'd hear the Salve Regina being sung through the evenings and the air was so pure then you could hear all the conversations of people in their doorways and the clear serenades from afar; and at night wet frogs used to sing in the courtyard, or a young woman's voice behind adobe walls, and we went to bed listening to the trickle from the clay tiles in the wet courtyard and our thoughts would be getting mixed up and the long rows of street lamps were put out one after the other, until the next day with bells again and the cries of water. Walker in good spirits produced long cavalcades through the streets. — But, downhearted, Corral never left his house … And that day on which he was arrested (tried by court-martial, the prisoner then threw himself on the mercy of Walker, and Walker: that the prisoner would be shot at noon) ladies came, with Señora Corral, and her three daughters weeping, the youngest two embracing Walker's knees; and he: in between officers and surrounded by his Cuban bodyguards. And we filibusters outside listened in silence. And that man who'd had a sweetheart in Nashville, Helen Martin, a deaf-mute, who died of yellow fever, — for whom he learned the language of hands and together they'd make silent signs in the air — as if a fleeting compassion like the batting of an eyelid had then crossed his colorless eyes of ice, lifting his hand he said: — that Corral would not be shot at noon … but at two in the afternoon. And outside we, the filibusters, were hung in doubt. And we saw the town square overshadowed by a cloud, the still palm trees, the Cathedral, the great stone cross, and at the end of Main Street, like a wall, the leaden lake. And a soldier then: "Good God, how generous!" bursting into a loud guffaw; and he had to be taken off so he wouldn't be heard. Corral was shot at two in the afternoon. Gilman gave the order: Walker some distance away, on horseback, not taking part. There was mourning in many houses. We heard the weeping. And afterward there was a great calm, like the calm before a storm. Walker proclaimed himself President and he decreed slavery and the seizure of estates. Meantime enemy troops we didn't see were mustering around lagoons. The plague made its entrance with funeral drums that winter. All was peaceful one day, when the first volleys began to be heard drawing near and the loud vivas on the outskirts, and the noise of weapons and the bullets from rifles nearer and nearer, and the enemy moving fast in the direction of the main square. — They'd left me behind in Granada, so I can tell the story. Unarmed men in their homes killed in front of their families; and a little boy murdered while eating his dinner. Communication with the pier was cut. — Besieged. Patrols downstairs banging on the doors. And from the enemy boomed laughter and guitars with bonfires during the night. And at daybreak, there were women grief-stricken in the streets. And then came that Englishman, C. F. Henningsen, who'd fought against the Czar and in Spain and for the independence of Hungary. If only we could have sailed off right then and left that ruined Granada — the White Castle, as we used to call it — with its bloodstained streets and its stinking wells full of corpses, and the dead's grimaces lit by fires in the streets! We protected ourselves from bullets behind piles of corpses. Day was hot, and the air full of smoke from the fires. And hour after hour without failing to see them, without failing to see enemy troops, until night finally came and the rifles quieted down. Henningsen dug trenches that night. And the following day the sun rose up out of the lake like an island of gold and the shots and the whistling of bullets and the groans let us know one more day of horror had arrived. And we'd come to a foreign land in search of gold and there black smoke was everywhere and streets filled with shop goods and corpses. All that could be heard the rest of the day were shots and the moans of those hit by cholera, and the calm voice of Henningsen giving encouragement. In balconies where before girls might have been sitting with their governesses, now riflemen could be seen, with their long rifles, and instead of polkas and waltzes, gunfire. By the next day the last houses on the square were burned down. From afar the town with shooting and smoke and fireworks looked the way it does on a holiday! The rainy season had ended and the fever was spreading like a fire. At night we dumped those dead from cholera into the water and cries could be heard from the sick who were delirious begging for water — Water, water! We threw the corpses into fires and the acrid smoke they gave off made our eyes red and that smoke and the dust and the sun on the pavement and the flames from the houses and the gunpowder dried our mouths more and soldiers stopped fighting to cough and were wounded while they coughed and dropped to the ground still coughing. New plans were made to reach the lake which shined at the end of the street like glass, white as ice. We knew that many bodies were being burned. And many groans rose from the streets during the night. And from the outskirts, the sweet odor of the dead. And Walker meanwhile: taking dips in the ocean at San Juan del Sur! Where the blasts from the cannons did not reach nor perhaps even our messages. The days went by without receiving any news. And I still relive those days in my dark nightmares. Houses that had been familiar were no longer recognizable and the streets could hardly be distinguished beneath the rubble: — a statue of the Virgin hanging by itself on a black wall. And the ash-colored lake behind the rubble. Water the color of Walker's eyes behind the rubble which formed odd silhouettes during the night. And I remember a church with nothing left standing but the portico like a triumphal arch. And those flames spread like wildfire in the