If you been to Nilgiri mountains and surrounding chances are that you will encounter this bird so often that you will start to mistake it for myna. The Blackbirds of Nilgiris are lighter in colour than one found in Europe, they are ashy brown with a distinctive reddish-orange bills. They could be seen hopping on the ground I found this one while on a morning walk it was quite actively searching the place, just about the time it was getting suspicious of me i got clicking. Must say quite a strong flier this bird.
Nicolas Guillen: Voice of Cuba
Yoruba i am, i weep in Yoruba
Lucumi.
Since i am a Yoruba from Cuba,
I want to move up to Cuba my lament in Yoruba,
move up my happy lament in Yoruba
that goes out from me
Nicolas Guillen (1902-1989) a Cuban poet is considered as one of the outstanding poets of twentieth century, he is acclaimed in Cuba as National poet. His poems are innovative and rich in musicality (which i guess must have been lost in translation), he adopted a popular Cuban musical form: the son (that combines African and Spanish elements). Guillen’s father was a senator and editor of newspaper who was killed by soldiers (for protesting against Garcia Menocal who continued to occupy the presidency despite losing election). Unfortunately for him as Castro’s troop advanced towards liberating Cuba from repressive Batista he was arrested in Brazil for his political activities, and had to be in exile for six years until the revolution in 1959.Fidel,
wears the name of Cuba
forever on his faithful chest
Fidel,
was the one who exalted soil
to the height of myrtle and laurel
Fidel,
the one who raised up a new homeland
without hatred, murderous crime or bitterness
Fidel.
Once back in Cuba Guillen had taken a full circle: it was soldiers who had killed his father and after two decades he dedicates to them. His tribute also includes poems on Che Guevara, Martin Luther King, Angela Davis, Nancy Morejon, Felix Varela and other Cuban Heroes. Guillen’s poems reflect the essential character of Cuban people, the developments that have impact on Cuban people framed his concerns.
I Don’t Know Why It Seems To You
I don’t know why it seems to you,
soldier, that i hate you,
since we are the same thing,
I,
you.
You are poor, so am i;
I am kept down, so are you;
how has it occurred to you,
soldier, that i hate you?
It hurts me that sometimes you
forget who i am;
caramba since i am you,
the same as you are me.
.......
.......
Wisp, Little Shoot...
Wisp, little green
shoot, in the dark earth:
of which miniscule forest
are you baobab, how many
bird-fleas nest
in your strong branches?
Wisp, little green
shoot, in the dark earth,
I, sleeping in your shade,
to dream, cast off
beneath the moon.
Calm Breeze That Hardly Moves...
Clamed breeze that hardly moves
the flower,
fine breath of the garden
that softly pass,
come and push my boat,
trapped in the motionless sea.
Carry me, powerful,
in your minimal wings,
oh, breeze, fine breath,
clamed breath that hardly moves
the flowers.
Sugarcane
The black man
next to the cane field.
The Yankee
over the cane field.
The land
under the cane field
Blood
that goes out from us!
Problems Of Underdevelopment
Monsieur Dupont calls you uneducated
because you don’t know which was
the favourite grandchild of Victor Hugo.
Herr Muller has started shouting
because you don’t know the day
(the exact one) when Bismarck died.
Your friend Smith,
English or Yankee, i don’t know,
becomes incensed when you write shell.
(it seems that you hold back an ‘L’
and that besides you pronounce it chel)
O.K. So what?
When it’s your turn,
have them say cacarajicara,
and where is the Aconcagua
and who was Sucre,
and where on this planet
did Marti die.
And please:
make them always talk to you in Spanish.
Guadeloupe W I
The blacks, working
next to the ship. The Arabs, selling,
the French, strolling and resting,
and the sun, blazing.
The sea goes to bed
in the port. The air toasts
the palm tree... I shout: Guadeloupe!, but no one answers.
The ship leaves, ploughing the impassive waters with foamy noise.
There, the blacks keep on working,
the Arabs selling,
the French strolling and resting,
and the sun blazing.
Before i move out of this blog i recall buying a book Blackbird Bye Bye (April Bernard), probably the earliest of books i have bought most likely from Chennai. What events led me to buy this book i don’t recall. It couldn’t be with someone since i don’t prefer company while buying books. Intriguing since i wasn’t really much into English poetry those days...bit of Tagore and some Malayalam from some magazines while travelling were my indulgences, i was in my early 20s roaming around for job- quite far from nuanced world of poetry!!. Whatever may be the case this book has been with me for a long time now. And i am not complaining, it has some beautiful poems. The collection also has won Walt Whitman Award...i particularly like this poem
Satan Moves Mysteriously
We seek a slogan, and find only the old ones.
We need revolution, but settle
for bad manners. Who will be the one
to strip the uniform of its stars,
splash mud on the trousers of El Exigente,
while the state borders are ringed
by lethal picket fence posts?
A few men have been towering over us,
blocking the light in the city streets.
Meanwhile, hands are blown off, crops die,
Buildings implode, perishing, want, and sorrow follow.
Not enough left in my mouth to spit.
