The Violent Foam: Returning to Poet Daisy Zamora

In 2007, LisaAlvarado posted (for La Bloga) a short description of poet Daisy Zamora’s book, Riverbed of Memory.  Lisa wrote:  “Zamora writes poetry about the horrors of war, its causes and its aftermath. What’s stunning about the book is its elliptical, subtle portrayal of its subject matter . . . I found in Riverbed of Memory examples of how to write about strongly charged material indirectly, helping the reader to understand the enormity of catastrophe by describing the shadow it casts.” 

 

Daisy Zamora, born and raised in Managua, Nicaragua, was a member of the Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN) in the 1970s, actively fighting to end the Somoza dictatorship.  Today she continues to be a well-known activist and advocate for social justice and women’s rights.  She is unflinching and passionate in her political and creative work.

This past year, one of my students chose poems from Zamora’s earlier book, The Violent Foam, to translate.  We worked together, discussing the Spanish words and phrases she chose, the framing of the work to create her trademark riveting poems. 

Perhaps I have returned now to Daisy Zamora because of what is currently happening in our world, and because of all those, like Zamora, who are passionately involved in social justice. I think of Malala Yousafzay from Pakistan, so brave and unrelenting in her commitment to education for all, specifically young women. This weekend hundreds of people are gathering in Ferguson, Missouri, (called “Ferguson October”) to protest the killing of Michael Brown (as well as John Crawford, Ezell Ford, Eric Garner, Oscar Grant & many others), calling for justice. Palestine and Israel; the Ukraine crisis with Russia; the Middle East; the Ebola plague crisis; 43 students disappeared in the state of Guerrero, Mexico; thousands of children escaping the violence and threat of death in their home countries of Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, and Nicaragua, only to be detained and placed in U.S. customs and Border holding cells. There are so many people in all these places, names who will never appear in newspaper articles, on Twitter, Facebook, whose voices will not be heard. 

Daisy Zamora, in her poetry, reminds us, encourages us, to think about the mothers, the family members, the community of peoples, who are struggling and in grief, or those in caregiving roles: 

Noticia En El Supermercado

                        . . . a vida é uma agitacao feroz e sem finalidade

                                                            Manuel Bendeira

Entre las verdudas oigo sus discusiones:

Hablan del supervisor, reniegan de los turnos,

de si la fulanita no llegó a tiempo

del mísero sueldo que para nada alcanza.

Hoy temprano hubo un accidente

en la carretera frente a mi casa.

Acababa de bajarse del bus una muchacha

y una camioneta la mató

cuando intentaba cruzarse al otro lado.

Un gentío rodeaba su cadaver

y algunos comentaban conmovidos

que no parecía tener mas de dieciocho años.

De repente cesa la habladera.

Aguien dió la noticia

que se regó como un temblor oscuro y sordo

por el supermercado.

¿Cómo decirle a doña Mariana que su única hija

que tanto le costó,

que apenas iba a martricularse en la Universidad

y se despidió tan contenta esta mañana,

yace en media carretera con el cráneo destrozado

mientra ella despacha muy amable la carne a los clientes?

News In The Supermarket

           

                        . . . life is a ferocious agitation without end

                                                            Manuel Bandeira

Among the vegetables, I hear their discussions:

They talk about the supervisor, grumble about shifts,

About so-and-so who was late,

And the miserable salary that doesn’t pay enough.

Early this morning there was an accident

on the highway in front of my house.

A girl stepped off a bus

and was run over by a station wagon

when she started to cross.

A crowd surrounded her body

and some were moved discussing

how she couldn’t be more than eighteen.

Suddenly the talking stopped.

Someone brought news

that spilled like a muffled tremor

through the supermarket.

How to tell Mariana her only daughter,

raised in such hardship,

who was on her way to register at the university

and said good-bye so happily this morning,

is lying in the middle of the road with her skull crushed,

while she politely serves meat to the customers?

Carta A Una Hermana

Que Vive En Un País Lejano

                        . . . Y fui enviado al sur de la villa de Wei

                                    --tapizada de bosquecillos de laurels—

                        y tú al norte de Roku-hoku,

                        hasta tener en común, solamente, pensamientos y recuerdos.

                                    “Carta del desterrado,” Li Po

Todavía recuerdo nuestros primeros juegos:

Las muñecas de papel y los desfiles.

Y a Teresa, la muñeca que nos caía mal:

Teresa-pone-la-mesa.

La vida no retrocede y deseo conocerte.

Re-conocerte.