street from the lake. And Henningsen's message was: "Your order has been obeyed, sir: Granada is no more." Help finally arrived, with Walker himself, who stayed on the boat, and we could make out the shots in the night from afar. The water was still and heavy like steel and the flashes from the rifles reflected like lightning. And it was then that Colonel Jack, from Kentucky, broke through the lines, as Dixie, the newsboy, played his bugle and in the darkness of midnight from hill to hill that bugle shined like a glorious light coming up to us beleaguered souls, making the 350 who came act like an immense army in perfect formations advancing hitting the dirt all as one and getting up, with their long rifles firing. It was nearly two in the morning on the 14th when all were on board. Henningsen was the last to leave Granada. He went into the ruined main square and there saw around him the work that had been done; he picked up a dead ember and wrote on a piece of scorched hide the epitaph: HERE WAS GRANADA then stuck it up on a lance in the middle of the square, and so it was. They loved Granada like a woman. Even today tears well up in their eyes when they remember the loss of their dear Granada the town of the Chamorros … Where once there was love. At last the pure waters, the clean blue breezes of the early morning and out of Granada with its red corpses and torches and groans and death rattles and shouts and explosions and the smell of the houses, rags, furniture, garbage, bodies burning! Toward the two brother volcanos rising out of the waters, and through the closed-off villages with the dogs barking … And the men went back to the States. I stayed in the country for a while, living in León. And Bill Deshon, Shipley, Dixie, Bob Gray, Bill Stoker, and others came to see me and they told me about the second expedition and Walker's death. How on the Mississippi one night he silently weighed anchor: They landed on the coast of Honduras late in the afternoon, August 5, (and most likely the 5th of August doesn't go by when they don't think back on that march to Trujillo with a waning moon). Dawn was coming up through the palms when they arrived to the sharp cry of the sentries at the fort with stained ramparts and silvery cannons. And they took the fort. The houses were made of stone, with one floor, and red-tiled roofs held up by cane poles on top of big beams, and many big iguanas on the roofs. It was there that Henry, drunk, smoking a cigar near the gunpowder, was shot by Dolan, the bullet hitting him right in the mouth, and Walker came quick to gather him up, as Dolan was explaining how it happened. And so Walker sat down at Henry's bedside, and the sun went down, the moon rose and he was still there and the whole night went by and he was still there, applying wet cloths to Henry's wounded face, and in the morning he left, and relieved the guards. Dolan spoke of reinforcements but they never did come. And then came the ultimatum from the British. Walker entered once more and sat down at Henry's bedside. Henry couldn't speak, so he had a slate on which he wrote. Walker took the slate and wrote a few words and handed him the slate. Henry was thinking hard. Then he took the slate and wrote a single word. Walker glanced at the slate. He sat still a long time thinking, then left. Worms had eaten away half of his face. On a table beside his bed was a bottle marked "morphine" and part of a glass of green lemonade. And when Walker left, he sat up, put a few spoonfuls from the bottle into the glass, stirred it up a little and drank it, lay down again, pulled the thin blanket carefully over himself, folded his hands on his chest and went to sleep. And he never woke up. It was midnight when Dolan came in. He glanced at Henry and went over, looked at the slate, read the word, and said: "that explains it." Then they marched out in ranks, each with a blanket and rifle, in search of Cabañas' camp, because that had been Henry's word: "Cabañas." They went through a grove of orange trees. They marched swiftly and in silence all night, without stopping to bury their dead. They halted in the evening for the moon to rise and a guard was posted. They marched more by night. They halted at sunrise at a banana plantation. Bullets were bursting from the leaves. They fired back at them when they stopped to drink, behind banana trees. Walker was wounded slightly on one cheek (the first bullet to wound him in a battle). And they finally reached Cabañas' camp and found the rifle pits but no Cabañas. What long, hot days those were in sticky swamps with heavy rifles from dawn until the blood-red sundowns hot as hell! Walker with fever, paler than ever. And they lost all track of the days. Until one day they saw the British coming up the river. General Walker was the last to climb aboard. — All that are alive, sir! It was daylight when they woke up, at anchor at Trujillo, and it looked like a grimace hung above the black fort. And they put the wounded under sailcloth awnings. In the fort they were court-martialing Walker. They saw him pass by the next morning surrounded by guards, his face pale as always, and they could see the scar, paler, on his cheek. He carried a crucifix in his hand. When they halted the officer commanding the guard read a paper in Spanish, surely his orders. And then Walker, in a calm and dignified voice, without trembling, spoke in Spanish. And the filibusters didn't hear what he said. They could see from where they stood a newly made grave in the sand, and Walker, who kept speaking, calm and dignified, beside the grave. And the man said: "The President the President of Nicaragua, is a Nicaraguan …" There was a drum roll and gunfire. All the bullets hit the mark. Out of ninety-one men only twelve made it back. And there, by the sea, with no wreaths or epitaph remained William Walker of Tennessee.

