hushpoint

“ The great poet Pablo Neruda, whose death was prompted by the treacherous coup, was quoted more than once, in this case to affirm our beautifully poetic “guiding stars” which are “struggle” and “hope”. Has Obama forgotten that Neruda was a Communist, a friend of the Cuban Revolution, a great admirer of Simon Bolivar who is reborn every hundred years, and inspiration for the Heroic Guerrilla Ernesto Guevara? ”

“

DYING
For those who with our taxes die of torture

What is it like
Dying?
Is it like
Sinking
Into a bath
Of warm
Milk?

Is it like
Lying naked
In the
Sun
Those first
Truly
Warm
Days
Of Spring
After
A winter
That
Froze
Your teeth?

Dying
I think
Can be
Like that.
Above all,
It
Is yours.
It is
A safe
Place.

They may
Be
Electrocuting
Your
Toes
At
The time
Or
Pulling out
Your
Finger
Nails
Or
Causing
Your terrified
Heart to stop
In
Other
Ingenious
Ways.

But
Dying
You
Escape
Them
Into
Peace.

They will
Never
Know
Something
Only
You
Can have.

Dying
Is yours.

Precious
Human being;
Whatever you
Have done.

Dying
Is
Your secret.

***

”

“

Problems of Translation: Problems of Language
Dedicated to Myriam Díaz-Diocaretz

by June Jordan
1

I turn to my Rand McNally Atlas.
Europe appears right after the Map of the World.
All of Italy can be seen page 9.
Half of Chile page 29.
I take out my ruler.
In global perspective Italy
amounts to less than half an inch.
Chile measures more than an inch and a quarter
of an inch.
Approximately
Chile is as long as China
is wide:
Back to the Atlas:
Chunk of China page 17.
All of France page 5: As we say in New York:
Who do France and Italy know
at Rand McNally?

2

I see the four mountains in Chile higher
than any mountain of North America.
I see Ojos del Salado the highest.
I see Chile unequivocal as crystal thread.
I see the Atacama Desert dry in Chile more than the rest
of the world is dry.
I see Chile dissolving into water.
I do not see what keeps the blue land of Chile
out of blue water.
I do not see the hand of Pablo Neruda on the blue land.

3

As the plane flies flat to the trees
below Brazil
below Bolivia
below five thousand miles below
my Brooklyn windows
and beside the shifted Pacific waters
welled away from the Atlantic at Cape Horn
La Isla Negra that is not an island La
Isla Negra
that is not black
is stone and stone of Chile
feeding clouds to color
scale and undertake terrestrial forms
of everything unspeakable

4

In your country
how do you say copper
for my country?

5

Blood rising under the Andes and above
the Andes blood
spilling down the rock
corrupted by the amorality
of so much space
that leaves such little trace of blood
rising to the irritated skin the face
of the confession far
from home:

I confess I did not resist interrogation.
I confess that by the next day I was no longer sure
of my identity.
I confess I knew the hunger.
I confess I saw the guns.
I confess I was afraid.
I confess I did not die.

6

What you Americans call a boycott
of the junta?
Who will that feed?

7

Not just the message but the sound.

8

Early morning now and I remember
corriendo a la madrugada from a different
English poem,
I remember from the difficulties of the talk
an argument
athwart the wine the dinner and the dancing
meant to welcome you

you did not understand the commonplace expression
of my heart:

the truth is in the life
la verdad de la vida

Early morning:
do you say la mañanita?
But then we lose
the idea of the sky uncurling to the light:

Early morning and I do not think we lose:
the rose we left behind
broken to a glass of water on the table
at the restaurant stands
even sweeter
por la mañanita

”