Poems for Freedom

(first published on the Passaport Project blog)

This week I received the anthology Poems for Freedom. Edited by Manchester-based author, playwright and activist Alex Clarke, this book was put together to raise funds for the Freedom Bookshop in Whitechapel, east London, to help towards its repair costs after it was firebombed on the night of 1st February. Luckily, no one was hurt, but the shop sustained plenty of damage both from the fire and the two hours of water needed to extinguish the blaze. Media attention regarding the attack was at first very sparse, but the news spread quickly via social networking and word of mouth, and a large team was soon mobilised for the cleanup (photos, short video). You can see some of the damage in the video below, published the night after the incident.

This is not the first time the shop has been targeted (“This wasn’t an accident. Somebody had to lift up a metal shutter to break the window to start the fire“, one of their members stated to The Guardian) – it suffered an arson attack at the hands of neo-nazi organisation Combat18 back in 1993. Founded in 1886, Freedom Press is the largest anarchist publishing house in the UK, and the oldest of its kind in the English-speaking world. According to the description on the official website, the Freedom Bookshop offers “a much needed outlet for radical ideas and a meeting place for the anarchist thinkers of the day, and we seek to continue that tradition today along with promoting and supporting current social and political struggles“.

As someone commented on Alex Clarke’s blog, “Firebombs are a great compliment, they let you know that you are getting through.“

Poems for Freedom brings together 45 poems, by a variety of established and emerging writers. There’s a great poem by veteran no-holds-barred Heathcote Williams, entitled Tony Blair and the Iraqi child. There are poems that cry out to leap off the page and onto the stage, such as Zita Holbourne‘s Dare to dream; in memory of Dr Martin Luther King (listen on Soundcloud), or Niall McDevitt‘s rumbustious Mindcuffs. One of my favourites, for its rhythm, diachronic voice (diving into the collective unconscious, from the time of Genghis Khan to Nazi Germany through to the blowing up of the Buddhas of Kandahar), and calm quasi-epic tone, is Shirani Rajapakse‘s I Will Rise. Here’s a short extract, which gains particular reference in the context of this book:

They broke down the walls of worship in the
desert, killed the statues and set fire
to manuscripts. But I rose. They did all this, I’m
not surprised, not one bit as someone
threw a bomb inside my house and let it burn,
burn. My words crumpled and turned
to cinders and they think they
have won. [...]

Alan Morrison‘s poem Ash Friday, in long, semi-iambic rhyming lines, appears to have been written specifically for the book. It begins: “The lights are out in Whitechapel but brick-lit beacons glow – / When torches burn for ‘freedom’, the books are first to go, / They catch at Fahrenheit Four Five One (as all fascists know) / …“. It has some wonderful alliterations, that make the reception of the poem more physical, whilst lending it a more humorous, fascist-taunting tone: “firebombed freedom billows up in smoke“, “a backstreet blackshirt Guido“, “pokey foxed pockets of hope, / Those little shops of peacenik-prop that stock a wider scope …“.

Another favourite, combining my fondness for ‘geographical’ poems and – I can’t help it – for poems that challenge man-made borders, is the short poem Landlocked, signed rather anonymously by Katherine H. I quote it in its entirety, in admiration of its trembling opening and closing metaphors:

LANDLOCKED

I used to think the wind was what happened
when the planet shook its atmospheres
like they were the plates of a jittery armadillo.

That its purpose was the charitable transfer of fruits
to barren places, or to confuse
nature into fissile clashes of proliferation
while it slunk off to dissipate the assets.

Today I think the wind must feel its roots in bedrock
the way it tears at trees and grass,
wanting to be free of chains.

The book also includes a short extract from Passport, adapted from the Maltese by Albert Gatt and myself.

Poems for Freedom is available to buy on Lulu. News and interviews with editor Alex Clarke (who took on the enormous task of whittling down over 700 submissions to 45, and of putting the book together) on the Manchester Mule and Write Out Loud.