[Return to Cohen's Profile]

More Cardenal

Ernesto Cardenal's
L I G H T S
Translated from the Spanish
by Jonathan Cohen

That top-secret flight at night.
We might have been shot down. The night calm and clear.
The sky teeming, swarming with stars. The Milky Way
so bright behind the thick pane of the plane window,
a sparkling white mass in the black night
with its millions of evolutionary and revolutionary changes.
We were going over the water to avoid Somoza's air force,
but close to the coast.
The small plane flying low, and flying slow.
First the lights of Rivas, taken and retaken by Sandinistas,
now almost in Sandinista hands.
Then other lights: Granada, in the hands of the Guard
(it would be attacked that night).
Masaya, completely liberated. So many fell there.
Farther out a bright glow: Managua. Site of so many battles.
(The Bunker.) Still the stronghold of the Guard.
Diriamba, liberated. Jinotepe, fighting it out. So much heroism
glitters in those lights. Montelimar — the pilot shows us:
the tyrant's estate near the sea. Puerto Somoza, next to it.
The Milky Way above, and the lights of Nicaragua's revolution.
Out there, in the north, I think I see Sandino's campfire.
("That light is Sandino.")
The stars above us, and the smallness of this land
but also its importance, these
tiny lights of people. I think: everything is light.
The planet comes from the sun. It is light turned solid.
This plane's electricity is light. Its metal is light. The warmth of life
comes from the sun.
"Let there be light."
There's darkness too.
There are strange reflections — I don't know where they're from —
on the clear surface of the windows.
A red glow: the tail lights of the plane.
And reflections on the calm sea: they must be stars.
I look at the light from my cigarette — it also comes from the sun,
from a star.
And the outline of a great ship. The U.S. aircraft carrier
sent to patrol the Pacific coast?
A big light on our right startles us. A jet attacking?
No. The moon coming out, a half-moon, so peaceful, lit by the sun.
The danger of flying on such a clear night.
And suddenly the radio. Jumbled words filling the small plane.
The Guard? The pilot says: "It's our side."
They're on our wavelength.
Now we're close to León, the territory liberated.
A burning reddish-orange light, like the red-hot tip of a cigar: Corinto:
the powerful lights of the docks flickering on the sea.
And now at last the beach at Poneloya, and the plane coming in to land,
the string of foam along the coast gleaming in the moonlight.
The plane coming down. A smell of insecticide.
And Sergio tells me: "The smell of Nicaragua!"
It's the most dangerous moment, enemy aircraft
may be waiting for us over this airport.
And the airport lights at last.
We've landed. From out of the dark come olive-green-clad comrades
to greet us with hugs.
We feel their warm bodies — that also come from the sun,
that also are light.
This revolution is fighting the darkness.
It was daybreak on July 18th. And the beginning
of all that was about to come.

By Ernesto Cardenal, first Minister of Culture of Nicaragua

POEM

from Zero Hour

by Ernesto Cardenal

Ernesto Cardenal

Tropical nights in Central America,

with moonlit lagoons and volcanoes

and lights from presidential palaces,

barracks and sad curfew warnings.

"Often while smoking a cigarette

I've decided that a man should die,"

says Ubico smoking a cigarette . . .

In his pink-wedding-cake palace

Ubico has a head cold. Outside, the people

were dispersed with phosphorous bombs.

San Salvador laden with night and espionage,

with whispers in homes and boardinghouses

and screams in police stations.

Carías' palace stoned by the people.

A window of his office has been smashed,

and the police have fired upon the people.

And Managua the target of machine guns

from the chocolate-cookie palace

and steel helmets patrolling the streets.

Watchman! What hour is it of the night?

Watchman! What hour is it of the night?

The campesinos of Honduras used to carry their money in their hats

when the campesinos sowed their seed

and the Hondurans were masters of their land.

When there was money

and there were no foreign loans

or taxes for J.P. Morgan & Co.,

and the fruit company wasn't competing with the little dirt farmer.

But the United Fruit Company arrived

with its subsidiaries the Tela Railroad Company

and the Trujillo Railroad Company

allied with the Cuyamel Fruit Company

and Vaccaro Brothers & Company

later Standard Fruit & Steamship Company

of the Standard Fruit & Steamship Corporation:

the United Fruit Company

with its revolutions for the acquisition of concessions

and exemptions of millions in import duties

and export duties, revisions of old concessions

and grants for new exploitations,

violations of contracts, violations

of the Constitution . . .

And all the conditions are dictated by the Company

with liabilities in case of confiscation

(liabilities of the nation, not of the Company)

and the conditions composed by the latter (the Company)

for the return of the plantations to the nation

(given free by the nation to the Company)

at the end of 99 years . . .

"and all the other plantations belonging

to any other persons or companies or enterprises

which may be dependents of the contractors and in which

this latter has or may have in the future

any interest of any kind will be as a consequence

included in the previous terms and conditions . . ."

(Because the Company also corrupted prose.)

The condition was that the Company build the Railroad,

but the Company wasn't building it,

because in Honduras mules were cheaper than the Railroad,

and "a Gongressman was chipper than a mule,"

as Zemurray used to say,

even though he continued to enjoy tax exemptions

and a grant of 175,000 acres of the Company,

with the obligation to pay the nation for each mile

that he didn't build, but he didn't pay anything to the nation

even though he didn't build a single mile (Carías is the dictator

who didn't build the greatest number of miles of railroad)

and after all, that shitty railroad was

of no use to the nation

because it was a railroad between two plantations

and not between the cities of Trujillo and Tegucigalpa.