Es decir, volver a conocerte.

Habrá, sin embargo, cosas tuyas que conserves.

Me interesa saber de tus lugares,

tus amigos, tan extraños a los míos

que hablan en otra lengua y buscan otros caminos.

Danbury, Hamden y Middletown,

Hartford y Meriden.  Todos lugares

tan familiares a ti y a tus recuerdos.

a través de la sangre he vivido dos vidas,

múltiples vidas.

Los Cocoteros ya están cosechando en el jardín

y el verano tiene rojas las gencianas del cerco.

Son hermosos y azules estos días,

transparentes y frescos,

Mis lugares amados son también los tuyos. 

Letter To A Sister

Who Lives In A Distant Country

                        . . . And I was sent South of the village of Wei

                                    --carpeted by Laurel groves—

                        and you North of Roku-hoku,

                        until all we had in common were thoughts and memories.

                                    “Exile’s Letter,” Li Po

I still remember our first games:

the paper dolls and the parades.

And Teresa, the doll we could not stand:

“Teresa-pone-la-mesa.”

Life doesn’t go backwards and I want to know you.

To recognize you.

That is, to get to know you again.

Nevertheless, there must be things about yourself you still

preserve.

I’m interested in learning about the places you are,

your friends, so different from mine

who speak another language and search for other paths.

Danbury, Hamden and Middletown,

Hartford and Meriden.  All places

so familiar to you and your memories.

Through our shared blood I’ve lived two lives,

multiple lives.

The coconuts are ripe for picking in the garden

and summer has turned the gentians at the fence deep red.

The days are blue and beautiful,

clear and fresh.

My beloved places are the same as yours. 


A Una Dama Que Lamenta La Dureza De Mis Versos

Sucede que cuando salgo, lo primero que veo
es un vagabundo que hurga en la basura.
A veces, una loca sombrea su miseria
frente a mi casa.  Y el vacío de sus ojo insomnes
entenebrece la luz de la mañana.

Esquinas y semáforos invadidos por gentes
que venden cualquier cosa . . . enjambres de niños
se precipitan a limpiar automóviles
a cambio de un peso, un insulto, un golpe.
Adolescentes ofertan el único bien:  sus cuerpos.
Mendigos, limosneros, drogadictos: la ciudad entera
es una mano famélica y suplicante.

Usted vive un mundo hermoso: frondosas arboledas,
canchas de tennis, piscinas donde retozan
bellos adolescentes. Por las tardes
niñeras uniformadas pasean en cochecitos
a rubios serafines.
Su marido es funcionario importante.
Usted y su familia vacacional en Nueva York o París
y en este país están sólo de paso.

Lamenta mis visiones ásperas.  Las quisiera suaves,
gratas como los pasteles y bombones que usted come.
Siento no complacerla.  Aquí, comemos piedras.

To A Lady Who Laments The Harshness Of My Verses

It's just that when I go out, the first thing I see
is a drifter digging through the garbage.
Sometimes a mad woman is resting her misery in the shade
in front of my house.  And the void of her insomniac eyes
casts a pall on the morning light.

Street corners and stoplights overwhelmed with people
selling everything . . . swarming children
throw themselves at the cars to wash them
for a peso, an insult, a punch.
Teenagers offer their only possession:  their bodies.
Street people, beggars drug addicts: the whole city
is a hungry, begging hand.

Yours is a beautiful world:  luxuriant groves,
tennis courts, swimming pools where lovely
adolescents frolic.  In late afternoon
uniformed nannies promenade blonde
angels in strollers.
Your husband is an important functionary.
Your family can vacation in New York or Paris
and in this country you're just passing through.

You lament my coarse visions.  You prefer them gentle,
like the dainty cakes and bonbons you eat.
Sorry I can't please you.  Here, we eat stones.  

Tierra De Nadie

                        A mis poetas que quiero

Somos territorio minado en claridad,

quien traspasa el alambrado, resucita.

¿Pero a quién le interesa trepar en la espesura?

¿Quién se atreve a cruzar la tempestad?

¿Alguien quiere mirar de frente a la pureza?

Por eso nos han cercado en esta tierra de nadie,

Bajo fuego cruzado y permanente. 

No One’s Land

                        To the poets I love

We are a minefield of clarity,

And whoever crosses the barbed wire comes back to life.

But who’s interested in crawling through undergrowth?

Who dares sail a tempest? 

Who wants to come face to face with purity? 

That’s why we’re fenced off in no one’s land,

Under permanent crossfire. 

Daisy Zamora