Le monde n’est pas rond

LE MONDE N’EST PAS ROND (The World is Not Round) is an international artistic newspaper, based in Luxembourg, that explores the contemporary realities of migration, borders, and human rights through the publication of articles, art and illustration, photography, prose and poetry.

Published by independent activist group Nobody is illegal – Luxembourg
in association with Passaport Project
with special thanks to Migreurop and Immigrant Movement International

Artists and writers from 19 countries (Issue 1, March 2013)
In 4 languages – Français, English, Deutsch, Lëtzebuergesch

Edited by Antoine Cassar
Concept & Design by Marco Scerri

cover illustration / illustration de couverture: Chandre

LE MONDE N’EST PAS ROND est un journal artistique international, basé au Luxembourg, qui explore les réalités contemporaines de la migration, les frontières, et les droits de l’homme à travers la publication d’articles, illustrations, photographie, prose et poésie.

Publié par le groupe activiste indépendant Personne n’est illégal – Luxembourg
en collaboration avec Passaport Project
remerciements spéciaux à Migreurop et Immigrant Movement International

Artistes et écrivains de 19 pays (numéro 1, mars 2013)
En 4 langues – Français, English, Deutsch, Lëtzebuergesch

Edité par Antoine Cassar
Concept & Infographie de Marco Scerri

Ernesto Cardenal in Malta

Three weeks ago, upon my arrival at the poetry festival in Granada, Nicaragua (an intense, unforgettable, ambivalent experience, which I will write about with more time later), I was given a welcome pack that included the recently published book Somos polvo de estrellas, an anthology of the poetry of Ernesto Cardenal. To my pleasant surprise, this book contains a poem I had never come across before, entitled En Malta, which opens with the following lines:

“En Malta”, a poem by Nicaraguan revolutionary poet Ernesto Cardenal.

En la isla de Malta
entre Libia y Sicilia
sembré un olivo.

(On the island of Malta
between Libya and Sicily
I planted an olive tree.)

The poem goes on to describe, in a tone at once lyrical and conversational (akin to some of the better passages of Neruda’s Las uvas y el viento), the beauty of the Valletta fortress, the surrounding “blue wine” sea, and other easily identifiable spots on the island, such as the cove of Wied iż-Żurrieq (with its famed Ħnejja, known to tourists as the Blue Grotto) and the Megalithic temples of Ħaġar Qim and Mnajdra. Just when the colourful images begin to verge on the romantic, Cardenal unabashedly sets them against more modern features filling the view, elements of 1980s touristic Malta. It was 19th March 1984, to be exact, months before Dom Mintoff resigned as socialist Prime Minister. Don Ernesto was visiting Malta on the occasion of L-Ewwel Konferenza Internazzjonali “Sliem u Ħelsien”, an international conference on “Peace and Liberation”, organised by the Laboratorju tal-Paċi, created and directed to this day by Dom Mintoff’s younger brother, Father Dijonisju. Days before, don Ernesto and other pacifists sailing on the Mediterranean were denied permission to disembark on Sicily, where NATO had recently deployed 112 ‘MGM-31 Pershing’ cruise missiles, mentioned towards the end of the poem. En Malta finishes by repeating the planting of the olive tree, “which must now be large, shaking in the wind, / its green branches in olive-green uniform / in protest against / the gringo missiles“.

This year’s Granada festival was specifically dedicated to Cardenal, and a couple of days into the festival, as I was drifting around the book fair opposite the Casa de los leones, I chanced upon don Ernesto sitting in the shade of one of the stands. We conversed for a short while, exchanged a Pasaporte for a dedicated copy of his Epigramas for my good friend and translator Carmen Herrera, and I asked him about his sojourn in Malta. He harbours good memories of the island and his experience there. Three decades are a long time, only a little less than my own lifespan so far; he couldn’t remember where exactly he stayed, nor where he planted the olive tree. The poem doesn’t mention the Peace Laboratory or Father Dijonisju Mintoff, but I imagined it must have been the venue of the pacifist conference, and of the ceremonious tree-planting. I promised him I would look for the tree and send him a photograph.