They corrupt the prose and they corrupt the Congress.

The banana is left to rot on the plantations,

or to rot in the cars along the railroad tracks

or it's cut overripe so it can be rejected

when it reaches the wharf or be thrown into the sea;

the bunches of bananas declared bruised, or too skinny,

or withered, or green, or overripe, or diseased:

so there'll be no cheap bananas,

or so as to buy bananas cheap.

Until there's hunger along the Atlantic Coast of Nicaragua.

And the farmers are put in jail for not selling at 30 cents

and their bananas are slashed with bayonets

and the Mexican Trader Steamship sinks with their barges on them

and the strikers are cowed with bullets.

(And the Nicaraguan congressmen are invited to a garden party.)

But the black worker has seven children.

And what can you do? You've got to eat,

And you've got to accept what they offer to pay.

24 cents a bunch.

While the Tropical Radio Subsidiary was cabling Boston:

"We assume that Boston will give its approval to

the payment made to the Nicaraguan congressmen of the majority

party

because of the incalculable benefits that it represents for

the Company."

And from Boston to Galveston by telegraph

and from Galveston by cable and telegraph to Mexico

and from Mexico by cable to San Juan del Sur

and from San Juan del Sur by telegraph to Puerto Limón

and from Puerto Limón by canoe way into the mountains

arrives the order of the United Fruit Company:

"United is buying no more bananas."

And workers are laid off in Puerto Limón.

And the little workshops close.

Nobody can pay his debts.

And the bananas rotting in the railroad cars.

So there'll be no cheap bananas

And so that there'll be bananas cheap,

19 cents a bunch.

The workers get IOUs instead of wages.

Instead of payment, debts,

And the plantations are abandoned, for they're useless now,

and given to colonies of unemployed.

And the United Fruit Company in Costa Rica

with its subsidiaries the Costa Rica Banana Company

and the Northern Railway Company and

the International Radio Telegraph Company

and the Costa Rica Supply Company

are fighting in court against an orphan.

The cost of derailment is $25 in damages

(but it would have cost more to repair the track).

And congressmen, cheaper than mules, Zemurray used to say.

Sam Zemurray, the Turkish banana peddler

in Mobile, Alabama, who one day took a trip to New Orleans

and on the wharves saw United throwing bananas into the sea

and he offered to buy all the fruit to make vinegar,

he bought it, and he sold it right there in New Orleans

and United had to give him land in Honduras

to get him to break his contract in New Orleans,

and that's how Sam Zemurray abbointed bresidents in Jonduras.

He provoked border disputes between Guatemala and Honduras

(which meant between the United Fruit Company and his company)

proclaiming that Honduras (his company) must not lose

"one inch of land not only in the disputed strip

but also in any other zone of Honduras

(of his company) not in dispute . . ."

(while United was defeating the rights of Honduras

in its lawsuit with Nicaragua Lumber Company)

until the suit ended because he merged with United

and afterward he sold all his shares to United

and with the proceed of the sale he bought shares in United

and with the shares he captured the presidency of Boston

(together with its employees the various presidents of Honduras)

and he was now the owner of both Honduras and Guatemala

and that was the end of the lawsuit over the exhausted lands

that were now of no use either to Guatemala or Honduras.

Translated by Donald D. Walsh

“Zero Hour” (excerpt) by Ernesto Cardenal, translated by Donald D. Walsh, from Zero Hour and Other Documentary Poems, copyright 1980 by Ernesto Cardenal. Used by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.

last meeting

Hey all,
Last meeting we used the reading to brainstorm ideas about our manifesto and decided that we might construct it as a dialogue, with each person writing in response to what others have said. I like that idea. I thought the Coffee Manifesto was a great example of an anti-manifesto that also managed to give some historical context to the revolutionary art movement. We also discussed and planned the Derive, which we carried out this morning and will report on next meeting. The next meeting is planned for Sunday Jan. 9th at 11 am. We'll read and discuss the Zapatista Manifesto, which I've linked to below, and some Zapatista influenced poetry that Kate will send out later.


Zapatista manifesto:

www.journalofamericanhistory.org/projects/mexico/zapmanifest.html

Subcomandante Marcos writings:
www.guardian.co.uk/books/2001/mar/03/extract
http://books.google.com/books?id=R_X-WmHOZoEC&printsec=frontcover&dq=subcomandante+marcos+poetry&source=bl&ots=r74WXN0bVS&sig=QH_nAmePIXrLeLhSktgXypZYBN0&hl=en&ei=HEIBTeeoMoW4sQPg1dDAAg&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=6&ved=0CDwQ6AEwBQ#v=onepage&q=subcomandante%20marcos%20poetry&f=false

Don't forget the Poetry Potluck next Thursday!!! See the blog for details.
As always, feel free to add anything you think I should have mentioned.

