-
-The date of September 11
is a day of tragedy
for more than one reason.
photo by Marty Lederhandler APThe eleventh day of the ninth month is a day painful to mark. On this day in 1973 the duly elected government of Chile was overthrown by instigation and with the active support of our government and the CIA, bringing a reign of terror that lasted for almost twenty years. On this day in 1991 my beloved comadre Guillermina Valdés de Villalva, founder of the Colegios de la frontera, was killed in a Continental Airlines plane crash near Houston, Texas. Ten years later on this day in 2001, the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York were brought down by terrorists.
With the destruction of the Towers went a great part of our slowly developing democracy, an accomplishment, not of foreign terrorists, but of our own government, a plutocracy closer to fascism than to anything else.
Now, after a series of criminal wars, the world economy depressed by the knavery of the corporations and banks, great abuse of human rights, facing climatic disaster, a terrible pandemic, fascism has never been more real in the nation. We are faced with the terrifying threat of an absolute fascism (backed by the corporations, the wealthy 1%, and hoards of the unsatisfied, resentful, racist, violent) and a challenged hope of democracy. The options presented to us by the establishment are real but dismaying — and so many of us in a state of denial.
It was on September 11, 1973 that the U. S. C.I.A.-instigated military coup in Chile overthrew the legally elected and popular government of Salvador Allende initiating an era of brutal dictatorship and bloodshed. President Allende was murdered as was the poet-composer Víctor Jara among thousands of others. The aging poet Pablo Neruda was held under house arrest where he died soon after.
Rastro de la gota
a Pablo Neruda I
Te recuerdo en Holanda
donde las rosas carecen de olor
y el alma que le diste a la máquina
no conoce a la gente.
Tu vicio es vicio de amar
y en tu lengua hasta el cardo
sabe dar miel —
hay sangre como la de Federico
que sabe doler.
Pero aquí las pupilas son de vidrio
y la desesperación es una gota de agua
que se escurre por los canales dorados,
no de limones sino de hojas muertas.
II
Hace nueve años que en Holanda
te compuse un verso —
lleno de agua, hojas secas
y visión de limones.
Era noviembre —
es ahora octubre —
el diez cuento mis treinta y ocho
y te has muerto.
Te pienso amapolas y geranios —
el cuero de España y Chile ensangrentado —
hambre, sed,
uvas y luceros.
Hay inventarios en mis huesos
y ortigas en los surcos de mis dedos.
Poeta — me faltan azucenas de consuelo.
Poeta — me duele Chile
como una punzada en el cerebro.
Poeta — estoy entumido;
lo único que siento es que has muerto. ~ Rafael Jesús González (El hacedor de juegos/The maker of Games;
Casa Editorial, San Francisco 1977;
derechos reservados del autor.) Track of the Drop to Pablo Neruda I
I remember you in Holland
where the roses lack color
and the soul you gave the machine
does not know the people.
Yours is the vice of loving
and on your tongue even the thistle
knows how to give honey —
there is blood like that of Federico
that knows how to hurt.
But here the pupils are of glass
and despair is a drop of water
that runs through the canals golden,
not with lemons but dead leaves.
II
It has been nine years that in Holland,
I wrote you a poem —
full of water, dry leaves
and a vision of lemons.
It was November —
now it is October —
on the tenth I count my thirty-eighth
and you have died.
I think you poppies and geraniums —
the skin of Spain and bloodied Chile —
hunger, thirst,
grapes and stars.
There are inventories in my bones
and nettles in the furrows of my fingers.
Poet — I lack lilies of consolation.
Poet — Chile pains me
like a sting in the brain.
Poet — I am numb;
the only thing I feel is that you are dead. ~ Rafael Jesús González
(Laughing Unicorn, Fall 1980; author’s copyrights)
Pablo Neruda
The death of poet musician Víctor Jara has become a legend, almost a popular myth. It is told that being held in the Stadium of Santiago de Chile among the multitude of political prisoners, he took his guitar and began to sing. His songs being so popular, the other prisoners accompanied him. The guards then grabbed his guitar and stomped it to pieces under their boots. Then with their bayonets they cut off Victor’s hands. According to the story, Victor continued singing until, his blood draining into the sand, he died.
jacket of one of Víctor Jara's albums
Las manos -a Víctor JaraCada cuerda rota
una de seis flechas pintadas
que el arco de tu voz lanza
contra la injuria —
cada dedo un punzón
en la conciencia
cada gota una nota contra el silencio.
Caen las aves negras,
sus plumas nieve enlutada,
en la memoria
donde la sangre hierve
cada gota una nota contra el silencio.
Las manos caen en la arena,
cada una una fuente roja
que corre hacia un mar sin islas
cada gota una nota contra el silencio.
Hermano, los gorriones se espichan;
se han roto los cántaros del tiempo
y tu canto corre por el mundo entero
cada gota una nota contra el silencio:
cuando la sangre crece alas
se le llama libertad
cada gota una nota contra el silencio. ~ Rafael Jesús González
(Siete escritores comprometidos: obra y perfil; Fausto Avendaño, director;
Explicación de Textos Literarios vol. 34 anejo 1; diciembre 2007;
Dept. of Foreign Languages; California State University Sacramento;
derechos reservados del autor.)
Víctor Jara
one of six painted arrows
the bow of your voice sends
against outrage —
each finger a lance
in the conscience
each drop a note against silence.
The black birds fall,
their feathers snow in mourning,
upon memory
where the blood boils
each drop a note against silence.
The hands fall on the sand,
each a red fountain
that runs toward a sea without islands
each drop a note against silence.
Brother, the sparrows grow shy;
the jars of time have broken
and your song runs through the world
each drop a note against silence:
when the blood grows wings
it is called freedom
each drop a note against silence. ~ Rafael Jesús González
(Second Coming, Vol. 14 no. 1, 1986;
The Montserrat Review #4, 2002;
nominated for Pushcart Prize;
author’s copyrights)* * *
Now September 11 is to be celebrated as a day of pain and infamy which only our work for a whole Earth, justice, and peace may redeem.