Ten days later, in Malta for the elections, as most were rambling on about the current character wars, cross-voting confusion and pseudo-scandals, I drove down to the Peace Laboratory to meet Father Mintoff. The Peace Lab, today unfrequented and even unheard of by most of the Maltese, is a quiet refuge at the far southeastern tip of the island – the very ‘chin’ of the Maltese fish -, with a large orchard and adjacent fields, humble buildings (including a chapel and a small mosque), two abandoned outdoor theatres, and a number of commemorative statues and plaques of other well-known international peacemakers, cultural ambassadors and politicians. A few years ago, Father Mintoff opened some of the buildings to house a group of sub-Saharan migrants who had found themselves on the street after losing their jobs and rented flats. As these people are not allowed to return to the ‘open centres’ that hosted them upon their release from 18-month detention, abandoned by the authorities, Father Mintoff welcomed them with open arms, and now lives with them. Over two decades after visiting the place with my father, I re-discovered the Peace Lab last year thanks to visual artist Marco Scerri, whose project Distant Land is a series of black-and-white photographs that documents the day-to-day life of the new tenants of the Peace Lab.

Father Mintoff, 83 years strong and still fully available at all times for those in need, is perhaps one of the very few Maltese who can boast of having seen Malta change, and several times over (“Rajt Malta tinbidel“, as the saying goes): nothing surprises him. He readily confesses to not being good with dates, but his geographical and social memory is intact: he remembers my father, who he used to teach at the Seminarju (when my father was studying to become a priest, an endeavour he quite luckily abandoned – me voilà…); and of course, he remembers don Ernesto’s visit perfectly, having organised the Peace and Liberation conference himself. He showed me the exact olive tree planted by don Ernesto, today quite tall, its branches rustling above the workshop, its trunk harbouring a small birdhouse. Father Mintoff also told me that don Ernesto had planted olive trees in Floriana, in a not-so-small grove I was unaware of yet have passed by hundreds of times, opposite the Phoenicia hotel. The following morning, after a glimpse of the long voting queues at the Qrendi primary school, my father and I decided to go for a quick drive. There they are, two rows of olive trees on what has become a large traffic island just before the bus terminus, some of them planted by don Ernesto himself. The plaque at the entrance to the grove completes the jigsaw. Misión cumplida. It has probably lapped up a lot more car and bus exhaust than human attention over the years, but hopefully, it will now become a little more visible.

The next challenge will be to breathe new life to the large outdoor Greek-style theatre at the Peace Lab, as Father Mintoff wishes. He also dreams of instituting an artists’ residence in one of the Peace Lab buildings, to foster cultural activity and interaction with residents and visitors. In Malta, this is no easy feat, but far from impossible; the main obstacle would not be prejudice, but the search for time, energy and resources. If I were living in Malta, I would make it a personal mission.

One of two abandoned outdoor theatres at the Laboratorju tal-Paċi, Ħal Far, Malta.

En Malta is a beautiful poem, one of my favourites of the anthology for its images and conversational rhythm as well as for its subject, all the more so for capturing the same affable character and spirit of active, lightly tongue-in-cheek observation that infuse Cardenal’s El secreto de Machu Picchu and Oración por Marilyn Monroe. To complete the circle, here it is in Maltese.

—

F'Malta
                   
                        Fuq il-gżira ta’ Malta
                        bejn il-Libja u Sqallija
                        żrajt siġra taż-żebbuġ.