Poetry Potluck Poster and Play Info

Here is the Poetry Potluck poster.  Feel free to print, post, and distribute.

Here is the information on the play I mentioned which addresses issues around growing up on a reservation.  Many of the readers in the play are in fact indigenous.

GROWING UP WHITE ON THE RESERVATION

A Full-length play written by Pamela Jamruszka Mencher
Directed by Penny Walrath Cole

Free Staged Reading: December 6, 2010 at 7:30 p.m.

Buntport Theater – 717 Lipan, Denver

“How much of yourself do you need to give up to be accepted?” This is one of the many questions raised in Pamela Jamruska Mencher’s new full-length play, Growing Up White on the Reservation. Weaving humor and drama together against a backdrop of the American Indian civil rights movement of the 1960’s and 70’s the play truthfully and honestly deals with the impact of society on the individual.

Mandy and Vickie are sisters growing up on the Blackfeet Reservation in Montana in 1972. As two of the few white people on the reservation they are clearly a minority within a minority. We follow each sister’s journey in the play as the chaos and racial tensions on the reservation and from the world outside affect their relationships with their Indian classmates, family and each other. The clash of cultures combined with the social upheaval of the time period makes for a volatile environment in which all the characters are struggling to understand each other and themselves.

Next Meeting

Sunday 11 am at Michelangelos. Let me know if anyone needs transportation.

I haven't heard from many people about the Derive, so I think we should postpone that until after we've planned it out a bit more. For Sunday, I think we should discuss that and the readings the Kate sent out. Here's a link to the reading on the Derive: http://www.bopsecrets.org/SI/2.derive.htm and Kate emailed the other readings as PDF files. Let me know if you don't still have that email and I can forward it to you. I think we should also continue the discussion started last week about specific works of art that fit our present definitions of "revolutionary". So you might have something in mind. Other agenda items: Kate's Poetry Potluck, Serena's Literary Journal, Denver Free School and Elizabeth's Zine. Anything else you want to add, let me know!

See you soon!!!
Shane

FONT

Can this white-on-black font be changed here on our blog? It's freakin hard to read.
love,

Poetry Potluck!

Okay, all, I got a date from Jen that is going to work for the reading. I hope three or four of you can join me as featured readers! It is Thursday, December 16th, from 6-8 pm. Eat first, then an hour of reading. It's at the Art Salon, 2219 East 21st Avenue, which is just off of York St. Super-cool space.

I am very excited and most honored to be included in this group.  I look forward to being able to contribute more to future discussions.  With the National Women's Studies Association's annual conference approaching this weekend, women's issues have been in the forefront of my mind.  A more contemporary example of revolutionary art came to me; the Guerrilla Girls.  As their website explains they work to "expose sexism and racism in politics, the art world, film and the culture at large."  As their name suggests, they use guerrilla tactics and interactive art to convey their message.


I would love to say more, but I am consumed by preparations for the conference and my big move coming up this weekend.  Thank you everyone, I look forward to sharing and learning with you.

I enjoyed the readings, and getting together to talk about them. I get more out of that, than blogging, but that could change. I apologize for always bringing up the "relevance" issue. I just get so alarmed at the frame of mind of so many people in "the heartland". Clearly, little heart, in the land. Lots of fear and aggression, and willful ignorance. I've decided to focus on the solutions, more than the many, myriad, alarming problems. Marcuse got so much right. And there are many, many people, progressive people, also with their "eyes on the prize". Working for sustainability, in human relations and our relationship to our environment. Our quest is to write eloquently with all the passion of rage, elucidating issues that hourly get obfuscated by Fox, etc. As Craig said, what better to maintain the status quo--devolution through poor nutrition, brain and belly. Well, he didn't exactly say that.
More later, on our man Marcuse...

Revolutionary Art

Yesterday we had a discussion on what some of our favorite revolutionary art is. I couldn't really come up with anything. I'd mentioned Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses because it was the first thing that came to mind, and because in my mind it is a work that is hard hitting and has gall. I was rightfully critiqued, however. It seems that art that critiques culture, creates change, goes against the social norm, etc. or awakens is not enough. There is a piece of the definition I am missing, obviously. I suppose revolutionary art must have a certain aim, must be good, must hit a spot in the watcher and then evoke change (hopefully as some sort of action). Can you help me with this? What is your definition and what are some very hard hitting examples? I am eager to get this clear in my mind.

Last Meeting and Links

Hey all,
Here are the links for next month's reading:
Marcuse
situationistmanifesto

http://libcom.org/library/art-form-reality-herbert-marcuse
http://www.cddc.vt.edu/sionline/si/manifesto.html

Next meeting is Sunday, Nov. 7 at 11 am

My thoughts on the readings from last month and notes from our conversation (you can either email or post additional comments on the blog):

The SCUM manifesto, though full of some funny and often clever anti-male invective, fell short in my view as a guide for revolutionary struggle because of its overly narrow focus--i.e. its identity politics. Much of the criticism, though, if it were viewed as a criticism of modern society in general and not "just" men, would be spot on. And I liked that her ideas for female liberation focused on living outside of the system rather than, like too many other minority movements, about getting your fair share of the pie. That said, there is perhaps a real basis to a criticism of society that focuses on patriarchialism. You could make a good case that oppressive civilizations don't need racism or homophobia or xenophobia or religious zealotry, but they do need patriarchy (and of course classism)--that there is something fundamentally anti-female, or anti-female as the embodiment of wild nature, in the concept of hierarchical rule. I also think it's important that whatever we decide "revolutionary art" means, it should be informed of the feminist critiques of earlier revolutionary art movements.

The info. about the Kronsdadt revolt is especially interesting in light of what's happening today in Latin America. The "new" socialist revolution seems to have learned much from past mistakes: the Soviet model of top-down imposed hegemony seems to have been abandoned in favor of work collectives and grassroots bottom-up organizational methods. That's great, but the Kronsdadt revolution (not to mention some of the Maoist "experiments") reminds me that state power is always a potential monopolistic threat, even when it's in the hands of socialists who talk the talk of equality and freedom.

Cafe Cultura

Juan will be reading here:


Spread the word...Bring your family & friends!!!!!

Join us for a special Cafe Cultura @ the University of Colorado, Denver (Auraria Campus)...

...celebrating 6 years of poetry, live art, free food, vendors, & community!

VOLUNTEERS PLEASE ARRIVE AT 6:30pm :-)
...
Note: Make sure to come early to sign up and get a good seat. As always, we welcome anybody who is willing to help in the organization of the event.

WHEN: 2nd Fri. of every month (October 8th, November 12th) @ 7:30 pm

WHERE: Tivoli Rm 440 (on the Auraria Campus)

October Features: Cafe Cultura Collective members....Stefanie Tsosie, Ara Cruz, Tanaya Winder, Chance Two Crow, Alejandro Jimenez, Mari Zepeda and More!!

WHAT: All ages Open Mic Night

Cosponsored by the University of Colorado at Denver Educational Opportunity Programs.

Come express yourself creatively or just chill with your people
Everyone is welcome!

For more info: cafe_cultura@yahoo.com; 720-394-6589 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting 720-394-6589 end_of_the_skype_highlighting www.myspace.com/cafecultura; www.facebook.com/cafecultura

Revolution Takes Discipline

Hi everyone, my name is Drew and I'm new here. Tameca and I work together at Starbucks and we spend a lot of time talking about stuff and she invited me to join this group. I thought that as a way of introduction I would share some of ideas about revolution and how I view the concept.

It's nice to be here! :-)

The strength of a revolutionary paradigm is largely determined by the views and attitudes of its revolutionaries. Therefore any change that you wish to see you first have to exemplify in your own life. This does not mean that you have to be perfect! It isn’t about perfection but it is about aiming high. True, authentic and lasting revolution requires sacrifice and discipline. Of course anyone can quote Gandhi but what does it really mean to be the change that you wish to see in the world?

Paradoxically, one of the first important things to realize is that it isn’t about you, the revolutionary. It isn’t about your glory, it isn’t about being right, it isn’t about your vengeance and it isn’t about any kind of reward for you on the other side of the tunnel. It’s about creating change in the world that does more good for more people. That’s it. The first thing is to get your ego out of the way!

Violence is not the best way and it certainly is not the only way. Consider for a moment the United States’ Global War on Terror. We have rounded up and killed several terrorists but have we made the world any safer? If I were a twelve year old boy in Iraq watching foreign soldiers take away my father, I would probably be mad as hell. I’d probably carry that with me and swear to avenge. We may have taken down several leaders and members of current terrorist movement but how many of the next generation have we created in the process?

A violent revolution contains within it the seed of the next violent revolution. It is a cycle that never ends. If you destroy one violent system and replace it with another violent system then you haven’t really changed anything at all. It’s just the same old thing, repackaged. Creative solutions have to take the place of violent solutions. I find the Civil Rights movement and Gandhi’s revolution in India to be great examples of such solutions. Instead of using violence, both movements used mass civil disobedience to create change. Again, you have to get your ego out of the way, and you have to be willing to sacrifice for a cause that you believe in. Both violence and mass civil disobedience can shake a population out of apathy, but the later has far fewer consequences.

It is much easier to find creative, nonviolent solutions if you can give up on the religion of materialism. By this I mean the common belief that material reality is the absolute reality. And it isn’t absolute reality, any quantum physicist can tell you. What appears solid to us is simply molecules and atoms vibrating at speeds so fast that our nervous system can’t perceive it. It gives the perception of a solid reality, but perception is deception. Remember that people used to perceive that the Earth was flat or that the color of one’s skin mattered.