Malta niftakarha bil-bastimenti kbar
tal-bwieq suwed, bojod fuq, kbar
daqs il-fortijiet ta’ ħdejhom,
il-fortijiet taċ-ċnagen sofor
jinfdu l-baħar bi swarhom qishom pruwi
		imramem
			fuq imramem
		b’turretti tondi ġo fihom.
(Il-bajja li kienu jagħlqu b’katina
fi żmien il-kursari.)
			F’din il-gżira ta’ Malta, dik
			tal-Kavallieri ta’ Malta:
madwarna l-Mediterran ikħal
liżar abjad fuq il-blat.
L-istess sqaqien qodma ta’
dari, b’antenni tat-televixin.
Il-baħar lewn l-inbid sax-xefaq,
kieku jeżisti l-inbid blu.
Tnax-il grad ta’ blu, jgħidu. Jew
fejn il-blu jsir aħdar u l-aħdar isir ragħwa.
	Jonkella:
		mewġ itella’
			aħdar u abjad
				bħall-istrixxi tat-tigra.
Xatt tant ċar li l-ilma
ma jidhirx, xejn għajr l-alki tal-fond.
Faċċata, il-gżira ta’ Ċirċe
		fejn Ulisse dam seba’ snin,
		ma kienx hemm gwidi tat-turisti dak iż-żmien.
F’ikħal nir, luzzi tas-sajd
b’għajnejn Osiris fuq il-pruwa
		(ħdejn jottijiet tal-lussu).
Ma kienx żmien it-turisti.
Il-baħar kien għadu kiesaħ.

		Fil-grotta, l-ilma blu fluworexxenti
		fejn dari kienu jfiġġu s-sireni
		u sal-lum wieħed jemmen li għadu jarahom
		fir-rifrazzjoni roża-vjola 
                tax-xemx fuq ir-ramel tal-fond.
                Iżda kien bil-lejl li kienu jgħannu
                u wieħed jemmen li għadu jismagħhom
                meta jidwi bis-saħħa r-riħ notturn
                ġewwa nett tal-għar.

Il-gżira fejn innawfraga San Pawl
(60 w.K.), aktarx qrib il-lukanda tagħna.
Djar lewn il-pastell bil-bjut ċatti
fuq sfond imnixxef.
L-għelieqi ta’ Marzu bis-silla mistħija
u l-baħar bilkemm jidher fost iż-żnuber.
Il-gżira tal-għasel u l-ward kif sejħilha Ċiċerun.
Kważi bla art, ġebel biss, u 
msallba kollha bis-sejjieħ.
Gżira tfur bil-bajtar tax-xewk li kien ġab Kolombu.
		L-irħajjel taħt l-irdum
		b’restorants umli, u
		ħdejn il-maqdes megalitiku
						hot-dogs.

Fil-qrib ħafna, lil hinn mill-gżejra ta’ Ċirċe:
fi Sqallija, il-Missili Pershing
						jheddu.
Ma ħallewniex niżbarkaw hemm
f’dimostrazzjoni paċifika.
Malta ċkejkna forma ta’ ħuta
mixtieqa mill-imperi kollha:
Rumani, Ottomani, Nelson, Napuljun, NATO,
illum ħielsa u sielma għall-ewwel darba
minn żmien il-Feniċi. Hemmhekk jien għalaqt
laqgħa tal-paċifisti u gwerrieri
bil-messaġġ:
La ħelsien bla paċi, u la paċi bla ħelsien.
- “Il-ħaqq u s-sliem jitbewsu”, jgħid is-Salm. –

Ħielsa u sielma għall-ewwel darba, il-gżira
bil-gvern ġdid soċjalist,
fejn f’isem in-Nikaragwa ħawwilt siġra taż-żebbuġ
li llum nistħajjilha kbira, titterter fir-riħ,
bil-friegħi ħodor, uniformi aħdar-żebbuġi
			fi protesta kontra
			il-missili tal-gringos.


traduzzjoni mill-Ispanjol ta’ Antoine Cassar

(My trip to the Festival Internacional de Poesía de Granada was supported by the Malta Arts Fund.)