Giving up the religion of materialism mostly amounts to realizing that stuff doesn’t make one happy. This realization is a revolution in and of itself. How many of the world’s problems could be solved if people really, truly and deeply understood this one thing? So many problems have their root in the religion of materialism, think of any problem and you can point out how and where. Undoing those knots would be let a river of creative solutions flow. Waking up from this illusion might change the fact that one percent of the population of the United States holds ninety-five percent of the nation’s wealth, resulting in a rapidly disappearing middle class. Waking up from this illusion might help us see that we don’t have to be so hyper-competitive as a nation, obsessed with the profit margin to such an extent that we outsource jobs and fight wars to secure energy so that the game can continue. But these realizations on a large scale are far, far away, if ever.

For us as individuals, giving up on materialism simply means realizing that having that new iPhone isn’t really going to make us more content. It might for a few days, but there will always be another, newer, iPhone. We don’t have to play ‘Keeping Up With The Johnsons’ (or the Kardashians, whatever). Happiness and contentment does come from helping other people, from finding ways to do more good for more people. And that’s the whole idea of revolution in the first place anyway, right?

Being selfless, nonviolent and nonmaterialistic are three ways that I believe people interested in true revolution can start to make a vision become a reality. A revolutionary paradigm is the expression of its revolutionaries on a large scale. I hardly expect anyone reading this to fully buy in to everything I’ve said here, but I hope to at least make you think about it. Thank you for reading.

I Am Alarmed

Over a year ago, I posted the following essay on YourHub.com. I am reposting it here because we are actually talking about these things. To add to the following essay, I have the following questions: What is the solution to a depoliticized nation and what forms of activism work now (versus what has worked in the past, and if we explore what has worked in the past, which we should, why did they work)? I think it is extremely important that we all work with words and images here. If we are to make changes, we have to some degree use the same tactics that are being used against us. Another reason I am posting this here is because I want to become more educated so I can get out of the box I feel put in and thereby silenced by. If I write poetry, for example, how do I make my voice loud enough, and the words effective enough to break through to the other side of the box? I am asking the R.A.W. group because many of you have a larger breadth of knowledge than I do at present and the experience.

http://tlc-kitchensink.blogspot.com/2009/05/i-am-alarmed.html

Never Let Me Go Discussion Questions

If you get the chance, you might want to go see the film Never Let Me Go. It's DEVASTATING but really good. Better yet, you could read the book. I think it raises some interesting questions about political art that coincide with our discussion last meeting about The Ones Who Walked Away From Omelas. Specifically, I'd like to discuss the following (either on the blog or at the next meeting): 1) does the film have revolutionary or anti-revolutionary value? 2) how could it be revised to have more revolutionary value? (maybe as a creative writing exercise we could imagine a sequel) 3) would our proposed revisions weaken the emotional impact of the film? why? why not? 4) why is there a surplus of contemporary dystopian art but very little utopian art? (or has utopian art been monopolized and redefined as popular culture?) 5) what would contemporary utopian art look like?

Last Meeting

1- We discussed the surrealist manifesto. It was mentioned that the suggestive quality of surrealism is useful as a tool for revolutionary struggle but some other elements may not be. It was pointed out, for example, that perhaps the most famous surrealist, Salvador Dali, was anything but progressive. Maybe surrealism is so broad (or meaningless) that it can be used for ANY political purpose rather than for an exclusively revolutionary one. In other words, maybe it's too easy to recuperate, to be co-opted by the capitalistic imperative. Characteristics of surrealism such as collage, automatic writing, anti-literalism, anti-rationality, juxtaposition of extremes, and emphasis on dialogue may or may not be useful politically, depending on the presuppositions that go with them. It was mentioned also that the "disinterested play of thought" promoted by surrealism may not be a real possibility--that there isn't a pure center beyond influence. That concept seems a bit dated, almost a relic of Cartesian thought and the triumph of the purely subjective. It was also mentioned that the work produced by the surrealists is of high artistic quality, regardless of the faults of the manifesto or its practitioners. It was mentioned that surrealism has a kind of religious significance in that it attempts to open a space wherein new possibilities, new un-imposed realities, can be imagined and perhaps realized.

2-We talked about Ursula Guiin's story The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas. We discussed how the writer involved the reader directly in the story, asking if the reader believes what's being said, etc.(an interesting political technique) The effect is that the reader, like the inhabitants of Omelas, can only believe in happiness if it is accompanied by a certain measure of suffering, represented by the imprisoned girl. The reader almost colludes in the girl's suffering. There seems to be a religious, ritualistic element to the viewing of the girl, perhaps linking the girl's imprisonment to ideas rooted in Christianity, or perhaps the opposite. At any rate, the girl seems to represent a scapegoat for embodying and exiling the evils of Omelas. Walking away seems to be a symbolic representation for questioning societal norms. What people do when they walk away (fight, flee, etc.) is unclear. That might be deliberate on the part of the writer to say that once you flee "imposed reality", you are on your own, in another world, the unknown.

(I realize that MUCH more was discussed and that my memory is biased towards my own interpretations of the readings, so please feel free to add details that I missed. For example, I know that much more was said about religion, but I've forgotten the details.)

3-We agreed to open the group to all artists, not just writers, and to change our name to Revolutionary Artists and Writers, or RAW. Feel free to invite visual artists, musicians, etc. to the group.

4-Several people decided they would like to meet twice a month rather than once. Those meetings can be announced via the blog and email.

5-The next meeting will be at 11:11 on Oct. 9. Kate and Craig will send out readings.

6-It was clarified that while we are in the explorative stage (reading and brainstorming what revolutionary art means), people are free to bring and discus their work to any meeting.

7-Elizabeth has a Zine for "radical" art. Her email is bethforpresident@gmail.com Feel free to send your submissions.

8-We also discussed the similarities and differences between Dadaism and Surrealism. Here's a link to the Dada manifesto for those interested: http://www.ralphmag.org/AR/dada.html

9-Please add Elisha's address to your email lists: elisha.davison@gmail.com

And, as always, feel free to add stuff I missed to the blog entry.

Event Tonight

(Juan will be reading one of his poems here)

Spread the word...Bring your family & friends!!!!!

Cafe Cultura....poetry, live art, food, vendors, & community!

VOLUNTEERS PLEASE ARRIVE AT 6:30pm :-)
...
Note: Make sure to come early to sign up and get a good seat. As always, we welcome anybody who is willing to help in the organization of the event.


WHEN: 2nd Fri. of every month (September 10th, October 8th) @ 7:30 pm

7:30-8pm: Marketplace with vendors


September Features: Nancy Lechuga (El Paso) plus a Special Youth-led Presentation from Jovenes/Padres Unidos: "Ending the School-to-Jail Track"

Nancy Lechuga is a poeta born and raised in El Paso, Texas. Her work is about love, cultura, spirituality, and woman blood. She is a committed educator and co-founder of mussa (mujeres unidas supporting society through art) an organization committed to art, culture, and health education. Mussa is publishing an anthology featuring poetry of El Paso/Juarez mujeres, and their experiences as women en la frontera. Nancy loves her Mexicanidad, but prefers not to label herself as anything other than just a human being. Nancy is currently working on her first children’s book and also on her most ambitious and creative project yet…a baby to be named Luna.


WHERE: Denver Inner City Parish/La Academia (9th Ave & Galapago St)


WHAT: All ages Open Mic Night

Come express yourself creatively or just chill with your people

$3 donation (nobody turned away)

Everyone is welcome!

For more info: cafe_cultura@yahoo.com; 720-394-6589 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting 720-394-6589 end_of_the_skype_highlighting www.myspace.com/cafecultura; www.facebook.com/cafecultura

Last Meeting and Links

After introductions and general chit-chat, we agreed on the following:

1) I suggested a trajectory for the group that would begin with an exploration of what revolutionary writing means, with special emphasis given to reading and discussing various literary manifestos with a political bent (surrealism, situationalism, infrarealism, the beats, dadaism....). Next, the group will collaborate to produce our own literary manifesto, or anti-manifesto, and finally we will produce (and discuss/workshop/etc.) material to exemplify the manifesto. The group agreed to this trajectory.

2) It was recommended that the group be flexible in allowing various levels of involvement--to meeting in small groups quite often or just staying in touch via email and blogging.

3) We decided to start a blog in which we could publish and discuss material related to the group. Tameca will (has already done so, actually. kudos!) start the blog and make it so everyone has publishing access.

4) Craig suggested making T-shirts with ironic political slogans. Kate has materials for this.

5) For discussion at the next meeting and on the blog and email during the interim, we will read "The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas" by Ursula Guin and the surrealist manifesto by Andre Breton (see below for link).

6) In the future, we might work on creating a documentary (or creative) film. Aaron has supplies for this.

7) In addition to discussing ideas, we want to use the blog to publicize various events that others in the group are involved with.

8) The next meeting will be on Sept. 11, at 11 am (no intended significance to the date, lol)

8) We also discussed "identity politics", death penalty issues, the tea party, poetry after auschwitz, adorno, marcuse....

****if i neglected to mention something, please say so on the blog.


Here are the links to the Surrealist Manifesto and some examples of surrealist art:


http://www.tcf.ua.edu/Classes/Jbutler/T340/F98/SurrealistManifesto.htm

http://www.tcf.ua.edu/Classes/Jbutler/T340/SurManifesto/ManifestoOfSurrealism.htm

visual example:
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/d/db/L%27Ange_du_Foyeur.jpg

surrealist poem:

The Secret

The empty bell
The dead birds
In the house where everyone sleeps
Nine hours

The world stands still
It seems someone has died
The trees look as though they are smiling
A drop of water hangs at the end of each leaf
A cloud crosses the night

Outside a door a man sings

The window opens without a sound

--Pierre Reverdy 1918

http://www.thepeoplesvoice.org/cgi-bin/blogs/voices.php/2007/08/10/eight_poems_by_pierre_reverdy


Ursula Guin: http://evans-experientialism.freewebspace.com/evans_omelas.htm